David Gemmell - Dark Prince

Parmenion lifted Alexander and lowered him to a couch, but the boy scrambled clear and took hold of the general's hand.

'Look, Mother. I can hold Parmenion's hand. There is no pain, is there, Parmenion?'

'No pain,' he answered.

'He saved Father's life. He led the counter-charge against the Phocian cavalry. They couldn't fool you, could they, Parmenion?'

'No,' the Spartan agreed.

Two female servants helped Parmenion from his breastplate and a third brought him a goblet of wine mixed with cool water. Yet another girl entered, bearing a bowl of fruit which she placed in front of him before bowing and running from the room.

The Spartan waited until the servants had been dismissed and then raised his goblet to the Queen. 'Your beauty improves with every year,' he said.

She nodded. 'The compliment is a pretty one, my friend, but let us talk of more serious matters. Are you out of favour with Philip?'

'The King says not,' he told her.

'But that is not an answer.'

'No.'

'He is jealous of you,' said Alexander softly.

The Queen's eyes widened in surprise. 'You should not speak of matters you do not understand,' she chided. 'You are too young to know what the King thinks.' Alexander met her gaze but said nothing, and the Queen looked back at the general. 'You will not leave us, will you?'

Parmenion shook his head. 'Where would I go, lady? My family are here. I will spend the autumn at my estates; Mothac tells me there is much to do.'

'How is Phaedra? Have you seen her?' asked Olympias, keeping her voice neutral.

Parmenion shrugged. 'Not yet. She was well when last I saw her. The birth of Hector was troublesome and she was weak for a while.'

'And the other boys?'

The Spartan chuckled then. 'Philotas is always getting into trouble, but his mother spoils him, giving way in everything. Nicci is more gentle; he is only two, but he follows Philo everywhere. He adores him.'

'Phaedra is very lucky,' said Olympias. 'She must be so happy.'

Parmenion drained his watered wine and stood. 'I should be riding home,' he said.

'No! No!' cried Alexander. 'You promised to tell me of the battle.'

'A promise should always be kept,' said the Queen.

'Indeed it should,' the general agreed. 'So, young prince, ask me your questions.'

'How many Macedonian casualties were there?'

Leaning forward, Parmenion ruffled the child's golden hair. 'Your questions fly like arrows to their target, Alexander.

We lost just over three hundred men, with around two hundred badly wounded.'

'We should have more surgeons,' said the boy. 'The dead should not outnumber the wounded.'

'Most of the dead come from the early casualties,' the Spartan told him. 'They bleed to death during the battle — before the surgeons can get to them. But you are correct in that we need more skilled physicians. I will speak to your father.'

'When I am King we will not suffer such losses,' the boy promised. 'Will you be my general, Parmenion?'

'I may be a little old by then, my prince. Your father is still a young man — and a mighty warrior.'

'I will be mightier still,' promised the child.

The meeting with the Queen and her son disturbed Parmenion as he rode north towards his vast estates on the Emathian Plain. The boy, as all men knew, was possessed, and Parmenion remembered with both fear and pride the battle for the child's soul in the Valley of Hades five years before.

It was a time of miracles. Parmenion, dying of a cancer in the brain, had fallen into a coma — only to open his eyes to a world of nightmare, grey, soulless, twisted and barren. Here he had been met by the magus , Aristotle, and together with the dead sorceress Tamis had tried to save the soul of the unborn Alexander.

Conceived on the mystic isle of Samothrace, the child was intended to be the human vessel of the Dark God, Kadmilos, destined to bring chaos and terror to the world. A small victory had been won in the Valley of the Damned. The child's soul had not been destroyed by the evil, but had merged with it, Light and Dark in a constant war.

Poor Alexander, thought Parmenion. A brilliant child, beautiful and sensitive, yet host to the Spirit of Chaos.

'Will you be my general, Parmenion?'

Parmenion had longed to say, 'Yes, my prince, I will lead your armies across the world.'

But, what if the Dark God won? What if the prince of beauty became the prince of demons?

The bay gelding crested the last hill before the estate and Parmenion drew rein and sat, staring down at his home.

The white stone of the great house shone in the sunlight, the groves of cypress trees around it standing like sentries.

Away to the left lay the smaller houses of the servants and farm-workers and to the right, the stables, paddocks and pastures to house Parmenion's growing herd of war-horses.

The general shaded his eyes, scanning the grounds of the great house. There was Phaedra, sitting by the fountain with Philo and Nicci beside her, little Hector in her arms. Parmenion's heart sank. Swinging his horse to the east he rode down onto the plain, skirting the great house and angling towards the stable buildings.

Mothac sat in the hay stroking the mare's long neck, whispering words of comfort. She grunted and struggled to stand. Mothac rose with her.

'No movement yet,' said his assistant, Croni, a wiry Thessalian who stood at the rear waiting to assist the birth of the foal.

'Good girl,' Mothac whispered to the mare. 'You'll do right. This is not the first, eh, Larina? Three fine stallions you have borne.' Stroking the mare's face and neck, he ran his hands along her back and moved alongside the Thessalian.

The mare had been in labour now for several hours and was weary to the point of exhaustion. The old Theban knew it was unusual for a birth to be so delayed. Most mares foaled swiftly with few problems.

Always in the past Larina had delivered with speed, her foals strong. But this time they had covered her with the Thracian stallion, Titan, a huge beast of more than seventeen hands.

The mare grunted once more and lay down. Pushing Croni aside, Mothac gently eased his hand inside her, his fingers feeling for the water-sac.

'Be careful, master,' whispered the Thessalian. Mothac grunted and swore at the man, who chuckled and shook his head.

'Yes! It's coming. I can feel the feet.'

'Front or back?' asked Croni nervously. A breech birth, both men knew, would likely see the foal born dead.

'I can't tell. But it's moving. Wait! I can feel the head. By Zeus, it's big.' Easing his hand back Mothac stood and stretched. For the last two years his spine had been steadily stiffening, his shoulders becoming arthritic and painful.

'Fetch some grease, Croni. I fear the foal is tearing her apart.'

The Thessalian ran back to the main house, reappearing minutes later with a tub of animal fat, mostly used for the painting of hooves, to prevent sand-cracks and splitting. Mothac took the tub and smelt it.

'This is no good,' he grunted. 'It's almost rancid. Get some olive oil — and be quick about it!'

'Yes, master.'

He returned with a large jug in which Mothac dipped his hands, smearing the oil inside the mare, around the head and hooves of the foal. The mare strained once more and the foetal sac moved closer.

'That's it, Larina, my pet,' said Mothac. 'A little more now.'

The two men waited beside the mare for some time before the sac appeared, pale and semi-translucent. The foal's front legs could just be seen within the membrane.

'Shall I help her, master?' Croni asked.

'Not yet. Give her time; she's an old hand at this by now.'

The mare grunted and the sac moved further into view — then stopped. Bright blood spouted over the membrane, dripping to the hay. The mare was sweating freely now, and in some distress as Mothac moved to the rear and gently took hold of the foal's front legs, easing them towards him. At any time now the membranes would burst, and it was vital the foal's head should be clear, otherwise it would suffocate. Mothac pulled gently while the Thessalian moved to the mare's head, talking to her, his voice low, coaxing and soft.