David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

It lifted his mood and he returned to his rooms. A servant came to collect the platter. He was a kindly old man named Hermon, white-bearded, with keen blue eyes under shaggy brows.

'You are feeling better, I hope, young lord?"

'Yes, thank you.'

'That is good, sir. Would you like some sweet honey-cakes? They are freshly made.'

'No, Hermon. I think I will sleep now. Goodnight to you.'

Philip's dreams were troubled and twice he awoke in the night. The dogs were howling at the moon, and a whistling wind was shaking the shutters. Finally the howling began to annoy him and he threw a cloak around his shoulders and strode down to the gardens. His room was the worst in the palace: close to the kennels and facing north, enjoying no sunshine, but prey to the bitter north winds of winter. The gardens were cold, the blooms colourless and ethereal under the moonlight. Philip found Beria sitting by the wall, her howls high and heart-rending. Around her lay the bodies of her six pups, black and lifeless. Philip knelt by them; the ground was stained with their vomit.

Taking Beria by the collar he pulled her away from the tiny corpses, then knelt hugging her great black head to his breast, stroking her ears. She whined piteously and pulled to return to her babies.

'They've gone, my lovely,' he told her. 'You come with me; we'll stay together, you and I.'

The mastiff followed him up the stairs, but padded to the window, howling once more. Philip tugged her collar and let her stretch out on the bed. Then he lay beside her with his arm around her, and she slept with her head resting on his breast.

As he lay there restless, he remembered the scraps of food he had fed to the puppies.

And thought of kindly old Hermon with the pale blue eyes…

Philip lay awake through the night, his anger overwhelming his fear. Poison was not a new way of eliminating enemies, but why not use the age-old method? The assassin's blade- it was swift and sure. The answer came easily; Ptolemaos was not popular with the army, having been defeated by both Bardylis in the west and Cotys, the King of Thrace, in the east. His only success had come against the weak Paionians of the north.

As with all Kings, Philip knew, Ptolemaos ruled by consent. The rich Macedonian nobles desired a man who could increase their fortunes; they wanted a King who could bring them glory. What else was there in life for a warrior people? And now they were no longer prepared to tolerate the seemingly endless — and obvious — murders of potential rivals. Ptolemaos was attempting to tread carefully.

Philip suddenly thought of Perdiccas. Of course! He too was being slowly poisoned.

But what to do? Who to trust? The answer to the second question was easier than the first. Trust no one. Rising from his bed he crept across the room, anxious not to awaken the mastiff. Out in the corridor he moved silently through the palace, down the narrow stairway to the kitchens; there were meats there, and fruit, and he ate his fill. Then he filled a small sack with provisions and carefully made his way to the room of Perdiccas. His brother was asleep and he woke him, gently pressing a hand to the young man's shoulder.

'What is it?' asked Perdiccas.

'I have brought you some food.'

'I am not hungry, brother. Let me sleep.'

'Listen to me!' hissed Philip. 'You are being poisoned!'

Perdiccas blinked and Philip told him of the dead pups. 'Anything could have killed them,' said Perdiccas wearily. 'It happens all the time.'

'You may be right,' whispered Philip. 'But if you are, you will lose nothing by playing my game.

If you are not, then your life will be saved.'

He helped Perdiccas to sit up and waited as his brother slowly ate a little beef and cheese.

'Fetch me some water,' asked Perdiccas. Philip filled a cup from a pitcher on the nearby table.

then stopped. Walking to the window, he emptied both cup and pitcher.

'We can trust nothing we do not fetch ourselves,' he said.

Once more he left the room, filling the pitcher from a barrel in the kitchen.

'No one must know we suspect them,' said Philip upon his return. 'They must think we are eating the food they give us.'

Perdiccas nodded. His head fell back to the pillow and he slept.

For four days Philip continued his nightly visits to his brother, and slowly the colour returned to Perdiccas' features. On the morning of the fifth day Hermon arrived at Philip's rooms, bearing a tray of cheese and figs and a fresh pitcher of water.

'How did you sleep, my lord?' he asked, his smile kindly.

'Not well, my friend,' Philip told him, keeping his voice low and tired. 'I cannot seem to recover from this vomiting. And my strength is not good. Should I see a doctor?'

'That is not necessary, lord,' said Hermon. 'These. . minor stomach ailments occur in autumn.

You will recover soon.'

'Thank you. You are very kind to me. Will you join me for breakfast? There is too much there for me.'

Hermon spread his hands. 'Would that I could, lord, but my duties are not yet completed. Enjoy your meal. I would advise you to force yourself to eat — only in this way will you rebuild your strength.'

When he had gone Philip put on a long blue cloak and, carrying the pitcher hidden within its folds, walked swiftly to the servants' halls and the rooms of Hermon. He knew the old man would be with Perdiccas and he entered his quarters. A fresh pitcher of water stood by the window. Leaning out over the sill, the youngster saw the gardens below were deserted and emptied Hermon's pitcher, refilling it from his own.

On the following morning a different servant brought the prince's breakfast. 'Where is my friend, Hermon?' Philip asked.

'He is unwell, sir,' said the man, bowing.

'I am sorry to hear that. Please tell him I hope he recovers soon.'

That afternoon Perdiccas rose from his bed. His legs were weak, but his strength was returning.

'What are we to do?' he asked his younger brother.

'This cannot go on,' Philip said softly. 'They will soon realize we are no longer taking the poison. Then, I fear, it will be the knife or the sword.'

'You mentioned running away,' offered Perdiccas. 'I think I am nearly strong enough to join you.

We could head for Amphipolis.'

'Thebes would be better,' said Philip. 'I have friends there. But we cannot wait too long -

another three days at most. Until then you must stay in your bed and tell any who ask that you are feeling weaker. And we will need coin, and horses.'

'I have no money,' said Perdiccas.

'I will think on it,' Philip promised.

Hermon knelt before the three men, glancing up nervously into the hawklike eyes of Ptolemaos.

'They must be very strong to withstand the powders, sire, but I will increase the doses. The older one will be dead in three days, I promise you.'

Ptolemaos turned to Attalus. 'I should have listened to you,' he said, his voice deep and sepulchral.

'It is not too late, sire,' replied Attalus. 'Perdiccas is weak. I could smother him in his sleep.

No one would be the wiser.'

'And Philip?'

Attalus hesitated.

'I'd like to kill him,' said Archelaos suddenly. 'It would give me pleasure.'

His father laughed. 'I do not know what it is about the boy that you detest. He is personable enough. But — let it be so. You kill him — but not tonight. Let Perdiccas die first. Philip can wait a week or so.' He swung to Attalus. 'You say that no one will suspect if the boys are smothered? Is there no sign?'

'None, sire.'

Ptolemaos gestured to his son, then whispered in his ear. The tall prince nodded and made as if to leave the room. Then suddenly he sprang upon Hermon, pinning his arms behind him.