Dark Prince (10 page)

Parmenion had laughed then. “There is no one else here, Philip. You do not need to take such a high tone. Amphipolis is rich; she controls the trade routes to Thrace and all of the southern reaches of the River Strymon. You are running short of coin, and the army must be paid.”

“There is that,” answered Philip, his grin infectious. “By the way, the army is not yet large enough. I want you to train me ten thousand more men.”

The smile vanished from the Spartan’s face. “You already have more than enough to secure the realm. From where will come the danger? Thrace is divided, the three kings warring among themselves; the Paionians are finished, and the Illyrians will never rise to their former glory. You are building an army now of conquest, not defense. What is it you want, Philip?”

“I want ten thousand more men. And before you ask another question, my Spartan friend, was it not you who once advised me to keep my plans more secret? Very well, I am following your advice. No one but Philip shall know. And was it not also my
strategos
who lectured me on the nature of empire? We remain strong, he said, only while we grow.”

“Indeed he did, sire,” admitted Parmenion, “but as with all strategies there is the question of scale. Armies must be supplied; lines of communication need to be open and swift. Your greatest advantage over Athens is that your commands are instantly obeyed, whereas the Athenians must gather their assembly and argue for days, sometimes weeks. And, unlike the Persians, we are not geared for empire.”

“Then we must learn, Parmenion, for the days of Macedon are here.”

Now Philip stared down at the map, his keen mind judging the areas of greatest danger. Parmenion had been right. The taking of Amphipolis and other independent citadels had struck fear into the hearts of his neighbors, who were busy enlisting mercenaries,
hoplites
from Thebes, javeliners from Thrace, archers from Crete.

And Athens, in the distant south, had declared war, sending agents to all northern realms and cities, urging them to stand against the Macedonian aggressor. Now that the Phocians were crushed, the game was becoming complex, for no single enemy would dare raise his head above the ramparts and no single battle could solve Philip’s dilemma.

His enemies would wait for a sign of weakness—then strike together, coming from east, west, and south. If he moved against any one foe, the others would fall upon his back, causing a war on two or more fronts.

The greatest immediate danger lay to the east, from Olynthos, the leader of the Chalcidean League of cities. Philip’s finger traced over the trident-shaped lands of the Chalcidice. Between them the cities could raise twenty thousand
hoplites
armed with spear, sword, and shield, more than three thousand cavalry, and, perhaps, a further seven thousand—maybe eight thousand javeliners. A war with Olynthos would be costly and dangerous. Whoever won would be so weakened, he would fall to the next aggressor. That was why the Olynthians were relying on the assassins they had sent to Pella.

The king heard the sounds of the guards marching into the courtyard below his window. Walk with care today, Philip, he warned himself.

Attalus gathered the ten members of the royal guard, inspecting their bronze breastplates and helms, their scabbards and greaves. They shone like burnished gold. Moving behind the lines, he glanced at their black cloaks. Not a trace of dust or grime showed. Satisfied, he walked back to stand before them.

“Be aware,” he said slowly, “that the king is always in danger.
Always
. It does not matter that he walks in the heart of his realm. It is immaterial that the people love him. He has enemies. As you march behind him, keep your eyes on the crowd. Do not look at the king. Watch for any sudden movement. Is that understood?” The men nodded.

“May I speak, sir?” asked a man to his right.

“Of course.”

“Are you speaking in general terms, or is there a particular threat today?”

Attalus looked closely at the man, trying to remember his name. “As I said, the king is always in danger. But it is a good question. Be vigilant.”

Taking his place at the center, he waited for the king. The route would take them along the main Avenue of Alexandros, through the marketplace, and on to the temple of Zeus. A walk of no more than a thousand paces, perhaps less, but the crowd would be pressing in. Attalus had stationed soldiers along the line of the parade, but they would be stretched to keep back the thousands of citizens. Philip’s popularity was high, and that made for great danger on a day such as this, for the people would be excitable—straining to touch him, pushing against the thin line of soldiers. Sweat dripped into Attalus’ eyes. A trained assassin himself, he knew how easy it was to kill a man no matter how well protected. At no time would Philip be more than five paces from the throng. A sudden dash, the flash of a knife, the spurting of royal blood …

For the hundredth time he pictured the route, the white-walled buildings and narrow alleyways.

Where would you make the attempt? he asked himself again. Not at the start, when the guards would be at their most alert, but toward the end. Not near the temple, where open ground would prevent the assassins’ escape. No. The attack would come close to the marketplace with its scores of alleyways. Two hundred paces of sheer terror awaited him.

Damn you, Philip!

The king walked from the palace doors, the ten guards beating their fists upon their breastplates in greeting. Attalus
was slow to follow, his mind preoccupied. “I see you, Coenus,” said Philip, smiling at the man whose name Attalus had been struggling to remember. “And you, Diron. I would have thought you’d have had enough of my company.” One by one Philip greeted each of the men. It never ceased to amaze Attalus how the king memorized the names of the men under his command. Coenus—now Attalus remembered him. He had been promoted by the whoreson Parmenion to command the reserve phalanx at the Crocus Field.

“Are we ready?” asked the king.

“Yes, sir,” Attalus answered.

Two soldiers opened the gates, and Philip strode from the palace grounds to be greeted by a thunderous roar from the citizens beyond. Attalus kept close behind him. Brushing the sweat from his eyes, he scanned the crowd. There were hundreds waiting there on both sides of the avenue. Flowers of every kind rained in on the king as he waved to his people. At the cross section the main parade was waiting: cavalrymen from Thessaly, ambassadors from Thebes, Corinth, Pherai, Olynthos, and Thrace. Behind them were jugglers and acrobats, jesters and actors in masks of gleaming bronze. At the rear of the parade two white bulls, garlanded with flowers, were led on their last walk to the sacrificial altar of Zeus.

Philip marched to the head of the parade and began the walk along the Avenue of Alexandros.

Attalus, hand on his sword hilt, saw the crowd surge forward against the thin line of soldiers on either side who fought to keep the way open. Philip walked on, waving and smiling. A small boy dashed from the left, running up to the king. Attalus’ sword was half-drawn. He slammed it back into its scabbard as Philip swept the child from his feet and stopped as the boy gave him a pomegranate.

“Where is your mother?” Philip asked him. The child pointed to the right, and the king walked the boy back, handing him to a woman in the crowd.

Attalus cursed. One thrust now and it was all over …

But Philip moved back into the center of the avenue and continued on his way at the head of the parade.

As they approached the marketplace, Attalus’ gaze flickered left and right over the crowd, watching faces, looking for signs of tension. Still the flowers came, the avenue carpeted with myriad colors.

Suddenly the crowd surged again. Three men broke clear, running toward the king.

Knives flashed in the sunlight as Attalus sprinted forward.

A long dagger plunged into the king’s side.

“No!” screamed Attalus. Philip staggered, his hand sweeping aside his cloak and coming up with a hidden sword. The blade smashed through the first assassin’s neck. A second knife lunged for the king’s throat, but Philip parried the blow, sending a reverse cut that opened the man’s arm from elbow to shoulder. Attalus killed the third man as he tried to stab Philip in the back.

The crowd was screaming now. As Philip advanced on the wounded assassin, the man flung himself to his knees.

“Spare me. I will tell you all!” he pleaded.

“You have nothing of worth to say,” said the king, his sword plunging between the man’s collarbones.

“Get a surgeon!” yelled Attalus, moving alongside Philip and taking his arm.

“No!” countermanded the king. “It is not necessary.”

“But I saw him stab you.”

Philip made a fist and tapped at his tunic. A metallic ring sounded. “There is a breastplate beneath it,” he said. “I may be reckless, Attalus, but I am not stupid. Let the parade continue,” he bellowed.

Later that night as the king relaxed in his chambers, growing steadily more drunk, Attalus asked the question that had been gnawing at him all day.

“Why did you kill the last assassin? He could have named the people who hired him.”

“It would have achieved nothing. We both know the men came from Olynthos. If such news became public, I would be forced into a war with the Chalcideans; the people would demand it. But it was a good day, was it not? A good day to be alive?”

“I enjoyed it not at all,” snapped Attalus. “I aged ten years out there.”

Philip chuckled. “All life is a game, my friend. We cannot hide. The gods use us as they will, then discard us. Today my people saw their king; they watched him march, they saw him fight and conquer. Their pride was fed. So, then, the Olynthians only helped my cause. I feel grateful to them—and to you for protecting my back. I trust you, Attalus, and I like you. You make me feel comfortable and safe. You remember that first day in Thebes? When I held my knife to my breast and offered you the chance to ram it home?”

“Who could forget it?” answered Attalus. The young prince, fearing Attalus had been sent to kill him, had given him the chance in an alleyway where there were no witnesses. And Attalus had been tempted. At the time he served King Ptolemais, and Philip was but a boy the king desired dead. Yet he had not struck the blow … and still did not know why.

“What are you thinking?” asked Philip.

Attalus jerked his mind to the present. “I was reliving that day and the journey back to Macedonia. Why do you trust me, Philip? I know myself and all my failings. I would not trust me—so why do you?”

The smile left the king’s face as, leaning forward, he gripped Attalus’ shoulder. “Do not question it,” he advised. “Enjoy it. Few men ever earn a king’s trust or his friendship. You have both. It does not matter why. Perhaps I see in you a quality you have not yet found. But were I beset by enemies, you are the man I would most want by my side. Let that be enough.” The king drained his wine, refilling the cup. He stood—staggered—and wandered to the window, staring out to the west.

Attalus sighed. Exhausted by the tension of the day, he took his leave and walked slowly back to his own rooms in the new barracks. His servants had lit lanterns in the
andron
and bedchamber. Attalus untied the thongs of his breastplate, removed it, and sank to a couch.

“You are a fool to trust me, Philip,” he whispered.

Too tired to climb the stairs to his bed, he lay back on the couch and slept.

“An impressive herd, my dear Mothac. How is it that a Theban develops such a talent for horses?” The Persian stroked his golden beard and leaned back in his chair.

“I listen and I learn, noble Parzalamis. Is the wine to your taste?”

The Persian smiled thinly, but his pale eyes showed no trace of humor. “Of course—it is from my country and, I would guess, at least ten years old. Am I correct?”

“It would surprise me if you weren’t.”

“A kind compliment,” said Parzalamis, rising from the chair and walking to the open doorway, where he stood looking out over the western hills. Mothac remained on the couch, but his gaze followed the silk-clad Persian. Such clothes, he thought! What was the point of such luxury? Parzalamis wore loose trousers of blue silk, edged with silver wire, which in turn held small pearls. His shirt was also silk, but the color of fresh cream, the chest and back embroidered with gold thread forming the head of a griffin, part eagle, part lion. He had no cloak, but his heavy coat of embroidered wool had been flung carelessly across a couch. Mothac’s gaze moved down to the man’s boots. They were of a skin he had never seen, scaled and uneven yet with a sheen that made a man want to reach out and touch them.

Parzalamis swung and walked back to his seat. Rich Persian perfume wafted to Mothac as the man crossed the room, and he chuckled. “What amuses you?” asked his guest, his expression hardening.

“Not amusement—embarrassment,” said Mothac swiftly. “Happy as I am to see you, your magnificence makes my home feel like a pigsty. Suddenly I see all the cracks in the wall and notice that the door frame has warped.”

The Persian relaxed. “You are a clever man, Theban. Your tongue moves faster than a cheetah. So, I have bought your horses and now let us move to more serious matters. What are Philip’s plans?”

Swinging his legs from the couch, Mothac refilled his goblet. “Parmenion assures me he is still securing his borders against his enemies. The great king has nothing to fear.”

“The great king fears nothing!” snapped Parzalamis. “He is merely interested in his vassal king.”

“Vassal?” queried Mothac. “As I understand it, Philip sends no tribute to Susa.”

“The point is immaterial. All Macedonia is part of the great king’s empire. Indeed, the same can be said for all of Greece. Athens, Sparta, and Thebes all accept the sovereignty of Persia.”

“If Macedonia is indeed a vassal,” said Mothac, choosing his words carefully, “then surely it is strange that the Phocians paid their army with Persian gold when all men knew the army would march against Philip.”

“Not at all,” answered Parzalamis. “General Onomarchus traveled to Susa and knelt before the great king, offering his allegiance to the empire. For this he was rewarded. And let us not forget it was Philip who marched against the Phocians, not the reverse. And I am unhappy with this idea of securing borders. Where does it stop? Philip already controls Illyria and Paionia. Now the Thessalians have made him their king. His borders grow with every season. What next? The Chalcidice? Thrace? Asia?”