Champion.
It was then that the Athenians had come to him. He had been walking in the market-place, ordering leather and hide, and had stopped for a cool drink.
'Surely I know you, friend,' came a voice, and Lolon turned. The speaker was a short, stout man, bald and beardless.
Lolon did not remember him, but glanced down at the man's sandals. These he knew; he had made them two years before - a month before the Macedonians came.
'Yes, I remember you,' he answered dully.
As the weeks passed he saw the man, Gorinus, more often, at first talking of better days, and then - the floodgates of his bitterness giving way - speaking of his hatred. Gorinus had been a good listener, becoming a friend.
One morning, as they met in the market-place, Gorinus introduced a second man and they took Lolon to a small house behind the agora. Here the plot was hatched: kill the demon child, said Gorinus, and then come with us to Athens.
At first he had refused, but they fed his bitterness, reminding him of how the Macedonians had killed the children of Methone, taking the youngest by their ankles and dashing their brains to the walls.
'Yes! Yes!' cried Lolon. 'I will have my revenge!'
Now he cowered beneath the trees, staring up at Alexander's window. Easing himself from the shadows, he ran to the wall, his heart beating wildly. Slipping through a side door into the corridor beyond he moved carefully in the darkness, climbing the stairs, stopping every few steps to listen for the sentries. There was no guard on Alexander's door, the Athenians had assured him, but two warriors were stationed at the end of the corridor.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he glanced out. The soldiers were standing some twenty paces away, talking in hushed voices, their whispers carrying to the waiting assassin. They were discussing a coming horserace. Neither was looking in Lolon's direction. Swiftly he crossed the corridor, pushing his back against the door to Alexander's room.
Slowly he drew the dagger.
*
Alexander swung his legs from the bed and jumped to the floor, the dream still strong in his mind, his golden hair lank with sweat. Moonlight streamed through the open window of his room, bathing the ceiling with a pale, white light.
He could still hear the voices, like whispering echoes in his mind.
'Iskander! Iskander! Come to us!'
'No,' he whispered, sitting down at the centre of a goatskin rug and pressing his hands to his ears. 'No, I won't! You are dreams. You are not real!'
The rug was warm and he lay down upon it, staring up at the moonlit ceiling.
Something was wrong in the room. He gazed around, the dream forgotten, but could see nothing amiss. His toy soldiers were still scattered about the floor, with his small siege-engines. His books and drawings were on the tiny table. Alexander stood and walked to the window, climbing up on the bench seat below it so that he could look out into the gardens. Leaning out on the sill he gazed down ... at the moon.
The gardens had disappeared and stars shone all around the palace, above and below, to left and right. In the distance there were no mountains, no plains or hills, no valleys and woods. Only the dark of an all-consuming sky.
The boy's fear was forgotten, lost as he was in the wonder of this miracle. He did not often wake in the night.
Perhaps it was always this way, but no one had bothered to tell him. The moon was an incredible sight, no longer a silver disc but a scarred and pitted shield that had seen many battles. Alexander could see the marks of arrows and stones upon the surface, the dents and cuts.
And the stars were different also, perfectly round, like a slinger's stones, glowing, pulsing. In the distance he saw a movement, a flashing light, a dragon with a tail of fire . . . then it was gone. Behind him the door opened, but he was aware of nothing but the beauty of this colossal night.
*
Lolon saw the boy at the window. Softly closing the door, he swallowed hard and advanced
It was then that the Athenians had come to him. He had been walking in the market-place, ordering leather and hide, and had stopped for a cool drink.
'Surely I know you, friend,' came a voice, and Lolon turned. The speaker was a short, stout man, bald and beardless.
Lolon did not remember him, but glanced down at the man's sandals. These he knew; he had made them two years before - a month before the Macedonians came.
'Yes, I remember you,' he answered dully.
As the weeks passed he saw the man, Gorinus, more often, at first talking of better days, and then - the floodgates of his bitterness giving way - speaking of his hatred. Gorinus had been a good listener, becoming a friend.
One morning, as they met in the market-place, Gorinus introduced a second man and they took Lolon to a small house behind the agora. Here the plot was hatched: kill the demon child, said Gorinus, and then come with us to Athens.
At first he had refused, but they fed his bitterness, reminding him of how the Macedonians had killed the children of Methone, taking the youngest by their ankles and dashing their brains to the walls.
'Yes! Yes!' cried Lolon. 'I will have my revenge!'
Now he cowered beneath the trees, staring up at Alexander's window. Easing himself from the shadows, he ran to the wall, his heart beating wildly. Slipping through a side door into the corridor beyond he moved carefully in the darkness, climbing the stairs, stopping every few steps to listen for the sentries. There was no guard on Alexander's door, the Athenians had assured him, but two warriors were stationed at the end of the corridor.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he glanced out. The soldiers were standing some twenty paces away, talking in hushed voices, their whispers carrying to the waiting assassin. They were discussing a coming horserace. Neither was looking in Lolon's direction. Swiftly he crossed the corridor, pushing his back against the door to Alexander's room.
Slowly he drew the dagger.
*
Alexander swung his legs from the bed and jumped to the floor, the dream still strong in his mind, his golden hair lank with sweat. Moonlight streamed through the open window of his room, bathing the ceiling with a pale, white light.
He could still hear the voices, like whispering echoes in his mind.
'Iskander! Iskander! Come to us!'
'No,' he whispered, sitting down at the centre of a goatskin rug and pressing his hands to his ears. 'No, I won't! You are dreams. You are not real!'
The rug was warm and he lay down upon it, staring up at the moonlit ceiling.
Something was wrong in the room. He gazed around, the dream forgotten, but could see nothing amiss. His toy soldiers were still scattered about the floor, with his small siege-engines. His books and drawings were on the tiny table. Alexander stood and walked to the window, climbing up on the bench seat below it so that he could look out into the gardens. Leaning out on the sill he gazed down ... at the moon.
The gardens had disappeared and stars shone all around the palace, above and below, to left and right. In the distance there were no mountains, no plains or hills, no valleys and woods. Only the dark of an all-consuming sky.
The boy's fear was forgotten, lost as he was in the wonder of this miracle. He did not often wake in the night.
Perhaps it was always this way, but no one had bothered to tell him. The moon was an incredible sight, no longer a silver disc but a scarred and pitted shield that had seen many battles. Alexander could see the marks of arrows and stones upon the surface, the dents and cuts.
And the stars were different also, perfectly round, like a slinger's stones, glowing, pulsing. In the distance he saw a movement, a flashing light, a dragon with a tail of fire . . . then it was gone. Behind him the door opened, but he was aware of nothing but the beauty of this colossal night.
*
Lolon saw the boy at the window. Softly closing the door, he swallowed hard and advanced
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