David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

He bowed. 'Good morning,' he said. 'I am here to accompany you home, Philip.'

'Do you bring letters?' he asked, proud that his voice did not betray his terror.

'Yes, sir. I have one from your brother Perdiccas.'

'He is well?'

'He is alive, sir, though he has suffered a fever from which he is now recovering. My name is At talus. I hope we can be friends.'

Philip nodded. 'Lifelong friends, I do not doubt,' he said, his dark eyes holding to the pale snake-like gaze of the warrior. The man blinked and Philip smiled. 'Do not concern yourself, Attalus. I do not judge you.'

'I am not here to kill you, sir,' the warrior told him. 'My orders are explicit: I am to take you to the capital. Nothing more.'

'Then let us walk for a while,' said Philip suddenly, striding past the astonished Attalus. The two of them wandered out into the streets, easing their way through the crowds that gathered on the thoroughfares, and on to the agora where Epaminondas was scheduled to speak. The general had been delayed by the throng, but the people were unconcerned. They sang, and danced, and drank; the strength of their happiness was almost as intoxicating as the wine. Philip felt better out here in the open, but glancing at Attalus he saw that the same could not be said of the tall warrior.

Philip took his arm and led him into a deserted side-street. Once there, he drew his dagger and held the point to his own breast.

'What are you doing?' asked Attalus.

Philip took the other's hand and held it to the hilt. 'If you have to kill me, you can do it here.

No one will see you, and you could say that I was slain by a Theban. It would make it so much more simple for you.'

'Listen!' hissed Attalus. 'I am the King's man. I do as he bids. Had he told me to kill you, then I would do it. But you are to return with me to Pella. How can I convince you?'

'You just did,' Philip told him, returning the dagger to its sheath. His heart was beating wildly and he grinned. 'These are dangerous days, Attalus.'

'They are certainly strange,' agreed the young man, with a tight smile. His teeth were too prominent, like marker stones, thought Philip. And he has the eyes of a killer. Remembering Parmenion's advice, he took the warrior by the arm and smiled warmly. 'I like you,' he said. 'So, if Ptolemaos ever decides to have me killed — request that he sends someone else. No man should be slain by a man he likes.'

'I'll try to remember that.'

The journey back to Pella was slow, and surprisingly pleasant as they rode along the line of the Pindos mountains, angling north-east to the city at Aigai. Attalus proved an interesting if unamusing companion, and Philip found himself admiring the man's single-minded ambition. As they rode he learned of events in the kingdom. The Paionians had raided from the north, but Ptolemaos had smashed their army, forcing their King to agree a yearly tribute of 200 talents. Macedonian joy was shortlived, however, as the Illyrian army of King Bardylis had defeated Ptolemaos two months later at a battle near the Prespa Lakes in the west. For this defeat Ptolemaos had agreed to pay Bardylis a yearly tribute of 250 talents.

'There are too many wolves seeking their meat in too small a sheep-pen,' said Attalus, and Philip nodded. It was not that northern Greece was truly small, but with Illyria, Macedonia, Paionia and Thrace all boasting armies, and countless independent cities like Olynthus and Amphipolis employing large mercenary forces, no one King could take control of the area.

Crosi used to say that Northern Greece was a mercenary's paradise. Never short of employment, he could grow rich on the proceeds of blood and violence and then buy himself a quiet farm in the more civilized south.

Everywhere that Philip and Attalus rode, there were signs of the frontier nature of the north.

Towns were walled, settlements stockaded, single farms or lonely houses unheard of. People gathered together, never knowing when an enemy would descend upon them with hot hearts and cold iron.

'It is a land for men,' said Attalus as they journeyed high in the Pierian mountains, their cloaks drawn tightly around them against the bitterness of the north winds of autumn.

'Men need wives and children,' said Philip. 'Children need education. Farmers need to be able to farm in peace. Macedonia is a rich land, with the finest timber in all of Greece. The land should yield tremendous riches. Yet it does not. For men must needs become warriors, and forget the earth and its treasures. There should be a more profitable way.'

'Perhaps one day you will be King,' said Attalus softly. 'A great King, maybe. Then you could conquer the Illyrians and the Thracians, and see your dream fulfilled.'

'I have no wish to be King,' said Philip. He smiled suddenly. 'And remember to report that to Ptolemaos!'

Pella was a growing city. Philip's father, Amyntas, had borrowed heavily in order to bring architects from the south, planning avenues and temples and enlarging the palace. The richer Macedonian nobles were also encouraged to move to the capital, building homes in the hills and bringing with them servants who needed cheaper housing. This influx of new residents brought with it merchants and tradesmen, and the city flourished.

Philip stood at the window of his palace bedchamber staring out over the market-place beyond the high walls of the gardens. He could hear the stallholders shouting out prices, enticing custom, and wished he could walk from the forbidding palace and mingle with the crowds.

But it was not to be. Ptolemaos made it clear that he did not wish his young nephews to venture far from his sight, claiming that he was worried for their safety. This surprised Philip, since he did not seem quite as concerned for his own son, Archelaos, who was allowed to ride and hunt and go whoring whenever the mood took him. Philip had no liking for Archelaos and — despite Parmenion's advice — could not bring himself to attempt to win over the boorish young man.

Archelaos was a younger version of his father: the same hook of a nose, the same cruel mouth and jutting chin.

Philip found it hard enough being pleasant towards his murderous uncle without having to abase himself before the heir to the throne. He said as much to his brother Perdiccas, as the older youth lay in his sick-bed.

'There would be little point in trying to win him over,' whispered Perdiccas, the effort of speaking sapping his strength. 'Archelaos is a pig; he would take any overture as a sign of weakness and do his best to exploit it. I hate the man. Do you know what he said to me last spring? He said that even if Ptolemaos lets me live, the first order he will give upon his own coronation will be for my death.'

'We could flee the country,' said Philip. 'You are nearly seventeen. You could become a mercenary and I could be your servant. We could gather an army and come back.'

'Dream on, little brother. I cannot shake off this fever. I feel weak as a two-day colt.' He began to cough and Philip brought him a wine cup filled with water. Perdiccas raised himself on one elbow and drank. Unlike his dark, almost swarthy brother, Perdiccas was golden-haired and, before his illness, men had marvelled at his beauty. But now his skin was stretched and tight, the colour pale and unhealthy. His eyes were red-rimmed and dull, his lips the blue of the consumptive.

Philip looked away. Perdiccas was dying.

Philip sat for some time with his brother, then he wandered back to his own rooms. Food had been left for him on silver platters, but he was not hungry. He had felt sick that morning, and had vomited painfully for an hour until at last only yellow bile came away. Now he drank a little water and lay back on his couch. Barking from the garden awoke him and he remembered that the hound, Beria, had recently produced a litter. Sitting up, he wrapped the cold meat of his supper inside a linen towel and carried it to the gardens, where he sat for some time playing with the black puppies and feeding them scraps of food. They clambered over him, licking and mock-biting.