Since then the stallion had killed two other horses and maimed one of his handlers, and now was kept apart from the main herd in a pasture ringed by a fence the height of a tall man.
Parmenion knew how foolhardy it was to boast of riding him, but all other methods had failed. The Thessalians did not believe in ‘breaking’ their horses in the Thracian manner, loading them with heavy weights and running them until they were near exhaustion before putting a rider on their backs. This method, said his men, could break a horse’s spirit. It was always important, the Thessalians believed, to establish a bond between mount and man. But for a war-horse and his rider such a bond was vital. When trust was strong, most horses would willingly allow riders upon their backs.
Not so with Titan. Three handlers had been hurt by him, jagged bites or kicks cracking limbs. But on the last occasion he had thrown and then stomped the legs and back of a young Thessalian, who now had no feeling below the waist and was confined to his bed in the communal barracks. There, before long, according to Bernios, he would die.
Parmenion loped on along the line of the hills, his mind concentrating on the day ahead. The Thessalians believed Titan to be demon-possessed. Perhaps he was, but Parmenion doubted it. Wild, yes; untamed, certainly. But possessed? What profit would there be for a demon trapped inside a horse at pasture? No. There had to be a better explanation - even if he had not yet discovered it.
He ran until the dawn streaked the sky with crimson, then halted to watch the transient splendour of diamond stars shining in a blue sky, slowly fading until only the North Star remained, tiny and defiant against the arrival of the sun. Then that too was gone.
The breeze was cool upon the hilltop and his sweat-drenched body shivered. Narrowing his eyes he gazed over the lands that were now his, hundreds of miles of the Emathian plain, grassland, woods, hills and streams. No man could see it all from one place, but from this hilltop he looked down on the seven pastures where his herds grazed. Six hundred horses were kept here, and beyond the line of the eastern hills there were cattle and goats, five villages, two towns and a small forest that surrendered fine timber which was eagerly sought by the shipbuilders of Rhodes and Crete.
‘You are a rich man now,’ he said aloud, remembering the days of poverty back in Sparta when his tunic was threadbare, his sandals as thin as parchment. Swinging round he stared back at the great house with its high pillars, its twenty large guest-rooms. From here he could see the statues adorning the landscaped gardens and the score of smaller buildings housing slaves and servants.
A man ought to be happy with all this, he admonished himself, but his heart sank with the thought.
Picking up his pace again, he ran on towards the stables and pastures, his eyes scanning the hills, picking out the giant form of Titan alone in his pasture. The horse was running also, but stopped to watch him. Parmenion’s scalp prickled as he ran alongside the fence under Titan’s baleful glare. The stallion’s domain was not large, some eighty paces long and fifty wide, the fence sturdily constructed of thick timbers. Not a horse alive could leap such an obstacle but even so, when Titan cantered towards him Parmenion involuntarily moved to his right to put more distance between himself and the fence. This momentary fear infuriated him, fuelling his determination to conquer the giant.
He saw Mothac talking to the slender Croni and the boy Orsin at the far gate, and more than twenty Thessalians had gathered to watch the coming contest. One of the men clambered up on to the fence, but Titan raced across his pasture, rearing to strike out at the man who threw himself backwards to safety, much to the amusement of his fellows.
‘It is not a good day for such a ride,’ Mothac told Parmenion. ‘There was rain in the night and the ground is soft.’
Parmenion smiled. The old Theban was trying to give him an easy way out. ‘It was but a smattering,’ said Parmenion. ‘Come, let us be starting our day. Which of you brave fellows will rope the beast?’
Mothac shook his head, his concern obvious. ‘All right, my boys, let’s be seeing some Thessalian skills!’
Several of the men gathered up long, coiled ropes. There was no humour evident now - their faces were set, their eyes hard. Two men ran to the right, keeping close to the fence, waving the coils and calling to Titan who charged at them, the fence-posts rattling as he struck. To the left, unnoticed by the enraged beast, Orsin and Croni climbed into the pasture, angling out behind the black stallion. Suddenly the beast swung and darted at Orsin. Croni’s rope sailed over the stallion’s great head, jerking tight as he reared to strike the youngster. Feeling the rope bite into his neck, Titan turned to charge Croni. Now it was Orsin who threw a loop over the stallion’s head and neck, hauling it tight. Instantly the other Thessalians clambered over the fence, ready to help, but Titan stood stock-still, his great frame trembling.
The huge head slowly turned, his malevolent gaze fixing on Parmenion as he jumped down into the pasture.
‘He knows,’ thought Parmenion, with a sudden rush of fear. ‘He is waiting for me!’
The Spartan moved towards the horse, always keeping in its line of vision until he stood beside the neck and head. Carefully his hand reached up to the top rope, loosening it and lifting it clear.
‘Steady, boy,’ he whispered. ‘Your master speaks. Steady, boy.’
Still the stallion waited, like a black statue. Parmenion eased his fingers under the second rope, sliding it up along the neck, over the ears and down the long nose, waiting for the lunging bite that could tear away his fingers.
It did not come.
Stroking the trembling flanks, Parmenion took hold of the black mane, vaulting smoothly to the stallion’s back.
Titan reared as the Spartan’s weight came down, but Parmenion locked his legs to the horse’s body, holding his position. Titan leapt high in the air, coming down on all four hooves with bone-crunching force, dipping his head and dragging his rider forward. Then he bucked. But Parmenion was ready for the manoeuvre, leaning back and holding to his point of balance.
The black stallion set off at a run, then rolled to his back, desperate to dislodge and crush his tormentor. Parmenion jumped to the ground as the stallion rolled, leaping over the belly and flailing hooves, and springing once more to Titan’s back as the horse lunged to his feet. The Thessalians cheered the move.
The giant stallion galloped around the pasture, twisting, leaping, bucking and rearing, but he could not dislodge the hated man upon his back.
Finally Titan charged towards the fence. It was a move the Spartan had not anticipated, and instinctively he knew the stallion’s intent. He would gallop towards the timbers and then swing his flanks to crash against the wood, smashing the bones of Parmenion’s leg to shards, crippling the Spartan for life. Parmenion had only one hope - to leap clear - but if he did so the stallion would turn on him.
Seeing the danger the youngster Orsin clambered over the fence and leapt into the paddock, shouting at the top of his voice and waving his coiled rope around his head. The move disconcerted the stallion, who swerved and found himself running head-first at the timbers.
‘Sweet Zeus, he’ll kill us both!’ thought Parmenion as Titan thundered towards the wooden wall.
But at the last moment Titan bunched his muscles, sailing high in the air, clearing the fence with ease and galloping across the hills. The horse herd grazing there scattered before him. Never had Parmenion known such speed, the wind screaming in his ears, the ground moving by below him like a green blur.
‘Turn, my beauty!’ he yelled. ‘Turn and show me your strength.’ As if the stallion understood him he swung wide and thundered back towards the pasture.
Mothac and Croni were pulling open the gate, but perversely Titan swerved once more, galloping straight at the highest point of the fence.
‘Sweet Hera be with me!’ prayed the Spartan, for here the highest bar of the fence was almost seven feet high. The stallion slowed, bunched his muscles and leapt, rear hooves clattering against the wood.
As Titan landed Parmenion swung his right leg clear and jumped to the ground. Immediately the stallion turned on him, rearing above him with hooves lashing down. The Spartan rolled and came up running, diving between the fence bars and landing head-first in a patch of churned earth. The Thessalians roared with laughter as Parmenion staggered to his feet.
‘I think,’ said the Spartan, with a grin, ‘he may take a little breaking yet. But what a horse!’
‘Look out!’ yelled Croni. Titan charged the fence once more, leaping it without breaking stride. Parmenion dived out of the way, but the stallion swung, seeking him out. When Croni ran forward with his rope, Titan saw him and swerved towards the Thessalian, his huge shoulder crashing into the little man and punching him from his feet. Before anyone could move Titan reared above the Thessalian, his front hooves hammering down into Croni’s face. The skull dissolved, the head collapsing in a sickening spray of blood and brains. Orsin managed to get a rope over the stallion, but twice more the hooves smashed down into the limp body on the grass. Titan felt the noose settle on his neck and jerked hard, tugging Orsin from his feet. Ignoring the boy he thundered towards Parmenion. The Spartan threw himself to his left but, as if anticipating the move, Titan reared high, his blood-spattered hooves plunging down. Parmenion dived again, this time to his right, his back striking a fence-post. Titan loomed above him.
Suddenly the stallion’s neck arched back, an arrow jutting from his skull.
‘No!’ screamed Parmenion. ‘No!’ But a second shaft buried itself deep in Titan’s flank, piercing the heart. The stallion sank to his knees, then toppled to his side.
Parmenion rose on unsteady legs, staring down at the dead colossus. Then he swung to see Mothac lay aside the bow.
‘He was a demon,’ the Theban said softly. ‘No question.’
‘I could have tamed him,’ said Parmenion, his voice cold with rage.
‘You would have been dead, lord,’ put in the boy Orsin. ‘As dead as my uncle, Croni. And, by all the gods, you rode him. And greatly.’
‘There will never be his like again,’ Parmenion whispered.
‘There is the foal,’ said Orsin. ‘He will be bigger than his sire.’
Movement by Titan’s dead eye caught Parmenion’s attention. Thick white maggots were crawling from under the lid and slithering down the horse’s face, like obscene tears. ‘There are your demons,’ said Parmenion. ‘His brain must have been alive with them. Gods, they were driving him mad!’
But the Thessalians were no longer in earshot. They had gathered around the body of their friend Croni, lifting him and carrying him back towards the main house.
The death of the stallion left Parmenion’s spirits low. Never had he seen a finer horse, nor one with such an indomitable spirit. But worse than this, the slaying of Titan made him think of the child, Alexander.
Here was another beautiful creature, possessed by evil. Intelligent - perhaps brilliant - and yet cursed by a hidden malevolence. An awful image leapt to his mind: the child lying dead with fat, pale maggots crawling across his lifeless eyes.
Forcing the vision from his thoughts, he toiled alongside the men as they cleared the fields, helping them rope the young horses, getting them accustomed to the needs of Man.
Towards midday the Spartan wandered out to the lake where Mothac was exercising lame or injured mounts. The men had built a floating raft of timbers which was anchored at the centre of a small lake, a bowshot’s length from the water’s edge. A horse would be led out into the water, where he would swim behind the boat leading him until the raft was reached. Once there the lead rope would be thrown up to Mothac who would encourage the horse to swim around the raft. The exercise built up a horse’s strength and endurance, while putting no strain on injured muscles or ligaments. Mothac, his bald head covered by an enormous felt hat, was walking the perimeter of the raft, leading a bay mare who struggled in the water alongside.
Removing his tunic Parmenion waded out into the cold water, swimming slowly towards the raft, his arms moving in long, lazy strokes. The cool of the lake was refreshing, but his mind was full of awful images: maggots and eyes, beauty and decay.
Hauling himself up to the raft he sat naked in the sunshine, feeling the cool breeze against his wet body. Mothac summoned the boat, throwing the lead rope to the oarsman.
‘That’s enough for today,’ he shouted. The oarsman nodded and led the mare back to dry land. The old Theban sat beside Parmenion, offering him a jug of water.
‘That hat looks ridiculous,’ remarked Parmenion.
Mothac grinned and pulled the floppy hat from his head. ‘It’s comfortable,’ he said, wiping sweat from the rim and covering his bald dome once more.
Parmenion sighed. ‘It’s a shame he had to die,’ he said.
‘The horse or the man?’ snapped Mothac.
Parmenion smiled ruefully. ‘I was talking of the horse. Though you are correct, I should have been thinking of the man. But Titan must have been in great pain; those maggots were eating his brain. I find it obscene that such a magnificent beast should have been brought low by such vile creatures.’
‘He was only a horse,’ said Mothac. ‘But I shall miss Croni. He had a family in Thessaly. How much shall I send?’
‘Whatever you think fit. How have the men taken his death?’
‘He was popular,’ Mothac answered. ‘But they are hard men. You impressed them with your ride.’ He chuckled suddenly. ‘By Heracles, you impressed me!’
‘I will never see another horse like him,’ said Parmenion sadly.
‘I think you might. The foal is the image of his sire. And he will be big - he has a head like a bull.’
‘I saw him in the stables last night - with his dead mother. Not a good omen for the son of Titan - his first act in life to kill his dam.’
‘Now you are sounding like a Thessalian,’ Mothac admonished him. The Theban drank deeply from the water-jug and leaned back on his powerful forearms. ‘What is wrong between you and Philip?’
Parmenion shrugged. ‘He is a King is search of a glory he does not wish to share. I cannot say I blame him for that. And he has the lickspittle Attalus to whisper poison in his ear.’
Mothac nodded. ‘I never liked the man. But then I never liked Philip much either. What will you do?’
The Spartan smiled. ‘What is there to do? I will fight Philip’s battles until he decides he has no more need of me. Then I will come here and grow old with my sons around me.’
Mothac grunted and swore. ‘You would be a fool to believe that - and you are no fool. If you left Philip, every city in Greece would vie for your services. Within a season you would be leading an army. And, since there is only one great enemy, you would be leading it against Philip. No, Parmenion, when Philip decides he needs you no longer it will be Attalus who delivers the dismissal - with an assassin’s knife.’
Parmenion’s pale blue eyes grew cold. ‘He will need to be very good.’
‘And he is,’ warned Mothac.
‘This is a gloomy conversation,’ Parmenion muttered, rising to his feet.
‘Has the King invited you to the victory parade?’ Mothac persisted.
‘No. But then he knows I do not enjoy such events.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mothac, unconvinced. ‘So, where will the next war be fought? Will you march on the cities of the Chalcidice, or down through Boeotia to sack Athens?’
‘That is for the King to decide,’ answered Parmenion, his gaze straying to the eastern mountains. The look was not lost on the Theban.
‘Then it is to be Thrace,’ he said, his voice low.
‘You see too much, my friend. I thank the gods you also have a careful tongue.’
‘Where will his ambition end?’
‘I don’t know. More to the point, he does not know. He is not the man I once knew, Mothac; he is driven now. He had hundreds of Phocians executed after the Crocus Field, and it was said he stood and laughed as they died. Yet befo
re we left Macedonia I watched him judge several cases at court. I knew, on this particular day, that he wanted to hunt and was hoping to conclude by early afternoon. At last he declared an end to the proceedings, telling the petitioners to come back on another day. But as he left the judge’s chair an old woman with a petition came close to him, calling out for justice. He turned and said, “No time, woman.” She just stood there for a moment and then, as he walked on, shouted: “Then you’ve no time to be King!” Everyone close by held their breaths. Was she to be executed? Or flogged? Or imprisoned? You know what he did? He cancelled the hunt and listened to her case for the rest of the day. He even judged it in her favour.’
Mothac rose and waved for the boat to come out to them. ‘I did not say he was not a great man, Parmenion. I merely pointed out that I do not like him, and I do not trust him. Neither should you. One day he will order your death. Jealousy breeds fear, and fear sires hatred.’
‘No one lives for ever,’ replied Parmenion uneasily.
Pella, Macedonia, Autumn
‘I shall walk ahead of the Guards. My people will see me,’ said Philip.
‘Madness!’ snapped Attalus. ‘What more can I say to you? There are killers in Pella, just waiting for the opportunity to come at you. Why are you set on this course?’
‘Because I am the King!’ thundered Philip.
Attalus sat back on the couch staring sullenly at his monarch. ‘You think,’ he asked finally, ‘that you are a god? That cold iron cannot penetrate your body, cannot slice your heart?’
Philip smiled and relaxed. ‘No delusions, Attalus. How could I?’ he added, touching the scar above his blinded right eye. ‘But if I cannot walk in the streets of my own capital, then my enemies have truly won. You will be there. I trust you to protect me.’
Attalus looked into the King’s face, seeing no compromise there, and recalled the first time they had met, in Thebes nineteen years ago. The King had been merely a boy then, a frightened boy waiting for the assassin’s blade. Yet in his eyes had been the same fierce glow. His uncle the King, Ptolemaos, had tried to have him quietly poisoned, but the boy outwitted him, saving his brother Perdiccas and killing Ptolemaos as he lay in his bed. This he had achieved as a thirteen-year-old. Now, at thirty-two, Philip had united Macedonia, creating a nation to be feared.