Lion of Macedon by David Gemmell
‘Come on!’ he roared at the lion. ‘Come and die with me!’
Suddenly the beast twisted - as if in pain - the charge faltering. Its huge head lifted and a terrifying roar rent the air... And the monster halted, inches ahead of the iron spear-point.
Philip could smell the beast’s rancid breath and found himself staring at the fangs, long and curved like Persian daggers. He looked up into the beast’s tawny eyes.
Time ceased, the moment lingering.
Philip slowly stood and then reached out, touching the spear-point to the lion’s mane. The beast blinked but did not move. Philip sensed Nicanor behind him, drawing an arrow from his quiver.
‘Let no one loose a shaft,’ said the prince, his voice soft and low.
The lion moved forward, its pelt rubbing against Philip’s leg; then it turned and ambled away into the rocks.
Attalus ran to the prince. ‘I never saw anything like it,’ he whispered.
Philip shivered. ‘Nor I.’
‘Do we give chase?’
‘I do not think so, my friend. And I have lost all appetite for the hunt.’ He glanced back to where the lion had been.
‘Was it an omen of some kind? Was it really a lion?’ Attalus asked.
‘If it was a god, he had appalling breath,’ answered Philip, glancing nervously at the distant peaks of Mount Olympus.
The huntsmen took a leisurely route back to Philip’s summer home twenty miles south of the city of Aigai. They were almost there when the rider came galloping from the north and rode alongside Philip. His horse was lathered and close to exhaustion.
‘The King is dead,’ he said, ‘the army destroyed.’
‘Perdiccas dead? I do not believe it,’ cried Attalus. The rider ignored him and looked to Philip.
‘The King advanced on the Illyrians, but our centre gave way. Perdiccas tried to counter-charge, but the enemy were expecting it. The cavalry were cut to pieces, the King’s head placed on a lance. We lost over 4,000 men.’
Philip had never been close to his brother, but neither were they enemies. The younger man had admired the King for his prowess as statesman and warrior. What now, he wondered? The King’s son was only two years old and the army -whatever was left of it - would never agree to a babe being crowned, not with the nation under threat. He rode away from the men and dismounted; sitting on a boulder, he stared out to sea. He had never wanted to be King, had never desired anything more from life than to be able to hunt, and drink, and make love. Perdiccas understood that, which was why he had never considered having Philip assassinated.
For his part Philip mostly avoided affairs of state. He had warned Perdiccas of the perils of attacking the Illyrians, but such battles were common and very rarely decisive; the losers would agree to pay large sums in tribute to the victors, and then life would go on. But for the King to fall on the battlefield, along with 4,000 Macedonians! It was a tragedy of awesome proportions. The balance of power in northern Greece was delicate at the best of times, and with this catastrophe it would be thrown into turmoil.
Perdiccas had proved a good King, popular and strong. But he was obsessed with the desire to crush Bardylis and nothing Philip had said would sway him.
‘Send for Parmenion,’ Philip had urged.
‘I need no half-blood Spartan,’ Perdiccas had replied.
‘Would you like me to ride with you?’
For a moment he thought the answer would be yes. Perdiccas’ handsome face softened, but then the hard look returned to his eyes. ‘No, brother. You stay in Aigai. Enjoy yourself.’
As Philip had turned to leave, Perdiccas reached out and took hold of the younger man’s shoulder. ‘I never forgot what you did for me,’ he said.
‘I know that. You do not need to say it.’
‘There are some who have urged me to kill you, Philip. There are some who believe... ah, what does it matter? I did not kill Archelaos, and he has proved no threat.’
‘Do not fear for me, brother,’ Philip told him. ‘I have no wish to be King. But beware of Bardylis. If you lose, he will set a tribute you may find hard to pay.’
Perdiccas grinned. ‘I shall not lose.’
Now Philip shook himself loose of the memory and called the rider to him. ‘Where are the Illyrians now?’
‘They have not advanced, sire. They stripped the dead and now they are camped four days’ ride from Pella.’
‘Do not call me sire, I am not the King,’ snapped Philip, waving the man away.
His thoughts raged like a storm in his mind. The balance of power was everything! To the west the Illyrians, to the north the Paionians, to the east the Thracians and to the south Thebes. While each nation had a strong army, there was little danger of full-scale invasion. But now, with Macedonia’s army destroyed, the land was open to any with the courage to take it. Philip thought of his enemies. First Bardylis, the cunning King of Illyria; eighty years old, maybe more, but with a mind as sharp as a timber-wolf. After him Cotys, the King of Thrace; just turned sixty, a greedy, ruthless monarch whose avaricious eyes would now turn to the Macedonian mines no more than a day’s ride from his Thracian borders in the east. Then the Paionians, tribesmen from the north who lived to fight and plunder. After them the power-hungry Thebans, the pompous Athenians. The gods knew how many others!
‘One fear at a time,’ he cautioned himself. What if, he wondered, he did not try for the crown? One name soared into his mind: Archelaos, his stepbrother. The hatred between them was stronger than iron, and colder than a winter blizzard. Archelaos would fight for the throne -and his first action would be to see Philip dead.
Philip called to Attalus. ‘I am riding for Pella,’ he told the warrior. ‘It is likely that Archelaos has not yet heard the news. When he does he will also come to the capital, but he will be travelling from Cercine. Take twenty men - and see that he does not survive the journey.’
Attalus smiled grimly. ‘A task I’ll enjoy, for sure,’ he said.
The City of Susa, Persia, Autumn, 359 BC
‘It is your own fault,’ said Mothac, as Parmenion paced back and forth across the room. ‘Who else can you blame?’
The Spartan moved to the wide doors leading to the gardens, where he stood staring out over the terraces with their hanging blooms and trees garlanded with blossom. The scents were sweet and the view exquisite, but Parmenion turned away, his face flushed, his eyes angry.
‘Blame?’ he snarled. ‘Who else but that cursed Persian brat? He loses seventy men because he cannot be bothered to clear the fighting ground of boulders. Seventy! Then he had the brass balls to tell me it doesn’t matter, they were only peasants.’
‘He is a royal prince, Parmenion. What did you expect when you revoked his commission? Praise? Another prize stallion?’
‘Persians!’ hissed Parmenion. ‘I am sick of them.’
‘No,’ said Mothac softly. ‘You are sick of Persia, my friend. And you are too canny not to have understood the consequences of dismissing Darius.’
‘What are you saying? That I wanted my own commission revoked?’
‘Exactly that.’
‘Nonsense! We have everything here that men could desire. Look around you, Mothac. Silks, fine couches, beautiful grounds. How many Kings in Greece can boast such a palace? Slaves to obey our every desire, and more coin than we could spend in two lifetimes. You think I willingly threw this away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s get some air,’ muttered the Spartan, strolling out into the gardens and along the paved walkways. Mothac followed the general into the bright sunshine, silently cursing himself for forgetting his hat of straw. During the last ten years Mothac had grown steadily more bald, a calamity he blamed totally on the harsh Persian sun.
‘How could he have been so stupid?’ asked Parmenion. ‘He knew he could get no chariot support unless he cleared the ground. And he had 1,000 men under his command. It would have taken no more than an hour, perhaps two. But no, our fine Persian prince lea
‘We were finished here anyway,’ pointed out the Theban. ‘The Satrap Wars are all but over. What else could the Great King have asked of you? You have won his battles in Cappadocia, Phrygia, Egypt, Mesopotamia and other places with names I cannot wrap around my tongue. We don’t need any more wars. Let us just sit here and enjoy our dotage. The gods know we need no more coin.’
Parmenion shook his head. ‘I am not ready for dotage, Mothac my friend. I want...’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what I want. But I cannot sit idle. What are the latest offers?’
‘The Satrap of Egypt requests your services to counter tribal attacks in the south.’
‘Too hot,’ said Parmenion.
‘The Olynthians are hiring mercenaries. They would like you to lead their forces into Macedonia.’
‘Macedonia again. Tempting. What else?’
‘The King of the Illyrians, Bardylis, offers you employment, as does Cotys of Thrace. The Thracian offer is a good one: two talents of gold.’
‘What of the Macedonian King... Perdiccas?’
‘We have heard nothing from him.’
Parmenion sat silently for a while. ‘I am not anxious to return to Greece. Not yet.’
Mothac nodded, remaining silent. He knew Parmenion’s thoughts had turned again to Epaminondas. The Theban hero had crushed the Spartans, taking the Theban army to the outskirts of Sparta itself where the Spartan King, Agisaleus, had barricaded the streets, refusing all challenges.
Glory days had followed for Thebes, but the Athenians -fearing Theban ambition - had allied themselves with Sparta, and bloody battle followed bloody battle for seven years.
Then, while Parmenion was at the Great Court in Susa, came news of a battle near Mantinea. The Spartans and the Athenians together had come against Epaminondas. The Theban tried to repeat the tactics of Leuctra: the massed charge. But it was only partially successful and a contingent of Athenian cavalry smashed a path to Epaminondas. The general died at the point of victory, and the man who killed him was said to be an Athenian captain named Gryllus, the son of Xenophon.
‘He was a great man,’ whispered Mothac.
‘What? Yes. How is it you always know my thoughts?’
‘We are friends, Parmenion. I fear for Thebes now: Pelopidas dead in Thessaly, Epaminondas gone. Who is there to fight for Thebes?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ll take no part in it. Xenophon was right. Greece will never be united and the constant battles only weaken her further.’
A slave girl ran from the house, bowing before Parmenion and then turning to Mothac. ‘There is a messenger, sir. He wishes to see the general.’
‘From whom does this messenger come?’
‘He is a Greek, sir.’ The girl bowed her head and waited.
‘See that he is given wine. I shall speak to him presently,’ Mothac told her.
Parmenion waited in the sunshine until Mothac returned.
‘Well, what was it?’
‘He was an Illyrian. Bardylis has withdrawn his offer to you. It seems that without you he crushed the Macedonian army and killed Perdiccas. It might be a good time for you to take the offer of Cotys. Thrace and Illyria will now fight over the spoils. Macedonia is finished.’
‘Who succeeded Perdiccas?’
‘One of the princes... Philip, I think he said.’
‘I knew him in Thebes. I liked him.’
‘Oh no,’ said Mothac. ‘Don’t even think it.’
Think what?’
‘I see that look in your eye, Parmenion. They have no army and the wolves are gathering - it is folly to even think of it. Anyway, this Philip has made no offer.’
Parmenion chuckled. ‘No army, and strong enemies all around him. It is very appealing, Mothac.’
‘There is nothing appealing about death!’ snapped the Theban.
Archelaos was murdered as he crossed the river Axios to the north-west of Pella, and with his death opposition to Philip from within Macedonia was ended. But it did not end his problems. The Illyrians had crushed the Macedonian army in the north-west, and now the Paionian tribes of the north had invaded, sacking two cities and thirty villages. Worse was to follow for the new King. In the east the Thracians were massing to invade - ready to install a distant cousin of Philip’s, Pausanias, as a puppet ruler. And from the south came word that the Athenians were sponsoring yet another cousin, Argaios, and he was marching with an army to contest the throne.
‘What surprises me,’ Philip confided to Nicanor, his closest friend, ‘is why anyone should wish to take over the kingdom now. There’s precious little left that isn’t already in enemy hands.’
‘You’ll win, though, Philip. You will. There’s not a man in Greece to out-think you.’
Philip chuckled and threw his arm around his friend’s shoulder. ‘I would accept that compliment more readily if there was any basis for it in fact. But I need a miracle. I need Parmenion.’
‘What can a Spartan do for us?’
‘He can build me an army - and, by the bones of Heracles, I need one. Find him for me, Nicanor. Send out riders, use the seers. Anything. Find him.’
Pushing the problems from his mind, he found himself remembering his days as a hostage in Thebes eleven years ago, when he had watched the legendary Parmenion training the Sacred Band. There was something about the man, a calm that spoke of great strength, and in his pale eyes Philip had seen an understanding, sensing an affinity with the Spartan warrior.
Then had come Leuctra and the defeat of the awesome Spartans. Parmenion’s victory. From that time Philip had begun to look for news of the Spartan’s travels, listening eagerly to tales of his victories in Egypt and Persia. Satraps offered him fortunes in gold and jewels, vying for the favours of the greatest general of the age. Even the Great King was said to be in awe of his skill.
Once an enemy army surrendered when they heard that Parmenion had been hired to lead a force against them. Even his name had power.
How I need you now, thought Philip.
Attalus approached the King as he stood by the window, his thoughts distant. ‘What of the babe, sire?’ he whispered. ‘Do you wish it despatched?’
It was a reasonable question and Philip considered it. If allowed to grow, his nephew would one day perhaps seek to win his father’s throne. And it was customary to eliminate all other claimants.
Philip sighed. ‘Where is Simiche?’
‘As you commanded, the Queen is a prisoner in her rooms. She still has three hand-maidens, and the child is with her.’
‘I will do it,’ said Philip. He walked swiftly from the throne-room and down the long corridor to the adjoining building in the east. Two guards saluted as he reached the
Queen’s quarters; he nodded to them and entered Simiche’s private chamber. The Queen was a small woman, elfin-faced, her hair long and dark. She looked up as he entered and almost managed to keep the fear from her face. The toddler, Amyntas, smiled as he saw his uncle and tottered towards him. Simiche stood and gathered the child to her, stroking his dark curls.
Philip dismissed the hand-maidens, who ran from the room. Simiche said nothing; she did not plead, she merely sat, cuddling her son. Philip was torn. His hand was on his knife-hilt, but he stood in the centre of the room confused and uncertain. Perdiccas could have ordered Philip’s death, but he had not. Now Philip was standing before the woman Perdiccas had loved and the son he had adored.
He sighed. ‘The boy will be safe, Simiche,’ he said at last. ‘No harm will come to him. You will go to my summer home and raise him there. I will see you have a good allowance for his education.’
‘Do not deceive me, Philip,’ she replied. ‘If you plan to have us killed, do it now. Do not raise false hopes. Be a man - and use that knife. I will not resist.’
‘You have my word, Simiche. There is no question of killing the boy.’
She closed her eyes, her head droppi
‘May the gods bless you,’ Simiche whispered.
‘They are not making good work of it at present,’ said Philip.
‘They will,’ she promised him. ‘Perdiccas loved you, Philip - but he was in awe of you. He said you had greatness within you and I believe that now. What will you do?’
He shrugged and smiled, ruffling the boy’s hair. ‘I have no army, and am being attacked from the west, the north, the east and the south. I think I will shave off my beard and become a travelling actor - a reader of comedies.’
She laughed then. ‘You will think of something. What is it that you need most?’
‘Time,’ he answered, without hesitation.
‘Who is the greatest enemy?’
‘The old wolf, Bardylis. His Illyrians have already crushed the army. If he marches on Pella, there is nothing I can do to stop him.’
‘It is said he has a daughter of surpassing ugliness,’ said Simiche softly. ‘Her name is Audata and he has tried -unsuccessfully - to arrange marriages for her with lowly princes. I daresay he has given up thinking of a King for her.’
‘A bride of surpassing ugliness? Something I have always wanted,’ replied Philip, and their laughter filled the room.
The days passed with an ominous lack of movement from his enemies, and Philip worked long into the nights, preparing despatches for Athens, to friends in Thessaly to the south and Amphipolis in the east. He sent Nicanor to Bardylis in Illyria, formally requesting the hand of his daughter Audata in marriage, and promising to pay a tribute of 500 talents a year from the day of the wedding. To the Thracian King, Cotys, he sent a long letter assuring him of friendship; but carrying the assurance was the cold-eyed Attalus.
Philip gave him two small metal phials, each marked with different letters. ‘This one,’ said Philip, ‘contains a deadly poison, but it is slow-acting. The other is an antidote. You must find a way to poison the King - without suspicion falling on you. Cotys has three sons, and they hate each other. Once the old man is dead they will never unite to threaten us.’