So you see, Parmenion, no one can either outfight him or outthink him. He knows in advance all the plans of his enemies.‘
‘What happened to this sorcerer of great power? Perhaps he will know of a way to destroy his creation.’
‘No, my friend. I am that sorcerer, and I can help you not at all.’
Attalus sat on the beach, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, yet even this was not as hot as his anger. To be forced to travel with the loathsome Spartan was bad enough, but he had expected a ride into Thrace or the Chalcidice in order to rescue the prince. Not this appalling place of deformity and madness.
Picturing the flying creatures, he shivered. How could a warrior hope to combat such beasts?
Unbuckling his breastplate, he put aside his clothes and waded out into the sea, enjoying the sudden cool on his body. Hurling himself forward he ducked under the water, swimming with long easy strokes to surface some way from the shore. Small translucent fishes swam by him in glittering shoals and he splashed his hand in the water, laughing as they scattered in all directions.
This at least was a reality he knew, and he revelled in the feeling.
At last he began to tire of the sea and headed back for the shore, pushing himself upright in the soft sand and flicking the water from his long hair.
Alexander was waiting beside his armour. ‘You swim well,’ said the boy.
Attalus swallowed a curse. He did not like the child. A demon, they said, barely human, who could kill at a touch. The swordsman nodded a greeting and sat down on a rock, waiting for the sun to dry his skin.
‘Are you frightened?’ asked the prince, his expression disarmingly innocent, head cocked to one side.
‘I fear nothing, my prince,’ Attalus answered. ‘And any man who says differently will answer to me with a blade.’
The child nodded solemnly. ‘You are very brave to come so far to find me. I know my father will reward you.’
Attalus laughed. ‘I have three estates and more wealth than I can spend in a lifetime. I need no rewards, Prince Alexander. But I would give a king’s ransom to see Macedonia again.’
‘We will. Parmenion will find a way.’
Attalus bit back an angry retort. ‘It is good to have faith in one’s heroes,’ he said at last.
‘You do not like him, do you?’
‘I like no man - save Philip. And you see too much. Beware, Alexander, such gifts can be double-edged.’
‘Do not ever go against him,’ warned the prince. ‘He would kill you, Attalus.’
The swordsman made no reply, but he smiled with genuine humour. Alexander stood silently for a moment, then looked up into the Macedonian’s eyes. ‘I know you are said to be the best swordsman in the land, and also my father’s most trusted... assassin. But know this, if ever Parmenion dies in mysterious circumstances it is to you I will come. And your death will follow soon after.’
Attalus sighed. ‘I did not enter this world of the bizarre to hear your threats, boy. I came to rescue you. You do not have to like me - why should you, after all? I am not a likeable man. But - should I ever have cause to fight Parmenion - your threats will not sway me. I am my own man and I walk my own path. Remember that.’
‘We will both remember,’ said Alexander.
‘There’s truth in that,’ the swordsman agreed.
‘Do not try to think of a way to defeat Philippos,’ said Chiron. ‘It is not possible.’
‘Nothing is impossible,’ Parmenion assured him, as the two men strolled through the palace grounds in the last lingering light of the fading sun.
‘You misunderstand me,’ continued Chiron. ‘There are greater issues here. Why do you think such a being of enormous power would wish to house himself in the frail human shell of a man - even a king?’
Parmenion halted by a stream and sat on a wooden bench. ‘Tell me,’ he said.
Chiron stretched himself out on the grass and sighed. ‘It is not a simple matter. The Chaos Spirit has no natural form. He is... IT is... of spirit, apparently both immortal and eternal. So then, the real question is how he exists. Do you follow me?’
‘Not yet, magus, but I am ever the willing learner.’
‘Then let us take it slowly. What is the single greatest moment of your life?’
‘What has this to do with anything?’ asked Parmenion, suddenly uncomfortable.
‘Bear with me, warrior,’ urged Chiron.
Parmenion took a deep breath. ‘Many years ago - a lifetime, it seems - I loved a young woman. She made the sun shine more brightly. She made me live.’
‘What happened to her?’
The Spartan’s expression hardened, his blue eyes gleaming with a cold light. ‘She was taken from me and slain. Now make your point, magus, for I am losing patience.’
‘Exactly my point!’ said Chiron, pushing himself to his feet and sitting beside the Spartan. ‘I want you to think back to how you felt at the moment you pictured your love and your days together, and then how those thoughts changed when touched with bitterness. The Chaos Spirit may seem to be immortal and eternal, but it is not entirely the truth. He needs to feed. I do not know if pain, anguish and hatred sired him, or whether he is the father and mother of all bitterness. In a way it does not matter. But he needs Chaos to keep him alive. In the body of Philippos he strides the world, birthing oceans of hatred. Every slave, every widow, every orphaned child will know hate; they will lust for revenge. Long after Philippos is dust the Makedones will be despised. Do you see? He cannot be beaten, for even in destroying Philippos you only continue to feed the spirit that possesses him.’
‘What then do you suggest, that we meekly lie down before the Tyrant, offering our lives with a smile and a blessing?’
‘Yes,’ answered Chiron simply, ‘for then we would be countering Chaos with a greater force - love. But that will never be. It would take a greater man than any I have met who could answer violence with forgiveness, evil with love. At best all we can do is to fight him without hatred.’
‘Why did you make the eye for Philippos?’ asked Parmenion suddenly.
‘I had a vain hope that he would use it to see himself, the true soul within. He did not. It has always been a problem for me, Parmenion, for I seek to see the good in every man, hoping it will conquer. Yet it happens so rarely. A strong man will seek to rule; it is his nature. And to rule he will need to conquer others.’ Chiron sighed. ‘All our heroes are men of violence, are they not? I do not know the names of such heroes in your world. But it will be the same story.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Parmenion. ‘Achilles, Heracles, Agamemnon, Odysseus. All men of the sword. But surely if evil men choose sword and lance, then good men must do the same to combat them?’
‘Would that it were that simple,’ snapped Chiron. ‘But good and evil are not so easily distinguished. Good does not wear golden armour, nor does evil always dress in black. Who is to say where evil lies? You are a general in your own world. Did you ever sack a city? Kill women and children?’
‘Yes,’ answered Parmenion, uncomfortable now.
‘And were you serving the forces of good?’
The Spartan shook his head. ‘Your point is well made. You are a good man, Chiron. Will you come with us to Sparta?’
‘Where else would I go?’ answered the magus sadly. Rising, he made as if to walk away, then turned. ‘There is a legend here - a fine legend. It is said that one day the Enchantment will return, that it will be brought back to us by a golden-haired child of the gods. He will restore peace and harmony, and the world will shine again. Is that not a beautiful idea?’
‘Hold to it,’ advised Parmenion, his voice gentle.
‘I do. I hoped Alexander was the Golden One. But he too is cursed by Chaos. How many other worlds are there, Parmenion? Does a version of the Dark God stalk them all?’
‘Never give in to despair,’ the Spartan advised. ‘Think on this: If you are correct, then perhaps in most of those worlds the Golden Child has a
lready come.’
‘That is a good thought,’ agreed Chiron. ‘And now I must leave you for a while. You are safe here - for the moment. But watch the sea. Philippos will be using all his powers to locate Alexander.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Back to the wood. They will need me there.’
Parmenion found the sorcerer’s mood infectious and his spirits were sombre as he strolled along the line of cliffs overlooking the beach. Far below he could see Attalus and Alexander sitting on the white sand, deep in conversation, and he stopped for a while to watch them.
My son, he thought suddenly, and sadness struck him like a blow. Philotas, Nicci and Hector were his sons, yet his feelings for them were ambivalent. But this boy - this golden child - was everything to him. There is no profit in regret, he reminded himself, but the words, though true, offered no comfort. For this one regret lived on in his own private Hall of Shame. On the wedding night in Samothrace, when Philip was awaiting the arrival of his bride, Parmenion had betrayed him. There was no other word to suit the occasion. With the King lying in a drunken stupor, it was Parmenion who had donned the ceremonial full-faced helm and cloak of Kadmilos and walked into the torchlit room where Olympias lay waiting; Parmenion who had climbed to the bed, pinning her arms beneath him; Parmenion who had felt her soft thighs slide over his hips...
‘Enough!’ he said aloud, as the memory brought fresh arousal. It was a form of double betrayal, and even now he could not understand it. His pride and powerful sense of honour had led him to believe that he would never betray a friend. Yet he had. But what was worse, and continued to torment him, was how even now, while his mind reeled sick with the shame of his deed, his body continued to react to the memory with arousal, lust and delight.
It was why he endured Philip’s anger, and his occasional taunts. Guilt tied him to the Macedonian King with bonds stronger than love, as if by serving Philip faithfully he could in some way even the balance, eradicate the shame.
‘You never will,’ he whispered.
Olympias had been so much like Deraes, slim and beautiful, her red-gold hair glinting in the torchlight. She had tried to remove the helm, complaining that the cold metal was hurting her face, but he held her hands down against the soft sheets, ignoring her pleas. She had spent the first part of the night in the Woods of the Mysteries, inhaling the Sacred Smoke. Her pupils were enormously dilated and she lost consciousness while he lay upon her. It did not stop him.
Guilt came later when he crept back into Philip’s rooms, where the King lay naked on a couch, lost in a drunken sleep. Pulling clear his helm, Parmenion gazed down on the man he had sworn to serve and felt then the sharp pain of regret. He dressed the unconscious monarch in the cloak and helm and carried the King into the bedroom, laying him alongside Olympias.
Back in his own rooms he had tried to justify his actions. The Lady Aida, in whose palace they were guests, had told Philip that if he did not consummate the wedding within what she termed the Holy Hour, then the marriage would be annulled. Philip had laughed at that. Faced with a beautiful woman, he had never been found wanting, and felt no concern at the threat. Yet, as he waited through the long night, he had continued - despite Parmenion’s warnings - to drain goblet after goblet of the heavy Samothracian wine. Philip’s capacity for alcohol was legendary, and it still surprised Parmenion how swiftly the King had succumbed to its influence on this special night.
At first Parmenion tried desperately to rouse Philip, but then he had gazed into the bedroom where Olympias lay naked on the broad bed. He tried to convince himself that his first thought had been of Philip, and the hurt to his pride in the morning when all of Samothrace heard of his failure in the marriage bed. But it was a lie. That excuse came later, as he lay awake watching the dawn.
Now he lived with a constant torment, as double-edged as any dagger. Firstly he feared the truth becoming known, and secondly he had to endure the sight of his beloved son being raised by another.
‘I hope you are thinking of a plan to get us home,’ said Attalus, moving silently alongside the Spartan.
‘No,’ admitted Parmenion, ‘my thoughts were on other matters. Did you enjoy your swim?’
‘It cooled me for a while. Where is the sorcerer?’
‘He will be back soon. He has gone to see if the centaurs need his help.’
Alexander climbed into view, the steps on the cliff path almost too high for him. He waved as he saw Parmenion and moved alongside him, sitting close. Instinctively the Spartan put his arm around the boy. Attalus said nothing, but Parmenion felt his gaze.
‘We must make our way down to the Gulf of Corinth,’ said Parmenion swiftly, ‘and then to Sparta. We can only hope that Aristotle will find a way to us there.’
‘Hope?’ sneered Attalus. ‘I would like something stronger than that. But why Sparta? Why not return to the Circle of Stones and wait? That is where he sent us. Surely that is where he will expect us to be?’
Parmenion shook his head. ‘The enemy are everywhere - and they have used sorcery to locate Alexander. We could not hope to survive alone against them. Sparta holds out. We will be safe there. And Aristotle is a magus; he will find us.’
‘I am not convinced. Why not wait here?’ argued Attalus.
‘I wish that we could, but Chiron does not believe we are safe even here. The King’s reach is long, his powers great. Are you beginning to regret your decision to accompany me?’
Attalus chuckled. ‘I began to regret it the moment we rode from the Circle. But I will stay the course, Spartan.’
‘I did not doubt it.’
‘Look! A ship!’ cried Alexander, pointing out to sea where a trireme was sailing gracefully into view, its black sail furled, its three banks of oars rising and dipping into the sparkling blue water. Slowly the prow turned until the craft was pointing to the shore.
Closer it came until the watchers could see clearly the hundred or so armed men gathering on the great deck.
‘Friendly, do you think?’ asked Attalus as the ship was beached, the warriors clambering to the sand.
‘They are Makedones,’ said Alexander, ‘and they are coming for me.’
‘Then some of them will die,’ said Attalus softly.
‘Back into the palace,’ ordered Parmenion, sweeping Alexander into his arms and moving away from the cliff-edge. Far below them the Makedones soldiers began the long climb up the steep path, sunlight glinting from spear and sword.
Parmenion ran into the palace kitchens where he had put aside his breastplate, helm and sword. Donning the armour, he lifted Alexander and made his way swiftly to the wide stairway, taking the steps two at a time.
‘What if those flying creatures are still on the other side?’ asked Attalus as they reached the illusory wall.
‘We die,’ muttered Parmenion, drawing his sword and stepping through to Chiron’s cave. It was empty. Lowering Alexander to the ground the Spartan moved to the cave-mouth, scanning the mountainside. The dead grey stallion lay where it had fallen, black crows squabbling over the carcass. Beyond the stallion lay the corpses of more than thirty Vores, but these the crows avoided. Of Parmenion’s gelding there was no sign.
‘We’d be safer in the woods,’ said Attalus. Parmenion nodded and the trio crossed the open mountainside, reaching the sanctuary of the trees without incident.
The woods were unnaturally silent. No bird-song sweetened the air, and not a trace of breeze disturbed the canopied branches above. The silence made both warriors uneasy, but Alexander was happy walking beside his hero, holding Parmenion’s hand. They walked deeper into the woods, keeping to a narrow game trail that twisted, rose and fell until it reached a shallow stream where cool mountain water rippled over white stones.
‘Do we cross it - or follow it?’ asked Attalus, keeping his voice low. Before Parmenion could answer they heard sound of movement from the trail ahead, the snapping of dried wood underfoot. Then came voices, muffled by the undergrowth..
/> Gathering the child, Parmenion backed away towards the bushes, Attalus beside him. But before they could find a place in which to hide, a warrior in a raven-winged helm appeared on the other side of the stream.
‘Here!’ he bellowed. The child is here!‘
More than a score of dark-cloaked soldiers carrying spears and swords ran to join him. Attalus’ blade hissed from its scabbard.
Parmenion swung round. Behind them was a narrow track. On either side were thick stands of thorn bushes and brambles. From where he stood the Spartan could see no end to the track, but glancing down he saw cloven hoofprints of deer leading away up the slope.
The Makedones surged forward into the water, the woods echoing with their screams of triumph.
‘Run!’ shouted Parmenion, holding Alexander tight to his chest as he set off along the track. Thorns cut into his calves and thighs as he ran, and twice he almost stumbled as dry dust shifted beneath his sandalled feet. The slope was steep, the track meandering, but at last he emerged to a wider trail bordered by huge, gnarled oaks. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Attalus some ten paces back, the pursuing Makedones closing on him. A soldier paused in his run to hurl a spear.
‘Look out!’ shouted Parmenion and Attalus swerved left, the weapon slashing past him to bury itself in the ground in front of the swordsman. Attalus grabbed the shaft as he ran, pulling it from the earth. Turning suddenly, he launched the spear back at the thrower. The soldier threw himself to the ground, the missile taking the man behind him full in the throat.
Spinning on his heel, Attalus raced after Parmenion. The Spartan ran on, seeking always narrow tracks that would keep the enemy in single file behind them, and as he ran his anger grew. There was no strategy here for victory, no subtle plan to swing a battle. Outnumbered, they were being hunted through an alien wood by a deadly enemy. All that was left was to run. But where? For all Parmenion knew they were heading towards an even greater enemy force, or worse perils.