Dark Prince
David Gemmell
Dark Prince
David Gemmell
CONTENT
Book One, 352 BC
Pella, Macedonia, Summer
The Crocus Field, Summer
The Temple, Asia Minor, Summer
Pella, Macedonia, Summer
Pella, Macedonia, Autumn
Pella, Macedonia, Autumn
The Temple, Asia Minor
The Empire of Makedon
The Thracian Border, Macedonia
Book Two, 352 BC
The Forests of Olympus
The Stone Circle, Time Unknown
The Wood of the Centaurs
The Pindos Mountains
The Hills of Arcadia
The Forest of Gorgon
Book Three, 352 BC
The Cliffs of Arkadia
The Plain of Mantinea
The Pass of Tegaea
The City of Sparta
The Hills of Gytheum
The City of Sparta
The Field of Blood
The City of Sparta
The Field of Blood
The Giant’s Gateway
Book Four
The City of Mieza, 337 BC
Pella, Summer 337 BC
The Temple, Asia Minor
The Summer Palace, Aigai
City of Aigai, Midwinter 337 BC
Pella, Midwinter
The River Axios, Winter 337 BC
The City of Aigai
Pella, Winter 337 BC
Aigai, Summer 336 BC
The Ruins of Troy, Winter 335 BC
Greater Phrygia, 336 BC
Ionia, Spring 334 BC
The Ida Mountains, 334 BC
The River Granicus, 334 BC
The Issus, Autumn 333 BC
Battle at the Issus, 333 BC
Lindos, Rhodes, 330 BC
Susa, Persia, 330 BC
The City of Elam, 330 BC
Babylon, Summer 323 BC
The Void, Time Unknown
A City by the Sea, Time Unknown
The Gateway, Sparta, 352 BC
Book One, 352 BC
Pella, Macedonia, Summer
The golden-haired child sat alone, as he usually did, and wondered whether his father would die today. Some distance away, across the royal gardens, his nurse was talking to the two sentries who guarded him during the hours of daylight. The soldiers, grim-eyed warriors, did not look at him and shifted nervously if he approached.
Alexander was used to this reaction. Even at four he understood it.
He remembered with sadness the day three weeks ago when his father, garbed for war, had walked along this same garden path, his cuirass gleaming in the sunlight. It was so beautiful that Alexander had reached out to touch the gleaming plates of iron, edged with gold, the six golden lions on the breast. But as his hand came forward Philip had moved swiftly back.
‘Don’t touch me, boy!’ he snapped.
‘I would not hurt you, Father,’ whispered the prince, staring up at the black-bearded face, with its blind right eye like a huge opal beneath the savagely scarred brow.
‘I came to say goodbye,’ muttered Philip, ‘and to tell you to be good. Learn your lessons well.’
‘Will you win?’ the child asked.
‘Win or die, boy,’ answered the King, kneeling to face his son. He appeared to relax, though his expression remained stern. ‘There are those who think I cannot win. They remember Onomarchus defeated me when last we met. But...’ his voice dropped to a whisper, ‘when the arrow tore into my eye at the siege of Methone they said I would die. When the fever struck me down in Thrace men swore my heart stopped beating. But I am Macedon, Alexander, and I do not die easily.’
‘I don’t want you to die. I love you,’ said the child.
For a moment only Philip’s face softened, his arm rising as if to reach out to his son. But the moment passed and the King stood. ‘Be good,’ he said. ‘I will... think of you.’
The sound of children’s laughter brought Alexander’s thoughts back to the present. Beyond the garden walls he could hear the palace children playing. Sighing, he wondered what game they were enjoying. Hunt the Turtle perhaps, or Hecate’s Touch. He watched them sometimes from the window of his room. One child would be chosen as Hecate, Goddess of Death, and would chase the others, seeking out their hiding-places, to touch them and make them slaves. The game would go on until all the children had been found and enslaved by Death.
Alexander shivered in the sunshine. No one would ask him to play such a game. He looked down at his small hands.
He had not meant the hound to die; he had loved the pup. And he had tried so hard, concentrating always, so that whenever he stroked the dog his mind was calm. But one day the playful hound had leapt at him, knocking him from his feet. In that moment Alexander’s hand had snaked out, lightly slapping the beast on the neck. The hound collapsed instantly, eyes glazing, legs twitching. It had died within seconds, but what was worse it had decomposed within minutes, the stench filling the garden.
‘It was not my fault,’ the child wanted to say. But he knew that it was; knew that he was cursed.
Birds began to sing in the tall trees and Alexander smiled as he looked up at them. Closing his green eyes the boy allowed the bird-song to flow into him, filling his mind, merging with his own thoughts. The songs began to have meanings then, that he could just decipher. No words but feelings, fears, tiny angers. The birds were screeching warnings to one another.
Alexander looked up and sang: ‘My tree! My tree! Get away! Get away! My tree! My tree! I will kill you if you stay!’
‘Children should not sing of killing,’ said his nurse sternly, approaching where he sat but halting, as ever, out of reach.
‘That is what the birds are singing,’ he told her.
‘You should come inside now, the sun is very hot.’
‘The children are still playing beyond the wall,’ he argued. ‘And I like to sit here.’
‘You will do as you are told, young prince!’ she snapped. His eyes blazed and he could almost hear the dark voice within himself whispering: ‘Hurt her! Kill her!’ He swallowed hard, quelling the rising tide of anger.
‘I will come,’ he said softly. Rising to his feet he walked towards her, but she stepped quickly aside to let him pass, following him slowly as he returned to his own rooms. Waiting until she had gone, Alexander slipped out into the corridor and ran to his mother’s apartments, pushing open the door to peek inside.
Olympias was alone and she smiled as he entered, opening her arms to him. He ran forward and embraced her, pushing his face against the soft flesh of her bosom. There was never anyone, he knew, so beautiful as his mother, and he clung to her fiercely.
‘You are very hot,’ said Olympias, pushing back his golden hair and stroking his brow. Filling a cup with cool water she passed it to him, watching as he drank greedily.
‘Did your lessons go well today?’ she asked.
‘There were no lessons, Mother. Stagra is ill. If I had a pony, would it die?’
He saw the pain on her face as pulling him to her she patted his back. ‘You are not a demon, Alexander. You have great gifts; you will be a great man.’
‘But would the pony die?’
‘I think that it might,’ she admitted. ‘But when you are older you will know how to control... the Talent. Be patient.’
‘I don’t want to kill anything. Yesterday I made a bird fly to my hand. It sat for a long time before flying away. It didn’t die. Truly!’
‘When your father returns to Pella we will all go to the sea, and sail on boats. You will like that. The breeze is cool, and we will swim.’
‘Is he coming back?’ Alexander asked. ‘Some people say he will die against the Phocians. They say his l
uck is finished, that the gods have deserted him.’
‘Hush!’ she whispered. ‘It is not wise to voice such thoughts. Philip is a great warrior - and he has Parmenion.’
‘The Phocians beat him before, two years ago,’ said the boy. ‘Two thousand Macedonians dead. And now the Athenians raid our coastline and the Thracians have turned against us.’
She nodded and sighed. ‘You hear too much, Alexander.’
‘I don’t want him to die... even though he doesn’t like me.’
‘You must not say that! Ever!’ she cried, seizing his shoulders and shaking him hard. ‘Never! He loves you. You are his son. His heir.’
‘You are hurting me,’ he whispered, tears in his eyes.
‘I am sorry,’ she told him, drawing him into her arms. ‘There is so much I wish I could tell you; explain to you. But you are very young.’
‘I would understand,’ he assured her.
‘I know. That is why I cannot tell you.’
For a while they sat in silence, Alexander warm and sleepy in his mother’s arms. ‘I can see them now,’ he said dreamily. ‘There is a plain covered with flowers of purple and yellow. And there is Father in his golden armour. He is standing beside the grey gelding, Achea. And there are the enemy. Oh, Mother, there are thousands of them. I can see their shields. Look! There is the sign of Sparta, and there the Owl of Athens and... I don’t know that one, but I can see the emblems of Pherai and Corinth... so many. How can Father beat them all?’
‘I don’t know,’ whispered Olympias. ‘What is happening now?’
‘The battle begins,’ answered the child.
The Crocus Field, Summer
Philip of Macedon rubbed at the scar above his blinded right eye and stared out over the Phocian battle-lines half a mile ahead. More than 20,000 infantry were massed on the plain, 1,000 cavalry behind and to the right of the main force. He transferred his gaze to the Macedonian lines, where 15,000 foot-soldiers waited in formation at the centre, his 3,000 cavalry to the left and right.
Everywhere there were flowers growing, some purple and yellow, others white and pink, and hi that moment it seemed to the King almost inconceivable that within minutes hundreds - perhaps thousands - of men would lay down their lives, their blood soaking into the earth. And he felt, with sudden regret, it was almost as great a crime against the gods of beauty that these flowers would soon be trampled into the dust beneath the pale grass of the Grecian Plain. ‘Don’t be foolish,’ he told himself. ‘You chose this battleground.’ It was flat and made for cavalry and Philip now commanded the Thessalian lancers, the finest horse-soldiers in Greece.
Two days ago, during a lightning march across the shallows of the River Penios, the Macedonian army surprised the defenders of the port city of Pagasai. The city had fallen within three hours. By sunset the Macedonians manning the ramparts had seen a fleet of Athenian battle triremes sailing serenely across the gulf. But with Pagasai taken the triremes had nowhere to dock, and the soldiers they carried were lost to the enemy cause. The nearest shallow bay was a day’s sailing and four days’ march distant, and by the time the Athenian soldiers had come ashore the battle would be over.
Now, with the rear secured against an Athenian attack, Philip felt more confident of the coming battle. There was nowhere this time for Onomarchus to hide his giant catapults; no steep, tree-shrouded mountains from which he could send death from the skies. No, this battle would be fought man against man, army against army. Philip still remembered with sick horror the huge boulders raining down on the Macedonians, could still hear the awful cries of the crushed and dying.
But today it would be different. Today the odds were more even.
And he had Parmenion...
Glancing to his left Philip sought out the Spartan, watching him ride along the flank, talking to the riders, calming the younger men and lifting the spirits of the veterans.
A momentary anger touched Philip. The Spartan had come to Macedonia’s aid seven years ago, when the nation was beset by enemies on all sides. His strategic skills had been vital then and he had trained Philip’s fledgling army, turning them from farmers and peasants into the most feared fighting force in the civilized world.
‘I loved you then,’ thought Philip, remembering the heady days of victory over the Illyrians to the west, the Paionians to the north. City after city had fallen to Macedonia as her strength grew. But always the victories belonged to Parmenion, the strategos, the man whose battle plans had won victories for a quarter of a century, in Thebes, in Phrygia, in Cappadocia and Egypt.
Philip shaded his good eye and strained to see the Phocian centre, where Onomarchus would be standing with his bodyguard. But the distance was too great, the sun gleaming from too many breastplates, shields and helms for him to pick out his enemy.
‘What I would not give to have your neck under my blade,’ he whispered.
‘Did you speak, sire?’ asked Attalus, the King’s Champion. Philip turned to the cold-eyed man beside him.
‘Yes - but only to myself. It is time. Order the advance!’
Philip strode to the grey gelding, taking hold of the mane and vaulting to the beast’s back. The gelding whinnied and reared, but Philip’s powerful legs were locked to the barrel of its belly. ‘Steady!’ said the King, his voice soothing. A young soldier ran forward carrying Philip’s high-crested helm of iron. It was polished until it shone like silver and the King took it in his hands, gazing down at the burnished face of the goddess Athena which decorated the forehead. ‘Be with me today, lady,’ he said, placing the helmet upon his head. Another man lifted Philip’s round shield and the King slid his left arm through the leather straps, settling it in place on his forearm.
The first four regiments, 11,000 men, began the slow march towards the enemy.
Philip glanced to where Parmenion waited on the left with 2,000 cavalry and two regiments of reserves. The Spartan waved to his King, then transferred his gaze to the battlefield.
Philip’s heart was hammering now. He could still taste the bitterness of defeat when last he had met Onomarchus. It was a day like this one - brilliant sunshine, a cloudless sky - when the Macedonians had marched against the enemy. Only then there were mountains on either side, and they had contained hidden siege-engines which hurled huge boulders down upon the Macedonians, smashing their formation, crushing bones and destroying lives. Then the enemy cavalry charged and the Macedonians had fled the field.
Long would Philip remember that day. For six years he had seemed invincible, victory following victory as if divinely ordained. And one terrible hour had changed everything. Macedonian discipline had reasserted itself by the evening and the army had re-formed in time for a fighting retreat. But, for the first time in his life, Philip had failed.
What was more galling even than defeat was the fact that Parmenion was not present at the battle. He was leading a force into the north-west to put down an Illyrian insurrection.
For six years the King had been forced to share his victories with his general, but the one defeat was his - and his alone.
Now Philip shook himself clear of the memories. ‘Send out the Cretan archers,’ he shouted to Attalus. The King’s Champion turned his horse and galloped down to where the 500 archers were awaiting orders. Lightly armoured in baked leather chest-guards, the Cretans set off at a run to line up behind the advancing regiments.
Two hundred paces to the right of Philip’s position the Second General, Antipater, was waiting with 1,000 cavalrymen. Philip tugged on the gelding’s reins and rode to take his position alongside him in the front line. The horsemen, mostly Macedonian noblemen, cheered as he approached and he rewarded them with a wave.
Drawing his sword he led the cavalry forward at a walk, angling to the right of the advancing Macedonian infantry.
‘Now they come!’ yelled Antipater, pointing to the Phocian cavalry. The enemy horsemen, spears levelled, were charging towards them.
‘Macedon!’ bellowed Philip, kic
king the gelding into a gallop, all his fears vanishing as the Macedonians thundered across the plain.
Parmenion’s pale blue eyes narrowed as he scanned the battlefield. He could see Philip and his Companion Cavalry charging on the right, coming abreast now of the marching regiments of Macedonian infantry, with their shields locked, their eighteen-foot, iron-pointed sarissas aimed at the enemy ranks, the Cretan archers behind them sending volley after volley of shafts into the sky to rain down on the Phocian centre.
All was going according to plan, yet the Spartan was uneasy.
The King was the Supreme Commander of all Macedonia’s forces, but Philip insisted always on riding into battle with his men, risking death alongside them, leading them from the front. His courage was both a blessing and a curse, Parmenion knew. With the King in their midst the Macedonians fought harder, yet were Philip to fall panic would sweep through the ranks faster than a summer fire over dry grass.
As always, with Philip at the heart of the fighting Parmenion took charge of the battle strategy, watching for signs of weakness, clues to the shifting changes in the fortunes of war.
Behind him the Thessalian cavalrymen awaited his orders, while before him the Fifth Regiment of infantry were standing calmly, watching the battle. Parmenion removed his white-crested helm, pushing his fingers through his sweat-drenched, short-cropped brown hair. Only one thought dominated his mind.
What was the Phocian planning?
Onomarchus was no ordinary general. During the past two years, since taking charge of the Phocian forces, he had moved his armies around central Greece with consummate skill, taking key cities in central Greece and sacking the Boeotian stronghold of Orchomenus. He was a wily and instinctive leader, respected by those who served him. But, more importantly to Parmenion, the man’s strategy invariably relied on attack. Yet here his infantry regiments were positioned defensively, only his cavalry sweeping forward.
Something was wrong. Parmenion could feel it. Shading his eyes he scanned the battlefield once more. Here the Crocian Plain was virtually flat, save for a low line of hills to the far right and a small wooded area a half-mile to the left. There was no danger from the rear, now that Pagasai had been taken. So then, he thought again, what is the Phocian’s battle plan?
