David Gemmell - Dark Prince

'Not like this one.'

'Do not take this any further, Craterus,' warned the prince. 'There are some things that should not be said.'

'Very well. As always I shall obey you. But know this — if you need me I will be beside you.'

'All the royal pages give oaths to serve the King. The King is Philip,' Alexander pointed out.

'That is as maybe. But I serve Alexander.'

The prince moved close to his friend, looking up into the man's deep-set dark eyes. 'It is comments like that which lead to the death of princes. You understand me? I will never lead a rebellion against Philip. Never! If I wished him dead I would have let him be slain at Chaironeia, when his horse was killed under him. Now say no more of this.

There is nothing to fear, Craterus. Nothing.'

The Companion bowed and departed, pulling shut the door behind him. Alexander wandered back to the centre of the room, lifting his wine-cup and sipping the contents. He had made the one cup last all evening, disliking the effect of alcohol on his system.

'You should listen to him, my son,' said Olympias, moving into the room from the shadows of the outer corridor.

'It is normally considered courteous, Mother, to announce your presence.'

'Are you angry with me?'

He shook his head and smiled. Stepping in close Olympias kissed his cheek. Her red-gold hair was touched with silver now, but her face was still youthful and her body slender. 'Why is everyone seeing danger in the shadows?'

asked Alexander. 'It is only a wedding.'

'She is the ward of Attalus. . and Attalus hates you.'

'He risked his life to save me once. I shall not forget that.'

'That was thenV she said, her eyes flashing. 'Now he poisons Philip's mind against you. Why can you not see it?'

'I choose not to. Philip built this realm from nothing. Beset on all sides, he alone made Macedonia feared and respected. What have I done? I took an army into the north and subdued the Triballians. How does that1 compare with the King who conquered Thrace, Illyria, the Chalcidice, Thessaly, Paionia — and crushed the combined armies of Athens and Thebes?' He laughed and gently took hold of his mother's shoulders. 'Do you understand what I am saying? He owes me nothing. If he chooses to make his new son the heir, what right have I to oppose him?'

'Right?' she stormed, pulling away from him. 'You are the heir — the first-born son. It is your destiny to rule. But think on this, Alexander: if you are dispossessed there will be those who will seek your death. You will not be fighting for a crown alone, but for your life.'

'No,' he told her. 'Philip would never order my death — any more than I would countenance killing him. But all this talk is dangerous. The words fall like sparks on dry grass and I will not have them spoken around me.'

'You are altogether too trusting,' she told him. 'But there is someone coming to Pella who may be able to convince you.'

'Who?'

'The Lady of Samothrace. Her name is Aida and she is a seeress of great power. She can tell you of your destiny.'

Alexander said nothing, but he turned away from his mother and strode towards the door. 'You will see her?' called Olympias.

'No, I will not,' answered Alexander, his voice cold. 'Can none of you see what you are doing? When Philotas calls me sire, when Craterus says he puts me above my father, when you seek to turn me against Philip — you are all only increasing any danger there might be. You keep this Aida away from me.'

'But it is all for you — because we care!' Olympias shouted. Alexander did not reply, but walked out into the moonlit gardens and away from the palace.

The grass was growing crimson, dripping blood to the parched earth beneath it. The sky was the colour of ash, grey and lifeless. Not a bird flew, no breath of wind disturbed the plain. Philip knelt and touched his hand to the crimson stems and blood smeared across his skin. He rose, trembling, noticing for the first time the bodies that lay all about him. Thousands upon thousands of corpses, the grass growing around them, from them, through them. He shuddered. A man was lying on his back with weeds growing from beneath his eyelids.

'What is this place?' shouted Philip. The sound died even as it left his lips.

'You are not comfortable here?'

He spun on his heel, sword snaking into his hand. Before him, dressed in armour of black and gold, stood Philippos, the Demon King.

'You are dead!' screamed Philip, backing away.

'Yes,' the Makedones King agreed.

'Get away from me!'

'Is that any way to treat a brother?' asked Philippos, drawing his own sword and advancing. Philip leapt to meet him, their blades clashing together, and his sword slashed across his opponent's neck to open a jagged wound that spouted blood. Philippos was hurled to the right, twisting to fall face-down on the ground. Slowly he rose to his knees with his back to his enemy. Philip waited. The Demon King stood and slowly turned. Philip cried out. Gone was the bearded face that mirrored his own. Now Philippos had golden hair, sea-green eyes and a face of surpassing beauty.

'Alexander?'

'Yes, Father, Alexander,' said the Demon King, smiling and advancing with sword extended.

'Do not make me kill you! Please!'

'You could not kill me, Father. No. But I shall slay you.'

Dark horns sprouted from Alexander's temples, circling back over his ears. His eyes changed colour from sea-green to yellow, the pupils slitted. Philip gripped his sword and waited as the demon before him moved slowly to the attack; he tried a swift lunge to the throat, but his arm was heavy, his movements slow, and he watched in sick horror as Alexander's sword parried his own and rose up gleaming and sharp, the blade slicing into his throat and up through his mouth, stabbing into his brain like a tongue of fire. .

Philip awoke and cried out. The woman beside him stirred but did not wake as the King sat up. His head was pounding, his body drenched in sweat. The old wound in his leg throbbed painfully, but he pushed himself from the bed and limped across to the nearest couch. The wine pitcher upon the small table was empty. Philip cursed and slumped down upon the couch, holding the pitcher in his lap.

The dream was always the same. He could never defeat Alexander.

'I should have killed him at birth,' he thought. A cold breeze whispered across the room and Philip shivered and returned to his bed. Beside him Cleopatra slept on. Tenderly he stroked her hair. So beautiful, so young. His hand moved down to rest upon her belly — still flat and taut, despite the three months of the pregnancy. In her was a son.

Not demon-possessed, not born of darkness and sorcery, but a true son — one who would grow to love his father, not plan his murder.

How could you do this to me, Alexander? I loved you. I would have risked anything for you.

At first Philip had ignored the reports that Attalus drew to his attention — the fawning remarks of Alexander's Companions, the criticisms levelled at the King and his generals. But as the months passed Philip became more and more convinced that Alexander would not be content until he sat upon the throne.

The Triballian campaign showed that. Does he think I am a fool? Oh yes, he crushed the enemy, forcing them to pay tribute. But in whose name did he demand it? Not for Philip. Not for Macedon. No, in the name of Alexander.

Arrogant whelp! Of course you beat the Triballians, for you had my army behind you. My army!

But is it mine? How they cheered the golden prince at Chaironeia, carrying him shoulder-high around the camp. And after the Triballian victory, when he awarded every warrior ten gold pieces, they gave him the salute of kings, swords beating against shields.