The King smiled. ‘You would do no less for a kinsman, Parmenion. Go. Protect the child. He is born to be great.’
Aristotle opened his eyes just as the demon reached for Derae.
‘No!’ he screamed. A shaft of light smote the creature’s chest, pitching him back against the far wall, his skin blistering, flames licking from the wound. Within moments fire covered the beast, black smoke filling the room.
The magus rose from the bed, a sword of golden light appearing in his hand. Moving swiftly forward, he touched the blade to the blazing beast which disappeared instantly.
The corridor vanished, the walls of the room reappearing; Aristotle gazed down on Leucion’s dismembered corpse.
‘You fought valiantly,’ whispered the magus, ‘for there would have been more than one.’ The sword flowed into Aristotle’s hand, becoming a ball of fire which he laid on Leucion’s chest. The body was healed of all wounds and the head drawn back into place. ‘It is better for Derae to see you thus,’ Aristotle told the corpse, reaching out to close the dead eyes. Fishing into the pouch at his side, he produced a silver obol which he placed in Leucion’s mouth. ‘For the ferryman,’ he said softly. ‘May your journey end in light.’
Returning to the bed, Aristotle took Derae’s hand, calling her home.
Pella, Spring, 356 BC
Mothac was beside the bed when the miracle occurred. The colour flowed back into Parmenion’s face, the flesh filling out, but more than this - his hair thickened and darkened, the lines around his eyes, nose and chin fading back and disappearing.
He looked younger, a man in his twenties. Mothac could not believe what he was seeing. One moment his master and his friend was dying, the next he looked stronger than he had been for two decades.
Lifting Parmenion’s wrist, he felt for the pulse. It was beating strongly, rhythmically.
At that moment a tremendous cheer went up from the soldiers ringing the palace. Louder and louder it came.
Parmenion stirred and awoke. ‘By all the gods, I don’t believe it!’ Mothac shouted.
Parmenion sat up, embracing his friend, feeling Mothac’s tears wet against his face. ‘I am back. And I am well. What is the reason for the cheering?’
‘The King’s son is born,’ said Mothac.
Parmenion threw back the sheet covering his body and walked to the window. Thousands of soldiers had surrounded the palace, chanting the name of the heir to the throne.
‘Alexander! Alexander! Alexander!’
David Gemmell, Lion of Macedon
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