David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

'You should sleep in the carriage. You will be warmer.'

'I want to see the stars,' answered Olympias. 'I want to watch the Huntress.'

Olympias lay down, her mind lazily drifting back to Samothrace and the Night of the Mysteries. The women, scores of them, had danced in the grove — drinking, laughing, chewing the sacred herbs that brought visions, bright colourful dreams. The torch-lit procession then filed to the palace, and Olympias remembered them carrying her to Philip's bed.

She had waited, her mind spinning, the colours super-naturally bright… red hangings, yellow silks, golden cups.

And he had come to her — his face, as ritual demanded, hidden by the Helm of Chaos. She had felt the metal against her cheek, felt his body cover her like a fire-warmed cloak.

Wrapped in her blankets, the new Queen of Macedonia slept beneath the stars.

Parmenion lay awake staring at the same stars, recalling the same night. His sense of shame was strong, painful almost. There were many deeds in his life which had left him with sorrow, others which had caused scars to both body and spirit. But shame was new to the Spartan.

The night had been like this one, stars like gems on sable, the air clean and fresh. Philip was drunk as he waited for his bride; he had collapsed on a couch just as the women brought his new wife to his bedchamber.

Parmenion had glanced through a gap in the curtains to see Olympias, naked, her body glistening, waiting. . waiting.

He tried to tell himself that it was vital that the wedding was consummated on this night, reminded himself that Philip had told him exactly that.

'/// do not perform within the Sacred Hour the wedding will be cancelled. Can you believe that, Parmenion?'

But that was not why the Spartan had donned the ancient helm. He had looked upon the naked woman -

and he had wanted her, as he had desired no one since his love had been stolen from him a quarter of a century before. He had made love to her and, when she slept, he went to Philip, dressing the unconscious King in the helm and cloak and carrying him to her bed.

You betrayed the King you swore to serve. How will you redeem yourself?

The night was chill and Parmenion rose. Wrapping his black woollen cloak tightly round his shoulders, he strolled out to where the sentries kept watch.

'I'm awake, sir,' said the first man. In the darkness Parmenion did not recognize him.

'I did not doubt it,' the general told him. 'You are a soldier of Macedon.' He wandered from the woods and down to the banks of the Haliacmon. The water was dark as the Styx, but glimmering in the starlight. He sat on a boulder and thought of Derae.

Five days of love — fierce, passionate love. Then they had taken her from him, carrying her to the shores of Asia where they hurled her into the sea to drown, her hands tied behind her. A sacrifice to the gods, for the protection of Sparta.

And how Sparta had needed protection! Parmenion remembered the battle at Leuctra where his strategic genius had seen the fall of the Spartan army, the crushing of Sparta's dreams.

'You are Parmenion, the Death of Nations,' the old seeress had told him. How right she was. Last year he had led the Macedonians against the Illyrian King, Bardylis, devastating his army. The old King had died within seven months of the defeat, his country in ruins.

Looking up at the stars, Parmenion pictured Derae's face, her flame-gold hair, her green eyes.

'What am I without you?' he whispered.

'Talking to yourself, general?' said a voice from close by. A young soldier moved from the shadows of the river-bank.

'It happens when a man gets old,' Parmenion told him. The moon emerged from behind the clouds and the Spartan recognized Cleiton, a young soldier from eastern Macedonia who had joined the army the previous autumn.

'It is a quiet night, sir,' said Cleiton. 'Were you praying?'

'After a fashion. I was thinking about a girl I used to know.'

'Was she beautiful?' asked the young man, laying his spear against a rock and sitting opposite the general.

'She was very beautiful. . But she died. Are you married?'

'Yes, sir. I have a wife and two sons in Crousia. They are moving to Pella as soon as I can afford to rent a house.'

'That may be some time.'

'Oh, I don't think so, sir. There'll be another war soon. With fighting wages, I should see Lacia again within six months.'

'You want a war then?' Parmenion asked.

'Of course, sir. It is our time. The Illyrians are destroyed, the Paionians also. Soon it will be to the east in Thrace, or south against Pherai. Or maybe Olynthus. Philip is a warrior King. He will see the army is looked after.'

'I expect that he will,' agreed Parmenion, rising. 'And I hope you get your house.'

'Thank you, sir. Good night.'

'Good night, Cleiton.' The general returned to his blankets, but his sleep was haunted by dreams.

Derae was running on a green hillside, her eyes wide with fear. He tried to go to her, to explain that all was well, but as he approached she screamed and sped away. He could not catch her and stopped by a stream where he gazed down at his reflection. Pale eyes in the bronze mask of Chaos stared back-at him. Pulling the helm from his head, he called out to her.

'Stop! It is I, Parmenion.'

But she did not hear him, and vanished from sight.

He awoke with a start and sat up. His back was aching and a slow, painful pounding hammered within his skull. 'You fool,' he told himself, 'you forgot your sylphium.' There was water heating on a fire. Dipping a cup into the pot he almost scalded his fingers. Then adding his dried herbs to the liquid, he stirred it with his dagger, waited for it to cool and then drained the infusion. Almost at once the pain departed.

Bernios approached. 'You look dreadful, my friend,' said the surgeon. 'Do you ever sleep?'

'When I need it.'

'Well, you need it now. You are not a young man any more. Your body needs rest.'

'I am forty-three years old,' Parmenion snapped. 'That is hardly ancient. And I can still run twenty miles, should I so choose.'

'I did not say you were decrepit, I merely pointed out that you are no longer young. You are very sharp this morning — that also is a sign of age.'

'My back aches — and do not tell me it is because I am old. There is an iron spear-point lodged under my shoulder-blade. But what of you? Why do you not sleep?'

'Another man died in the night. I sat with him,' said Bernios. 'No one should die alone. He was stabbed through the belly; there is no worse pain than that. But he didn't complain — save at the end.'

'Who was he?'

'I did not ask — and don't lecture me about it. I know the importance you place on such details, but I cannot remember all the faces.'

'What did you give him?'

'The gift of poppies,' answered Bernios. 'A lethal dose.'

'That is against the law. I wish you would not tell me these things.'

'Then don't damn well ask!' responded the surgeon. He was instantly contrite. 'I am sorry, Parmenion; I also am weary. But you are beginning to worry me. You have been tense now for days.

Is something troubling you?'

'It is nothing of importance.'

'Nonsense. You are too intelligent to concern yourself over trifles. Do you want to talk of it?'

'No.'

'You are ashamed of it?'

'Yes,' admitted the Spartan.

'Then keep it to yourself. It is often said that confession is a healing process. Do not believe that, Parmenion; it is the mother of all pain. How many know of your. . shame?'

'None — save myself.'

'Then it did not happen.'

'It would be pleasant were life that simple,' said Parmenion.

'Why complicate it? You expect too much of yourself, my friend. I have some bad news for you: you are not perfect. Now get some rest.'