Then there were the squabbles and fights that flared within an army made up of such ancient enemies as Paionians, Illyrians, Macedonians, Athenians and Thracians. Blood feuds were reported daily, and many men were slain in duels. Parmenion and Attalus were often called upon to judge the survivors of such combats and it irked the Spartan to sentence good fighters to death.
But even these considerations were better than the constant, acid thought that Derae had been alive all these years and now had been taken from him for good.
In the mid-afternoon of his fifth week in this outpost of the Persian Empire, scouts brought word of a group of Macedonian officers who had landed from an Athenian ship. There was no sign yet of Philip and Parmenion cursed inwardly.
The Persians had fled before the invading force, and many of the Greek cities had invited the Macedonians to liberate them. Yet Parmenion could not spread the advance army so thin that a counterattack would crush it, and he was forced to wait for the arrival of the King and the rest of the army. This delay, he knew, would soon lead to a weakening of resolve in the cities, and many would withdraw their support.
The Spartan had commandeered a house in the captured city of Cabalia, and this he shared with Attalus. The swordsman had been in fine mood since the invasion and enjoyed sharing the command. In the main the two men got on well, Attalus leaving what he regarded as the minutiae to Parmenion, while he rode out every day hunting or scouting the land ahead.
The old warrior had even become popular with the troops, for he never hesitated to ride at the front of the battle-line and had distinguished himself in the first clashes with the Persian army.
Parmenion pushed the papers across the broad desk and stretched his back. He was tired. Bone-weary. It had not been hard to march into Asia, but a long campaign called for more stamina, nerve and sustained concentration than he had needed for longer than he cared to remember.
Three years was the timetable he had given Philip. Three years to control Asia Minor and make the land safe. Three years and 60,000 troops. This was no small undertaking and, at sixty-four, Parmenion wondered whether he would live out the campaign.
There were so many problems to overcome, foremost among which was food for the army. They had brought supplies for thirty days when they crossed the Hellespont, and two-thirds had already been consumed. Foraging parties were bringing in what could be found locally, but Parmenion was anxious for the supply ships to reach the designated - and defended - bays. Philip had a mere 160 ships. Should the Persian fleet move into the Aegean Sea, the Macedonian vessels would be outnumbered three to one, and the land-based army could be starved into submission or withdrawal.
But even with food supplies assured, there was still the problem of the Persian army. Given time the new King, Darius, could raise an army of almost a million. This was unlikely, Parmenion knew, but even if he chose only to conscript warriors from central Persia the Macedonians would face more than 120,000 well-armed, disciplined men. Among these were almost 40,000 trained slingers and archers. Even when Philip arrived with reinforcements, the Macedonians would have only around 1,000 bowmen.
Parmenion believed that despite his awesome skills Philip had never truly understood the Persian Empire and its composition.
The Great King ruled from Phrygia in the west to the distant lands of the Hindu Kush, from fertile farmland to arid desert, from ice-covered forests to unpenetrable jungle. But it was the method of his rule that made conquest of the empire so difficult. Satraps and vassal kings were mostly autonomous, raising their own armies and setting local taxes. Even if Philip were to crush Darius he would still have a score of powerful enemies to face, each of them capable of bringing to the field an army greater than Macedon’s.
Two million square miles of territory, one hundred different nations. All of Philip’s past triumphs would count for nothing against such odds!
The sun was dipping into the west when the Spartan strode through the camp, stopping to examine the picket-lines and the guards who patrolled the horse paddocks. He found one young sentry sitting quietly eating bread and cheese, his helmet and sword beside him. As the boy saw the general he scrambled to his feet.
‘I am sorry, sir. I have not had an opportunity to eat today.’
‘It is difficult to eat with your throat ripped open,’ Parmenion told him. ‘This is an enemy land and you have few friends here.’
‘I know, sir. It won’t happen again.’
‘That is true. Next time I find you slacking I shall open your throat myself.’
‘Thank you, sir.... I mean...’
‘I know what you mean,’ grunted the Spartan, moving away.
They were all so young now, beardless children playing a game of war.
For an hour or more he wandered the camp outside the city, then returned to the house. It was white-walled, with beautiful statues lining the walks and gardens, and the rooms were large, the windows tall and wide. The floors were not crafted with mosaics but covered with rugs and carpets, deep and soft beneath the feet. Huge paintings adorned the inner walls, depicting the gods of the Persians, the mighty Ahura Mazda, the Wise Lord, and the minor daevas that served him.
A slave-girl brought the general a pitcher of mead wine made from honey. He accepted a goblet, then dismissed her. As dusk approached another girl moved in, lighting the copper lamps that hung on the walls. The room was soon bathed in a soft golden glow and the Spartan removed his breastplate and greaves, settling down with his mead on a wide couch.
Attalus found him there in the early evening. The swordsman was dressed in a long grey chiton, his white hair held in place by a black leather band edged with silver.
‘A productive day?’ asked Attalus.
The Spartan shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I wish Philip were here: many of the cities would receive us now with cheers and welcome banquets. If we leave it much longer, their backbones will start to melt. They will hear of the Great King’s preparations for war and will bar their gates against us.’
‘You are still in that dark mood, I see,’ said Attalus. ‘It comes from drinking that Persian goat’s-piss. Good Greek wine is what you need,’ he added, filling a golden wine-cup and draining half the contents at a single swallow.
‘I am no longer in a dark mood,’ said Parmenion slowly, ‘but our spies report that the Great King is building an army the like of which has not been seen since Xerxes invaded Greece. Messengers are travelling all over the empire - Cappadocia, Pisidia, Syria, Pontica, Egypt, Mesopotamia... Can you imagine how many men will come against us?’
‘We will defeat them,’ said Attalus, settling down and stretching out his legs.
‘Just like that?’
‘Of course, strategos. You will think of a great plan for victory and we will all sleep soundly in our beds.’
Parmenion chuckled. ‘You should have started drinking years ago. It agrees with you.’
‘It is never too late to learn. However, I am in agreement with you. I can’t wait to see Philip; it has been too long. The last I heard was six months ago when Cleopatra was waiting to give birth to her son and the King was planning the celebrations. It will be good to see him.’
Attalus laughed. ‘There was a time, Spartan, when I wished you dead. Now I find you good company. Perhaps I’m getting old.’
Before Parmenion could reply, a servant announced the arrival of the messengers from Pella. Parmenion rose and walked out to the centre of the room to meet them.
The first to enter was Hephaistion, followed by Cassander and the cavalry general, Cleitus. Hephaistion bowed, but his face was set and tension showed in his eyes.
‘A difficult journey?’ ventured Parmenion.
‘We have letters from the King,’ answered Hephaistion stiffly, approaching Parmenion. Cassander and Cleitus advanced towards Attalus. Cleitus held a tightly rolled scroll of papyrus which he offered to the swordsman.
Parmenion had received such messages on hundreds of occasions. Yet there was a terrible t
ension in the air and the Spartan’s senses were aroused. His gaze flickered to Cleitus; the cavalryman was proffering a sealed scroll to Attalus, but his right hand was inching towards the dagger at his hip. Cassander also was moving to Attalus’ left, his right hand hidden beneath his cloak. In that one awful moment, Parmenion knew what was to come.
‘Attalus!’ he cried. Hephaistion leapt upon the Spartan, pinning his arms, and although Parmenion struggled the younger man was too strong. The two officers drew their swords and rushed at Attalus. The old man stood stock-still, too shocked to move. An iron blade clove into his belly and he cried out. A second sword slashed into his neck, opening a terrible wound. Attalus’ knees buckled. Swords and knives slashed into his body even as he fell, and he was dead before he struck the floor.
Hephaistion loosened his grip on Parmenion who staggered back, his hand trembling as he drew his sword.
‘Come then, you traitors!’ he yelled. ‘Finish your work!’
‘It is finished, sir,’ said Hephaistion, his face grey under the tan. ‘That is what the King ordered.’
‘I do not believe it! You have just killed Philip’s best friend.’
‘I know, sir. But Philip is dead.’
The words struck Parmenion like poisoned arrows and he reeled back. ‘Dead? DEAD?’
‘He was murdered as he entered the amphitheatre where he was to celebrate the birth of his son. The killer was hiding in the shadows and he stabbed Philip through the heart.’
‘Who? Who did it?’
‘Pausanius,’ answered Hephaistion. ‘He nursed his hatred, though he masked it well, but he never forgave Philip for refusing him justice against Attalus.’
‘But why was the King not guarded?’
‘He ordered the Royal Guard to walk some thirty paces behind him, saying he did not wish to be seen as a tyrant who needed protection in his own realm. He died instantly.’
‘Sweet Hera! I cannot believe it! Not sorcery, not assassins, not armies could stop Philip. And you tell me he was cut down by a spurned lover?’
‘Yes, sir. Alexander is King now. He will be here as soon as the troubles in Greece are put behind him. But he ordered us to kill Attalus as soon as we arrived.’
Parmenion gazed down at the dead man, then dropped his sword and moved to a couch, slumping down with his head in his hands. ‘What is happening in Macedonia?’ he managed to ask.
Hephaistion sat beside him. ‘There was almost civil war, but Alexander moved swiftly to eliminate his enemies. Amyntas was slain, as was Cleopatra and her new child, followed by some thirty nobles.’
‘He began his reign by murdering a baby? I see.’ Parmenion straightened, his eyes cold, his face a mask. He stood, gathered his sword and slammed it back into its sheath. ‘See that the body is removed and the blood cleaned from the carpets. Then get out of my house!’
Hephaistion reddened. ‘Alexander asked me to take Attalus’ place. I had thought to use his rooms.’
Then you thought wrong, boy!‘ said Parmenion. ’There was a time when I believed you had the seeds of greatness within you, but now I see you for what you are: a murderer for hire. You will go far, but you will not share my company - nor my friendship. Do we understand one another?‘
‘We do,’ replied Hephaistion, tight-lipped.
‘Good.’ The Spartan swung towards the others, his gaze raking over them; then he glanced down at the body on the floor. ‘He was a man,’ said Parmenion. ‘He had many dark sides to his nature, but he stood by his King loyally. Many years ago he risked his life to save Alexander. Well, you brought him his reward. Tomorrow we will have a funeral for him, with all honours. Do I hear an objection?’
‘I have...’ Cassander began.
‘Shut your mouth!’ roared Parmenion.
‘We obeyed the orders of our King,’ said Cleitus, his face red and his eyes angry.
‘As did he,’ Parmenion retorted, pointing to the corpse. ‘Let us hope you do not enjoy the same benefits!’
Without another word Parmenion strode from the room. Several servants were standing grouped in the corridor outside. ‘Do not be alarmed,’ he told them. ‘The killing is over. Remove the body and prepare it for burial.’
A young girl stepped forward, her head bowed. ‘There is a man, lord; he came some while ago. He said he is a friend to you and that you would want to see him in private.’
‘Did he give a name?’
‘He said he was Mothac. He is an old man and I took him to your rooms. Did I do right?’
‘You did. But tell no one he is here.’
Mothac sat quietly in the soft glow of the lamplight, his eyes staring at nothing, unfocused, his gaze turned inward. His emotions were exhausted now, and even the memory of the flames and the ruins could not stir fresh sadness within him.
What are you doing here? he asked himself. The answer was swift in coming: Where else could I go?
The old Theban heard footsteps in the corridor and rose from the couch, his mouth dry.
Parmenion entered but said nothing. The Spartan simply rilled two goblets with watered wine and passed one to Mothac. The Theban drank it swiftly. ‘Everything is destroyed,’ he said, slumping back to his seat.
Parmenion sat beside him. ‘Tell me.’
‘Thebes is in ruins: every house, every hall, every statue. There is nothing left.’
Parmenion sat silently, his face expressionless. ‘We rose against the invader,’ continued Mothac, ‘but we could not retake the Cadmea. The Macedonians closed the inner gates against us. Yet we had them trapped there, at the centre of the city, and for a while we thought we would be free. But Athens refused to acknowledge us and we could get no aid from the other cities. Even Sparta refused to send soldiers. Then Alexander came, with an army. We realized we could not fight him and offered peace, but his soldiers stormed the city. The killing was terrible to see - men, women, children, cut down - for there was nowhere to run. Thousands died; the rest were taken into captivity to be sold as slaves. Alexander himself ordered the razing of the city, and the siege-engineers moved in. Every statue, every column was toppled and smashed to dust. There is no Thebes now... it is all gone.’
‘How did you escape?’
‘I hid in a cellar, but they found me. I was dragged out and hauled before an officer. Luckily it was Coenus and he recognized me. He gave me money and a fast horse, so I rode to Athens and booked passage on a ship to Asia. Why did Alexander do it? Why destroy the city?’
‘I cannot answer that, my friend. But I am glad you are safe.’
‘I am so tired,’ whispered Mothac. ‘I have not slept well since the... the destruction. I keep hearing the screams, seeing the blood. What was it all for, Parmenion?’
The Spartan put his arm around his friend’s shoulder. ‘Rest here. We will talk in the morning.’ Taking Mothac’s arm, he led the Theban to the wide bed. ‘Sleep now.’
Obediently Mothac stretched out and his eyes closed. Within seconds he was fast asleep. But the dreams came again and he groaned, tears seeping from his closed eyelids.
Parmenion left the room and wandered down to the moonlit gardens, the words of Tamis echoing from the corridors of time. The old seeress had come to him in Thebes four decades ago, just before he led the attack on the Spartan-held Cadmea.
‘You stand, Parmenion, at a crossroads. There is a road leading to sunlight and laughter, and a road leading to pain and despair. The city of Thebes is in your hands, like a small toy. On the road to sunlight the city will grow, but on the other road it will be broken, crushed into dust and forgotten...’ She had advised him to travel to Troy, but he had ignored her, believing her to be a Spartan spy.
Yet had he followed her advice he would have found Derae and they would have lived their lives together in peace and harmony. There would have been no Macedonian army, and he would never have sired Alexander.
Parmenion found his mind reeling under the weight of all he had learned. Derae alive... but now dead, Philip gone, A
ttalus murdered, Thebes in ruins.
He could almost hear the Dark God’s laughter.
‘No,’ he said aloud, ‘do not even think of that!’ He sat down on a wooden bench, his mind whirling with many overlapping images: Derae, young and vibrant - old and dying; Philip laughing and drinking; the Golden Child Alexander in the forests of the Enchantment; Attalus, tall and courageous, standing against the foe. And from deeper within his memory the slender, ascetic Epaminondas, sitting quietly in his study planning the liberation of Thebes.
So many faces, so many precious memories...
Gone now. He could not quite believe it.
How could Philip be dead?
Such vitality. Such power. One dagger-thrust and the world changed! Parmenion shivered. What now, Spartan, he asked himself? Do you serve the child as you served the man? And what if the Dark God has returned? Could you kill Alexander?
He drew his sword, staring down at the blade gleaming in the moonlight, picturing it cleaving into the new King. Shuddering, he threw the weapon from him. A cool breeze rustled the undergrowth and he stood, walking to where the sword had fallen. Stooping, he lifted it, brushing dirt from the blade.
He had seen the evils Philippos had visited upon his world. If Alexander had become such a man...
‘I will kill him,’ whispered Parmenion.
Ionia, Spring 334 BC
But Alexander did not come to Asia, for news arrived that the tribes of Paionia and Triballia had risen again in the north of Greece and a Macedonian expedition, led by the new King, was forced to move against them.
The campaign was brilliantly fought, leaving Alexander triumphant, but Persian gold was once more creating unrest in the southern cities led by Sparta, and the seeds of revolt flowered.
In Athens the orator Demosthenes spoke out against the Macedonians, and Alexander marched his army south, past the ruins of Thebes, using a massive show of strength to coerce the Greek cities to obedience. Though successful, it cost him time, and Parmenion was left in Asia for more than a year - short of manpower and supplies, playing a cat-and-mouse game with the Persian army.