Gemmell, David – Lion of Macedon 01

Perdiccas nodded. His head fell back to the pillow and he slept.

For four days Philip continued his nightly visits to his brother, and slowly the colour returned to Perdiccas’ features. On the morning of the fifth day Hermon arrived at Philip’s rooms, bearing a tray of cheese and figs and a fresh pitcher of water.

‘How did you sleep, my lord?’ he asked, his smile kindly.

‘Not well, my friend,’ Philip told him, keeping his voice low and tired. ‘I cannot seem to recover from this vomiting. And my strength is not good. Should I see a doctor?’

‘That is not necessary, lord,’ said Hermon. ‘These . . . minor stomach ailments occur in autumn. You will recover soon.’

‘Thank you. You are very kind to me. Will you join me for breakfast? There is too much there for me.’

Hermon spread his hands. ‘Would that I could, lord, but my duties are not yet completed. Enjoy your meal. I would advise you to force yourself to eat – only in this way will you rebuild your strength.’

When he had gone Philip put on a long blue cloak and, carrying the pitcher hidden within its folds, walked swiftly to the servants’ halls and the rooms of Hermon. He knew the old man would be with Perdiccas and he entered his quarters. A fresh pitcher of water stood by the window. Leaning out over the sill, the youngster saw the gardens below were deserted and emptied Hermon’s pitcher, refilling it from his own.

On the following morning a different servant brought the prince’s breakfast. ‘Where is my friend, Hermon?’ Philip asked.

‘He is unwell, sir,’ said the man, bowing.

‘I am sorry to hear that. Please tell him I hope he recovers soon.’

That afternoon Perdiccas rose from his bed. His legs were weak, but his strength was returning. ‘What are we to do?’ he asked his younger brother.

‘This cannot go on,’ Philip said softly. ‘They will soon realize we are no longer taking the poison. Then, I fear, it will be the knife or the sword.’

‘You mentioned running away,’ offered Perdiccas. ‘I think I am nearly strong enough to join you. We could head for Amphipolis.’

‘Thebes would be better,’ said Philip. ‘I have friends there. But we cannot wait too long – another three days at most. Until then you must stay in your bed and tell any who ask that you are feeling weaker. And we will need coin, and horses.’

‘I have no money,’ said Perdiccas.

‘I will think on it,’ Philip promised.

*

Hermon knelt before the three men, glancing up nervously into the hawklike eyes of Ptolemaos. ‘They must be very strong to withstand the powders, sire, but I will increase the doses. The older one will be dead in three days, I promise you.’

Ptolemaos turned to Attalus. ‘I should have listened to you,’ he said, his voice deep and sepulchral.

‘It is not too late, sire,’ replied Attalus. ‘Perdiccas is weak. I could smother him in his sleep. No one would be the wiser.’

‘And Philip?’

Attalus hesitated.

‘I’d like to kill him,’ said Archelaos suddenly. ‘It would give me pleasure.’

His father laughed. ‘I do not know what it is about the boy that you detest. He is personable enough. But – let it be so. You kill him – but not tonight. Let Perdiccas die first. Philip can wait a week or so.’ He swung to Attalus. ‘You say that no one will suspect if the boys are smothered? Is there no sign?’

‘None, sire.’

Ptolemaos gestured to his son, then whispered in his ear. The tall prince nodded and made as if to leave the room. Then suddenly he sprang upon Hermon, pinning his arms behind him.

‘Show me!’ ordered the King. Attalus took hold of an embroidered cushion and covered Hermon’s face, pressing the material hard against the old man’s nose and mouth. The victim struggled weakly for a while, then his legs twitched and gave way, the stench of open bowels filling the room. Attalus lifted the cushion clear of the old man and Archelaos let go of the body, which sank to the floor. Ptolemaos leaned over it, staring hard into the dead face. ‘I don’t like the expression,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t look like someone who died in his sleep.’

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