Lion of Macedon

by David Gemmell

  ‘There is nothing to fear,’ said Attalus, easing past him and into the room. The older prince was sitting on a couch, eating bread and cheese; he looked stronger than Attalus had ever seen him. The warrior turned to Philip. ‘I was looking for you,’ he lied easily, ‘but you were not in your rooms. I thought you might be here.’

  ‘Why should you seek me out in the night?’ asked Philip, suspicious.

  ‘There is a plot to kill you,’ said Attalus, ‘but then you know that. Hence the midnight feast. No wonder the poisons failed to take effect. But that is by the by. Ptolemaos has ordered me to kill your brother tonight. You are to die next week.’

  Attalus heard the rasping whisper of an iron blade hissing from a scabbard and swung to see Perdiccas advancing with a sword. He had not realized how tall the prince was, nor sensed the power in him.

  ‘That is not necessary,’ he said, his voice low. ‘I am not here to obey the order, I am here to warn you.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’ countered Perdiccas, holding the point of the blade to Attalus’ throat.

  ‘Wait!’ urged Philip, as he saw his brother tense for the thrust. ‘Let us not be rash! I believe him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ whispered Attalus, slowly reaching up and pushing the blade from his skin. ‘The question is, what do we do? I would suggest riding from the palace and heading for Amphipolis. Once there you can gather support from discontented nobles and - perhaps - seize the throne.’

  ‘No,’ said Philip.

  ‘What else is there?’ put in Perdiccas.

  ‘You take the throne tonight,’ Philip said. ‘Ptolemaos murdered our father and the throne is yours by right. We kill the King.’

  ‘Gods, man! You are insane,’ responded Perdiccas. ‘We have no allies we know of. The guards are loyal to Ptolemaos - we’d be cut down.’

  ‘Not so,’ said Philip. ‘Ptolemaos is not a popular man, so no one will feel any lingering loyalty when he is dead. I saw Archelaos ride from the palace this afternoon and I am told he is heading for Thebes. So he will be no threat. With the King dead, the nobles will gather to choose a successor -but by then the guards will already have declared their loyalty to you.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘The nature of men,’ said Philip. ‘The desire to be led. And Attalus will speak to them. He is a Captain of the Guard and they will listen to him. Is that not so, Attalus?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ agreed the warrior cautiously. ‘But the risks are still very great.’

  Philip laughed. ‘Risks? I have lived with the prospect of assassination for years. What risks? We may die? All men die, rich and poor alike. But if I am to die, then let it be while I fight, not like some bullock in a pen waiting for the axe to fall.’

  Attalus listened as Philip outlined his plan, and his admiration for the young man grew. He found himself wishing that the boy was older; he would make a fine King, a man of power and insight. He glanced at Perdiccas. There was strength here also, but he was a lesser man than his brother. Still, if this lunatic venture succeeded it was Perdiccas who would take the crown. Attalus waited until Philip had finished speaking, then he turned to Perdiccas and knelt.

  ‘I hope, sire, that when we have succeeded you will not hold it against me that I served your father’s murderer? I had no hand in it.’

  Perdiccas looked down at the man, then laid his hand on his shoulder. ‘I will forgive you that, Attalus. And I will see you rewarded for this night’s work.’

  The three men left the room, Attalus leading the way through the palace to the corridor before the King’s apartments. There the brothers waited while he strode forward to where the two black-cloaked guards were sitting outside the bedroom door.

  Attalus gestured to the guards to follow him and walked on. The men rose, glanced at one another, then moved to the end of the corridor where Attalus waited.

  ‘Have you seen anything suspicious?’ Attalus whispered.

  ‘In what way, sir?’ asked one of the men. Behind the guards the princes had moved out into the open. Attalus found his mouth dry. This is madness, he thought.

  ‘Have you seen anyone in the corridor this evening?’ he enquired, as the brothers crept towards the bedroom door.

  ‘Only you, sir. And the King himself. Is there some trouble?’

  ‘Probably not. But be vigilant.’ Philip had opened the door, both princes were slipping inside.

  ‘Of course, sir. We don’t sleep on duty.’

  Attalus watched the door of the bedchamber close. ‘The world offers many surprises,’ he said. ‘Sometimes a man just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ the man replied.

  ‘No, I am afraid you don’t,’ answered Attalus, his dagger flashing into the man’s throat. The second guard stood rooted to the spot for a moment, then grabbed for his sword, but Attalus tore his dagger free and plunged the point through the man’s eye.

  From the King’s bedchamber came a terrible scream. Attalus ran forward, throwing open the door.

  Ptolemaos lay half out of the bed with two swords jutting from his chest and belly. The King fell to the floor and tried to drag himself towards Attalus, but Philip ran forward wrenching loose his sword. Ptolemaos screamed again -then the blade hacked through his neck.

  Philip rose, turned and knelt before Perdiccas.

  ‘You will never have to kneel to me,’ promised the new

  King of Macedonia, lifting Philip to his feet. ‘And I will never forget what you have done for me.’

  The Temple, Summer, 359 BC

  In the eleven years since Parmenion’s victory at Leuctra, Derae had suffered many strange dreams - visions of darkness and evil, demon-haunted and terrifying. At first Tamis would appear in her dreams, rescuing her, telling her of the servants of the Dark God who sought to destroy them both. As the years flowed on Derae’s powers grew and she found the night attacks less daunting. Yet now she was lost within a dark, troubled nightmare, shadows darting just out of her range of vision as she spun and twisted, trying in vain to glimpse them. But all she could see were grey castle walls, water glistening on cold stone.

  Darkness rose like smoke around her and from within it she heard the sound of rasping breath, the scratching of talons on stone pavings. Piercing pain tore into her arms as a creature of scale and slime leapt at her. White light blazed from her fingers, and a terrible scream echoed along the stone corridors. Glancing down at her arms, she saw the marks of talons in bloody tears on her flesh; but of the creature there was no sign, only a fleeting memory of cold opal eyes and a wide-slitted mouth. Swiftly she healed herself and tried to soar, but the stone ceiling held her trapped, as did the walls and floor.

  A black, stagnant pool of water ahead of her bubbled and rose, coalescing into the shape of a woman cloaked and hooded, pale of face and dark of eye. ‘So, you are the Healer,’ said the woman, her voice deep and husky. ‘You are a pretty one. Come to me, pretty one!’

  Derae laughed then, her fear evaporating. ‘What do you want of me?’

  ‘I want to know who you serve. You trouble me.’

  ‘Why should you be troubled?’ countered Derae. ‘I am, as you say, a Healer. For more than twenty years I have dwelt in the temple. I do not even know you, lady.’

  ‘Can you walk the many futures?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Can you?’ responded Derae.

  ‘What I can do is none of your concern!’ snapped the hooded newcomer.

  ‘I see that you cannot,’ said Derae softly. ‘Why is it of interest to you?’

  The woman smiled, but her features did not soften. ‘Can we not be friends? I too am a Healer, and a seer. I merely felt your power and wished to know more of you.’

  Derae shook her head. ‘We cannot be friends, you and I? we serve opposing powers. But then you do not desire friendship, do you? Speak the truth - or do you fear it will burn your tongue?’

  ‘Burn! You wish to see burning?’ hissed the
woman. Flames leapt from the walls and Derae’s robes caught fire, her skin blistering. She did not move, or scream. A soft golden light enveloped her, healing her skin, wrapping itself around her in a protective cloak. Angry now, Derae raised her hand. Twin spears of barbed light flashed through the woman’s chest, hurling her back and pinning her to the wall; she screamed in pain, then touched the spears which disappeared in an instant.

  The Dark Woman smiled. ‘Very fine,’ she said, ‘and I was wrong about you. I have nothing to fear.’

  The castle shimmered and vanished, and Derae awoke back in the temple.

  The battle in the ghostly castle disturbed her and she sought out Tamis. The old woman was still asleep, spittle drooling to her chin. Derae touched her lightly, but she did not wake. The last two decades had not been kind to the old priestess: her powers were fading, along with her sight and hearing. Derae gripped her shoulder, shaking her more roughly.

  ‘Eh? What?’ muttered Tamis, rubbing at her eyes.

  Derae brought her water and waited while the old woman adjusted from sleep to waking. ‘Why did you disturb me? I was dreaming of my first husband. What a man! Ha! Like a ram, he was.’

  Derae told her about the castle and the dark-cloaked woman. Tamis listened in silence, then shook her head. ‘I don’t know who she was. We are not alone in this struggle, Derae. There are others like us, with Talent and Sight. Some serve the Light, others the Darkness. Why did it trouble you?’

  ‘She was frightened of me, but when I defeated her all her fear vanished. That makes no sense... does it?’

  Tamis sighed and rose from the bed. Dawn light was seeping through the shuttered window. She dressed in a simple robe of white wool and walked out into the garden, Derae following her.

  ‘You say you defeated her. How?’ asked Tamis. Derae explained and the old woman sighed. ‘You tried to kill her, and in doing so she defeated you, for that is not the Way of the Source. And those who do not serve the Source serve only Chaos.’

  ‘But that is not true,’ protested Derae. ‘I am a Healer. I am not evil.’

  ‘No, you are not evil,’ agreed Tamis, her voice weary. ‘I have trained you badly. I have done so many things badly. My arrogance has been colossal. Cassandra tried to warn me but I would not listen. Yet I was wise once,’ she said suddenly, stooping to smell a budding rose. ‘I knew many secrets. But all wisdom is folly. We think we manipulate, but we are being manipulated. We think we have power, but we are as leaves in a storm. We do good works, that lead to evil. All is confusion. All is vanity.’

  Derae took her hand. ‘Are you ill, Tamis? I’ve not heard you speak like this before.’

  ‘I am not ill. I am dying, Derae. And none of my work is finished. I wonder sometimes if we ever finish what we start. I am so tired of it all. I have done terrible things... terrible. I thought I was being clever.’ She laughed then, the sound a dry cackle which ended in a series of racking coughs. She cleared her throat and spat into the rosebushes. ‘Look at me! Beautiful Tamis! It is hard to believe that men once desired me.’

  ‘What did you dream?’ Derae asked.

  ‘Dream?’

  ‘You said you dreamt of your first husband. Tell me of it.’

  ‘I saw how good it was to be loved, to be touched, to use and be used. I saw all that I have lost - all my mistakes, my vanities.’

  ‘Show me!’ whispered Derae, laying her hands on the old woman’s head. Tamis relaxed and Derae swam into her subconscious, seeing the young Tamis writhing beneath a powerful, bearded young man. Derae did not watch the scene but floated high above it, twisting in the air, seeking... searching. Then she saw her, the dark-cloaked woman. She was laughing and pointing at the rutting couple. Derae moved closer. The woman was not alone, shadowy shapes hovered around her.

  Derae surfaced into the cool of the dawn garden. ‘It was no dream, Tamis; it was the woman I spoke of. She came to you, filling your mind with despair.’

  ‘Nonsense. I would have seen her. I am still powerful!’ protested Tamis. ‘Why do you seek to undermine me?’

  ‘I do not,’ Derae told her. ‘I promise you. We are under attack, Tamis. But why now?’

  ‘The Dark Birth is close,’ whispered Tamis. ‘So close. Maybe within the year, certainly within two. Was she truly in my head?’

  ‘Yes. I am sorry.’

  ‘It does not matter. All powers fade.’ Tamis sighed. ‘I wish I could teach you more, but I cannot. And one day you will hate me.’ Tears fell from her eyes.

  ‘You have taught me much, my friend... my dear friend. How could I ever hate you?’

  ‘You saw the woman? Well, that is retribution of a poetic kind,’ said Tamis. ‘One day you will know why. But tell me, where is Parmenion?’

  ‘He is in Susa. The Great King has presented him with a prize stallion following his victory in Mesopotamia.’

  ‘He will be drawn into the battle for Macedonia,’ Tamis said. ‘That is the centre now. All the powers are being drawn there, it is the place. Go there! Go there now! See it. Feel it!’

  ‘I cannot go now. I am worried about you, Tamis.’

  ‘It is too late for your worries, my dear. The future is upon us. The Dark God is coming.’

  ‘But we can still stop him?’

  Tamis shrugged and stared around the garden. ‘Look at the roses. There are hundreds of them. Every year there are thousands of blooms. If I were to ask you to trim and prune them all so that only one perfect bloom would emerge, and all other bushes remained green, could you do it?’

  ‘I think so, but it would take all my power.’

  ‘What if I asked you to prune all the roses in the world, so that only one bush produced one perfect flower?’

  ‘What are you saying, Tamis?’

  ‘Go to Macedonia, my dear. I will sit and watch the roses grow.’

  Derae soared above the temple and fled west, passing over the mountains of Thrace and the plains of the great rivers Nestus, Strymon and Axios. Floating in a clear blue sky she relaxed her mind, closing her spirit eyes and riding the rhythms of power as they pulsed from the land below. She felt herself drawn south, over the sea and down towards a mountain range. Lower and lower she flew. Below her a group of horsemen were pursuing a lion. It ran into the rocks and then, out of sight of the pursuers, turned and prepared itself for the charge. One of the hunters, a handsome dark-bearded young man, had pulled ahead of the group. He galloped his horse into the rocks and leapt to the ground, a light hunting spear in his hand. The lion charged but the hunter did not panic or run. Dropping to one knee, he gripped his spear firmly and waited for the beast to charge.

  Derae sped like an arrow towards the lion.

  Macedonia, Summer, 359 BC

  Philip dragged his horse to a standstill as he saw the lion lope into the rocks. The joy of the hunt was on him, the intoxicating spirit of danger proving - as always - stronger than wine. He leapt lightly to the ground, his short stabbing spear held firmly in his right hand, the iron point honed to razor sharpness.

  The years since the assassination of Ptolemaos had been good to Philip. No longer a slim young boy, the prince was now broad-shouldered and powerful with a trimmed black beard, glossy as the pelt of a panther, adorning his face. At twenty-three Philip of Macedon was in his prime.

  When Perdiccas took the throne Philip had known peace for the first time in years. He had moved south of the capital to the royal estates beyond the ancient capital of Aigai, and there had indulged in all the pleasures enjoyed by Macedonian nobles - hunting, drinking, whoring. But, of mem all, it was the hunt which most fired his blood. Bears, wolves, deer, wild oxen, boars and leopards - Macedonia was alive with game.

  But the lion was growing scarce. Now a shaggy male had moved down from the mountains, attacking the sheep Socks, killing goats and cattle. For five days they had tracked it, losing the spoor only to find it again, moving always south. It seemed as if the beast was drawing them ever closer to Mount Olympus, the home of the gods.
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br />   Philip glanced south at the distant mountain. ‘Be with me, father Zeus!’ he whispered as he moved slowly into the rocks. He should have waited for his companions, but - as ever - Philip was anxious to make the kill, to be the first to strike.

  The noon sun beat down on the prince’s back as he inched his way forward. Lions did not like to be moving in the heat, he knew, preferring to find a shady spot to sleep. And this one had recently killed a large sheep, gorging himself on the fat-filled flesh. Philip hefted his spear. The point would have to enter behind the lion’s shoulder, driving deep into his lungs and heart. Even then a single sweep of its paw could crush a man’s ribs, the talons disembowelling the spearman.

  Philip glanced back, seeing that Attalus and the others were still some distance away. The pale-eyed assassin would be furious if Philip made the kill without him. He chuckled. Attalus was already angry, for Perdiccas had taken the army west to challenge Bardylis, leaving him behind. Despite the assassin’s aid eleven years earlier, Perdiccas had never trusted him nor allowed him to rise to prominence; he was still a mere Captain of the Guard.

  A low growl came from ahead, beyond the boulders. The sound was deep and rumbling. Fear touched Philip with fingers of fire, and he revelled in it as at the caress of a beautiful woman.

  ‘Come to me,’ he whispered.

  The lion charged from the rocks. It was huge, seeming to Philip larger than a pony. There was no time to run to the side and deliver the killing thrust.

  Philip dropped to one knee and grounded the haft of the spear, the point aimed at the lion’s throat. It would not stop him, he realized. The haft would snap under the impact, then the fangs would tear at his face. Instantly he knew the day of his death was upon him, yet he stayed calm, determined he would not die alone. This monster would walk beside him on the road to Hades.

  Behind him he heard the sound of hoofbeats, but his friends were too late to save him.