The mare grunted and the sac moved further into view - then stopped. Bright blood spouted over the membrane, dripping to the hay. The mare was sweating freely now, and in some distress as Mothac moved to the rear and gently took hold of the foal’s front legs, easing them towards him. At any time now the membranes would burst, and it was vital the foal’s head should be clear, otherwise it would suffocate. Mothac pulled gently while the Thessalian moved to the mare’s head, talking to her, his voice low, coaxing and soft.
With a convulsive surge the sac came clear, dropping to the hay. Mothac peeled away the membranes from around the foal’s mouth and nostrils, wiping the body with fresh hay. The new-born was a jet-black male, the image of its sire down to the white starburst on its brow. It lifted its head and shivered violently.
‘Aya!’ exulted Croni. ‘You have a son, Larina! A horse for a king! And such a size! Never have I seen a bigger foal.’
Within minutes the foal tried to stand and Mothac helped it to its feet, guiding it towards the mare. Larina, though exhausted, also rose, and after several unsuccessful attempts the new-born found the teat and began to feed.
Mothac patted the mare and walked out into the sunshine, washing his hands and arms in a bucket of water. The sun was high and he picked up his felt hat, covering the sensitive skin of his bald head.
He was tired, but he felt at peace with the world. Foaling always brought this feeling - the beauty of birth, the onward movement of life.
Croni moved alongside him. ‘There is great loss of blood, master. The mare may die.’
Mothac looked down at the little man, noting his concern. ‘Stay with her. If she is still bleeding in two hours, come and find me. I shall be in the western pasture.’
‘Yes, master,’ answered Croni. The Thessalian gazed up at the hills. ‘Look, master, the lord is home once more.’
Glancing up, Mothac saw the rider. He was still too far away to be recognized by the old Theban, but the horse was Parmenion’s second mount, a spirited bay gelding with a white face.
Mothac sighed and shook his head. ‘You should have gone home first, Parmenion,’ he thought sadly.
‘Another victory for the Lion of Macedon,’ said Mothac, pouring Parmenion a goblet of wine.
‘Yes,’ answered the general, stretching his lean frame out on the couch. ‘How goes it here?’
‘With the horses? Twenty-six foals. The last is a beauty. Larina’s, the son of the Thracian stallion. Pure black he is, Parmenion, and what a size! Would you like to see him?’
‘Not now, my friend. I am tired.’
The thick-set Theban sat opposite his friend, filling his own goblet and sipping the contents. ‘Why did you not go home?’
‘I shall. I wanted first to see how the farm fared.’
‘I have to clear enough horse-dung all day,’ snapped Mothac. ‘Don’t bring it into my house.’
Parmenion loosened the thongs of his riding-boots, pulling them clear. ‘So tetchy, my friend! Maybe it is for the joy of your company. What difference does it make, Mothac? These are my estates and I go where I will. I am tired. Do you object then to my staying the night?’
‘You know that I do not. But you have a wife and family waiting for you - and beds far more comfortable than any that I can offer.’
‘Comfort, I find, is more to do with the spirit than the softness of beds,’ said the Spartan. ‘I am comfortable here. You are getting more irritable these days, Mothac. What is wrong with you?’
‘Age, my boy,’ answered the Theban, controlling his temper. ‘But if you don’t want to talk to me I won’t press you. I will see you this evening.’
Mothac found his anger growing as he walked from the house and up the long hill to the western pasture. For more than thirty years he had served Parmenion, as both servant and friend, but these last five years had seen the Spartan become more distant, more secretive. He had warned him against marrying Phaedra. At seventeen the child was too young, even for the ever-youthful Spartan, and there was something about her... a coldness that radiated from her eyes. Mothac remembered, with an affection born of hindsight, Parmenion’s Theban lover - the former whore, Thetis. Now there was a woman! Strong, confident, loving! But, like his own beloved Elea, she was dead.
He paused at the brow of the hill, watching the workers clear the dung from the first pasture. It was not a task his Thessalians enjoyed, but it helped control the worms which infested the horses. While grazing, a horse would eat the worm larvae in the grass. These would breed in the stomach and develop into egg-laying worms, the new eggs being passed in the droppings. After a while all pastures would be contaminated, causing stunted growth, or even deaths, among the young foals. Mothac had learned this two years before from a Persian horse-trader, and ever since had ordered his men to clear the pastures daily.
At first the Thessalians had been hard to convince. Superb horsemen, they did not take well to such menial tasks. But when the worm infestations were seen to fade and the foals grew stronger, the tribesmen had taken to the work with a vengeance. Strangely, it also helped to make Mothac more popular among them. They had found it hard to work for a man who rarely rode and, when he did, displayed none of the talents for horsemanship so prized among their people. But Mothac’s skills lay in training and rearing, healing wounds and curing diseases. For these talents the riders grew to respect him, viewing even his irascible nature with fondness.
Mothac wandered on to the training field where young horses learned to follow the subtle signals of a rider, cutting left and right, darting into the charge, swerving and coming to a dead halt to allow the rider to release an arrow.
This was work the horsemen loved. In the evenings they would sit around communal camp-fires discussing the merits of each horse, arguing long into the night.
The training was being concluded when Mothac approached the field. The youngster, Orsin, was taking a two-year-old black mare over the jumps. Mothac leaned on a fence-post and watched. Orsin had rare talent, even among Thessalians, and he sailed the mare over each jump, turning her smoothly to face the next. Seeing Mothac, he waved and vaulted from the mare’s back.
‘Ola, master!’ he called. ‘You wish to ride?’
‘Not today, boy. How are they faring?’
The youngster ran to the fence and clambered over it. On the ground the boy was ungainly to the point of clumsiness. ‘There will be six of the stallions to geld, master. They are too high-spirited.’
‘Give their names to Croni. When will the new pasture be ready?’
‘Tomorrow. Croni says the lord is home. How did the stallion behave in battle?’
‘I have not had time to ask him. But I will. There is a Persian trader due in the next few days.Heseeks five stallions - the best we have. He is due to come to me at the house, but I don’t doubt he will ride out to check the horses before announcing himself. Watch out for him. I do not want him to see the new Thracian stock, so take them to the High Fields.’
‘Yes, master. But what of Titan? There is a horse even I would be glad to see the back of.’
‘He stays,’ said Mothac. ‘The lord Parmenion likes him.’
‘He is evil, that one. He will see his rider dead, I think.’
‘The lord Parmenion has a way with horses.’
‘Aya! I would like to see him ride Titan. He will fall very hard.’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Mothac, ‘but on the day you would be wise to consider placing a different bet. Now finish your grooming - and remember what I said about the Persian.’
Parmenion was mildly drunk, and at ease for the first time in months. The wide doors of the andron were open to the north winds and a gentle breeze filtered through the hangings, leaving the room pleasantly cool. It was not a large room, with only three couches, and the walls were bare of ornament or paintings. Mothac liked to live simply and never entertained, yet there was a warmth about his home that Parmenion missed when away from the estate.
‘Are you happy?’ aske
d the Spartan suddenly.
‘Are you talking to me or yourself?’ Mothac countered.
‘By the gods, you are sharp tonight. I was talking to you.’
‘Happy enough. This is life, Parmenion. I watch things grow, the barley and the grain, the horses and the cattle. It makes me part of the land. Yes, I am content.’
Parmenion nodded, his expression grave. ‘That must be a good feeling.’ He grinned and sat up. ‘Do you still miss Persia and the palace?’
‘No. This is my home.’ The Theban leaned forward, gripping the Spartan’s shoulder. ‘We have been friends for a lifetime, Parmenion. Can you not tell me what is troubling you?’
Parmenion’s hand came up to grip Mothac’s arm. ‘It is because we are friends that I do not. Five years ago I had a cancer in my brain. That was healed. But now there is a different kind of cancer in my heart - no, not a real one, my friend,’ he said swiftly, seeing the concern in the old Theban’s eyes. ‘But I dare not talk of it - even to you - for it would put a heavy burden on you. Trust me in this, Mothac. You are my dearest friend and I would die for you. But do not ask me to share my... my sorrow.’
Mothac said nothing for a moment, then he refilled their goblets. ‘Then let us get drunk and talk nonsense,’ he said, forcing a smile.
‘That would be good. What duties have you set yourself for tomorrow?’
‘I have two lame horses I will be taking to the lake. Swimming helps to strengthen their muscles. After that I shall be horse-trading with a Persian named Parzalamis.’
‘I will see you by the lake at noon,’ said the Spartan.
The two men walked out into the night and Mothac saw a lantern burning in the foaling stable. Cursing softly he walked across to the building, Parmenion following. Inside Croni, Orsin and three other Thessalians were sitting round the body of the mare, Larina. The pure black foal was lying beside its dead mother.
‘Why did you not call me?’ thundered Mothac. Croni stood and bowed low.
‘The bleeding stopped, master. She only collapsed a short while ago.’
‘We must get the foal another milk mare.’
‘Terias has gone to fetch one, master,’ Orsin told him.
Mothac moved past the dark-haired boy and knelt by the mare, laying his huge hand on her neck. ‘You were a fine dam, Larina. The best,’ he said.
Croni sidled forward. ‘It is the curse of Titan,’ he said. ‘He is a demon beast, and the son will be the same.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Parmenion, his voice harsh. ‘Have Titan in the riding circle tomorrow. I shall tame him.’
‘Yes, lord,’ answered Croni miserably. ‘It will be as you say.’
Turning on his heel Parmenion strode from the stable. Mothac caught up with him, grabbing his arm. ‘You should not have said that,’ he. whispered. ‘The Thessalians know their horseflesh. The beast is insane - and so are you if you attempt to ride him.’
‘I have said what I will do,’ Parmenion muttered. ‘I have not seen a horse I cannot ride.’
‘I hope you can say that tomorrow,’ grunted Mothac.
The great house was silent as Parmenion rode through the cypress grove towards the main doors. Not a light showed at any window, yet as he reached the front of the house his manservant, Peris, ran forward to take the gelding’s reins.
Parmenion leapt to the ground. ‘Well met, Peris, does nothing escape your attention?’ he asked, smiling.
The servant bowed. ‘I saw you this afternoon, lord, on the hilltop. I have been waiting for you. There is cold meat and cheese in the andron, and some pomegranates. Eissa made cakes this afternoon. I will have some brought to you if you desire it.’
‘Thank you. How is the arm?’
Peris lifted the leather-covered stump at the end of his right arm. ‘It is healing well, lord. There is little pain now, but what there is seems to come from the fingers - as if they are still there. But - as you said - I am becoming more skilful with my left.’
Parmenion patted the man’s shoulder. ‘I missed you at the Crocus Field. I felt almost unsafe.’
Peris nodded, his dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. ‘I would like to have been there, lord.’ Then he smiled and glanced down at his swelling belly. ‘But, even had I the use of both hands, I fear no horse would carry me.’
‘Too many of Eissa’s honeycakes,’ said the general. ‘It was good of you to wait up for me.’
‘It was less than nothing, lord,’ replied Peris, bowing, his plump face reddening.
Parmenion walked on into the house. In the andron at the rear two lanterns were burning, casting a soft glow over the room. It was large, boasting twenty couches and thirty chairs, and L-shaped. When Parmenion entertained guests the full room was used, but now the lanterns glowed only in the alcove by the large doorway to the west-facing gardens. The general moved out onto the patio, breathing in the scent of the honeysuckle growing by the wall. The house was peaceful and only at times like this did he enjoy being here. The thought was depressing.
He heard a movement behind him and turned, expecting to see the crippled Peris.
‘Welcome home, husband,’ said Phaedra. He bowed stiffly. His wife was wearing a robe of shimmering blue that clung to her slender frame, her golden hair pulled back from her face and bound with silver wire into a pony-tail that hung to her narrow waist. Parmenion looked into her cold blue eyes and stiffened.
‘I will not be here for long, lady,’ he told her.
‘Long enough to see your son, I would hope.’
‘Sons,’ he corrected her.
‘There is only one for me,’ she said, her face expressionless. ‘Philotas - he who will be great; the greatest of all.’
‘Do not say that!’ he hissed. ‘It is not true! You hear me?’
She laughed then, the sound chilling. ‘I lost my powers when I gave myself to you, general, but I will never forget the vision I saw when first you touched me. Your first-born will rule the world. I know it. And he is Philotas.’
Parmenion felt his mouth go dry. ‘You are a fool, woman,’ he said at last. ‘A fool to believe it, and doubly foolish to say it aloud. Think on this: if Philip or Olympias hear of your vision, will they not seek to have the child slain?’
All colour drained from her face. ‘How would they hear?’ she whispered.
‘Who is listening now?’ he asked. ‘How do you know which servant may be walking in the gardens, or sitting within earshot?’
‘You are just trying to frighten me.’
‘Indeed I am, Phaedra. For they would not only kill the babe but the mother, brothers and father. And who would blame them?’
‘You will protect him. You are the Lion of Macedon, the most powerful man in the kingdom,’ she said brightly.
‘Go to bed, woman,’ he told her, his voice weary.
‘Will you be joining me, husband?’
He wanted to tell her no, but always the sight of her body aroused him.
‘Yes. Soon.’ Her smile was triumphant and he swung away from it, listening to the soft sound of her footfalls as she left the room. For some time he sat in silence, his heart heavy, then he rose and moved through to the upper nursery where his children slept. Hector was lying on his side in his crib, sucking his tiny thumb. Nicci, as always, had climbed into bed with Philo and the two slept with arms entwined.
Parmenion gazed at his eldest son. ‘What is she raising you to be?’ he wondered.
He knew - had known for years - that Phaedra regarded him with contempt. The knowledge hurt, but the greater pain was in the lie that bound them together. She had been a seeress and she had seen a golden future. But she had misread it. Parmenion could not tell her of her mistake, or even risk putting her aside; for Phaedra, in her vengeance, could cause incalculable harm. She had been the closest friend of Olympias, who had known of her virgin powers. If she went to the Queen and told her of the vision... Parmenion felt the swell of panic within him. No, at all costs the secret must be kept. The only final answer
would be to kill Phaedra and this he would not, could not, do.
‘Oh, Philo,’ whispered Parmenion, stroking his son’s head, ‘I hope you will be strong enough to withstand your mother’s ambitions for you.’ The boy stirred and moaned in his sleep.
And Parmenion left the room, drawn by lust to a woman he despised.
Parmenion awoke in the hour before dawn. Silently rising from the large bed, careful not to wake Phaedra, he padded across the scattered rugs that covered the timbered floor. Back in his own rooms he washed himself down with cold water and then rubbed oil into the skin of his arms and chest, scraping it clear with an ivory knife.
Dressing in a simple chiton tunic, he walked down to the gardens. The birds still slept in the trees and not a sound disturbed the silent beauty of the pre-dawn. The sky was dark grey, streaked with clouds, but in the east the colour was lighter as Apollo and his fiery chariot grew ever closer. Parmenion breathed deeply, filling his lungs, before gently stretching the muscles of his thighs, groin and calves.
The garden gate lay open as he loped out in to the countryside. His muscles still felt stiff and his calves were beginning to burn long before he reached the crest of the first hill. It had been impossible to run during the months of the Phocian campaign, and now his body complained bitterly. Ignoring the discomfort he increased his pace, sweat gleaming on his face as the miles flowed by beneath him.
He had never understood the miracle of his healing, the tightening of his skin, the strength of youth once more surging through his body, but he did not need to understand it to glory in it. He had never found any activity to match the constant joy of running - the perfect communion, between mind and body, the freeing of inhibition, the cleansing of spirit. When he ran his mind was free and he could think through his problems, finding solutions with an ease that still surprised him.
Today he was considering the Thracian stallion, Titan. He had cost a great deal of money and yet he was - by Persian standards - cheap. His pedigree was incredible, sired by the finest prize stallion in Persia and born to the fastest mare ever to win the Olympics. Two of his brothers had been sold for fortunes beyond the reach of all but the richest kings, yet Parmenion had acquired him for a mere 2,000 drachms.