David Gemmell - Dark Prince

Hephaistion ran into the tent, sword in hand. 'What is it, sire?'

'I have been stabbed,' replied Alexander, on the verge of panic, his hands probing the skin of his body. Hephaistion dropped his blade and moved to the bedside, eyes scanning the King's naked torso.

'There is no cut, sire.'

'There must be! Look at the blood!'

But there was no wound. By the doorway of the tent lay a dagger, the blade crusted with congealed blood.

Hephaistion scooped it into his hand. 'It is your dagger,' he said, 'but the blood is not yours.'

Alexander padded across to the far wall where a pitcher of water had been left on a small table. Swiftly the King washed himself clean, still searching for a cut or gash. He swung on Hephaistion. 'What is happening to me?'

'I don't understand you, sire,' answered the young officer.

'Last night. . the feast. When did I leave?'

'Just before dawn. You had drunk a great deal and were staggering. But you refused my offer of a helping hand.'

Alexander returned to the bed and sat with his head in his hands. 'The blood must have come from somewhere!'

'Yes, sire,' said Hephaistion softly.

'Am I going insane?'

'No! Of course not!' Hephaistion crossed the room, putting his arm around the King's shoulder. 'You are the King-the greatest King who ever lived. You are blessed by the gods. Do not voice such thoughts.'

'Blessed? Let us hope so.' Alexander took a deep breath.

'You said you would talk to me, sire, about Parmenion.'

'I did?'

'Yes. But now that he has won such a victory I doubt you'll want him to join Attalus.'

'What are you talking about? Is this a dream?'

'No, sire, you remember. . several nights ago? We discussed Parmenion and you said it might be necessary to kill him.'

'I would never say such a thing. He is my oldest friend; he risked his life for me. . many times. Why do you say this?'

'I must have misunderstood, sire. You were talking about allowing him a long rest, like Attalus. I thought. .'

'You thought wrong! You hear me?'

'Yes, sire. I am sorry.'

Men began shouting outside the tent and Hephaistion turned, moving swiftly out into the sunshine. Alexander remained slumped on the bed, trying to remember what happened after the feast. He could picture the laughter and the jests and Cleitus, the old cavalryman, dancing on a table. But he could not recall leaving the feast, nor coming to his bed.

Hephaistion returned and walked slowly across the tent, his face grave.

'What is happening out there?' asked the King.

Hephaistion sat down but said nothing, his eyes not meeting Alexander's gaze.

'What is it, man?'

'Parmenion's friend, the Theban Mothac… he has been murdered.' Hephaistion glanced up. 'Stabbed, sire. . many times.'

Alexander's mouth was dry. 'It wasn't me. I loved that old man. He taught me to ride; he used to lift me upon his shoulders. It wasn't me!'

'Of course it wasn't, sire. Someone must have come into the tent while you were sleeping, and smeared blood upon you.'

'Yes. . yes. No one must know, Hephaistion. Otherwise stories will start to spread. . you know, like in Pella about the child.'

'I know, sire. No one will hear of it, I promise you.'

'I must see Parmenion. He will be distraught. Mothac was with him back in Thebes when Parmenion freed them, destroying the power of the Spartans. My father was there. . did you know that?'

'Yes, sire. I will call your servants and they will fetch you clothes.'

Picking up the blood-covered dagger Hephaistion dipped it into the murky red water of the pitcher, washing the weapon clean. Then he moved to the bed, dragging clear the blood-covered sheet and rolling it into a tight bundle.

'Why would anyone do this to me, Hephaistion?'

'I cannot answer that, sire. But I will double the guard around your tent.'

Carrying the blood-soaked sheet, the young officer backed away and Alexander sat silently staring down at his hands. Why can I not remember, he thought. Just like in Pella after he had seen the woman, Aida.

She had held his hand and told his fortune. Her perfume had been strong and she had talked of glory. Her skin was whiter than ivory. He remembered reaching out, as if in a daze, and cupping his palm to her breast. Her fingers had stroked his thigh and she had moved in to him, her lips upon his.

But after that. .? There was no memory. Aida later told him that she and Olympias had murdered Philip's widow and the child. It was necessary, she had assured him. Alexander had not believed her, but he had done nothing to punish the women.

For then, as now, he had woken in his bed with dried blood upon his hands and face.

It had seemed to Parmenion that there was no further room for pain in his heart and soul. The death of Derae and the murder of Philip had lashed his emotions with whips of fire, leaving him spent and numb. Yet now he knew he was wrong. The killing of Mothac opened another searing wound and the ageing Spartan was overcome with grief.

There were no tears, but the strategos was lost and desolate.

He sat in his tent with his sons Philotas, Nicci and Hector, the body of Mothac laid out on a narrow pallet bed.

Parmenion sat beside the corpse, holding Mothac's still-warm dead hand.

'Come away for a while, Father,' said Nicci, moving to stand beside Parmenion. The Spartan looked up and nodded, but he did not move. Instead his gaze swung to his children: Philo tall and slender, the image of his father; Nicci shorter, dark-haired and stocky; and the youngest, Hector, so like his mother, fair of face and with wide, innocent eyes. They were men now, their childhood lost to him.

'I was your age, Hector,' said Parmenion, 'when first Mothac came to my service. He was a loyal friend. I pray you will all know such friendship in your lives.'

'He was a good man,' agreed Philo. Parmenion scanned his face for any sign of mockery, but there was nothing to see save regret.

'I have been a poor father to you all,' said Parmenion suddenly, the words surprising him. 'You deserved far more.

Mothac never ceased to nag me for my shortcomings. I wish… I wish. .'He stumbled to silence, then took a deep breath and sighed. 'But then there is nothing to gain by wishing to change the past. Let me say this: I am proud of you all.' He looked to Philo. 'We have had our. . disagreements, but you have done well. I saw you at the Granicus, rallying your men and leading the charge alongside Alexander. And I still remember the race you won against the champions of Greece — a run of skill and heart. Whatever else there is between us, Philotas, I want you to know that my heart swelled when I saw that race.' He turned to Nicci and Hector. 'Both of you have needed to fight to overcome the handicap of being sons of the Lion of Macedon. Always, more was expected of you. But not once have I heard you complain, and I know that the men who serve under you respect you both. I am growing old now and I cannot turn back the years and live my life differently. But here. . now… let me say that I love you all. And I ask your forgiveness.'

'There is nothing to forgive, Father,' said Hector, stepping into his father's embrace. Nicci moved to Parmenion's left, putting his arm around his father's shoulder. Only Philo remained apart from them. Walking to Mothac's body, he laid his hand on the dead man's chest.

Philo said nothing and did not look at his father, but his face was trembling and he stood with head bowed. Then, without a word, he spun on his heel and strode from the tent.

'Do not think badly of him,' said Nicci. 'Most of his life, he has wanted nothing more than to win your love. Give him time.'

'I think our time has run out,' answered Parmenion sadly.