David Gemmell - Dark Prince

twq prostitutes hailed him as he crossed the agora square, but he smiled and shook his head. 'A special price for you, handsome one,' called the younger of the two, but he spread his hands.

'No coin,' he answered and they turned from him, walking away arm in arm.

A flicker of movement came from his left and he spun with dagger in hand. There was no one there. Lightning flashed, black shadows danced from the giant pillars of the Temple of Zeus. Alexander shook his head.

Shadows. You are jumping at shadows. Slipping the dagger back into its sheath he walked on. Once he would have used his Talent to search those shadows, but ever since Parmenion had clipped the golden necklet to his throat his powers had vanished. A small price to pay for the peace he had enjoyed since the Dark God was banished from his body.

No one who had not endured his sense of solitude as a child could possibly understand the joy he had known since his return from the world of Achaea. To touch and not to kill, to embrace without fear and feel the warmth of another body against his own. So many simple pleasures. To sit, no longer alone, at the centre of a group of children, to ride, and to laugh, and to share.

Reaching up, he touched the cold gold of the necklet.

He moved on, cutting across the Street of Tanners and on to the wider Avenue of the Stallion, keeping close to the shadows and listening for sounds of pursuit.

How could it have come to this, he wondered? Slinking through the midnight streets for a secret meeting. The return from Achaea had been full of joy. Philip's good-humour had lasted for months, and even when away on his constant campaigns in Thrace or the Chalcidice the King had continued to send messages to his son at Mieza. Where had it gone wrong?

Could it have been the horse?

He remembered the day, five years before, when Parmenion had first brought Bucephalus to the King. The Festival of Artemis had been celebrated for the previous four days, and Philip was relaxed and mildly drunk when the Thessalian handler walked the huge black stallion on to the parade ground. Alexander's breath had caught in his throat. Seventeen hands high, the stallion was the most wondrous sight, powerful of shoulder and proud of eye. The King had sobered instantly. He was not lame then and he had leapt from the dais to approach the beast.

'Never,' said Philip, 'have I seen such a horse.'

'His sire was Titan,' Parmenion told him. 'I rode him only once and have never forgotten it.'

'I will give you five talents of silver for him,' the King announced.

'He is not for sale, sire, not even to you. He is a gift for Alexander.'

'This is no horse for a child. This is a war-horse.' Philip reached up to stroke the sleek black neck, his hand trembling.

'Ten talents, Parmenion. He can have another horse.'

The fifteen-year-old Alexander gazed up at the Spartan, saw his cheeks redden, his mouth tightening. 'You cannot buy another man's gift, my lord. I have several other war-horses I would be pleased to offer you.'

'I want this one!' declared the King, his voice deepening as his anger rose.

'No,' said Parmenion. The word was spoken softly, but there was no doubting the strength of feeling behind it.

Philip took a deep breath and swung to see Alexander watching him. 'If he can ride the stallion, he may have him,'

said Philip, striding back to the dais.

'Thank you, Parmenion,' whispered Alexander, moving forward to stand alongside the stallion. 'But how will I mount such a beast? I would need to carry steps.'

'Stroke his nose and blow gently into his nostril, then step back,' advised the Spartan. Alexander obeyed the instruction and was both amazed and delighted when Bucephalus knelt before him. Taking hold of the black mane, he vaulted to the horse's back. Instantly Bucephalus rose.

'Aia!' shouted Alexander, touching heels to the stallion's flanks. Bucephalus broke into a run, and the prince had never forgotten the intense exhilaration of that first ride — the incredible speed, the awesome power.

But his father's fury had lasted for days, and even when it faded an edge remained.

Alexander was not unduly troubled by it, for he knew the King was concerned with the coming war against Thebes and Athens, two enemies of fierce reputation. It was the Athenians who two hundred years before had destroyed a massive Persian army at the Battle of Marathon, and the Thebans who three decades ago had ended Spartan domination at the Battle of Leuctra. Now united against Philip, they posed the greatest threat ever faced by the Macedonian King.

Stopping at a public fountain Alexander drank a little water, taking time to cast furtive glances at the buildings around him. There was no sign of the man in the black cloak… if ever there was such a man, thought the prince with a wry smile. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, followed closely by a trident of lightning. The wind began to blow harder, but as yet there was no rain.

There had been lightning the night before Chaironeia, he remembered.

He had stood with Parmenion on the high ground overlooking the enemy camp. Almost 30,000 men: the battle-hardened warriors of the Sacred Band, Corinthian cavalry, Athenian hoplites , peltasts, javeliners.

'Does this make you sad?' whispered Alexander. 'I mean, did you not help to form the Sacred Band?'

'Yes, I did,' Parmenion answered, 'and down there will be some of the men I trained, and the sons of others I knew. It makes my heart sick. But I have chosen to serve your father and they have chosen to become his enemies.' The Spartan shrugged and walked away.

The battle had been fierce, the Sacred Band holding the Macedonian phalanxes, but at last Philip had led a successful cavalry charge against the enemy left, scattering the Corinthians and splitting the enemy force.

Alexander saw again the javelin that speared the heart of the King's horse and watched, with his mind's eye, his father being thrown to the ground. Enemy soldiers rushed towards him. Alexander had kicked Bucephalus into a run and led a wild charge to the King's aid. Philip was wounded in both arms, but Alexander had reached him in time, stretching out his hand and pulling his father up behind him. Bucephalus had carried them both to safety.

It was the last time Alexander could remember his father embracing him. .

The prince sighed. He was almost at the meeting place, and just crossing the Street of Potters, when three men appeared from the shadows. Alexander paused in his stride, eyes narrowing.

The men, all dressed in dark tunics, spread out, knives gleaming in their hands. Alexander backed away, drawing his own blade as he did so.

'We just want the necklet, young prince,' said the leader, a burly man with a silver-streaked black beard. 'We mean you no harm.'

'Then come and take it,' Alexander told him.

'Is a piece of gold worth your life?' asked another man, this one leaner and wolf-like.

'It's certainly worth more than yours,' Alexander retorted.

'Don't make us kill you!' pleaded the leader. Alexander took several steps back, then his shoulders touched the wall of the building behind him. His mouth was dry, and he knew he could not kill all three without suffering serious injury. For a moment only he was tempted to give them the necklet, then he remembered the touch of death and the terrible loneliness of his childhood. No, it would be better to die. His gaze flickered to the lean man; he would be the deadly one, swift as a striking snake. They moved in closer, coming from left, right and centre. Alexander tensed, ready to leap to his right.

'Put up the blades,' said a deep voice. The men froze, the leader turning his head to see a tall man in a black cloak standing behind them with a glittering sword in his hand.