‘Yes, sir. I have one from your brother Perdiccas.’
‘He is well?’
‘He is alive, sir, though he has suffered a fever from which he is now recovering. My name is At talus. I hope we can be friends.’
Philip nodded. ‘Lifelong friends, I do not doubt,’ he said, his dark eyes holding to the pale snake-like gaze of the warrior. The man blinked and Philip smiled. ‘Do not concern yourself, Attalus. I do not judge you.’
‘I am not here to kill you, sir,’ the warrior told him. ‘My orders are explicit: I am to take you to the capital. Nothing more.’
‘Then let us walk for a while,’ said Philip suddenly, striding past the astonished Attalus. The two of them wandered out into the streets, easing their way through the crowds that gathered on the thoroughfares, and on to the agora where Epaminondas was scheduled to speak. The general had been delayed by the throng, but the people were unconcerned. They sang, and danced, and drank; the strength of their happiness was almost as intoxicating as the wine. Philip felt better out here in the open, but glancing at Attalus he saw that the same could not be said of the tall warrior. Philip took his arm and led him into a deserted side-street. Once there, he drew his dagger and held the point to his own breast.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Attalus.
Philip took the other’s hand and held it to the hilt. ‘If you have to kill me, you can do it here. No one will see you, and you could say that I was slain by a Theban. It would make it so much more simple for you.’
‘Listen!’ hissed Attalus. ‘I am the King’s man. I do as he bids. Had he told me to kill you, then I would do it. But you are to return with me to Pella. How can I convince you?’
‘You just did,’ Philip told him, returning the dagger to its sheath. His heart was beating wildly and he grinned. ‘These are dangerous days, Attalus.’
‘They are certainly strange,’ agreed the young man, with a tight smile. His teeth were too prominent, like marker stones, thought Philip. And he has the eyes of a killer. Remembering Parmenion’s advice, he took the warrior by the arm and smiled warmly. ‘I like you,’ he said. ‘So, if Ptolemaos ever decides to have me killed – request that he sends someone else. No man should be slain by a man he likes.’
‘I’ll try to remember that.’
The journey back to Pella was slow, and surprisingly pleasant as they rode along the line of the Pindos mountains, angling north-east to the city at Aigai. Attalus proved an interesting if unamusing companion, and Philip found himself admiring the man’s single-minded ambition. As they rode he learned of events in the kingdom. The Paionians had raided from the north, but Ptolemaos had smashed their army, forcing their King to agree a yearly tribute of 200 talents. Macedonian joy was shortlived, however, as the Illyrian army of King Bardylis had defeated Ptolemaos two months later at a battle near the Prespa Lakes in the west. For this defeat Ptolemaos had agreed to pay Bardylis a yearly tribute of 250 talents.
‘There are too many wolves seeking their meat in too small a sheep-pen,’ said Attalus, and Philip nodded. It was not that northern Greece was truly small, but with Illyria, Macedonia, Paionia and Thrace all boasting armies, and countless independent cities like Olynthus and Amphipolis employing large mercenary forces, no one King could take control of the area.
Crosi used to say that Northern Greece was a mercenary’s paradise. Never short of employment, he could grow rich on the proceeds of blood and violence and then buy himself a quiet farm in the more civilized south.
Everywhere that Philip and Attalus rode, there were signs of the frontier nature of the north. Towns were walled, settlements stockaded, single farms or lonely houses unheard of. People gathered together, never knowing when an enemy would descend upon them with hot hearts and cold iron.
‘It is a land for men,’ said Attalus as they journeyed high in the Pierian mountains, their cloaks drawn tightly around them against the bitterness of the north winds of autumn.