assassination of Alexander is set for tonight. Take Bessus - he's the fastest we have.'
Parmenion ran to the stable. But even as the stallion galloped clear of the buildings, the Spartan felt an icy terror.
There was no way he could reach the capital in time . . .
Pella, Macedonia, Autumn
Alexander's dreams were troubled. He saw a dark mountainside and a stone altar around which black-robed priests were chanting, calling out a name, summoning . . .
'Iskander! Iskander!'
The voices were sibilant, like storm winds through winter branches, and he felt a terrible pull on his chest. Fear swept through him.
'They are calling me,' he realized, and his dream eyes fixed on the sharp knives they carried and the blood channels carved into the altar.
A figure moved forward, the moonlight shining on his face. Alexander almost screamed then, for the man was his father, Philip, dressed for war in a cuirass the boy had never seen.
'Well?' asked the King. 'Where is the child?'
'He will come, sire,' answered the chief priest. 'I promise you.'
The King turned and Alexander saw that his blind eye was no longer like an opal. Now it shone pure gold and seemed to burn with a yellow fire.
'I see him.!' yelled the King, pointing directly at Alexander. 'But he is so faint!'
'Come to us, Iskander!' the priests chanted.
The pull grew stronger.
'No!' screamed the child.
And woke in his bed, his body trembling, sweat covering his tiny frame.
*
Lolon crept into the royal gardens, keeping to the shadows of the trees, ever watchful for the sentries. His hand strayed to the dagger at his side, taking comfort from the cold hilt. The child was possessed, he reminded himself. It was not like killing a real child. Not as the Macedonians had done to his own two sons back at Methone, when the troops poured through the breached wall, killing all who stood in their way. The mercenaries guarding the walls had been the first to die, alongside the city militia. But then it was the citizens -cut down as they fled, the women raped, the children butchered.
The survivors had been herded together in the main square. Lolon had tried to protect his wife, Casa, and his sons.
But what could he do against armed men? They dragged Casa and the other women away, killing the children and making a mound of their tiny bodies. Then they marched the men north, the women east, where the ships waited to take them to the slave markets of Asia.
The city had been destroyed, razed utterly, every surviving man and woman sold into slavery.
Lolon felt the weight of his heartache and sank to the soft ground, tears welling in his eyes. He had never been rich.
A maker of sandals, he eked out a living, often going hungry himself so that Casa and the children could eat. But the Macedonians had come with their siege-engines, their long spears and their stabbing swords.
There was no place in the tyrant's heart for an independent city within Macedonia. Oh, no! Bend the knee or die.
I wish they'd given me the chance to bend the knee, thought Lolon.
But now - thanks to the Athenians - he had a chance to repay the tyrant in blood. A simple thrust with the knife and the Demon Prince would die. Then Philip would know the anguish of loss.
Lolon's mouth was dry and the cool night breeze made him shiver.
He had been marched first to Pelagonia in the north-west, where the new slaves were put to work building a line of fortresses along the borders of Illyria. For a year Lolon had toiled in the stone quarries. He had spent his evenings making sandals for other slaves before his handiwork was observed by a Macedonian officer. After that he was removed from the work-force and given a better billet, with warm blankets and good food. And he made sandals, boots and shoes for the soldiers.
In Methone his work had been considered fair, but among the barbaric Macedonians he was an artist. In truth his talent did swell, and he was sold on at great profit - to the household of Attalus, the King's
Parmenion ran to the stable. But even as the stallion galloped clear of the buildings, the Spartan felt an icy terror.
There was no way he could reach the capital in time . . .
Pella, Macedonia, Autumn
Alexander's dreams were troubled. He saw a dark mountainside and a stone altar around which black-robed priests were chanting, calling out a name, summoning . . .
'Iskander! Iskander!'
The voices were sibilant, like storm winds through winter branches, and he felt a terrible pull on his chest. Fear swept through him.
'They are calling me,' he realized, and his dream eyes fixed on the sharp knives they carried and the blood channels carved into the altar.
A figure moved forward, the moonlight shining on his face. Alexander almost screamed then, for the man was his father, Philip, dressed for war in a cuirass the boy had never seen.
'Well?' asked the King. 'Where is the child?'
'He will come, sire,' answered the chief priest. 'I promise you.'
The King turned and Alexander saw that his blind eye was no longer like an opal. Now it shone pure gold and seemed to burn with a yellow fire.
'I see him.!' yelled the King, pointing directly at Alexander. 'But he is so faint!'
'Come to us, Iskander!' the priests chanted.
The pull grew stronger.
'No!' screamed the child.
And woke in his bed, his body trembling, sweat covering his tiny frame.
*
Lolon crept into the royal gardens, keeping to the shadows of the trees, ever watchful for the sentries. His hand strayed to the dagger at his side, taking comfort from the cold hilt. The child was possessed, he reminded himself. It was not like killing a real child. Not as the Macedonians had done to his own two sons back at Methone, when the troops poured through the breached wall, killing all who stood in their way. The mercenaries guarding the walls had been the first to die, alongside the city militia. But then it was the citizens -cut down as they fled, the women raped, the children butchered.
The survivors had been herded together in the main square. Lolon had tried to protect his wife, Casa, and his sons.
But what could he do against armed men? They dragged Casa and the other women away, killing the children and making a mound of their tiny bodies. Then they marched the men north, the women east, where the ships waited to take them to the slave markets of Asia.
The city had been destroyed, razed utterly, every surviving man and woman sold into slavery.
Lolon felt the weight of his heartache and sank to the soft ground, tears welling in his eyes. He had never been rich.
A maker of sandals, he eked out a living, often going hungry himself so that Casa and the children could eat. But the Macedonians had come with their siege-engines, their long spears and their stabbing swords.
There was no place in the tyrant's heart for an independent city within Macedonia. Oh, no! Bend the knee or die.
I wish they'd given me the chance to bend the knee, thought Lolon.
But now - thanks to the Athenians - he had a chance to repay the tyrant in blood. A simple thrust with the knife and the Demon Prince would die. Then Philip would know the anguish of loss.
Lolon's mouth was dry and the cool night breeze made him shiver.
He had been marched first to Pelagonia in the north-west, where the new slaves were put to work building a line of fortresses along the borders of Illyria. For a year Lolon had toiled in the stone quarries. He had spent his evenings making sandals for other slaves before his handiwork was observed by a Macedonian officer. After that he was removed from the work-force and given a better billet, with warm blankets and good food. And he made sandals, boots and shoes for the soldiers.
In Methone his work had been considered fair, but among the barbaric Macedonians he was an artist. In truth his talent did swell, and he was sold on at great profit - to the household of Attalus, the King's
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