Derae sped like an arrow towards the lion.
Macedonia, Summer, 359 BC
Philip dragged his horse to a standstill as he saw the lion lope into the rocks. The joy of the hunt was on him, the intoxicating spirit of danger proving – as always – stronger than wine. He leapt lightly to the ground, his short stabbing spear held firmly in his right hand, the iron point honed to razor sharpness.
The years since the assassination of Ptolemaos had been good to Philip. No longer a slim young boy, the prince was now broad-shouldered and powerful with a trimmed black beard, glossy as the pelt of a panther, adorning his face. At twenty-three Philip of Macedon was in his prime.
When Perdiccas took the throne Philip had known peace for the first time in years. He had moved south of the capital to the royal estates beyond the ancient capital of Aigai, and there had indulged in all the pleasures enjoyed by Macedonian nobles – hunting, drinking, whoring. But, of mem all, it was the hunt which most fired his blood. Bears, wolves, deer, wild oxen, boars and leopards – Macedonia was alive with game.
But the lion was growing scarce. Now a shaggy male had moved down from the mountains, attacking the sheep Socks, killing goats and cattle. For five days they had tracked it, losing the spoor only to find it again, moving always south. It seemed as if the beast was drawing them ever closer to Mount Olympus, the home of the gods.
Philip glanced south at the distant mountain. ‘Be with me, father Zeus!’ he whispered as he moved slowly into the rocks. He should have waited for his companions, but – as ever – Philip was anxious to make the kill, to be the first to strike.
The noon sun beat down on the prince’s back as he inched his way forward. Lions did not like to be moving in the heat, he knew, preferring to find a shady spot to sleep. And this one had recently killed a large sheep, gorging himself on the fat-filled flesh. Philip hefted his spear. The point would have to enter behind the lion’s shoulder, driving deep into his lungs and heart. Even then a single sweep of its paw could crush a man’s ribs, the talons disembowelling the spearman.
Philip glanced back, seeing that Attalus and the others were still some distance away. The pale-eyed assassin would be furious if Philip made the kill without him. He chuckled. Attalus was already angry, for Perdiccas had taken the army west to challenge Bardylis, leaving him behind. Despite the assassin’s aid eleven years earlier, Perdiccas had never trusted him nor allowed him to rise to prominence; he was still a mere Captain of the Guard.
A low growl came from ahead, beyond the boulders. The sound was deep and rumbling. Fear touched Philip with fingers of fire, and he revelled in it as at the caress of a beautiful woman.
‘Come to me,’ he whispered.
The lion charged from the rocks. It was huge, seeming to Philip larger than a pony. There was no time to run to the side and deliver the killing thrust.
Philip dropped to one knee and grounded the haft of the spear, the point aimed at the lion’s throat. It would not stop him, he realized. The haft would snap under the impact, then the fangs would tear at his face. Instantly he knew the day of his death was upon him, yet he stayed calm, determined he would not die alone. This monster would walk beside him on the road to Hades.
Behind him he heard the sound of hoofbeats, but his friends were too late to save him.
‘Come on!’ he roared at the lion. ‘Come and die with me!’
Suddenly the beast twisted – as if in pain – the charge faltering. Its huge head lifted and a terrifying roar rent the air … And the monster halted, inches ahead of the iron spear-point.
Philip could smell the beast’s rancid breath and found himself staring at the fangs, long and curved like Persian daggers. He looked up into the beast’s tawny eyes.