But now his head pounded, his body feeling weak. The latter sensation was not one he enjoyed.
Dressing in a clean chiton of dark green, he sat on a couch and waited for the water. The dark-haired girl brought it and he drank greedily. She offered him the silver box, opening the hinged lid to display the dark, shrivelled seeds.
‘They will restore your strength,’ she promised.
He was sorely tempted, but waved her away. ‘What of the High Priestess?’ he asked.
‘She will be here at noon, lord. I will tell her of your request.’
‘How many other guests are there in the palace?’
‘Only one at the moment, the Lady Olympias.’
‘Olympias? Where is she from?’
‘Epirus, lord. She is the daughter of the King.’
‘I’ll see her then,’ said Philip.
The girl looked shocked - and then frightened. ‘No, lord, that is forbidden. She is undergoing the Rite of Union. No man may see her before the appointed night - especially her betrothed. The gods would strike him blind!’
‘Send Parmenion to me.’
‘He is not in the palace, lord. He was seen running in the hills just after dawn.’
‘Then tell him when he returns,’ snapped Philip. ‘Now leave me alone!’
After she had gone the King felt momentary regret for treating her shabbily, but so great was his irritation that the feeling soon passed.
He paced the room for an hour, then ate a breakfast of pears and goat’s cheese and wandered out to the meadows beyond the palace. His mood was not lightened by seeing the horses there, thin-legged and weak. He sat on a wide gate and scanned the hills where sheep and goats were grazing, tended by a slim boy.
What is the matter with you, Philip? The women were wonderfully willing and endlessly creative. Normally, after a night of love-making, he awoke feeling like a young Heracles. Those cursed seeds, he thought. Never again! He saw Parmenion running down the hillside and shouted to him. The Spartan slowed his run.
‘Good morning, sire. You are awake early.’
‘I have been up for hours,’ said Philip. Parmenion leaned against the fence, stretching the muscles of his calves. ‘You are still fast, Leon. I think you could beat them all even now.’
‘Would that it were true, sire. But I do not fool myself. What is wrong?’
‘Is it so plain?’
‘You look like thunder.’
‘It is the waiting, Parmenion. Two years I’ve longed for this day, and now I can bear it no longer. She is here. Her name is Olympias... and I am not allowed to see her. Gods, man! I am Philip! I take what I want!’
Parmenion nodded. ‘We have been here but a day, sire. Be patient. As you said, this was ordained by the gods, so let it take its own course. Why don’t you run for a while? It will clear your head.’
‘I’ll race you to that grove of trees,’ said Philip, suddenly sprinting away. The morning breeze felt good in his face and the contest made him feel alive, his headache disappearing. He could hear Parmenion just behind him and he powered on up the hillside. It mattered nothing to him that the Spartan had already run for more than an hour. The contest was everything. He hurdled a low boulder and raced for the trees a hundred paces ahead. His breathing was more ragged now, and he could feel the burning in his calves, but also he could hear the Spartan just behind him. He slowed in his run. Parmenion came alongside. Philip thrust out his arm, pushing Parmenion off balance. The Spartan half stumbled and lost ground, giving Philip just the edge to reach the first tree and slap his palm against it.
‘Unfair tactics!’ Parmenion shouted.
‘Victory,’ answered Philip weakly, sinking to the ground and raising his arm, his face red, his breathing fast and shallow. Within minutes he had recovered and the two men sat in the shade gazing out over the fields and mountains, but again and again Philip’s eyes were drawn to the white marble palace.
‘I’ll have a home like that,’ he said. ‘Even the gods will be glad to live there. I’ll have it all one day, Parmenion.’
‘Is that all you want, sire?’
‘No. What does any man want? Excitement. Power. I think of Bardylis often - old, withered, as good as dead. I look at myself and I see a strong, young body. But I am not fooled, Parmenion. Bardylis is only a reflection of the Philip to be. I want to live life to the full. I want not a single regret to haunt my dotage.’
‘You are asking a great deal, Philip,’ said Parmenion softly. ‘All men have regrets - even Kings.’
Philip looked at Parmenion and smiled. ‘For two years I have asked you to call me Philip when we are alone - yet you wait till now. Why is that?’
The Spartan shrugged. ‘These are strange days. Yesterday you spoke to me like a father. Then I met a woman and I felt excitement such as I have not known in a decade. Today I feel .. . different - like a man again.’
‘Did you bed her?’
Parmenion chuckled. ‘Sometimes, Philip, your predictability dazzles me. No, I did not bed her. But, in truth, I wanted to. And that sensation has been a stranger to me for too long. By the way, how many women did you have in your rooms last night? By the sounds it must have been a troupe of dancers.’
‘A mere twenty or thirty,’ answered Philip. ‘So what was this woman’s name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘I don’t know that either.’
‘I see. You don’t think it might be a little difficult to further this relationship? What did she look like?’
‘She wore a veil.’
‘So, the general Parmenion has fallen for a woman whose face he has not seen and whose name he does not know. I am at a loss to understand the nature of your arousal. Did she have nice feet?’
Parmenion’s laughter rippled out. He lay back on the grass and stared at the sky. ‘I did not see her feet,’ he said. Then the laughter came again; it was infectious and Philip began to chuckle, his dark mood evaporating.
After a while both men returned to the palace where the King ate a second breakfast. The dark-haired girl came to him just after noon. ‘The Lady Aida will see you now, lord,’ she said. Philip followed her down a long corridor to a high-ceilinged room where statues of young women lined the walls. A woman was waiting by the southern window and she turned as Philip entered. She was dressed in a dark, hooded robe, her face pale as ivory. Philip swallowed hard as he recognized her from his first dream.
‘At last we meet,’ she said.
‘Where is my bride?’ whispered Philip.
‘She will be waiting for you,’ said the hooded woman. ‘Tomorrow, on the night of the Third Mystery, she will be brought to your rooms. But there is something you must do, King of Macedon.’
‘Name it.’
‘You will not go to her until the third hour after midnight; you will not see her before then. At that appointed hour she will conceive your son - not a moment before, not a minute after. You will lie together in the third hour. If this is not done, there will be no marriage.’
Philip laughed. ‘You believe I will have a problem in that area?’
‘I hope not, Philip,’ she answered coldly. ‘Much depends on it. This son will be greater than any warrior before him... but only if he is conceived in the third hour.’
‘As I said, I see no reason to fear failure.’
‘Then I will give you two. If you fail, all your dreams of greatness will come to nothing; the gods will desert you. And, secondly, you already have a son: Arrhidaeus. He is simple-minded, his limbs weak; your wife Phila died in giving birth to him. Apart from this one chance, Philip, all you will sire are daughters. What I offer you now is a chance - your only chance - to sire a perfect heir.’
‘How did you know of Arrhidaeus?’ whispered Philip.
‘I know all your secrets. I know the secrets of the world. Be prepared, King of Macedon. Olympias will await you.’
Aida watched the Macedonian turn and stalk from t
he room. As the door closed behind him she returned to her high-backed chair and sat, her thoughts uneasy, her emotions confused.
Philip was a powerful man, his personal magnetism compelling, yet something was wrong and Aida’s tension grew. So much depended on this union, so many plans laid over so many years.
Aida had been a child when her mother first told her of the Dream of the Dark Birth, and of the many failures which had followed. Only once in each fifty-year cycle did the harmony of the universe falter, giving rise to a unique moment of planetary confusion.
When the last alignment took place in Mesopotamia, Aida was fourteen. Her mother had bewitched the Great King and prepared an acolyte of exceptional beauty. The wedding night had proceeded as planned but the girl - her mind dazed by the drugs - had wandered from the balcony, falling to her death on the marble stone of the courtyard. Aida’s mother had been desolated, and for two months she refused to speak; then just when it seemed she would recover, she slashed her throat with a bronze knife.
Now the moment was here once more. There would be no balcony for Olympias, no danger to the princess. Philip was a ram who would need no assistance to fulfil his... necessary... task.
So what could go wrong? Aida did not know. But she felt the icy touch of fear.
She closed her eyes and soared, her spirit rising high above the palace, moving over the green hills - seeking, ever seeking, without knowing what she sought.
The assassins sent from the city of Olynthus were dead, their boat destroyed in a sudden storm. Only one had reached the Samothracian shore, and his head had been crushed by a heavy rock wielded by two of Aida’s acolytes. There was no danger from assassins. Aida would know.
But she could not dismiss her fears. She trusted her Talents and her intuition. Although she could not walk the paths of the Past and Future, still Aida was powerful, reading the hearts and minds of men, anticipating events. The rulers of the city of Olynthus feared Philip. It was not difficult to second-guess their intentions, especially now that the King’s former favourite, Nicanor, entertained an Olynthian lover at his home in Pella.
The storm had been costly - two of Aida’s acolytes sacrificed, their hearts torn from their bodies. But it was worth more than even those to ensure that the Lord of Fire could be born in the flesh. Aida would sacrifice a nation for such a holy miracle.
Returning to her body, she opened her eyes.
Where is the peril?
Think, Aida! Use your mind! She had searched the island, the seventeen villages and four ports. Nothing. She thought of Tamis, almost wishing her alive so that she could focus her hatred once more.
Would that I could have killed you a dozen, dozen times! The old priestess had been a constant sore for decades. Curiously, her death had done little to ease Aida’s hatred. All that power wasted on the whore, she thought, remembering - with exquisite distaste - Tamis’ lovers.
The other priestess had worried her at first, but she also was flawed.
Where then the danger?
Closing her eyes once more she flew across the seas, hovering over the Temple. A tall man was tending the garden and there were no supplicants waiting in the meadows. Swiftly Aida armoured herself with protective spells, then entered the temple. It was empty.
Where are you, my dove? she thought.
Returning to Samothrace she searched the island once more - carefully, thoroughly, each hill and wood.
At last, weary and almost spent, she returned to the palace and walked to the kennels below the outer wall. The black hounds began to bay as she entered. Pulling open the wooden gate she moved in among them, crouching down as they surged around her. Summoning the image of Derae she cast the picture into the mind of each hound, imprinting it, holding it until the baying stopped. Then lifting her arm, she pointed to the open gate.
‘Go!’ she shouted. ‘Taste of her blood, break her bones! Go!’
Derae sat in a hollow below the branches of a flowering tree, her mind alert. She sensed the Search and located Aida’s spirit as she soared from the palace. Calming the fluttering of panic that beset her, she leaned back against a tree-trunk, her arms crossed, her hands on her shoulders. She merged her mind with the tree, feeling her way into the bark, through the oozing sap which killed most insects, on into the capillaries where water was drawn to the leaves and flowers.
She was Derae no longer. She was the tree, her roots deep and questing, seeking moisture and goodness from the dark earth - her branches growing, stretching, flowing with slow life. She felt sunlight on her leaves and concentrated on the seed-bearing blossoms that would ensure her existence through eternity. It was peaceful within the tree... so peaceful.
At last she withdrew her spirit and searched for Aida.
The witch-woman had returned to the palace. Derae rose and walked slowly down to the meadows, close by the wood, where tonight the acolytes would celebrate the Third Mystery. There was a stream here, and she drank deeply.
In the distance she heard the baying of hounds, ready for the hunt.
Adjusting her veil she waited, sitting on a boulder, not looking in the direction from which she knew he would come. His footfalls were soft, unconsciously stealthy.
‘We meet again, lady,’ he said and she turned.
‘How are you, Savra?’
‘I am well - even better now I have seen you again.’
Her spirit eyes scanned his face. The boyish features had long since been replaced by the angular, almost harsh lines of the man. Yet still he was the Parmenion of memory. Her Parmenion!
‘How prettily you speak - for a soldier.’
‘Not usually, lady. You bring out the best in me. What is your name?’
She was suddenly torn, filled with the desire to remove her veil, to show him her face, to tell him how she had missed him through all those lonely years. She turned away. ‘No names,’ she said at last.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, moving closer.
‘Nothing,’ she replied, forcing gaiety into her voice. ‘It is a beautiful day.’
A sleek black hound padded from the woods, coming closer to them. Suddenly its lips drew back to show long fangs, a low growl rumbling in its throat. Parmenion stepped in front of Derae, his hand on the dagger at his side.
‘Be off with you!’ he roared and the hound backed away several paces - then charged at Derae. Parmenion’s dagger flashed into the air. The hound leapt at the woman, but the Spartan threw himself at it, his arm curling round the dog’s neck, the dagger blade plunging into its side. As he rose to his feet two more hounds came running from the woods.
Parmenion turned to see Derae walking towards the palace, the hounds closing in on her.
‘No!’ screamed Parmenion, in the sudden realization that he could not reach her in time. Yet even as the beasts prepared to leap, they slumped to the ground. She did not turn to see this apparent miracle, but walked on through the palace gate.
Parmenion moved to the hounds. They were sleeping peacefully. Bewildered, he sheathed his dagger and ran into the courtyard.
There was no sign of the woman.
‘Look at this,’ said Philip, pointing to the long white cloak and the silver full-faced helm which lay on one of the couches. ‘Can you believe I am supposed to wear that during the consummation?’
Parmenion hefted the helm. It was beautifully crafted of shining silver edged with gold, the ear-guards embossed with what appeared to be demons bearing jagged knives. At the nape of the neck were protective plates of silver, no wider than a man’s thumb. There was no crested plume, but to the sides two black ram’s hdrns curved from the temples to the neck.
‘It is stunning,’ said the Spartan, ‘and very old. The workmanship is rare.’
‘Rare?’ stormed Philip. ‘Rare, it may be. It is also rare to ask a man to mount a woman wearing such a... such a... bridal hat!’
Parmenion smiled. ‘You said yourself that this marriage has been ordained. Surely you expected a little ritual? Even
Bardylis made the wedding ceremony last a full day, with dances, speeches and athletic contests between his Guards.’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Philip, ‘but there I was at the centre. Here I feel like a bystander, an incidental player.’ He stalked to the window and stared out over the night-dark woods and the distant fires. Parmenion joined him. ‘Listen to them,’ said the King, as the night breeze carried sounds of laughter and music from the woods. ‘You know what they are doing?’
‘No, sire.’
‘Neither do I... and that irritates me, Parmenion. They are probably dancing naked around those fires - and I am sitting here waiting to be led into my bride like a prize ram. Am I so ugly that I need a helmet to disguise myself?’
‘I think,’ offered Parmenion, ‘that you are nervous. I would also advise you to hold back on the wine; you have drained almost a full pitcher.’
‘Wine has no effect on my abilities,’ snapped Philip. ‘Why don’t we sneak out there and watch them? What do you think?’
‘I think that would not be wise.’
‘Gods, man, you are so staid!’ Philip slumped down on a couch and poured the last of his wine. ‘Get me some more drink, would you, there’s a good fellow?’
Parmenion wandered out into the deserted corridor, following the stairs down to the kitchens. It was close to midnight, and even he was beginning to feel a sense of rising excitement over the forthcoming wedding.
The Mysteries fascinated Parmenion, as indeed did the culture of this volcanic isle. Xenophon himself had been initiated here, but had told Parmenion little of the ceremonies save that they involved arcane knowledge of the ‘Greater Gods’. One of these, Parmenion recalled, was Kadmilos - the ram-horned immortal, the Spirit of Chaos.
The Spartan walked into the empty kitchens, located a pitcher of wine and returned to the King’s rooms. Philip was once more drinking happily.
‘You found some more,’ said Parmenion, seeing the golden pitcher beside the King.
Lion of Macedon Page 44
