Gemmell, David – Lion of Macedon 01

‘You are feeling better, I hope, young lord?

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘That is good, sir. Would you like some sweet honey-cakes? They are freshly made.’

‘No, Hermon. I think I will sleep now. Goodnight to you.’

Philip’s dreams were troubled and twice he awoke in the night. The dogs were howling at the moon, and a whistling wind was shaking the shutters. Finally the howling began to annoy him and he threw a cloak around his shoulders and strode down to the gardens. His room was the worst in the palace: close to the kennels and facing north, enjoying no sunshine, but prey to the bitter north winds of winter. The gardens were cold, the blooms colourless and ethereal under the moonlight. Philip found Beria sitting by the wall, her howls high and heart-rending. Around her lay the bodies of her six pups, black and lifeless. Philip knelt by them; the ground was stained with their vomit. Taking Beria by the collar he pulled her away from the tiny corpses, then knelt hugging her great black head to his breast, stroking her ears. She whined piteously and pulled to return to her babies.

‘They’ve gone, my lovely,’ he told her. ‘You come with me; we’ll stay together, you and I.’

The mastiff followed him up the stairs, but padded to the window, howling once more. Philip tugged her collar and let her stretch out on the bed. Then he lay beside her with his arm around her, and she slept with her head resting on his breast.

As he lay there restless, he remembered the scraps of food he had fed to the puppies.

And thought of kindly old Hermon with the pale blue eyes. …

*

Philip lay awake through the night, his anger overwhelming his fear. Poison was not a new way of eliminating enemies, but why not use the age-old method? The assassin’s blade-

it was swift and sure. The answer came easily; Ptolemaos was not popular with the army, having been defeated by both Bardylis in the west and Cotys, the King of Thrace, in the east. His only success had come against the weak Paionians of the north.

As with all Kings, Philip knew, Ptolemaos ruled by consent. The rich Macedonian nobles desired a man who could increase their fortunes; they wanted a King who could bring them glory. What else was there in life for a warrior people? And now they were no longer prepared to tolerate the seemingly endless – and obvious – murders of potential rivals. Ptolemaos was attempting to tread carefully.

Philip suddenly thought of Perdiccas. Of course! He too was being slowly poisoned.

But what to do? Who to trust? The answer to the second question was easier than the first. Trust no one. Rising from his bed he crept across the room, anxious not to awaken the mastiff. Out in the corridor he moved silently through the palace, down the narrow stairway to the kitchens; there were meats there, and fruit, and he ate his fill. Then he filled a small sack with provisions and carefully made his way to the room of Perdiccas. His brother was asleep and he woke him, gently pressing a hand to the young man’s shoulder.

‘What is it?’ asked Perdiccas.

‘I have brought you some food.’

‘I am not hungry, brother. Let me sleep.’

‘Listen to me!’ hissed Philip. ‘You are being poisoned!’

Perdiccas blinked and Philip told him of the dead pups. ‘Anything could have killed them,’ said Perdiccas wearily. ‘It happens all the time.’

‘You may be right,’ whispered Philip. ‘But if you are, you will lose nothing by playing my game. If you are not, then your life will be saved.’

He helped Perdiccas to sit up and waited as his brother slowly ate a little beef and cheese. ‘Fetch me some water,’ asked Perdiccas. Philip filled a cup from a pitcher on the nearby table . . . then stopped. Walking to the window, he emptied both cup and pitcher.

‘We can trust nothing we do not fetch ourselves,’ he said.

Once more he left the room, filling the pitcher from a barrel in the kitchen.

‘No one must know we suspect them,’ said Philip upon his return. ‘They must think we are eating the food they give us.’

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