Lion of Macedon

by David Gemmell

  ‘I think you will find,’ she said slowly, ‘that Philip of Macedon has already set the price - and it is you who will pay.’

  ‘Arcetas! Look!’ shouted a man, pointing to the stationary riders. Arcetas swore. He scanned the Macedonian line, counting no more than seventy cavalrymen.

  ‘To horse!’ he bellowed. ‘They are too few to stop us. Cut them down!’

  The Illyrians mounted and galloped towards the waiting Macedonians.

  ‘Watch, Phaedra,’ whispered Olympias, dropping down beside the terrified seeress. ‘Watch how my husband fights!’ Phaedra opened her eyes to see the sunlight gleam from the bronze breastplate of the Macedonian on the giant grey. He drew his sword, holding it high.

  And the Macedonians hurtled down to meet the charge, the grey rider forming the point of a wedge that clove into the Illyrian ranks, splitting them, destroying their momentum. Olympias saw the fork-bearded Arcetas straining to reach the grey rider. Dust swirled, but still she could just make out the fight that followed as their swords clashed. There was no question in Olympias’ mind as to the outcome, no fear for the safety of the grey rider. She merely waited for the inevitable and leapt with joy as the gleaming sword swept through Arcetas’ neck, his head lolling, blood fountaining into the air.

  ‘That is the price, you whoreson!’ she shouted.

  The Illyrians broke and fled, the Macedonians reforming their lines and galloping after them. But the rider on the grey, followed by three officers, approached the women.

  ‘Philip!’ called Olympias, running to meet him.

  ‘No, my lady,’ he answered, removing his helm. ‘It is I, Parmenion.’

  They found a camping site in a grove of trees close to the River Haliacmon. Parmenion went to the wounded men, who had been placed away from the main group lest their cries during surgery should upset the women. The Macedonians had lost seventeen men in the battle, with seven hurt. The crushed Illyrians suffered more than eighty dead. Parmenion knelt by a young soldier who had lost three fingers of his right hand. The boy’s face was grey with shock and pain, and shone with sweat.

  ‘I am useless now,’ he whispered. ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘The gods gave you two hands, Peris - you must learn to use the left. It is not so bad. You are not a foot-soldier, so you will not need to worry about forming the line. You are a cavalryman - aye, and a good one. You have too much courage to let such a small wound overcome you.’

  ‘I am no good with my left, general.’

  ‘We will work on it, you and I.’

  Parmenion moved on to the next man, but he had bled to death. The general covered the dead man’s face with a cloak and moved on.

  The surgeon, Bernios, rose to greet him as he finished his rounds. ‘We did well,’ said Bernios, wiping the sweat from his bald head with a blood-stained towel.

  ‘Had we been an hour earlier, there would have been no battle,’ replied Parmenion. ‘That would have been better, my friend.’

  ‘Indeed it would, general. But,’ the man shrugged and spread his hands, ‘it could have been considerably worse. We might have been an hour later - and then the King’s new bride would have been stolen from him. I believe Philip would have been mildly aggrieved.’

  Parmenion smiled. Slapping the surgeon on the shoulder, he returned to the main camp. The women’s quarters had been set back into the trees, where they could enjoy privacy, while the fifty-one surviving soldiers sat around four camp-fires. Parmenion called to Nicanor, signalling the young man to follow him.

  ‘Are there scouts out?’ asked the general.

  ‘Yes, sir. Six men patrolling the hills. Three others are stationed north, west and east of the woods.’

  ‘Good. You fought well today. The King will be proud of you.’

  ‘The King long since ceased to care about me,’ answered Nicanor with a shy smile. ‘But I truly do not mind, Parmenion. Do not concern yourself for me. I was his favourite for a time. Now there are others. I am getting old, you see. I am twenty-seven now.’ Nicanor shrugged. ‘But Olympias is very beautiful, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Parmenion, too abruptly. Nicanor looked up sharply, but Parmenion turned away. ‘See to their needs,’ he said over his shoulder as he walked to his blankets.

  The younger man took up a wineskin which he carried back to the Queen’s camp-fire. Olympias was sitting on some cushions brought from the carriage; the girl he took to be her maid was tending the blaze.

  ‘I have some wine for you, ladies,’ said Nicanor, bowing deeply.

  Olympias flashed him a dazzling smile. ‘And you are, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘Nicanor. I am Parmenion’s First Captain.’

  ‘Join us, Nicanor,’ ordered the Queen. He filled their wine cups, added water, then folded his cloak to make a seat. ‘Why is Parmenion not here?’ Olympias asked.

  ‘He is... er... weary, my lady. He did not sleep much last night. He was concerned to be here on time. He feared... well, he feared the Illyrians might raid and he was right. He usually is; it is most galling.’

  ‘And yet you like him?’

  ‘Oh, yes, my lady. He is a fine general - the best in the world. He has built Philip’s army into a force to strike fear into the hearts of all our enemies.’

  ‘But he is not Macedonian,’ Olympias pointed out.

  ‘Half Macedonian,’ replied Nicanor. ‘He was raised in Sparta.’

  ‘Perhaps then we should forgive his bad manners in not attending us. Spartans are not renowned for their courtesies.’

  ‘I do not believe he meant to be discourteous,’ Nicanor said. ‘Far from it. He ordered me to see to your needs. I believe he felt you would sooner rest and recover from your ordeal than endure his company.’

  Olympias smiled and, reaching out, touched Nicanor’s arm. ‘You are a good friend to your general, and a powerful advocate. I shall forgive him instantly. And now, Nicanor, I would like to rest.’

  The young man rose and bowed once more before gathering up his cloak and walking back through the trees.

  ‘You are shameless,’ said Phaedra. ‘You quite dazzled the poor man.’

  Olympias let the smile fade from her face. ‘This is a foreign land,’ she said softly. ‘I will need friends here. Why did Parmenion not come?’

  ‘Perhaps it was as the officer said, that he was weary.’

  ‘No. He would not meet my eyes when he rode up. Still, what does it matter? We are safe. The future is bright.’

  ‘Do you love Philip?’ asked Phaedra suddenly.

  ‘Love? He is my husband - the father of the child I carry. What has love to do with it? And, anyway, I have met him only once - on the night of the wedding in Samothrace seven months ago.’

  ‘What was it like on the Isle of Mysteries - when he made love to you?’

  Olympias leaned back, smiling at the memory. ‘The first time was magical, strange... but in the morning it was as it always is. The man ruts and grunts, sighs and sleeps.’ She yawned. ‘Fetch me my blankets, Phaedra. And some more cushions. I will sleep now.’

  ‘You should sleep in the carriage. You will be warmer.’

  ‘I want to see the stars,’ answered Olympias. ‘I want to watch the Huntress.’

  Olympias lay down, her mind lazily drifting back to Samothrace and the Night of the Mysteries. The women, scores of them, had danced in the grove - drinking, laughing, chewing the sacred herbs that brought visions, bright colourful dreams. The torch-lit procession then filed to the palace, and Olympias remembered them carrying her to Philip’s bed.

  She had waited, her mind spinning, the colours super-naturally bright... red hangings, yellow silks, golden cups.

  And he had come to her - his face, as ritual demanded, hidden by the Helm of Chaos. She had felt the metal against her cheek, felt his body cover her like a fire-warmed cloak.

  Wrapped in her blankets, the new Queen of Macedonia slept beneath the stars.

  Parmenion lay awake staring at the same sta
rs, recalling the same night. His sense of shame was strong, painful almost. There were many deeds in his life which had left him with sorrow, others which had caused scars to both body and spirit. But shame was new to the Spartan.

  The night had been like this one, stars like gems on sable, the air clean and fresh. Philip was drunk as he waited for his bride; he had collapsed on a couch just as the women brought his new wife to his bedchamber.

  Parmenion had glanced through a gap in the curtains to see Olympias, naked, her body glistening, waiting... waiting.

  He tried to tell himself that it was vital that the wedding was consummated on this night, reminded himself that Philip had told him exactly that.

  ‘If I do not perform within the Sacred Hour the wedding will be cancelled. Can you believe that, Parmenion?’

  But that was not why the Spartan had donned the ancient helm. He had looked upon the naked woman - and he had wanted her, as he had desired no one since his love had been stolen from him a quarter of a century before. He had made love to her and, when she slept, he went to Philip, dressing the unconscious King in the helm and cloak and carrying him to her bed.

  You betrayed the King you swore to serve. How will you redeem yourself?

  The night was chill and Parmenion rose. Wrapping his black woollen cloak tightly round his shoulders, he strolled out to where the sentries kept watch.

  ‘I’m awake, sir,’ said the first man. In the darkness Parmenion did not recognize him.

  ‘I did not doubt it,’ the general told him. ‘You are a soldier of Macedon.’ He wandered from the woods and down to the banks of the Haliacmon. The water was dark as the Styx, but glimmering in the starlight. He sat on a boulder and thought of Derae.

  Five days of love - fierce, passionate love. Then they had taken her from him, carrying her to the shores of Asia where they hurled her into the sea to drown, her hands tied behind her. A sacrifice to the gods, for the protection of Sparta.

  And how Sparta had needed protection! Parmenion remembered the battle at Leuctra where his strategic genius had seen the fall of the Spartan army, the crushing of Sparta’s dreams.

  ‘You are Parmenion, the Death of Nations,’ the old seeress had told him. How right she was. Last year he had led the Macedonians against the Illyrian King, Bardylis, devastating his army. The old King had died within seven months of the defeat, his country in ruins.

  Looking up at the stars, Parmenion pictured Derae’s face, her flame-gold hair, her green eyes. ‘What am I without you?’ he whispered.

  ‘Talking to yourself, general?’ said a voice from close by. A young soldier moved from the shadows of the river-bank.

  ‘It happens when a man gets old,’ Parmenion told him. The moon emerged from behind the clouds and the Spartan recognized Cleiton, a young soldier from eastern Macedonia who had joined the army the previous autumn.

  ‘It is a quiet night, sir,’ said Cleiton. ‘Were you praying?’

  ‘After a fashion. I was thinking about a girl I used to know.’

  ‘Was she beautiful?’ asked the young man, laying his spear against a rock and sitting opposite the general.

  ‘She was very beautiful... But she died. Are you married?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have a wife and two sons in Crousia. They are moving to Pella as soon as I can afford to rent a house.’

  ‘That may be some time.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, sir. There’ll be another war soon. With fighting wages, I should see Lacia again within six months.’

  ‘You want a war then?’ Parmenion asked.

  ‘Of course, sir. It is our time. The Illyrians are destroyed, the Paionians also. Soon it will be to the east in Thrace, or south against Pherai. Or maybe Olynthus. Philip is a warrior King. He will see the army is looked after.’

  ‘I expect that he will,’ agreed Parmenion, rising. ‘And I hope you get your house.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Good night.’

  ‘Good night, Cleiton.’ The general returned to his blankets, but his sleep was haunted by dreams. Derae was running on a green hillside, her eyes wide with fear. He tried to go to her, to explain that all was well, but as he approached she screamed and sped away. He could not catch her and stopped by a stream where he gazed down at his reflection. Pale eyes in the bronze mask of Chaos stared back-at him. Pulling the helm from his head, he called out to her.

  ‘Stop! It is I, Parmenion.’

  But she did not hear him, and vanished from sight.

  He awoke with a start and sat up. His back was aching and a slow, painful pounding hammered within his skull. ‘You fool,’ he told himself, ‘you forgot your sylphium.’ There was water heating on a fire. Dipping a cup into the pot he almost scalded his fingers. Then adding his dried herbs to the liquid, he stirred it with his dagger, waited for it to cool and then drained the infusion. Almost at once the pain departed.

  Bernios approached. ‘You look dreadful, my friend,’ said the surgeon. ‘Do you ever sleep?’

  ‘When I need it.’

  ‘Well, you need it now. You are not a young man any more. Your body needs rest.’

  ‘I am forty-three years old,’ Parmenion snapped. ‘That is hardly ancient. And I can still run twenty miles, should I so choose.’

  ‘I did not say you were decrepit, I merely pointed out that you are no longer young. You are very sharp this morning -that also is a sign of age.’

  ‘My back aches - and do not tell me it is because I am old. There is an iron spear-point lodged under my shoulder-blade. But what of you? Why do you not sleep?’

  ‘Another man died in the night. I sat with him,’ said Bernios. ‘No one should die alone. He was stabbed through the belly; there is no worse pain than that. But he didn’t complain - save at the end.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘I did not ask - and don’t lecture me about it. I know the importance you place on such details, but I cannot remember all the faces.’

  ‘What did you give him?’

  ‘The gift of poppies,’ answered Bernios. ‘A lethal dose.’

  ‘That is against the law. I wish you would not tell me these things.’

  ‘Then don’t damn well ask!’ responded the surgeon. He was instantly contrite. ‘I am sorry, Parmenion; I also am weary. But you are beginning to worry me. You have been tense now for days. Is something troubling you?’

  ‘It is nothing of importance.’

  ‘Nonsense. You are too intelligent to concern yourself over trifles. Do you want to talk of it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are ashamed of it?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted the Spartan.

  ‘Then keep it to yourself. It is often said that confession is a healing process. Do not believe that, Parmenion; it is the mother of all pain. How many know of your... shame?’

  ‘None - save myself.’

  ‘Then it did not happen.’

  ‘It would be pleasant were life that simple,’ said Parmenion.

  ‘Why complicate it? You expect too much of yourself, my friend. I have some bad news for you: you are not perfect. Now get some rest.’

  ‘Walk with me,’ Olympias commanded Parmenion as they made camp on the second night in a hollow on the Emathian Plain. The Spartan followed the Queen as they strolled towards the small camp-fire set by Phaedra. The Queen saw that he was ill at ease and took his arm, enjoying the sudden tension in his muscles. So, she thought, he is not impervious to my beauty. ‘Why have you avoided me, general?’ she asked sweetly.

  ‘It is not a matter of avoiding you, your highness. But my duty is to see you safely to your husband in Pella. That priority engages my mind, and I fear I am not good company.’

  She sat down on her cushions, a gold-embroidered woollen shawl around her shoulders.

  ‘Tell me about Philip,’ she said. ‘There is so much I do not know. Is he kind to his servants? Does he beat his wives?’

  Parmenion settled himself beside the fire. ‘Where would I start, lady? He is a King and he
behaves like one. No, he does not beat his wives - or his servants - but neither is he soft or weak. There is only one other wife, Audata, the daughter of King Bardylis. But she dwells now in Pelagonia - by choice.’

  ‘She has a child by Philip, I understand,’ she said, her hand unconsciously moving to her own swollen belly.

  ‘She has a daughter - a beautiful child.’

  ‘Strange from so ugly a mother,’ snapped Olympias before she could stop herself.

  ‘There are many kinds of beauty, my lady, and not all of them fade as swiftly as the flesh,’ he told her, his voice cool.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said swiftly. ‘It is hard not to be jealous. And I wish us to be friends. Will we be friends?’ she asked suddenly, her green eyes holding to his own.

  ‘All the days of our lives,’ he told her simply.

  After he had gone Phaedra moved close alongside the Queen. ‘You should not flirt, Olympias, not among these Macedonians.’

  ‘I was not flirting - though he is a handsome man, save for that hawk nose. Philip is a warrior King and he will take many wives. I need to ensure that my son remains the true heir to the throne and it is never too early to win allies. Parmenion destroyed the power of the Spartans, raising Thebes to greatness. Last year he crushed the Illyrians. Before that he fought for the Great King. He has never been defeated in battle. A good friend to have, do you not think?’

  ‘You have learned much,’ Phaedra whispered.

  ‘Oh, there is more that I know. The King has three advisers he trusts above all others. First is Parmenion, preeminent in strategy, then comes Attalus, cold and deadly, the King’s assassin. Lastly there is Antipater, the Second General, a tough, worthy warrior.’

  ‘What of the women?’

  ‘Philip thinks little of women - save for Simiche, his brother’s widow. He trusts her, confides in her. I will win her friendship also.’

  ‘Your plans seem well laid,’ commented Phaedra.

  ‘They were set in Samothrace by the Lady Aida. She knows all things, past and future. I was chosen - and I will not disappoint her.’