David Gemmell - Dark Prince

Aristotle nodded. 'You are wise in that. How is Philotas?'

Parmenion's face darkened. 'The same. We rarely speak now. His arrogance is all-consuming and yet he fawns on Alexander like a table slave. I try not to allow myself to become angry. It is not easy for the son of a general; he feels the need to prove himself better than his father.'

'He has great ambition,' said Aristotle softly.

'His mother fed him thoughts of glory from his birth. I should have stopped it long ago.'

'His ambition may bring you down one day,' Aristotle warned. 'He dreams of becoming King.'

'It will never happen. He has neither the wit nor the strength.'

'I know. I taught him for thirteen years. He will be an able captain, though. He might yet distinguish himself.'

'He did well in the Triballian campaign, but the glory was Alexander's. Philotas must have found that hard to bear.'

'He was not the only one.'

Parmenion shook his head. 'Do not believe all you hear, magus . Philip is not jealous of his son. He loves him and is proud of his achievements. So am I.'

'It is said that Philip's new bride is already pregnant — and that she will bear him a son. That will be hard for Alexander to take.'

'Why so?' queried Parmenion. 'Alexander is eighteen and the heir to the throne. Nothing will change that.'

'Come now, strategos , do not let your allegiance blind you. Use your mind. He is marrying Cleopatra, a high-born Macedonian. All his other wives are foreigners. She is the ward of Attalus. You do not think that many of the Macedonian nobles will see the child as the first true-born heir? You yourself are a mix-blood. Alexander's mother is an Epirote, which makes him a half-breed.'

'I do not wish to talk of this!' snapped Parmenion.

Aristotle sighed and lay back on his couch. 'Then we shall not. We will finish our wine and say our farewells.'

In the darkness just before dawn Aristotle, dressed for travel in a long tunic and heavy cloak, moved silently into the room where Parmenion slept. The Spartan was deeply asleep and the magus moved to the bedside. From the pouch at his hip Aristotle took a small golden stone, touching it to Parmenion's right knee. The Spartan stirred and groaned softly, but did not wake. The power of the Stone flowed into the sleeping man, the iron grey of his hair darkening slightly, the chiselled lines of his face becoming more shallow.

'One gift, my friend,' whispered Aristotle, 'but not the last. One day I will return.'

He backed away to the door and walked from his house, returning to the stream in the foothills and a shallow cave partly hidden by thick bushes. The new sun rose in glory and Aristotle paused to drink in the beauty of its light upon the verdant countryside.

'Why are you leaving now?' he asked himself. The answer leapt to his mind, sharp and bitter. The days of blood were coming and the Dark God was reasserting himself. He could feel the Spirit's presence hanging over the land like an unseen mist, swirling in the hearts of men, flowing into their minds, whispering in their ears.

Did Parmenion think the necklet could protect the boy for long? It was but metal, enhanced with the power of Sipstrassi Stone. It could be removed, torn from his neck with a single tug. And then?

The Dark God would return.

Will return, he corrected himself. Nothing will stop him.

You are running away, he realized: hiding from the great battle to come.

'I want to live,' he said aloud. 'I have done my part. Better to be a live dog than a dead lion.' But he was not convinced.

With a last glance over the Macedonian countryside he stepped inside the cave.

And was seen no more in the land of Greece.

Alexander sat back, occasionally touching his lips to his wine-cup but swallowing little as he listened to his Companions discussing the forthcoming Persian campaign. As always, it was Philotas who had the most to say.

Alexander found it bizarre that a son could look so much like his father, yet enjoy so few of his sire's talents. Philotas was tall and slender, a fine runner and a good cavalry officer, but his grasp on the subtleties of strategy was tenuous at best. Yet, like so many men of limited talent, his main ability was in mastering the art of hindsight, always seeing where others had made mistakes.

'As at Chaironeia,' Philo was telling the others, 'my father should never have allowed the left to swing so wide. Had it not been for Alexander's charge, Philip would have been slain.'

Alexander smiled and said nothing. It did no harm whatever to have his comrades see him as a young god of war, but the truth — as always — was not as simple.

'We will each be kings,' Ptolemy declared. 'I shall have a golden throne and a thousand concubines.'

'You wouldn't know what to do with them,' said Nearchos, chuckling. Alexander laughed with the rest at Ptolemy's discomfort. The youngest of the Companions, Rolemy's good nature was legendary.

'I would have great pleasure in finding out,' put in Ptolemy, grinning.

'If you are all to be kings,' said Alexander, 'what will be left for me?'

'You will be the King of Kings, naturally,' Ptolemy told him. 'You will rule the world and we will be your satraps.'

'And kill all your enemies,' Philotas added.

'An interesting thought. What happens when I have no more enemies?'

'A great man always has enemies,' said Ptolemy. 'What would be the point of being great if that were not so? How dull it would be.'

'I take it,' asked Nearchos, 'that you are already building up a stock of enemies?'

'Yes. I've started with you, you low-born dolt!'

Nearchos' laughter rippled out, swift and infectious. 'Me? Is that wise? Do you no longer wish me to speak well of you to my sister?'

'A good point,' said Ptolemy, rubbing his chin. 'You are correct. It is not an opportune time to have you for an enemy.

It will have to be Philo then: he'll be my first enemy.'

'Enough of this talk,' put in Alexander. 'You are all a little drunk. Get off home with you! I intend to be riding at dawn. It is said there is a lioness raiding the cattle and goatherds at a small village north of the city. It should be a fine hunt.'

'I shall kill the beast with my bare hands,' said Nearchos, rising and flexing his muscles. Like his father, Theoparlis, he had enormous breadth of shoulder and a barrel chest.

'If that doesn't work, you could try breathing on him,' pointed out Ptolemy. 'Put all those onions to good use.'

Nearchos leapt at the slender youngster, but tripped and fell over a small table laden with sweetmeats. As he scrambled to his feet, chasing the younger man out into the royal gardens, Philotas turned to Alexander and bowed.

'Until tomorrow, sire,' he said softly.

'It is not fitting to call me sire. I am not a King,' said Alexander, his tone mild.

'Not yet,' said Parmenion's eldest son, bowing once more before striding from the room.

At last only Craterus was left. Older than the others, almost twenty, he was a quiet, introverted man, but he seemed at ease in the ribald meetings of the Companions.

'Something troubling you?' asked Alexander.

'Your ankle is still swollen from the fall and you are limping badly. Is this the right time to hunt lions?'

Alexander clapped the taller man on the shoulder. 'It will be better by morning, and I shall strap it well. But that is not the reason you have waited to see me.'

Craterus shrugged and smiled. 'No. I am uneasy, my lord. There is a lot of talk at court about the King's marriage and the child Cleopatra carries.'

The smile left Alexander's face. 'This should not concern you. It does not concern me. My father already has six wives.'