Dark Prince, Page 3

  ‘I see,’ said Parmenion, meeting the King’s gaze. ‘There is nothing I can do about this, Philip. Four years ago your horse won the Olympics. You were not riding him, yet he was still your horse and you took pride in that. I am a strategos - that is my calling and my life. You are a king - a fighting king. A Battle King. The soldiers fight the harder because you are alongside them. They love you. Who can say how many battles might have been lost without you?’

  ‘But the only battle I have led alone ended in defeat,’ Philip pointed out.

  ‘And would have done so whether I was there or not,’ Parmenion assured him. ‘Your Paionian scouts were complacent; they did not search the mountains as they should. But there is something else, is there not?’

  The King returned to the window, staring once more at the distant triremes. He was silent for a long while, then at last he spoke.

  ‘My son is fond of you,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Sometimes in his nightmares the nurse tells me he calls your name. Then all is well. It is said that you can hug him - and feel no pain. Is this true?’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered the Spartan.

  ‘The child is possessed, Parmenion. Either that or he is a demon. I cannot touch him - I have tried; it is like hot coals burning on my skin. Why is it that you can hold him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The King gave a harsh laugh, then turned to face his general. ‘All of my battles were for him. I wanted a kingdom he could be proud of. I wanted... I wanted so much. You remember when we went to Samothrace? Yes? I loved Olympias then more than life. Now we cannot sit in the same room for twenty heartbeats without angry words. And look at me. When we met I was fifteen and you were a warrior grown, what... twenty-nine? Now I have grey in my beard. My face is scarred, my eye a pus-filled ball of constant pain. And for what, Parmenion?’

  ‘You have made Macedonia strong, Philip,’ said Parmenion, rising. ‘And all your dreams should be within reach. What more do you want?’

  ‘I want a son I can hold. A son I can teach to ride, without fearing that the horse will topple and die, rotting before my eyes. I remember nothing of the night on Samothrace when I sired him. I think sometimes he is not my son at all.’

  Parmenion’s face lost all colour, but Philip was not looking at him.

  ‘Of course he is your son,’ said Parmenion, keeping the fear from his voice. ‘Who else could be the father?’

  ‘Some demon sent from Hades. I will marry again soon; I will have an heir one day. You know, when Alexander was born they say his first sound was a growl, like a beast. The midwife almost dropped him. They say also that when his eyes first opened they were slitted, like an Egyptian cat. I don’t know the truth of it. All I know is that I love the boy... and yet I cannot touch him. But enough of this! Are we still friends?’

  ‘I will always be your friend, Philip. I swear it.’

  ‘Then let’s get drunk and talk of better days,’ ordered the King.

  Outside the door Attalus felt his anger rising. Silently he moved away down the torchlit corridor and out into the night, the cool breeze only fanning the flames of his hatred.

  How could Philip not see what a danger the Spartan presented? Attalus hawked and spat, but still his mouth tasted of bile.

  Parmenion. Always Parmenion. The officers adore him, the soldiers are in awe of him. Can you not see what is happening, Philip? You are losing your kingdom to this foreign mercenary. Attalus halted in the shadows of a looming temple and turned. I could wait here, he thought, his fingers curling round the hilt of his dagger. I could step out behind him, ramming the blade into his back, twisting it, ripping open his heart.

  But if Philip found out... Be patient, he cautioned himself. The arrogant whoreson will bring about his own downfall, with all his misguided concepts of honesty and honour. No King wants honesty. Oh, they all talk of it! ‘Give me an honest man,’ they say. ‘We want no crawling lackeys.’ Horse-dung! What they wanted was adoration and agreement. No, Parmenion would not last.

  And come the blessed day when he fell from favour it would be Attalus to whom Philip would turn, first to dispose of the loathsome Spartan and then to replace him as First General of Macedonia.

  The strategos! What was so difficult about winning a battle? Strike at the enemy with the force of a storm, crushing the centre and killing the enemy king or general. But Parmenion had fooled them all, making them believe there was some wondrous mystery. And why? Because he was a coward, seeking always to hang back from the battle itself, keeping himself out of harm’s way. None of them could see it. Blind fools!

  Attalus drew his dagger, enjoying the silver gleam of moonlight upon the blade. ‘One day,’ he whispered, ‘this will kill you, Spartan.’

  The Temple, Asia Minor, Summer

  Derae was weary, almost at the point of exhaustion, when the last supplicant was carried into the Room of Healing. The two men laid the child on the altar bed and stepped back, respectfully keeping their eyes from the face of the blind Healer. Derae took a deep breath, calming herself, then laid her hands on the child’s brow, her spirit swimming into the girl’s bloodstream, flowing with it, feeling the heartbeat weak and fluttering. The injury was at the base of the spine - the vertebrae cracked, nerve endings crushed, muscles wasting.

  With infinite care Derae healed the bone, eliminating adhesions, relieving the pressure on the swollen nerve points, forcing blood to flow over the injured tissue.

  Drawing herself back into her body, the priestess sighed and swayed. Instantly a man leapt forward to assist her, his hand brushing against her arm.

  ‘Leave me be!’ she snapped, pulling away from him.

  ‘I am sorry, lady,’ he whispered. Waving her hand, she smiled in his direction.

  ‘Forgive me, Laertes. I am tired.’

  ‘How did you know my name?’ the man asked, his voice hushed. Derae laughed then.

  ‘I heal the blind and no one questions my Gift. The lame walk and people say, “Ah, but she is a Healer.” But so simple a matter as knowing an unspoken name, and there is awe. You touched me, Laertes. And in touching me gave up all your secrets. But fear not, you are a good man. Your daughter was kicked by a horse, yes?’

  ‘Yes, lady.’

  ‘The blow injured the bones of her back. I have taken away the pain and tomorrow, when I have rested, I will heal her. You may stay here this evening. My servants will bring you food.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I have money... ’ Waving him to silence Derae walked away, her step sure. Two female servants pulled open the altar room doors as she approached, a third taking her arm in the corridor beyond and leading the blind Healer to her room.

  Once inside, Derae sipped cool water and lay down on the narrow pallet bed. So many sick, so many injured... each day the queues beyond the Temple grew. At times there were fights, and many of those who finally reached her had been forced to bribe their way to the altar room. Often during the last few years Derae had tried to put a stop to the practice. But, even with her powers, she could not fight human nature. The people beyond the Temple walls had a need only she could satisfy. And, where there was need, there was profit to be made. Now a Greek mercenary called Pallas had thirty men camped before the Temple. And he organized the queues, selling tokens of admission to the supplicants, establishing some order to the chaos.

  Unable to thwart him fully, Derae had demanded he allow five poor people a day to be led to her, against ten of the richer. He had tried to trick her on the first day, and she had refused to see anyone. Now the system worked. Pallas hired servants, cooks, maids, gardeners, to tend to Derae’s needs. But even this irritated her, for she knew he merely wanted her time spent earning him money by healing the sick, and not engaged in useless pursuits like gardening, which she loved, or cooking or cleaning. And yet, despite the motive, it did mean that more people were being cured. Should I be grateful to him, she wondered? No. Greed was his inspiration, gold his joy.

  She pushed all thoughts of him
from her mind. Closing her blind eyes, Derae floated clear of her body. There was freedom here, with the flight of Spirit; there was even joy in the form of a transient happiness free of care. While her body rested Derae flew across the Thermaic Gulf, high above the trident-shaped lands of the Chalcidice and on across the Pierian mountains to Thessaly, her spirit called there by the lover of her youth.

  So long ago now, she realized. Thirty years had passed since she and Parmenion lay together in Xenophon’s summer home, lost in the exuberance of their youthful passion.

  She found him in the captured city of Pagasai, walking from the palace. His step was unsteady and she saw that he had been drinking. But more than this, she sensed the sadness within him. Once Derae had believed they would spend their lives together, willingly locked into love, chained by desires that were not all of the flesh. Not all... ? She remembered his gentle touch, the heat of his body upon hers, the softness of his skin, the power in the muscles beneath, the warmth of his smile, the love in his eyes.... Despair whispered across her soul.

  She was now an ageing priestess in a far-off temple, he a general in Macedonia’s triumphant army. Worse, he had believed her dead for these last thirty years.

  Sorrow followed the touch of despair, but she put it aside and moved closer to him, feeling the warmth of his spirit.

  ‘I always loved you,’ she told him. ‘Nothing ever changed that. And I will watch over you as long as I live.’

  But he could not hear her. A cold breeze touched her spirit and, with a sudden rush of fear, she knew she was not alone. Soaring high into the sky she clothed her spirit body in armour of light, a sword of white fire burning in her hand.

  ‘Show yourself!’ she commanded. A man’s form materialized close by. He was tall, with short-cropped grey hair and a beard curled in the Persian manner. He smiled and opened his arms. ‘It is I, Aristotle,’ he said.

  ‘Why do you spy on me?’ she asked.

  ‘I came to see you at the Temple, but it is guarded by money-hungry mercenaries who would not allow me to enter. And we must talk.’

  ‘What is there to talk about? The child was born, the Chaos Spirit is within him, and all the futures show he will bring torment to the world. I had hoped to aid him, to help him retain his humanity. But I cannot. The Dark God is stronger than I.’

  Aristotle shook his head. ‘Not so. Your reasoning is flawed, Derae. Now how can I come to you?’

  She sighed. ‘There is a small side gate in the western wall. Be there at midnight; I will open the gate. Now leave me in peace for a while.’

  ‘As you wish,’ he answered. And vanished.

  Alone once more, Derae followed Parmenion to the field hospital, watching as he moved among the wounded men, discussing their injuries with the little surgeon, Bernios. But she could not find the peace she sought and took to the night sky, floating beneath the stars.

  It had been four years since the magus who called himself Aristotle had come to the Temple. His visit had led to tragedy. Together Derae and the magus had sent Parmenion’s spirit into the vaults of Hades to save the soul of the unborn Alexander. But it had all been for nothing. The Chaos Spirit had merged with the soul of the child, and Derae’s closest friend - the reformed warrior Leucion - had been torn to pieces by demons sent to destroy her.

  Returning to the Temple, she rose from the bed and washed in cold water, rubbing her body with perfumed leaves. She did not allow her spirit eyes to gaze upon her ageing frame, could not bear to see herself as she now was - her hair silver, body thin and wasted, breasts sagging. Dressing in a clean full-length chiton of dark green, she sat by the window waiting for midnight. Outside the Temple the campfires were burning, scores of them. Some supplicants would wait half a year to see the Healer. Many would die before they could redeem their tokens. Once, before the arrival of Pallas, she had tried to walk among the sick, healing as many as she could. But she had been mobbed, knocked to the ground, saved only by her friend and servant Leucion who had beaten the crowds back with a club. Derae still mourned the warrior who had died defending her helpless body against the demons sent to destroy her.

  She pictured his face - the long silver hair tied at the nape of the neck, the arrogant walk, the easy smile.

  ‘I miss you,’ she whispered.

  Just before midnight, guided by her spirit sight, she crept down to the western gate, sliding back the bolt. Aristotle stepped inside. Locking the gate, she took him back to her room where the magus poured himself some water and sat on the narrow bed. ‘Do you mind if I light a lantern?’ he asked.

  ‘The blind have no need of lanterns. But I will fetch you one.’

  ‘Do not concern yourself, lady.’ Reaching out he took a silver winecup, holding it high. The metal twisted, folding in on itself to form a spout from which a flame flickered and grew, bathing the room in light. ‘You are not looking well, Derae,’ he said. ‘Your duties are leaving you overtired.’

  ‘Come to the point of your visit,’ she told him coldly.

  ‘No,’ he answered. ‘First we must talk of the many futures. Has it occurred to you that there is a contradiction in our travels through time?’

  ‘If you mean that the futures we see can change, of course it has.’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘But do they change? That is the question.’

  ‘Of course they do. I remember old Tamis telling me she saw her own deaths in many futures. In one, she said, she fell from a horse, even though riding was abhorrent to her.’

  ‘Exactly my point,’ said Aristotle. ‘Now, let me explain: Tamis saw herself falling from a horse. But that is not how she died. So then - who fell from the horse?’

  Derae sat down on a cushioned chair, her spirit eyes locked to the magus‘ face. ’Tamis,‘ she answered. ’But the futures were changed by events in the past.‘

  ‘But that is where the contradiction lies,’ he told her. ‘We are not talking of prophetic visions here, Derae. You and I - and Tamis once - can travel to the many futures, observing them. What we are seeing is happening... somewhere. All the futures are real.’

  ‘How can they all be real?’ she mocked. ‘Tamis died but once - as will I.’

  ‘I do not have all the answers, my dear, but I know this: there are many worlds, thousands, all akin to ours. Perhaps every time a man makes a decision he creates a new world. I don’t know. What I do know is that it is folly to examine all these alternate worlds and base our actions upon events in them. I too have seen Alexander drag the world down into blood and chaos. I have seen him kill Philip and seize the throne. I have seen him dead as a child, from plague, from a dog-bite, from an assassin’s blade. But, do you not see, none of it matters? None of the futures are ours. They are merely echoes, reflections, indications of what might be.’

  Derae was silent, considering his words. ‘It is an interesting concept. I will think on it. Now, to the point of your visit?’

  Aristotle lay back on the bed, his eyes watching the flickering shadows on the low ceiling. ‘The point - as always - concerns the boy in this world. You and I took Parmenion into Hades, where the child’s soul merged with the Spirit of Chaos. We took it to be a defeat. But it may not prove to be so.’

  ‘A curious kind of victory,’ sneered Derae. ‘The boy carries a great evil. It is growing within him worse than any cancer, and he does not have the strength to fight it.’

  ‘He had the strength to stop it destroying Parmenion in the Void,’ Aristotle pointed out. ‘But let us not argue; let us instead think of ways of helping the child.’

  Derae shook her head. ‘I long ago learned the folly of seeking to change the future. Had I known then what I know now, there would have been no Demon Prince.’

  ‘I think that there would, lady,’ said Aristotle softly, ‘but it does not matter. The child is no different from the many who are brought to you each day - only he is not crippled in the flesh, he is tormented in the spirit. Neither of us has the power to cast out the demon. But together -
and with the boy’s help - we might yet return the Dark God to the Underworld.’

  Derae laughed then, the sound full of bitterness. ‘I heal wounds, magus. I am not equipped to battle Kadmilos. Nor do I wish to.’

  ‘What do you wish, lady?’

  ‘I wish to be left alone,’ she said.

  ‘No!’ he thundered, rising to his feet. ‘I will not accept that from a woman of Sparta! What has happened to you, Derae? You are no lamb waiting for the slaughter. You are from a race of warriors. You fought the Dark Lady on Samothrace. Where is your spirit?’

  Derae sighed. ‘You seek to make me angry,’ she whispered. ‘You will not succeed. Look at me, Aristotle. I am getting old. I live here, and I heal the sick. I will do that until I die. Once I had a dream. I have it no longer. Now leave me in peace.’

  ‘I can give you back your youth,’ he said, his voice coaxing, his eyes bright with promise.

  For a moment she stood silently, observing him without expression. ‘So,’ she said, at last, ‘it was you. When I healed Parmenion of his cancer, I watched him grow young before my eyes. I thought it was the healing.’

  ‘You can be young also. You can find your dream again.’

  ‘You are a magus - and yet a fool,’ she told him, her voice flat, her tone tired. ‘Parmenion is married; he has three children. There is no place for me now. We may be able to meddle in the futures - but the past is iron.’

  Aristotle stood and moved to the door. There he turned as if to speak, but shook his head and walked away into the darkness of the Temple corridor.

  Derae listened until his footsteps faded, then sank to the bed, Aristotle’s promise echoing in her mind: ‘I can make you young again.’

  He was wrong, she knew. Oh, he could work his magic on her body, strengthening her muscles, tightening her skin. But youth was a state of mind. No one, god or man, could give her back her innocence, the joy of discovery, the beauty of first love. Without that, what value would there be in a young and supple body?