The rain began, gentle at first, then stronger, splashing to the stone pathway and bending the blooms of the garden. Here beneath the towering oak Olympias felt safe; the branches above her were thick and shielding, almost impenetrable.
Parmenion ran along the stone pathway towards his home, saw her and changed direction. Ducking under the outermost branches, he approached her and bowed.
‘Not a safe place, my lady. Lightning may be drawn here. Let me cover you with my cloak and see you to your quarters.’
‘Not yet, general. Sit a while,’ she ‘said, smiling up at him. Shaking his head he chuckled and sat down, stretching out his long legs and brushing raindrops from his shoulders and arms.
‘Curious creatures, are women,’ he remarked. ‘You have beautiful rooms, warm and dry, yet you sit here in the cold and the wet.’
‘There is a kind of peace here, do you not find?’ she countered. ‘All around us the storm, yet here we are safe and dry.’
The thunder came again, closer now, lightning forking the sky.
‘The appearance of safety,’ Parmenion replied, ‘is not quite the same as being safe. You look sad,’ he said suddenly, instinctively reaching out and taking her hand. She smiled then, holding back the tears with an effort of will.
‘I am not really sad,’ she lied. ‘It is just ... I am a stranger in a foreign land. I have no friends, my body has become lumpy and ugly, and I cannot find the right words to please Philip. But I will, when our son is born.’
He nodded. ‘The babe concerns you. Philip tells me you have dreams of its death. But I spoke to Bernios yesterday; he says you are strong and the child grows as it should. He is a good man and a fine surgeon. He would not lie to me.’
The thunder was now overhead, the wind screaming through the oak and shaking it violently. Parmenion helped the Queen to her feet, covering her head and shoulders with his cloak, and together they returned to the palace.
Leading her to her rooms Parmenion turned to leave, but Olympias cried out and started to fall. The Spartan leapt to her side, catching her by the arms and half carrying her to a couch.
Her hand seized the breast of his tunic. ‘He’s gone!’ she screamed. ‘My son! He’s gone!’
‘Calm yourself, lady,’ urged Parmenion, stroking her hair.
‘Oh, sweet mother Hera,’ she moaned. ‘He’s dead!’
The Spartan moved swiftly into the outer rooms, sending in the Queen’s three hand-maidens to comfort her, then ordered a messenger to fetch Bernios.
Within the hour the surgeon arrived, giving the Queen a sleeping draught before reporting back to Philip. The King sat in his throne-room with Parmenion standing beside him.
‘There is no cause for concern,’ the bald surgeon assured Philip. ‘The child is strong, his heartbeat discernible. I do not know why the Queen should think him dead. But she is young and given, perhaps, to foolish fears.’
‘She has never struck me as being easily frightened,’ offered Parmenion. ‘When the raiders attacked her, she killed one of them and faced down the rest.’
‘I agree with the surgeon,’ said Philip. ‘She is like a spirited horse - fast, powerful, but highly-strung. How soon will she give birth?’
‘No more than five days, sire, perhaps sooner,’ the surgeon told him.
‘She will be better then,’ said the King, ‘once the child is suckling at her breast.’ Dismissing the surgeon, Philip turned to Parmenion. The Spartan was holding hard to the high back of the King’s chair, his face ghostly pale and blood streaming from his nose and ears.
‘Parmenion!’ shouted Philip, rising and reaching out to his general. The Spartan tried to answer, but all that came from his mouth was a broken groan. Pitching forward into the King’s arms, Parmenion felt a rolling sea of pain engulf his head.
Then he was falling...
... and the Pit beckoned.
Derae’s spirit hovered above Parmenion’s bed, feeling the unseen presence of Aristotle beside her.
‘Now is the moment of greatest peril,’ his voice whispered in her soul.
Derae did not answer. Beside the bed sat Mothac and Bernios, both men silent, unmoving. Parmenion was barely breathing. The seeress flowed her spirit into the dying man, avoiding his memories and holding to the central spark of his life, feeling the panic within the core as the growth reached out its dark tendrils in his brain. It had been an easy matter to block the power of the sylphium, but even Derae was amazed at the speed with which the cancer spread. Most growths, she knew, were obscene and ugly imitations of life, yet still they created their own blood supply -feeding from it, ensuring their own existence for as long as the host body would tolerate them. Not so this cancer: it multiplied with bewildering speed, spreading far beyond its own core. Unable to feed itself its longest tendrils merely rotted, corrupting the fatty tissues of the brain. Then another tendril would spring up, following the same pattern.
Parmenion was moments from death, gangrene and decay entering his bloodstream and carrying corruption to all parts of his body. Fresh cancers were flowering everywhere.
Derae hunted them down, destroying them where she found them.
‘I cannot do it alone!’ she realized, with sudden panic.
‘You are not alone,’ said Aristotle, his voice calm. ‘I will hold the growth in the brain.’
Calming herself, Derae moved to the heart. If Parmenion was to live through this ordeal his heart needed to be strong. All his life he had been a runner, and, as Derae expected, the muscles were strong. Even so the arteries and major veins were showing signs of wear, dull yellow fat clinging to the walls and constricting the blood flow. The heartbeat was weak and fluttering, the blood thin. Derae began her work here, strengthening the valves, stripping away the pale yellow wastes clogging the veins and restricting the flow of blood, breaking them down to be carried away to the bowels. His lungs were good and she did not tarry here, but swam on into the gall bladder where wastes had been extracted from the blood only to congeal into stones, sharp and jagged. These she smashed into powder.
On she moved, destroying the cancer cells lodging in his kidneys, stomach and bowel, finally returning to the central core where Aristotle waited.
The growth in the head was unmoving now, but covering still a vast amount of the brain, squatting within it like a huge spider.
‘We have him now at the point of death,’ said Aristotle. ‘You must hold him here while I seek him out in the Void. Can you do it?’
‘I do not know,’ she admitted. ‘I can feel his body trembling on the edge of the abyss. One error, or the onset of fatigue. I don’t know, Aristotle.’
‘Both our lives will be in your hands, woman. For he will be my link to the world of the living. If he dies in the Void, then I will be trapped there. Be strong, Derae. Be Spartan!’
And then she was alone.
Parmenion’s heartbeat remained weak and unsteady and she could feel the cancer pushing back against her power, the tendrils quivering, seeking to grow.
There was no sensation of waking, no drowsiness. One moment there was nothing, the next Parmenion was walking across a colourless landscape under a lifeless grey sky. He stopped, his mind hazy and confused.
As far as his eyes could see there was no life, no growth. There were long-dead trees, skeletal and bare, and jagged boulders, rearing hills and dark distant mountains. All was shadow.
Fear touched him, his hand moving to the sword at his side.
Sword?
Slowly he drew it from its scabbard, gazing down once more on the proudest memory of youth, the shining blade and lion-head pommel in gold. The Sword of Leonidas!
But from where had it come? How did he acquire it? And where in Hades was he?
The word echoed in his mind. Hades!
He swallowed hard, remembering the blinding pain, the sudden darkness.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No, I can’t be dead!’
‘Happily that is true,’ said a voice and Parmenion
spun on his heel, the sword-blade extending. Aristotle leapt back. ‘Please be careful, my friend. A man has only one soul.’
‘What is this place?’ Parmenion asked the magus.
‘The land beyond the River Styx, the first cavern of Hades,’ answered Aristotle.
‘Then I must be dead. But I have no coin for the ferryman. How then shall I cross?’
Aristotle took him by the arm, leading him to a group of boulders where they sat beneath the soul-less sky. ‘Listen to me, Spartan, for there is little time. You are not dead - a friend is holding you to life even now - but there is something you must do here.’ Swiftly Aristotle told Parmenion of the child’s lost soul and the perils of the Void.
The Spartan listened in silence, his pale eyes gazing over the twisted landscape that stretched for an eternity in every direction. In the far distance shapes could be seen, darker shadows flitting across the grey land.
‘How could any man find one soul in such a place?’ he asked at last.
‘It will shine like a light, Parmenion. And it must be close, for you are linked to it.’
‘What do you mean?’ responded the Spartan, fear in his eyes.
‘You understand full well what I am saying. You are the boy’s father.’
‘How many know of this?’
‘Myself- and one other: the Healer who holds your life back in the world of the Flesh. Your secret is safe.’
‘No secret is ever safe,’ whispered Parmenion, ‘but this is not the time for debate. How do we find this light?’
‘I do not know,’ Aristotle admitted. ‘Nor do I know how to protect it when we do. Perhaps we cannot.’
Parmenion stood and stared hard in all directions. ‘Where is the Styx?’
‘To the east,’ answered Aristotle.
‘And how do I tell which is east? There are no stars save one, no landmarks that I could recognize.’
‘Why would you seek the River of the Dead?’
‘We must start somewhere, Aristotle. We cannot just wander this desolate plain.’
Aristotle stood. ‘To the best of my recollection it is beyond two jagged peaks, higher than the surrounding mountains. Let’s see...’ Suddenly the magus swung on Parmenion. ‘Wait! What was that about stars?’
‘There is but the one, flickering there,’ answered the Spartan, pointing to a tiny glistening dot of light high in the dark sky.
‘There are no stars in the Void. That’s it! That is the soul-flame.’
‘How do we reach a star?’
‘It is not a star! Look closely. It is a tall mountain; the light rests there. Come. Quickly, now. For it will draw evil upon itself, and we must reach it first.’
The two men began to run, their feet kicking up grey dust which hovered behind them before settling once more into place, undisturbed by any breeze.
‘Look!’ shouted Aristotle, as they sped across the plain. Far to the left shadows were merging, huge, misshapen creatures lumbering towards the light. ‘It draws them with the power of pain. They must blot it out, destroy it.’
There was little sense of time passing as the two ran on, but the mountains loomed above them dark and threatening as they reached the lower slopes. Here there was a forest of dead trees, bleached white like old bones. Parmenion cut to the left, seeking a path.
‘Not that way!’ screamed Aristotle.
Parmenion tried to turn, but a long branch curled around his throat, twigs like talons piercing his spirit flesh. His sword smashed through the bough and he hurled himself to the ground, where white roots pushed up through the dead earth - skeletal fingers that tugged at his arms.
Aristotle leapt forward with arms extended, and a searing burst of light shone from his hands, bathing Parmenion. The roots turned instantly to powder and the Spartan lurched to his feet.
‘That was unfortunate,’ said Aristotle, ‘and such a display of power will bring our enemies the more swiftly.’
Sword in hand, Parmenion followed the magus up the slope towards the light. As they approached a scattered group of boulders, dark shadows detached themselves from the rocks, skittering into the sky. Parmenion saw that they were birds without feathers or skin, black skeletons swooping and diving above them.
A low moan came from within the boulders. Parmenion halted in his run, turning to seek the source of the cry.
‘There is no time,’ Aristotle shouted.
Ignoring him, Parmenion edged to the right.
At the centre of the boulders lay a young woman, chains of fire holding her arms pinned to the rocks. Several skeletal birds were pecking at her flesh, peeling it back in bloody strips which healed instantly. Parmenion ran at the birds, shouting and waving his arms; they rose from the body, wings clicking. His sword smashed one to shards, the rest flying clear. Kneeling down he gently touched the woman’s face, lifting her head.
‘I know you, do I not?’ he said, as her eyes focused on him.
‘Yes,’ she answered weakly, her voice dreamlike. ‘I showed you my youth when you were in Thebes. Are you a dream, Parmenion?’
‘No, lady.’ Extending his sword, he touched the blade to the chains of fire which fell away. Sheathing the weapon, he helped Tamis to her feet.
Aristotle ran to his side. ‘I tell you there is no time for this. The demons are gathering.’
‘The child is born?’ Tamis asked.
‘Not yet,’ answered Parmenion. ‘Come with us.’ Taking her arm, he led her up the slope. Far behind them the shadows were gathering, merging, like a dark river flowing towards the mountain.
Higher they climbed, and here a cold wind whispered through the rocks. The light was closer now - a flame of pure white as tall as a man, burning upon a black boulder. Around it the skeletal birds were circling, their high-pitched cries echoing across the mountain.
A darker shadow formed by the fire... growing, spreading.
‘Aida!’ whispered Tamis, running forward.
The Dark Woman raised her arms. Darkness oozed from her fingers to flow over the fire, which guttered, shrinking down until it was merely the size of a lantern-flame.
‘No!’ screamed Tamis. Aida spun, dark spears flashing from her hands. A golden shield appeared on Tamis’ left arm, the spears glancing from it. Aristotle tore open his tunic, his hand circling a tiny golden stone hanging from a chain of silver. The flame on the boulder rose into the air, struggling free of the dark slime which was seeking to smother it.
‘Take it, Parmenion,’ shouted the magus. The Spartan ran towards the flame, which floated on to his outstretched hand, settling upon his palm. There was no sensation of heat, yet an inner warmth touched Parmenion’s heart and the flame grew, curling in on itself, becoming a globe of soft white light.
Tamis and Aida flew at each other. Lightning blazed from Tamis’ eyes, searing through the robes of the Dark Woman. Aida fell back - and vanished. Tamis turned to Parmenion, her hands trembling above the globe.
‘It is the unborn child,’ she said, ‘the child of your flesh. I understand now. Kadmilos must kill it, or for ever share the body.’ Her fingers touched the globe, the light spreading over her hands. ‘Oh, Parmenion! He is so beautiful.’
‘What can we do?’ the Spartan asked, turning to glance down the mountain where the demons were gathering -some walking, others slithering across the stones, their cries drifting on the cold wind.
Aristotle moved alongside him. ‘I believe Mount Thanatos is close by. If I am correct there is a gateway to the Elysian Fields, the Halls of Heroes. But they might not let us enter.’
‘Why should they not?’ Parmenion asked.
‘We are not dead,’ answered Aristotle, forcing a smile. ‘At least not yet.’
‘Look!’ said Tamis, pointing down the mountain where dark-armoured warriors on skeletal horses were riding towards them.
‘The Gateway, then,’ agreed Parmenion. The sphere burning brightly in his hand, he started to run up the slope, the two sorcerers close behind.
Isle
of Samothrace
‘Still she interferes,’ hissed Aida, opening the eyes of her body and rising from the ebony throne.
‘What happened, mistress?’ whispered her acolyte, Poris. The woman in the black robes stared down at the kneeling girl.
‘There are three who struggle against us, keeping the child alive. Tamis - curse her - and the man Parmenion. There is another also, a man I do not know. Wait beside me!’ Once more the Dark Woman closed her eyes, her body slumping back against the ebony throne. The slender acolyte took Aida’s hand, touching her lips to it.
For some time she sat stroking Aida’s fingers, then the Dark Woman sighed. ‘The man is a magus. His body lies waiting for him at the healer’s temple. The woman Derae lies there also, her soul in Pella holding Parmenion’s body among the living. Well, they have stretched themselves thin, my dear. Very thin. And it is time they died.’
‘You will send the Nighthunters, mistress?’
‘Three should be sufficient. There is only an old man guarding their bodies. Walk with me, my pretty one.’
Poris followed her mistress out into the cold stone corridors of the palace and down to the torch-lit tunnels below. Aida opened a leaf-shaped door and entered a small room; it was empty of furniture, save for a raised stone slab at the centre. Aida traced her fingers on the carved lettering there. ‘Do you know what this says?’ she asked Poris.
‘No, my lady.’
‘It is Accadian, carved before the dawn of our history. It is an incantation. Tell me,’ she asked, laying her hand on the girl’s shoulder, ‘do you love me?’
‘More than life,’ the girl assured her.
‘Good,’ answered Aida, pulling her into a tight embrace, ‘and I love you, child. You are more than a daughter to me. But Kadmilos must be served, and his well-being is all that concerns me.’ The slender dagger plunged into Poris’ back, through the ribs and into the heart. The girl stiffened, then sagged into Aida’s arms.
The woman in black eased the corpse on to the slab and began to speak the words of power. Smoke rose from the letters engraved on the stone, covering the dead girl. A foul smell filled the room, the stench of decay. Aida waved her hand and the smoke drew back into the rock. All that now lay upon the slab was a tracing of white-grey ashes.
Lion of Macedon Page 49
