Time ceased, the moment lingering.
Philip slowly stood and then reached out, touching the spear-point to the lion’s mane. The beast blinked but did not move. Philip sensed Nicanor behind him, drawing an arrow from his quiver.
‘Let no one loose a shaft,’ said the prince, his voice soft and low.
The lion moved forward, its pelt rubbing against Philip’s leg; then it turned and ambled away into the rocks.
Attalus ran to the prince. ‘I never saw anything like it,’ he whispered.
Philip shivered. ‘Nor I.’
‘Do we give chase?’
‘I do not think so, my friend. And I have lost all appetite for the hunt.’ He glanced back to where the lion had been.
‘Was it an omen of some kind? Was it really a lion?’ Attalus asked.
‘If it was a god, he had appalling breath,’ answered Philip, glancing nervously at the distant peaks of Mount Olympus.
The huntsmen took a leisurely route back to Philip’s summer home twenty miles south of the city of Aigai. They were almost there when the rider came galloping from the north and rode alongside Philip. His horse was lathered and close to exhaustion.
‘The King is dead,’ he said, ‘the army destroyed.’
‘Perdiccas dead? I do not believe it,’ cried Attalus. The rider ignored him and looked to Philip.
‘The King advanced on the Illyrians, but our centre gave way. Perdiccas tried to counter-charge, but the enemy were
expecting it. The cavalry were cut to pieces, the King’s head placed on a lance. We lost over 4,000 men.’
Philip had never been close to his brother, but neither were they enemies. The younger man had admired the King for his prowess as statesman and warrior. What now, he wondered? The King’s son was only two years old and the army -whatever was left of it – would never agree to a babe being crowned, not with the nation under threat. He rode away from the men and dismounted; sitting on a boulder, he stared out to sea. He had never wanted to be King, had never desired anything more from life than to be able to hunt, and drink, and make love. Perdiccas understood that, which was why he had never considered having Philip assassinated.
For his part Philip mostly avoided affairs of state. He had warned Perdiccas of the perils of attacking the Illyrians, but such battles were common and very rarely decisive; the losers would agree to pay large sums in tribute to the victors, and then life would go on. But for the King to fall on the battlefield, along with 4,000 Macedonians! It was a tragedy of awesome proportions. The balance of power in northern Greece was delicate at the best of times, and with this catastrophe it would be thrown into turmoil.
Perdiccas had proved a good King, popular and strong. But he was obsessed with the desire to crush Bardylis and nothing Philip had said would sway him.
‘Send for Parmenion,’ Philip had urged.
‘I need no half-blood Spartan,’ Perdiccas had replied.
‘Would you like me to ride with you?’
For a moment he thought the answer would be yes. Perdiccas’ handsome face softened, but then the hard look returned to his eyes. ‘No, brother. You stay in Aigai. Enjoy yourself.’
As Philip had turned to leave, Perdiccas reached out and took hold of the younger man’s shoulder. ‘I never forgot what you did for me,’ he said.
‘I know that. You do not need to say it.’
‘There are some who have urged me to kill you, Philip. There are some who believe . . . ah, what does it matter? I did not kill Archelaos, and he has proved no threat.’
‘Do not fear for me, brother,’ Philip told him. ‘I have no wish to be King. But beware of Bardylis. If you lose, he will set a tribute you may find hard to pay.’
Perdiccas grinned. ‘I shall not lose.’
Now Philip shook himself loose of the memory and called the rider to him. ‘Where are the Illyrians now?’
‘They have not advanced, sire. They stripped the dead and now they are camped four days’ ride from Pella.’
‘Do not call me sire, I am not the King,’ snapped Philip, waving the man away.