David Gemmell - Dark Prince

Not so Philotas, who stood with head held high watching Alexander. Gold ochre stained the King's upper lids and his lips were the colour of blood. The high conical crown of Darius, gold and ivory, sat upon his head, and he was dressed in the loose-fitting silken robes of a Persian emperor.

How had it come to this, Philotas wondered?

Alexander had conquered the Persians, drawing the defeated army into the ranks of his own forces and appointing Persian generals and satraps. The Empire was his. He had even married Darius' daughter, Roxanne, to legitimize his claim to the crown.

And what a sham that was, for not once had he called her to his bed.

Philotas' gaze flickered over the listening officers, whose faces showed their tensions and their fears. Once more Alexander was talking about treachery amongst them, promising to root out the disloyal. Only yesterday some sixty Macedonian soldiers had been flogged to death for what the King called mutiny. Their crime? They had asked when they could go home. They had joined the army to liberate the cities of Asia Minor, not to march across the world at the whim of a power-crazed King.

Five days before that, Alexander had had a vision: his officers were set to kill him. The vision told him who they were, and six men were garrotted — one of them Theoparlis, the general of the Shield Bearers. Philotas had not liked the man, but his loyalty was legendary.

Ever since Hephaistion's departure the King had been acting strangely, given to sudden rages followed by long silences. At first the generals had affected to ignore the signs. Alexander had long been known to possess unusual Talents, though always before such behaviour had been short-lived. But now it seemed that a new Alexander had emerged, cold and terrifying.

In the beginning the officers had talked among themselves of this transformation, but after the killings began there grew among the Macedonians such a fear that even friends no longer met privately in case they should be accused of plotting against the emperor.

But three days ago had come the final lunacy.

Parmenion and the Second Army had at last taken the city of Elam. More accurately, the ruling council of the city had negotiated a surrender. Parmenion sent the city's treasury — some 80,000 talents of silver — to Alexander at Susa.

Alexander's reply had been to order the killing of every man, woman and child in Elam.

Parmenion had received the order with disbelief and had sent a rider to question its authenticity.

Philotas had been summoned to the palace along with Ptolemy, Cassander and Craterus. They had arrived to find Alexander standing over the body of the messenger.

'I am surrounded by traitors,' Alexander declared. 'Parmenion has refused to obey the orders of his emperor.'

Philotas gazed down on the body of the messenger, a young boy of no more than fifteen. The lad's sword was still in its scabbard, but Alexander's dagger was buried in his heart.

'You have always spoken against your father, Philo,' said Alexander. 'I should have listened to you earlier. In his dotage he has turned against me. Against meV

'What has he done, sire?' Ptolemy asked.

'He has refused to punish Elam for its rebellion.'

Philotas felt himself growing cold, a numbness spreading through him. All his life he had believed that one day he would be a king — the knowledge sure, set in stone, based on the promise of the only person who had ever loved him, his mother Phaedra. But, during the last year, the stone of belief had slowly crumbled, the cold breeze of reality whispering against it, scattering his hopes, destroying his dreams. Lacking the charisma of a Philip or Alexander, or the intellect of a Parmenion, he could not even inspire the troops he led into battle. Self-knowledge came late to him, but at last even Philotas had come to recognize his mother's folly.

No kingdom. No glory. His father had been right: he had built his future upon a foundation of mist. What now, he wondered? If he remained silent, then Parmenion would be slain and he, Philotas, would remain as a general of the King. If not, he would be taken and murdered. . and Parmenion would still be killed. His mouth was dry, his heartbeat irregular. To die or not to die? What kind of a choice was this for a young man, he wondered? 'Well, Philo?' asked Alexander.

Philotas saw the King's eyes upon him. . and shivered. 'Parmenion is no traitor,' he answered without hesitation.

'Then you are also against me? So be it. Take his weapons. Tomorrow he shall answer for his betrayal before his comrades.'

Craterus and Ptolemy had marched Philotas to the dungeons below the palace. They had walked in silence until Ptolemy reached out to pull shut the cell door.

'Ptolemy!'

'Yes, Philo?'

'I wish to send a message to my father.'

'I can't. The King would kill me.'

'I understand.'

The room was small, windowless and dark as pitch with the door bolted. Philotas felt his way to the pallet bed and stretched out upon it.

Nicci and Hector were both gone now, and tomorrow the last son of the Lion of Macedon would join them. 'I wish I'd known you better, Father,' said Philo, his voice quavering.

Despite his fears Philo slept, and was awakened by the sound of the bolts being drawn back on the door. A shaft of light filled the cell and the Macedonian blinked as armed men pushed their way inside.

'Up, traitor!' ordered a soldier, seizing Philo's arm and hauling him from the bed. He was pushed out into the corridor and marched back to the throne-room where his fellow officers waited in judgement.

Alexander's voice echoed in the vast hall, shrill and strident, his face flushed crimson. 'Philotas and his father owe everything to me — and how do they repay me? They plot and they plan to supplant me. What is the penalty for such treachery?'

'Death!' cried the officers. Philotas smiled. Only a few days ago his had been one of the voices shouting for the death of Theoparlis.

Slowly Philo rose to his feet, all eyes turning to him.

'What do you say, prisoner, before sentence is carried out?' asked Alexander.

'What would you have me say?' responded Philo, his voice steady, his gaze locked to the unnaturally pale eyes of the King.

'Do you wish to deny your villainy, or to plead for mercy?'

Philo laughed then. 'There is not one man in this room save you who believes that Parmenion would ever plot against you. For myself I have nothing to offer by way of defence. For if a man as loyal as Theoparlis could be found guilty, then what chance does Philotas have? I have followed you and fought battles alongside you — battles that my father won for you. My two brothers died to ensure you would sit upon that throne. I should have no need to defend myself.

But let it be clearly understood by all present that Parmenion is no traitor. You ordered him to take a city — and he took it. Then you ordered that every man, woman and child in that city should be put to death as an example to other rebels. That he would not do. Nor would any other decent Greek. Only a madman would order such an atrocity.'

'Condemned out of his own mouth!' roared Alexander, rising from the throne and advancing down the room. 'By all the gods, I'll kill you myself.'

'As you killed Cleitus?' Philotas shouted.

Alexander's dagger swept towards Philo's throat, but the Macedonian swayed to his right, the blade slashing past his face. Instinctively he struck out with his left fist, which cannoned against Alexander's chin. The King fell back, the dagger falling from his hands. Philo swept it up and leapt upon him, bearing him to the marble floor. Alexander's head cracked against the stone. The point of the dagger in Philo's hand touched the skin of Alexander's neck, and Philo bunched his muscles for the final thrust.