‘How can you be sure?’
‘The nature of men,’ said Philip. ‘The desire to be led. And Attalus will speak to them. He is a Captain of the Guard and they will listen to him. Is that not so, Attalus?’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed the warrior cautiously. ‘But the risks are still very great.’
Philip laughed. ‘Risks? I have lived with the prospect of assassination for years. What risks? We may die? All men die, rich and poor alike. But if I am to die, then let it be while I fight, not like some bullock in a pen waiting for the axe to fall.’
Attalus listened as Philip outlined his plan, and his admiration for the young man grew. He found himself wishing that the boy was older; he would make a fine King, a man of power and insight. He glanced at Perdiccas. There was strength here also, but he was a lesser man than his brother. Still, if this lunatic venture succeeded it was Perdiccas who would take the crown. Attalus waited until Philip had finished speaking, then he turned to Perdiccas and knelt.
‘I hope, sire, that when we have succeeded you will not hold it against me that I served your father’s murderer? I had no hand in it.’
Perdiccas looked down at the man, then laid his hand on
his shoulder. ‘I will forgive you that, Attalus. And I will see you rewarded for this night’s work.’
The three men left the room, Attalus leading the way through the palace to the corridor before the King’s apartments. There the brothers waited while he strode forward to where the two black-cloaked guards were sitting outside the bedroom door.
Attalus gestured to the guards to follow him and walked on. The men rose, glanced at one another, then moved to the end of the corridor where Attalus waited.
‘Have you seen anything suspicious?’ Attalus whispered.
‘In what way, sir?’ asked one of the men. Behind the guards the princes had moved out into the open. Attalus found his mouth dry. This is madness, he thought.
‘Have you seen anyone in the corridor this evening?’ he enquired, as the brothers crept towards the bedroom door.
‘Only you, sir. And the King himself. Is there some trouble?’
‘Probably not. But be vigilant.’ Philip had opened the door, both princes were slipping inside.
‘Of course, sir. We don’t sleep on duty.’
Attalus watched the door of the bedchamber close. ‘The world offers many surprises,’ he said. ‘Sometimes a man just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘I don’t understand,’ the man replied.
‘No, I am afraid you don’t,’ answered Attalus, his dagger flashing into the man’s throat. The second guard stood rooted to the spot for a moment, then grabbed for his sword, but Attalus tore his dagger free and plunged the point through the man’s eye.
From the King’s bedchamber came a terrible scream. Attalus ran forward, throwing open the door.
Ptolemaos lay half out of the bed with two swords jutting from his chest and belly. The King fell to the floor and tried to drag himself towards Attalus, but Philip ran forward wrenching loose his sword. Ptolemaos screamed again -then the blade hacked through his neck.
Philip rose, turned and knelt before Perdiccas.
‘You will never have to kneel to me,’ promised the new
King of Macedonia, lifting Philip to his feet. ‘And I will never forget what you have done for me.’
The Temple, Summer, 359 BC
In the eleven years since Parmenion’s victory at Leuctra, Derae had suffered many strange dreams – visions of darkness and evil, demon-haunted and terrifying. At first Tamis would appear in her dreams, rescuing her, telling her of the servants of the Dark God who sought to destroy them both. As the years flowed on Derae’s powers grew and she found the night attacks less daunting. Yet now she was lost within a dark, troubled nightmare, shadows darting just out of her range of vision as she spun and twisted, trying in vain to glimpse them. But all she could see were grey castle walls, water glistening on cold stone.
Darkness rose like smoke around her and from within it she heard the sound of rasping breath, the scratching of talons on stone pavings. Piercing pain tore into her arms as a creature of scale and slime leapt at her. White light blazed from her fingers, and a terrible scream echoed along the stone corridors. Glancing down at her arms, she saw the marks of talons in bloody tears on her flesh; but of the creature there was no sign, only a fleeting memory of cold opal eyes and a wide-slitted mouth. Swiftly she healed herself and tried to soar, but the stone ceiling held her trapped, as did the walls and floor.