David Gemmell: Lion of Macedon

'Enough!' stormed Parmenion, leaping between the two men. 'What nonsense is this? Mothac, leave us!' The Theban made as if to speak, then spun on his heel and stalked from the room. 'I am sorry, sire,' the Spartan told the King. 'He is not himself. I cannot believe he would act in that manner.'

'I'll see him dead,' snarled Philip.

'Calm yourself, sire. Here, let me pour your wine. Sit for a while.'

'Do not seek to soothe me, Parmenion,' muttered Philip, but he sank back to the couch, accepting the silver cup. 'I've had my fill of people today.'

'A problem between you and the Queen?' asked Parmenion, seeking to change the subject.

'She is inside my mind. When I look at the sky, her face is there. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep.

She has bewitched me. Now she wants to hear all my plans. I'll not have it!'

Parmenion kept his expression even. 'She is very young, Philip. But she is the daughter of a King; she has been well trained, and has a fine mind.'

'It is not her mind that interests me. I am surrounded by men with fine minds. A woman should have a fine body and a sweet temperament. Do you know that she raised her voice to me? Argued with me!

Can you believe that?'

'In Sparta women are encouraged to speak their minds. In all matters — save war — they are considered the equal of men.'

'You think I should explain myself? Never! This is not Sparta. This is a man's kingdom, ruled by men, for men.'

'The kingdom,' said Parmenion softly, 'is yours. It will be ruled as you say.'

'And never forget that!'

'Why would I forget?'

'Will you discipline your servant?'

'No, sire — for he is not a servant. But I apologize on his behalf. Mothac is a lonely man, a man of sorrows and sudden tempers. He has never taken well to being treated with scorn.'

'You take his part? Against me?

'I will take no man's part against you, Philip. But listen to me; you came in here full of anger.

And, in anger, you treated him like a slave. He reacted. True, he reacted in a manner unworthy of him, but still it was a reaction. Mothac is loyal, trustworthy and the finest of friends.'

'You do not need to speak for me,' said Mothac, from the doorway. He walked across to Philip and knelt. 'I ask your pardon. . sir. It was ill-mannered of me. And I am sorry to have brought such shame to the house of my friend.'

Philip looked down at the kneeling man, his anger still great. But he forced a laugh. 'Maybe it was as well.' Standing, he raised Mothac to his feet. 'Sometimes, my friend, a crown can make a man too arrogant, too swift to react in the name of pride. Tonight is a lesson learned well. Now.

. let me pour.you a cup of wine. And then I shall bid you good night.'

Philip filled a cup, passing it to the astonished Theban.

Then he bowed and left the house. Parmenion watched him walk away in the moonlight, flanked by his guards.

'He is a great man,' said Mothac, 'but I do not like him.'

Parmenion pushed shut the door and looked into his friend's eyes. 'Most Kings would have had you killed, Mothac. At best they would have seen you whipped or banished.'

'Oh, he is clever all right,' the Theban responded. 'He values you and your talents. And he has the strength to overcome his baser desires. But what is he, Parmenion? What does he want?

Macedonia is strong — no one can doubt that. Yet still the army grows, the recruiting officers moving from village to village.' Mothac sipped his wine, then drained it in a single gulp. Sinking back to the couch, he pointed at the maps spread on the wide table. 'You asked me to co-ordinate information from lands surrounding Macedonia. We now have a constant stream of news from merchants, soldiers, travellers, wandering actors, builders and poets. Do you know what is happening in Upper Macedonia?'

'Of course,' answered Parmenion. 'Philip is building a line of fortress towns against any future Illyrian invasion.'

'True. But he is also forcibly expelling any of Illyrian blood from lands they have held for centuries. Vast tracts of timberland, valleys and pastures — all stolen from their owners. Some of the men expelled are former soldiers in the Macedonian army.'

Parmenion shrugged. 'For centuries the Illyrians have been blood enemies of Macedon. Philip is trying to end the threat — once and for all.'

'Oh, yes!' snorted Mothac. 'I can see that, I am not a complete dullard. But who acquires these lands? It is the King, or Attalus. Last month three Pelagonian timber merchants were stripped of their wealth, their lands, their houses. They appealed to the King; but before the appeal could be heard they were mysteriously slain — along with their families.'

'That's enough, Mothac!'

'Indeed it is,' replied the Theban. 'So, I ask again, what does he want?'

'I cannot answer you; I do not believe Philip himself could answer you. But think on it, my friend. An army needs to be fed. The soldiers require payment. Philip's treasuries are not over full; therefore he must give his soldiers victories and plunder. But there is sense to it. A nation is strong only while it is growing. After that the decay begins. Why does this disturb you?

You saw Sparta and Athens struggling for supremacy, you watched as Thebes battled to rule Greece.

What difference now?'

'None whatever,' Mothac agreed, 'save that I am older, and I hope wiser. This is a land of great riches. If fanned with care, Macedonia could feed all of Greece. But now the farmers are being lured to Pella for fighting wages, and war-horses are being bred before cattle and sheep. All I see ahead is war and death. Not because the realm is in danger — merely to satisfy the glory quest of a barbarian King. You do not need to tell me what he desires. He will attempt to conquer Greece. I will see Thebes once more besieged. He will make slaves of us all.'

The Theban put down his wine cup and pushed himself wearily to his feet.

'He is not as dark as you believe,' countered Parmenion.

Mothac smiled. 'Try not to see him as a reflection of yourself, Parmenion. You are a good man, but you are his sword-blade. Good night, my friend. Tomorrow we shall speak of more pleasant things.'

Leaden clouds hung like a pall of smoke over Pella, distant thunder rumbling angrily in the sky as Olympias carefully made her way to the seat beneath the corner oak in the southern garden. She moved slowly, right hand supporting her belly, often stopping to stretch her back.

Her days with Philip were unsettling, alternating between the comfort of touching and sharing and the agonies of stormy rows when his face would redden and his green eyes blaze with anger.

Were I still slim I would win him over, she told herself. And I will be slender again. It was irksome that her graceful walk had become more of a waddle and that she could no longer embrace her husband, moving in close, arousing him. For in the ability to arouse lay power. Without it Olympias felt lost, insecure.

There were cushions on the long seat beneath the oak, and she stretched herself out, feeling the relief from the deep ache at the base of her spine. Every morning for months, it seemed, she had vomited — every night her stomach heaving, leaving her mouth tasting of bile.

But these last few days had been the worst. Her dreams were troubled and she could hear her baby crying,as if from a great distance. And, with the dawn, she would awake believing him dead in her belly.

She had tried to seek comfort in the company of Phaedra, but her friend was often missing from the palace — spending hours, days it seemed, in the company of Parmenion. It perplexed Olympias, knowing how strongly her companion loathed the touch of Man.

The rain began, gentle at first, then stronger, splashing to the stone pathway and bending the blooms of the garden. Here beneath the towering oak Olympias felt safe; the branches above her were thick and shielding, almost impenetrable.