Grigery lay quiet once more, and Parmenion thought he had died. But he spoke again. ‘I... thought we... would lose. You know what they call... the Spartan? The Death of Nations. Destroyed his own city. Everywhere he walks... death follows. Not any more, though, eh, Savra?’
Grigery’s head sagged back, his last breath rattling in his throat.
Sadness hit the Spartan and he rose and gazed at the sky. Carrion birds were circling, waiting for the feast.
The Temple, Summer, 357 BC
Derae sat at Tamis’ bedside, waiting for the inevitable. The old woman had not eaten in over a week, nor spoken in days. When Derae took her hand it was hot and dry, the skin loose over bone. Tamis’ flesh had melted away and her eyes had a haunted, lost look that filled Derae with sorrow.
She tried to use her powers on the dying woman, but felt Tamis struggling against her.
It was close to midnight when the old priestess finally died. There was no movement or sound to indicate her passing. One moment her spirit flickered faintly, the next it was gone. Derae did not weep, though sadness filled her. Covering Tamis’ face, she returned to her own room and climbed into bed.
Leucion had left by the bedside a jug of water and a bowl of fruit. But neither hungry nor thirsty, she drifted into a deep sleep.
The sound of music awoke her and she opened her eyes to an unfamiliar scene. She was beside a great lake sparkling in a natural bowl at the centre of a range of tall, snow-cloaked mountains. Beside her sat a woman of wondrous beauty, tall and elegantly formed, wearing a long chiton of shimmering gold.
‘Tamis?’ whispered Derae.
‘As once I was,’ answered the priestess, reaching out and tentatively touching Derae’s arm. ‘What can I say to you?’ she asked. ‘How can I ask for forgiveness? I should never have lied, nor should I have meddled. Pride is not a gift of the Source and I fell victim to it. But we have little time, Derae, and I have much to tell you. Those ancient gateways I showed you, across continents and oceans—you must not use them. You must not pit yourself against the Dark God, or his servants. They will corrupt you.’
‘I can fight them alone,’ said Derae. ‘It is what you trained me for.’
‘Please, Derae, listen to me! Go from the Temple. Find Parmenion. Do anything you will—but do not follow my path.’
Derae laughed then. ‘Where were your doubts, Tamis, when you led the raiders to me, when I was tied behind the leader’s horse? Where were they whenyoufloated above me, blocking my fears, urging me to rut with Parmenion and be damned for it?’
Tamis fell back from the Spartan’s anger. ‘No, please! I have asked forgiveness of you. Please?’
‘Oh, Tamis, my friend,’ said Derae softly, her eyes cold. ‘I give you my forgiveness. But I saw how you prevented the last Dark Birth. How clever of you - to enter the girl’s mind and get her to leap from the tower. Perhaps that is the method I will choose this time. I will think on it.’
‘Stop this! I beg you, Derae. I was wrong. Do not continue my folly.’
Derae closed her eyes. ‘I must stop the Dark Birth. You took away my life, Tamis -you lied, deceived, manipulated. If the Dark God succeeds, all is for nothing. I won’t have that! lama Spartan and I will not surrender in this fight. Now,’ she said, taking the woman’s arm, ‘tell me allyou know about the Birth.’
‘I cannot!’
‘You owe me, Tamis! For all I have lost. Now tell me. Or I swear I will bring death to Philip ofMacedon, and all other servants of the Dark God.’
Tears welled in Tamis’ eyes. ‘You are my punishment,’ she whispered. ‘You are Tamis born again.’
‘Tell me what I need to know,’ Derae urged.
‘Do you promise me you will not kill?’
‘I promise you I will never stoop to murder.’
Tamis sighed. ‘Then I will trust you, though my soul may be damned if you betray me. You have seen the events in Macedonia? Of course you have. The rise of Philip, the birth of a nation. That birth heralds the coming of the Dark God. His body of flesh will be conceived in Samothrace, during the Night of the Third Mystery at High Summer; it is all arranged. The mother will be Olympias, daughter of Neoptelemus, King of Epirus. The father will be Philip of Macedon. He has been primed, bewitched. You have but one real opportunity to succeed. In order for the Dark God to live, the conception must take place when the stars reach a certain alignment which will last for only an hour on that one night. If you are determined to go on with this quest, then you must journey to Samothrace and disrupt the ceremony.’
‘High Summer is only ten days from now,’ said Derae. ‘How can I reach Samothrace in time?’
‘The Gateways I showed you lead to paths between worlds, between times. Listen to me, Derae, for this is the last time you will see me and you must learn your lessons well.’
Derae opened her eyes to see dawn light creeping across the sky, the stars retreating before it. She rose and poured a goblet of water, sipping it slowly.
Samothrace, the Isle of Mysteries. She shivered. Tamis had once called it the Dark God’s realm. The thought of the journey brought a sudden stab of fear, almost panic...yet Parmenion will be there, she realized. For the first time in almost a quarter of a century they would be together. But what then? She was no longer the flame-haired adolescent of his memory, nor he the shy young warrior-to-be. More than time separated them now. Yet it would be good to be close to him once more.
She had watched with mixed feelings his successes for Philip: first, last year, the crushing of the Illyrians; but since then the march into Thessaly, securing the southern borders, the invasion of Paionia and the besieging of the city of Amphipolis.
Now the wolves of the major cities viewed Macedonia with different eyes. Where once they saw only a lamb, ripe for ownership or slaughter, now they faced a lion - young and powerful, proud and arrogant.
Derae’s pride at Parmenion’s achievements was tinged with sadness, for the more powerful Macedonia became, the more deadly would be the effect when the Evil One sat upon the throne.
Fear flooded her. She felt like a child facing a forest fire, a huge wall of flames that threatened to engulf the world. And what do I have to halt it, she wondered? Looking down, she saw the goblet of water in her hand. She smiled then and walked back to Tamis’ room.
‘I will keep my promise to you, Tamis. I will not murder. But if the servants of the Dark God come for me, then they will die. For I will not be thwarted in this.’
The sheet still covered the body. When Derae pulled it back, all that lay there was a disconnected skeleton, the bones loose. As she lifted the sheet, the skull was dislodged from the pillow and fell to the floor, shattering into shards.
Samothrace, Summer, 357 BC
The crossing had been calm and the vessel glided smoothly into dock, the three banks of rowers backing oars to slow its progress. Seamen threw ropes to the men waiting at the quayside and the great ship settled into place.
Philip strode down the gangplank, followed by Parmenion.
‘I can barely contain my excitement,’ said the King as the two men stood on solid ground, staring at the tree-lined hills. ‘You think she is here already?’
‘I don’t know, sire,’ replied Parmenion, ‘but I am uneasy about your lack of guards. There could be assassins hired by any number of enemies.’
Philip laughed and lightly punched Parmenion on the shoulder. ‘You worry too much. We are just travellers, wandering men, mercenaries. Few know of my plans.’
‘Antipater, Attalus, Nicanor, Theoparlis, Simiche... the gods know how many more,’ Parmenion muttered. ‘One wrong word is all it would take.’
Philip chuckled. ‘It will not happen, my friend; this has been ordained by the gods. And, anyway, I have the Lion of Macedon to protect me.’ He laughed again at Parmenion’s discomfort. ‘You know, you should really consider taking a wife - or a lover. You are altogether too serious.’
A tall woman in robes of black moved towards them, bowin
g deeply.
‘Welcome to Samothrace, Lord Philip,’ she said.
‘Wonderful,’ whispered Parmenion. ‘Perhaps a parade has been planned.’ The woman looked at him quizzically, then returned her attention to Philip.
‘There is a feast in your honour tonight, and tomorrow a hunt in the high hills.’
Philip took her hand, kissing the palm. ‘Thank you, lady. It is indeed an honour and a privilege to be greeted by one of such beauty and grace. But how did you know of my arrival?’
The woman smiled, but did not reply.
She led them through the crowded city port to where two other women waited, holding the reins of two white stallions. The first pointed to a white palace a mile to the north. ‘Your rooms have been prepared, my lords. I hope the horses are to your liking.’
‘Thank you,’ answered Philip. The beasts were pretty to look at but their chests were not deep, and this, he knew, indicated little room for lungs and heart and therefore a lack of stamina and strength.
The two men mounted the horses and rode slowly towards the palace, the walking women trailing behind.
In fields to left and right other horses were cropping grass. They were spindly-legged beasts, many of them roach-backed, the spine curving upwards thus making them uncomfortable to ride.
Philip found his disgust hard to conceal. ‘What is the point of breeding such useless animals?’ he asked Parmenion.
The Spartan pointed back to the port. ‘Chariots and wagons, sire, but no horsemen. Obviously they do not concern themselves with riding.’
The King grunted. Nothing offended a Macedonian more than poor horse-breeding.
His good humour was restored at the palace when they were met by three beautiful women, dressed in robes of yellow and green. ‘Are there no men here?’ he asked.
‘Only you and your companion, sire,’ one of them replied. They were led to sumptuous apartments with silk-covered couches and gold-embroidered curtains.
‘If there is anything you require, my lord, you have merely to ask,’ said a young raven-haired girl.
Philip smiled and took hold of her waist. ‘Exactly what is meant by anything?’ he asked.
Her hand slid under his tunic, caressing the skin of his inner thigh. ‘It means exactly what you want it to mean,’ she told him.
Parmenion strode to the window, drawing back the hangings and staring out over the fields and meadows. He was tired and wished only for a bath. Hearing the girl giggling behind him, he cursed softly.
‘What is wrong with you, strategos?’ asked Philip, and Parmenion turned. The girls had gone.
‘I am just ill at ease.’
‘You should take my advice. Enjoy these women, it is good for the soul.’
‘Maybe I will,’ Parmenion told him.
Philip filled two wine cups from a pitcher on a small table, passing one to Parmenion. ‘Sit with me a while, my friend,’ said the King, leading Parmenion to a couch. ‘When I was in Thebes they told me about your love for a priestess called Thetis...’
‘I do not wish to talk of it, sire.’
‘You have never spoken to me of her, nor of the other woman you loved. Why is that?’
Parmenion swallowed hard and looked away. ‘What point is there in talking of the past? What does it achieve?’
‘Sometimes it lances the boil, Parmenion.’
The general closed his eyes, fighting back the rush of memories. ‘I... have loved two women. Both, in different ways, died for me. The first was called Derae and she was Spartan. Because of our... love... she was sacrificed: thrown into the sea off the coast of Asia. The second was Thetis; she was killed by assassins sent by Agisaleus. There have been no others. Never again will someone I love die for me. Now, if it please you, sire, I would prefer...’
‘It does not please me,’ said Philip. ‘It is a fact of life that people die. My first wife, Phila, died only a year after our wedding. I adored her; on the night she died I wanted to cut my throat and follow her to Hades. But I didn’t - and now I am about to meet a woman of dreams.’
‘I am pleased for you,’ said Parmenion coldly. ‘But we are different men, you and I.’
‘Not so different,’ Philip put in. ‘But you wear armour, both on your body and on your spirit. I am younger than you, my friend, but in this I am as a father to a frightened son. You need a wife, you need sons^of your own. Do not concern yourself about love. Your father, whoever he was, gave you as his gift to the world. You are his immortality. In turn your sons will do that for you. Now, I will preach no more. I shall bathe, and then I shall send for that sweet-limbed young girl. You, I suspect, will walk around the palace grounds examining natural defences and seeking out hidden assassins.’
Parmenion laughed then, the sound rich and full of good humour. ‘You know me too well, young Father.’
‘I know you enough to like you, and that’s a rare thing,’ said Philip.
The Spartan wandered out to the palace gardens and beyond to the hillsides overlooking the bay. He saw a flock of sheep and a young boy guarding them. The boy waved. Parmenion smiled at him and walked on, following a dry-stone wall that curved up to a high hill-top. He was drawn towards a grove of trees, their branches weighed down by pink and white blooms, where he sat in the shade and dozed.
He awoke to see a woman walking towards him, tall and slender. He stood, his eyes narrowing to see her face. For a moment only, it seemed to him that her hair had changed colour. At first it appeared to be the colour of Same, flecked with silver, but as he looked again it was dark. It must have been a trick of the light, he thought. He bowed to her as she approached. At first sight her robes were black as the night, but as she moved the folds caught the light, shimmering into the rich blue of the ocean. Her face was veiled, a sign of the recently bereaved.
‘Welcome, stranger,’ she said, her voice both curiously familiar and strangely exciting.
‘Is this your land, lady?’
‘No. All that you see belongs to the Lady Aida. I too am a stranger. Where are you from?’
‘Macedonia,’ he told her.
‘And before that?’
‘Sparta and Thebes.’
‘You are a soldier then?’
‘Is it so obvious?’ he asked, for he was dressed in only a pale blue chiton and sandals.
‘Your shins are lighter in colour than your thighs, and I would guess they are normally shielded by greaves. Similarly, your brow is not the deep brown of your face.’
‘You are very observant.’ He tried to focus on the face below the veil, but gave up. The eyes as he saw them seemed to be opaque, like opals. ‘Will you sit with me awhile?’ he asked her suddenly, surprising himself.
‘It is pleasant here,’ she said softly. ‘I will bide with you for a little while. What brings you to Samothrace?’
‘I have a friend - he is here to meet his bride. Where are you from?’
‘I live across the sea in Asia, but I travel often^ It is long since I was in Sparta. When was it you lived there?’
‘Through my childhood.’
‘Is your wife a Spartan?’
‘I have no wife.’
‘Do you not like women?’
‘Of course,’ he answered swiftly. ‘I have no male lovers either. I... had a wife. Her name was Thetis. She died.’
‘Was she your great love?’ the woman enquired.
‘No,’ he admitted, ‘but she was a good woman - loyal, loving, brave. But why must we speak of me? Are you in mourning? Or can you remove your veil?’
‘I am in mourning. What is your name, soldier?’
‘My friends call me Savra,’ he said, unwilling for her to hear the name being whispered in cities across the world.
‘Be happy, Savra,’ she said, rising gracefully.
‘Must you go? I... I am enjoying our conversation,’ he said lamely.
‘Yes, I must go.’
He stood and reached out his hand. For a moment she hung back, then touched his fing
ers. Parmenion felt his pulse racing, and longed to reach up and draw aside the veil. Lifting her hand to his lips he kissed it, then reluctantly released her.
She walked away without a word and Parmenion slumped back to sit on the ground, amazed by his response to the stranger. Perhaps the conversation with Philip had touched a deep chord in him, he thought. She had disappeared now beyond the hillside. Swiftly he ran to catch a final glimpse of her.
She was walking towards the distant woods, and as the sunlight touched her it seemed once more that her hair was red-gold.
The beginnings of cramp in his left arm awoke Philip an hour after dawn. He glanced down at the blonde acolyte whose head rested on his bicep and gently eased his arm loose. Someone stirred to his right. A second girl, dark-haired and pretty, opened her eyes and smiled up at him.
‘Did you sleep well, my lord?’ she asked, her fingers sliding slowly over his belly.
‘Wonderfully,’ he told her, his hand seizing her wrist. ‘But now I would like the answers to some questions.’
‘Can the questions not wait?’ she whispered, rolling to face him.
‘They cannot,’ he told her sternly. ‘Who owns this palace?’
‘The Lady Aida.’
‘I do not know the name.’
‘She is the High Priestess of the Mysteries,’ said the girl.
‘Well, darling one, tell her I wish to see her.’
‘Yes, lord.’ The girl threw back the sheet and stood. Philip gazed at her long back and slim waist, his eyes drawn to her rounded hips and perfect buttocks.
‘Now!’ he said, more powerfully than he intended. ‘Go nowl’
The blonde girl awoke and yawned. ‘Out!’ roared Philip. ‘And get someone to send in a pitcher of cool water.’ After they had gone the King rose, squeezed his eyes shut against the hammering in his head and dragged open the curtains on the wide window.
Sunlight lanced his brain and he turned away from it, cursing. The wine had been strong, but it was the dark seeds that he remembered so vividly. The girls carried them in small silver boxes, and had offered them to Philip after the first bout of love-making. They dried the tongue, but fired the mind and body. Colours seemed impossibly bright while touch, taste and hearing were all enhanced. Philip’s strength had surged - along with his appetites.
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