It was then that the Athenians had come to him. He had been walking in the market-place, ordering leather and hide, and had stopped for a cool drink.
‘Surely I know you, friend,’ came a voice, and Lolon turned. The speaker was a short, stout man, bald and beardless. Lolon did not remember him, but glanced down at the man’s sandals. These he knew; he had made them two years before - a month before the Macedonians came.
‘Yes, I remember you,’ he answered dully.
As the weeks passed he saw the man, Gorinus, more often, at first talking of better days, and then - the floodgates of his bitterness giving way - speaking of his hatred. Gorinus had been a good listener, becoming a friend.
One morning, as they met in the market-place, Gorinus introduced a second man and they took Lolon to a small house behind the agora. Here the plot was hatched: kill the demon child, said Gorinus, and then come with us to Athens.
At first he had refused, but they fed his bitterness, reminding him of how the Macedonians had killed the children of Methone, taking the youngest by their ankles and dashing their brains to the walls.
‘Yes! Yes!’ cried Lolon. ‘I will have my revenge!’
Now he cowered beneath the trees, staring up at Alexander’s window. Easing himself from the shadows, he ran to the wall, his heart beating wildly. Slipping through a side door into the corridor beyond he moved carefully in the darkness, climbing the stairs, stopping every few steps to listen for the sentries. There was no guard on Alexander’s door, the Athenians had assured him, but two warriors were stationed at the end of the corridor.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he glanced out. The soldiers were standing some twenty paces away, talking in hushed voices, their whispers carrying to the waiting assassin. They were discussing a coming horserace. Neither was looking in Lolon’s direction. Swiftly he crossed the corridor, pushing his back against the door to Alexander’s room.
Slowly he drew the dagger.
Alexander swung his legs from the bed and jumped to the floor, the dream still strong in his mind, his golden hair lank with sweat. Moonlight streamed through the open window of his room, bathing the ceiling with a pale, white light.
He could still hear the voices, like whispering echoes in his mind.
‘Iskander! Iskander! Come to us!’
‘No,’ he whispered, sitting down at the centre of a goatskin rug and pressing his hands to his ears. ‘No, I won’t! You are dreams. You are not real!’
The rug was warm and he lay down upon it, staring up at the moonlit ceiling.
Something was wrong in the room. He gazed around, the dream forgotten, but could see nothing amiss. His toy soldiers were still scattered about the floor, with his small siege-engines. His books and drawings were on the tiny table. Alexander stood and walked to the window, climbing up on the bench seat below it so that he could look out into the gardens. Leaning out on the sill he gazed down... at the moon.
The gardens had disappeared and stars shone all around the palace, above and below, to left and right. In the distance there were no mountains, no plains or hills, no valleys and woods. Only the dark of an all-consuming sky.
The boy’s fear was forgotten, lost as he was in the wonder of this miracle. He did not often wake in the night. Perhaps it was always this way, but no one had bothered to tell him. The moon was an incredible sight, no longer a silver disc but a scarred and pitted shield that had seen many battles. Alexander could see the marks of arrows and stones upon the surface, the dents and cuts.
And the stars were different also, perfectly round, like a slinger’s stones, glowing, pulsing. In the distance he saw a movement, a flashing light, a dragon with a tail of fire... then it was gone. Behind him the door opened, but he was aware of nothing but the beauty of this colossal night.
Lolon saw the boy at the window. Softly closing the door, he swallowed hard and advanced across the room. His foot came down on a wooden soldier, which broke with a loud crack. The prince glanced round.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘isn’t it wonderful? The stars are everywhere.’
Lolon drew his dagger, but the boy had turned back to the window and was leaning out over the void.
One thrust and it would be over. Lolon tensed, aiming the dagger point at the small back. He was no older than Lolon’s youngest...
Don’t think that way, he cautioned himself. Think of revenge! Think of the pain you will cause the tyrant!
Suddenly Alexander cried out and fell forward, losing his grip on the sill. Without thinking Lolon’s hand snaked out, grabbing the prince by the leg and hauling him back. A terrible, soul-searing pain swept through the slave and he staggered, clutching his chest. The agony coalesced into a burning ball in his heart and he sank to his knees, gasping for air.
‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ wailed Alexander, the stars forgotten. Lolon began to tremble, then pitched face-first to the floor. ‘I’ll get help,’ shouted the prince, running to the door and pulling it open. But there was no corridor, no stone walls, no familiar hangings. The door opened on to the vault of the night, huge, dark and irresistible. The boy teetered on the edge of the abyss, his balance failing him. With a last despairing cry he fell... tumbling among the stars.
The voices came roaring back to him as he hurtled through the sky, and he heard a shout of triumph from the priest: ‘He is coming! The Golden Child is coming!’
Alexander screamed and saw again the face of the man who looked like his father - a malevolent grin on his bearded face, his golden eye gleaming like a ball of fire.
The Temple, Asia Minor
The man’s heart was weak, the valves hard and inelastic. His lungs were huge now, distorting his rib-cage, and he could move only a few paces before exhaustion forced him to rest. Derae sat beside his bed, her hand resting on his chest, and gazed down into his tired eyes.
‘I can do nothing for you,’ she said sadly, watching the light of hope fade from his eyes.
‘Just... give me... a few more days,’ he begged, his voice weak.
‘Not even that,’ she told him, taking his hand.
Beside the bed his wife began to weep. ‘So... soon... then?’ he whispered.
Derae nodded and his head sagged back to the pillow.
‘Please help him!’ begged the wailing woman, throwing herself to her knees before the Healer.
The man on the bed tensed suddenly, his face darkening. His mouth opened but no words came forth, only a long, broken sigh. ‘No!’ screamed the woman. ‘No!’
Derae eased herself to her feet and walked slowly from the altar room, waving away the servants who moved to assist her. The corridors were cold and she shivered as she made her way to her room.
A man stepped into her path. ‘They have taken him,’ said Aristotle.
Derae closed her eyes. ‘I am tired. I can be of little use to you. Go away.’ Pushing past him, she forced her weary body on. Behind her Aristotle dipped his hand into the pouch at his side, lifting clear a golden stone.
Derae walked on, her mind locked to the merchant whose death she could not prevent. She took a deep breath. The air felt good in her lungs, refreshing, invigorating. How strange, she thought, as her weariness evaporated. She felt better than she had in years and remembered how cool it was in the sea, how good to run down to the beach and wade out into the crystal-clear waters, feeling the sun warm on her back.
Suddenly she laughed. It was too long since she had last left the temple to walk the cliff path. And she was hungry. Ravenous!
Pushing open the door to her room, she wandered to the window. How clear the air, she thought as she stared out over the sea. White gulls circled the cliffs and she could see each bird as it wheeled and dived. Even the clouds were sharply denned. Then she realized she was not using her spirit eyes. Her blindness had gone. Glancing down, she looked at her hands. The skin was smooth and unlined. Anger flared in her and she swung to face the magus who stood, silently, in the doorway.
‘How dare you!’ she thundered.
‘How dare you do this to me!’
‘I need you,’ he responded, moving into the room and pushing shut the door behind him. ‘And what is so terrible about youth, Derae? What is it you fear?’
‘I fear nothing!’ she stormed, ‘unless it be the suffering I cannot heal. Did you see the man they carried in? He was a prince; he was kind, caring. But his heart had rotted within him, moving far beyond my capacity to heal. That is what I fear - living long enough to see another thousand like him. You think I want to be young again? Why? For what purpose? Everything I ever desired has been denied me. Why should I want to live any longer?’
Aristotle moved further into the room, his face reflecting his sorrow.
‘If you wish then I will return your body to its former... glory? But first will you help me? Will you aid Parmenion?’
Derae moved to the mirror and stared at her youthful reflection. A deep sigh came from her and she nodded. ‘I will go. But first you must change my face. He must not know me - you understand?’
‘It will be as you say,’ he promised.
‘I think it was rash to execute the sentries,’ said Parmenion, struggling to hold his temper.
‘And what would you have done, Spartan?’ sneered Attalus. ‘Promoted them, perhaps?’
Parmenion swung away from the man, focusing on the King who sat hunched on the throne, his face grey from exhaustion, his eyes dull. In the two days since the disappearance of the prince, Philip had not slept. The 3,000 Guards had scoured the city, searching every house, attic and cellar. Riders had swept out into the countryside, seeking news of anyone travelling with a child or children.
But there was no sign of Alexander.
‘Sire,’ said Parmenion.
The King looked up. ‘What is it?’
‘The sentries who were executed. Did they say anything?’
Philip shrugged. ‘They told us nonsense, an incredible fabrication. I don’t even remember it all. Something about stars... Tell him, Attalus.’
‘To what point, sire? It will bring us no closer to recovering the prince. He is being held somewhere for ransom; someone will contact us.’
‘Tell him anyway,’ said Philip.
‘They said that the corridor disappeared and a great wind swept them from their feet. All they could see were stars, and they heard the prince cry out as if from a great distance. They both swore to it; it was lunatic.’
‘Perhaps so, Attalus,’ said Parmenion softly, ‘but if your life was at stake would you invent such a ridiculous tale?’
‘Of course not. You think they were telling the truth?’ Attalus chuckled and shook his head.
‘I have no idea what the truth is... yet. But the guards at the gate say no one passed them. The sentries on the walls outside reported no screams or shouts. Yet the prince is gone. Have you identified the corpse?’
‘No,’ answered Attalus. ‘He had rotted almost to nothing.’
‘Have you checked the household slaves to see who might be missing?’
‘What makes you think he was a slave?’ asked Philip.
‘All that was left was his tunic. It was poor cloth - even a servant would have worn better.’
‘That is a good point,’ said the King. ‘See to it, Attalus. Now!’ he added, as the warrior made to speak. Attalus, his face reddening, bowed and left the throne-room.
‘We must find him,’ Philip told Parmenion. ‘We must.’
‘We will, sire. I do not believe him dead. If that was the purpose, his body would have been found by now.’
Philip glanced up, his single green eye gleaming with a savage light. ‘When I find those responsible they will suffer as no one has ever suffered before. I will see them die - and their families, and their city. Men will talk of it for a thousand years. I swear it.’
‘Let us first find him,’ said Parmenion.
The King did not seem to hear him. Rubbing at his blind eye he rose from the throne with fists clenched, knuckles ivory-white. ‘How could this happen?’ he hissed. ‘To me? To Philip?’ Parmenion kept silent, hoping the murderous rage would pass. In this mood Philip was always unpredictable. The Spartan had not told him of the Persian, Parzalamis, and had sworn Mothac to secrecy. No matter what Philip believed, Parmenion knew the Macedonians were not yet ready for a war against the Persian empire. Parzalamis’ body had been secretly buried on the estate, and while the slaying of the three assassins could not be kept from the King, no one knew where they came from nor who had sent them.
The wound on Parmenion’s thigh itched as he stood silently watching the King, and he idly scratched at it through the linen bandage. Philip saw the movement - and smiled.
‘You did well, Spartan,’ he said, the tension seeping from him. ‘To kill three was no mean feat. How many times have I urged you to have guards at your estate?’
‘Many times, sire, and I shall listen to your advice from now on.’
Philip sank back to the throne. ‘I thank the gods Olympias is not here. And I hope to Zeus that we find him before news reaches Epirus. She will return like an avenging Harpy, threatening to rip my heart out with her bare hands.’
‘We will find him,’ promised Parmenion, forcing a confidence into his voice that he did not feel.
‘I should not have killed the sentries,’ said Philip. ‘It was foolish. You think there may be sorcery in this?’
There is too much we do not know,‘ Parmenion answered. ’Who was the man in the room? Why did he carry a dagger? Was his mission to kill? If it was, was he alone? As to the sentries... what did they mean about the stars? There is little sense in this, Philip. If the boy had been killed we would have found the body. Yet, why would he be taken? Ransom? Who would live to spend such wealth? Let us, for argument’s sake, assume that the Olynthians were responsible. They are not fools. They know Macedonia’s army would descend on them with fire and sword; the lands of the Chalcidice would run with blood.‘
‘Athens,’ muttered Philip. ‘They would do anything to cause me pain. Athens...’ Parmenion saw again the gleam in the eye, and spoke swiftly.
‘I do not think so,’ he said softly. ‘Demosthenes makes great play about your tyranny and your supposed evils. His honeyed words seduce many of the lesser cities. How would he appear if named as a child killer? No. If Athens sent assassins their victim would be you, not Alexander. What did the priestess say when you saw her?“
‘Pah!’ snorted the King. ‘She is an old fool. She walked around the boy’s room pretending to talk to the spirits. But, at the end, she could tell me nothing.’
‘But what did she say?’
‘She told me the boy’s spirit was not in Macedonia. Nor in Hades. Now you tell me how that could be true. He had not been gone more than half a day. Even if he was carried away by an eagle he would still have been in Macedonia when she spoke. Senile old hag! But I tell you this, she was frightened. She trembled when she entered his room.’
‘You should rest,’ Parmenion advised him. ‘Go to bed. Send for one of your wives.’
‘That’s the last thing I need, my friend. They are hard-pressed to keep the glee from their eyes. My son and heir is missing- maybe dead. All they can think of is opening their legs and supplying me with another. No. I shall not rest until the truth is known.’
Attalus entered the throne-room and bowed. ‘There is a slave missing, sire,’ he said, his face ashen. ‘His name is Lolon; he is a sandal-maker, a Methonian.’
‘What do we know of him?’ asked Parmenion, keeping his expression even.
‘I bought him from the commander of Pelagonia some months ago. He was a good worker. The other slaves say he was a quiet man, keeping to himself. I know no more.’
‘What was he doing in my son’s room?’ thundered Philip. ‘He must have had a reason.’
‘He told Melissa - one of my slave-girls - that he had a family in Methone. His children were slaughtered, his wife taken from him.’ Attalus cleared his throat and swallowed hard. ‘I think he wanted reveng
e.’
Philip surged from the throne. ‘He must have had accomplices - or else where is the boy? How many other Methonians have you brought into the palace?’
‘There are none, sire. And I did not know he was Methonian, I swear it!’
‘Attalus is not at fault, sire,’ said Parmenion. ‘We have stormed many cities and flooded the land with slaves. That is why the price per man is only forty drachms against two hundred three years ago. Almost every slave in Pella would have reason to hate you.’
‘I care nothing for their hate!’ snapped Philip. ‘But you are right, Parmenion, Attalus is blameless.’ Turning to his Champion, he patted the man’s shoulder. ‘Forgive my anger, my friend.’
‘There is nothing to forgive, sire,’ answered Attalus, bowing.
Later, as Parmenion sat alone in one of the forty palace guest-rooms, Attalus came to him. ‘Why did you speak for me?’ he demanded. ‘I am no friend to you - nor desire to be.’
Parmenion gazed into the man’s cold eyes, seeing the tension there and in the tight lines of his hatchet face, the grim gash of his almost lipless mouth. ‘It is not a question of friendship, Attalus,’ he said, ‘merely of truth. Now I do not enjoy your company and, if you have nothing else to say, be so kind as to leave me in peace.’
But the man did not leave. Walking further into the room, he sat in a high-backed chair and poured a goblet of watered wine, sipping it slowly. ‘This is good,’ he said. ‘Do you think the story about the stars is important?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted the Spartan, ‘but I intend to find out.’
‘And how will you accomplish this?’
‘When first I came to Macedonia I met a magus - a man of great power. I will seek him out. If there is sorcery involved, he will know of it - and its source.’
‘And where will you find this... man of magic?’
‘Sitting upon a rock,’ the Spartan answered.
The Empire of Makedon
Alexander opened his eyes and shivered, feeling cold mud beneath his rain-soaked body. He had fallen, screaming and lost, through the star-filled sky, losing consciousness as bright lights and myriad colours blazed across his eyes. Now there were no colours, only a bone-numbing coldness and the dark of a mountain night.