An hour passed... then another. Finally a cloaked figure left by the rear door, moving swiftly down the path. But he did not pass through the gate; instead he cut across the garden to a second inner gateway. Hephaistion stood and, keeping to the shadows of the wall, followed the man. Hanging ivy grew thickly by the inner gate and the scent of roses came from beyond the wall. Hephaistion slowed his walk, moving with care through the undergrowth. He could hear low voices in the small garden beyond and he recognized them both.
‘Is he talking treason yet?’ Philip asked.
‘Not as such, sire. But he grows more discontented day by day. I asked him tonight how he felt about the coming campaign and he outlined his plans for the taking of a walled city. He speaks like a general, and I think he sees himself leading the army.’
Hephaistion’s eyes narrowed. That was not as it had been. He had listened to that conversation and Alexander had merely pointed out - when pushed - that patience was needed when besieging fortified towns.
‘Attalus believes,’ said Philip, ‘that my life is in danger. Do you agree with him?’
‘Hard to say with certainty, sire. But I detect a great jealousy over your recent marriage. All things are possible.’
‘Thank you,’ said the King. ‘Your loyalty does you credit - I shall not forget it.’
Hephaistion slipped deeper into the shadows and knelt behind a thick bush as the man reappeared. He waited there for some minutes then rose and walked out into the night, making his way past the Guards Barracks to Parmenion’s house. There was a single lantern burning in the lower study, thin lines of golden light showing through the wooden shutters of the small window.
The soldier tapped at the wood and Parmenion pushed open the shutter, saw him and gestured him to the side door. Once inside the general offered him wine but Hephaistion refused, accepting instead a cup of water.
‘Is it Philo?’ Parmenion asked.
Hephaistion nodded. There was no expression on the general’s face as he returned to the wide leather-covered chair behind the desk. ‘I thought so. Tell me all.’
The soldier did so, reporting the twisted facts Philotas had relayed to the King. ‘What does he gain, sir? The prince is his friend and the heir to the throne. Surely his future success would be assured under Alexander?’
‘That is not how he views it. You have done well, Hephaistion. I am pleased with you.’
‘I am sorry that the information I gained should bring you grief.’
Parmenion shook his head. ‘I knew it anyway - deep in my heart.’ The Spartan rubbed at his eyes, then lifted a full wine-cup to his lips, draining it at a single swallow.
‘May I now return to my regiment, sir?’ asked the soldier. ‘I am not suited to palace life.’
‘No, I am sorry. I think Alexander is in danger and I want you close to him for a little while longer. Will you do this for me?’
Hephaistion sighed. ‘You know I will refuse you nothing, sir. But please let it not be too long.’
‘No more than a month. Now you should get some rest. I understand Alexander rides on a hunt tomorrow... today... at dawn.’
Hephaistion chuckled. ‘That will come as a welcome relief.’ His smile faded. ‘What will you do about Philotas?’
‘What I must,’ Parmenion answered.
Parmenion awoke soon after dawn, but he was not refreshed by his sleep. His dreams had been full of anxiety and despair, and on waking he felt no better.
Rising from the bed, he opened the shutters of his bedroom window and stared out over the city. When men looked at him they saw Macedonia’s greatest general, a conqueror, a man of power. Yet today he felt old, weary and lost.
One son, Alexander, was being betrayed by another, Philotas, while the King Parmenion loved was fast convincing himself of the necessity of murdering his heir.
This was no battlefield where the strategos could work one of his many miracles. This was like a web of poisoned thread, weaving its way through the city and the kingdom, corrupting where it touched. But who was the spider?
Attalus?
The man was cold-hearted and ambitious, but Parmenion did not believe him capable of manipulating Philip. Yet who else stood to gain?
He summoned two of his manservants, ordering them to prepare him a bath. Only a few years before he would have first left the house for a morning run, loosening his muscles and refreshing his mind. But now his limbs were too stiff for such reckless release of energy. There was a tray of apples by the window and he bit into one. It was sweet and overripe and he threw the remainder from the window.
Who was the spider?
There were no easy answers. The King was middle-aged now and it was natural for young men to turn their eyes to a successor. There were many who favoured Alexander, but others would be happier with the half-wit Arridaeus, while still more remembered that Amyntas was the son of Perdiccas, the King before Philip.
But Parmenion pushed such thoughts from his mind. He knew Amyntas well; the boy had no desire for the crown, and less aptitude. He was easygoing and friendly, a capable officer, but with little imagination or initiative.
No, the answer lay with Philip and his increasing mistrust of Alexander. Philotas was feeding him lies and half-truths, but he had neither the wit nor the natural cunning to build such a web.
Parmenion lazed in the deep bath for an hour, wrestling with the problem, but was no nearer a solution when Mothac arrived to discuss the messages from agents in Asia Minor.
‘The Great King has strengthened his forces in the west and sent troops to the Greek cities of the coast. But not many. Maybe three thousand. Curious,’ said the old Theban.
‘Persia is vast,’ said Parmenion. ‘He could gather an immense army in little more than a month. No, he is just letting us know that he knows. What news from Thebes?’
‘There’s been the usual unrest. No one likes having a foreign garrison in the Cadmea. You should remember that!’
‘I do,’ Parmenion agreed, remembering his days in the city, when a Spartan force occupied the fortress at the centre of Thebes.
‘There is some talk in the city of Persian gold for the hiring of a mercenary army to retake the Cadmea.’
‘I don’t doubt the money is there,’ said Parmenion. ‘The Great King will be throwing gold in every direction: Sparta, Athens, Corinth, Pherae. But this time the Persians will fail. There will be no revolt behind us.’
‘Do not be too sure,’ muttered Mothac. ‘Thebes has freed herself of conquerors before.’
‘There was Epaminondas then, and Pelopidas. And Sparta was the enemy. The situation is different now. Sparta was forced to tread warily for fear of starting another war with Athens. Now Thebes would stand alone, and she is no match for even one-fifth of the Macedonian army.’
Mothac grunted and shook his head angrily. ‘Spoken like a Macedonian! Well, I am Theban and I do not agree. The Sacred Band is being re-formed. The city will be free again.’
Parmenion rose from the bath, wrapping a thick towel around his waist. The old days are gone, Mothac; you know that. Thebes will be free - but only when Philip decides he can trust the Thebans.‘
‘Such arrogance,’ hissed Mothac. ‘You were the man who freed Thebes. Not Epaminondas. You! You helped us retake the Cadmea and then came up with the plan to crush the Spartan army. Don’t you remember? Why is it so different now? How do you know there is not a young Parmenion even now in Thebes, plotting and planning?’
‘I am sure that there is,’ answered Parmenion with a sigh. ‘But the Spartan army was never more than five thousand strong, and they were spread thin. Philip can call upon forty-five thousand Macedonians, and half again that number of mercenaries. He has a forest of siege-engines, catapults, moving towers. It is not the same.’
‘I would expect you to take that view,’ said Mothac, his face crimson.
‘I am sorry, my friend, what else can I say?’ asked Parmenion, approaching the old man and laying his hand on Mothac’s
broad shoulder. But the Theban shrugged it away.
‘There are some matters better left undiscussed,’ muttered Mothac. ‘Let us continue with other problems.’ He scooped up his papers and began to leaf through them. Then he stopped, his bald head sagging forward, and Parmenion saw there were tears in his eyes.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Parmenion asked, moving to sit alongside him.
‘They are all going to die,’ said Mothac, his voice shaking.
‘Who? Who is going to die?’
‘The young men of my city. They will rise, swords in their hands. And they will be cut down.’
Understanding flowed into Parmenion’s mind. ‘You have been helping them to organize?’
The old man nodded. ‘It is my city.’
‘You know when they plan to attack the Cadmea?’
‘No, but it will be soon.’
‘It need not end in bloodshed, Mothac. I will send another two regiments into Boeotia and that will give them pause. But promise me you will sever your connections with the rebels. Promise me!’
‘I cannot promise that! You understand? Everything I do here makes me a traitor. Ever since Chaironeia, when you crushed the Theban army. I should have left you then. I should have gone home. Now I will!’
‘No,’ said Parmenion, ‘don’t leave. You are my oldest friend and I need you.’
‘You don’t need me,’ said the old man sadly. ‘You don’t need anything. You are the strategos, the Death of Nations. I am getting old, Parmenion. I shall go home to Thebes. I will die in the city of my birth and be buried alongside my love.’
Mothac rose and walked, stiff-backed, from the room.
City of Aigai, Midwinter 337 BC
They had many names and many uses, but to Aida they were the Whisperers . The Persians had worshipped them as minor demons or daevas; the ancient peoples of Akkady and Atlantis believed them to be the souls of those who had died evil. Even the Greeks knew them, in a corrupted form, as Harpies.
Now they gathered around Aida like small wisps of mist, barely sentient but pulsing with dark emotions, exuding the detritus of evil, despair, melancholy, gloom, mistrust, jealousy and hatred.
The cellar was colder than the heart of a winter lake, but Aida steeled herself against it, sitting at the centre as the smoky forms hovered about her.
The house was set apart from the city, a former country home for a minor Macedonian noble who had died in the Thracian wars. Aida had purchased it from his widow, for it had a number of advantages. Not only was it secluded but there was a garden hidden behind a high wall where her acolytes could dispose of the bodies of the sacrifices - those unfortunates whose blood had been needed to keep the Whisperers strong.
She reached out her hand, summoning the first of the ghostly shapes. It flowed over her fingers and immediately images formed in her mind. She saw Philip slumped on his throne, his thoughts dark and melancholy, and she laughed aloud. How simple it was to twist the minds of men! Summoning a second form, she watched Attalus plotting and scheming.
One by one she received her image reports before sending the Whisperers back to their human hosts. Then, at last, the cold began to seep into her bones and she rose and left the room, climbing the dark stairs that led to the lower gardens.
All was well and Aida was deeply satisfied. Soon Philip would face his doom, and the Lady of Samothrace would be on hand to guide his son to the throne. Such a handsome boy! Oh, how she would aid him, supplying such joys and then, while he was asleep, she would remove the necklet and open the gates of his soul.
Aida shivered with exquisite pleasure. All her life she had dreamed of this coming day, as had her mother before her. Her mother’s hopes - and worse, her spirit and her will to live - had been crushed by Tamis. But there is no one now to thwart me, she thought.
Soon Philip of Macedon would be dead, slain in his palace while he slept.
Arousal stirred in her and she summoned two of her guards. Mostly she found the touch of men distasteful, but on occasions such as this there was a satisfaction in using them that bordered on pleasure. It was always heightened when she knew her lovers were about to die. As their youth and strength was expended on her, she gloried in their coming demise.
The two men were handsome and tall, mercenaries from Asia Minor. They smiled as they approached her and began to remove their clothing.
The first reached her, arrogantly laying his hand on her breast, pulling clear the dark robe she wore.
Tomorrow, she thought, your soul will be shrieking on its way to Hades...
Pella, Midwinter
Philip was drunk and in high good humour. Around him were his friends and generals - twenty men who had served the King well over the last two decades - and they were celebrating the last night of the wedding festival. Philip leaned back in his chair, his gaze moving from man to man.
Parmenion, Antipater, Cleitus, Attalus, Theoparlis, Coenus... men to march the mountains with. Strong, loyal, fearless. A movement at the far end of the table caught his eye. Alexander was smiling at some jest made by the youngster, Ptolemy.
Philip’s good humour evaporated. The joke was probably about him.
But he shrugged the thought away. Tonight was a celebration and nothing would be allowed to mar it.
Servants cleared away the last of the food plates and jugglers came forward to entertain the King. They were Medes, with curled beards and flowing clothes of silk and satin. Each of the three carried six swords which they began to hurl into the air, one by one, until it seemed that the blades were alive, spinning and gleaming like metal birds above the throwers. The Medes moved apart and now the swords sliced through the air between them, scarcely seeming to touch the hands of the throwers so fast did they move. Philip was fascinated by the skill and wondered, idly, if the men were as talented when it came to using the blades in battle. According to Mothac’s reports the Persian king had 3,000 Medean warriors in his army.
At last the display finished and Philip led the cheers. Several of Alexander’s companions clapped their hands, which made the King frown. It was becoming the custom to show appreciation by slapping the palms together, but for centuries such clapping had been considered an insult. It had originated in the theatre, used by the crowd to drown out bad actors and forcing them to leave the stage. Then the Athenians began to use clapping at the end of a performance to signify approbation. Philip did not like such changes.
The jugglers were replaced by a knife-thrower of exquisite skill. Seven targets were set up and the man, a slim Thessalian, found the centre of each while blindfolded. Philip rewarded him with a gold coin.
There followed four acrobats, slim Thracian boys, and a saga poet who sang of Heracles and his labours. Through it all Philip’s cup was never empty.
Towards midnight several of the older officers, Parmenion among them, asked leave of the King and returned to their homes. But Philip, Attalus, Alexander and a dozen others remained, drinking and talking.
Most were drunk, Philip noted, especially Attalus who rarely consumed alcohol. His pale eyes were bleary, but he was smiling blissfully, which brought a chuckle from the King who clapped him on the shoulder.
‘You should drink more often, my friend. You are altogether too solemn.’
‘Indeed I should,’ Attalus replied, enunciating the words with great care and total concentration. ‘It is... an... extraordinarily... fine feeling,’ he concluded, standing and performing an exaggerated bow.
Philip flicked a glance at Alexander. The boy was cold sober, nursing the same cup of wine he had ordered some two hours before. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he roared. ‘The wine not to your liking?’
‘It is very good, Father.’
‘Then drink it!’
‘I shall - in my own time,’ responded the prince.
‘Drink it now!’ the King ordered. Alexander raised the goblet in a toast, then drained it at a single swallow. Philip summoned a servant. ‘The prince has an empty cup.
Stand by him and see that it does not become empty again.’
The man bowed and carried a pitcher to the end of the table, positioning himself behind Alexander. Satisfied with the young man’s discomfiture Philip swung back to Attalus, but the swordsman had fallen asleep on the table with his head resting on his arms.
‘What’s this?’ shouted Philip. ‘Is the King to be left to celebrate alone?’
Attalus stirred. ‘I am dying,’ he whispered.
‘You need some wine,’ said Philip, hauling the drunken man to his feet. ‘Give us a toast, Attalus!’
‘A toast! A toast!’ roared the revellers.
Attalus shook his head and lifted his wine-cup, slopping half the contents to the table. ‘To Philip, my ward Cleopatra and to their unborn son.’ The swordsman saw Alexander and smiled. ‘Here’s to a legitimate heir!’ he said, raising his cup.
A stunned silence fell upon the revellers. Alexander’s face lost all colour and he pushed himself to his feet. ‘What does that make me?’ he demanded.
Attalus blinked. He could not believe that he had used the words. They seemed to spring to his lips unbidden. But once said they could not be withdrawn. ‘Do you hear me, you murderous whoreson?’ Alexander shouted. ‘Answer me!’
‘Be silent!’ bellowed Philip, surging to his feet. ‘What right have you to interrupt a toast?’
‘I will not be silent,’ responded Alexander. ‘I have taken your insults long enough. But this is not to be borne. I care nothing for the succession - you can leave your crown to a goat for all I care - but any man who questions the legitimacy of my birth will answer for it. I will not sit by and allow my mother to be called a whore by a man who clawed his way to eminence over the bodies of men he has poisoned or stabbed in the back.’
‘You’ve said enough, boy!’ Philip pushed back his chair and rushed at Alexander, but his foot cracked against a stool and he stumbled as he reached him. His crippled leg gave way beneath him and he began to fall. His left hand flashed out, reaching for Alexander, but his fingers only hooked into the necklet gleaming at the prince’s throat. It tore clear instantly and Philip crashed into the table, striking his head on a chair as he fell.