His thoughts raged like a storm in his mind. The balance of power was everything! To the west the Illyrians, to the north the Paionians, to the east the Thracians and to the south Thebes. While each nation had a strong army, there was little danger of full-scale invasion. But now, with Macedonia’s army destroyed, the land was open to any with the courage to take it. Philip thought of his enemies. First Bardylis, the cunning King of Illyria; eighty years old, maybe more, but with a mind as sharp as a timber-wolf. After him Cotys, the King of Thrace; just turned sixty, a greedy, ruthless monarch whose avaricious eyes would now turn to the Macedonian mines no more than a day’s ride from his Thracian borders in the east. Then the Paionians, tribesmen from the north who lived to fight and plunder. After them the power-hungry Thebans, the pompous Athenians. The gods knew how many others!
‘One fear at a time,’ he cautioned himself. What if, he wondered, he did not try for the crown? One name soared into his mind: Archelaos, his stepbrother. The hatred between them was stronger than iron, and colder than a winter blizzard. Archelaos would fight for the throne -and his first action would be to see Philip dead.
Philip called to Attalus. ‘I am riding for Pella,’ he told the warrior. ‘It is likely that Archelaos has not yet heard the news. When he does he will also come to the capital, but he will be travelling from Cercine. Take twenty men – and see that he does not survive the journey.’
Attalus smiled grimly. ‘A task I’ll enjoy, for sure,’ he said.
The City of Susa, Persia, Autumn, 359 BC
‘It is your own fault,’ said Mothac, as Parmenion paced back and forth across the room. ‘Who else can you blame?’
The Spartan moved to the wide doors leading to the gardens, where he stood staring out over the terraces with their hanging blooms and trees garlanded with blossom. The scents were sweet and the view exquisite, but Parmenion turned away, his face flushed, his eyes angry.
‘Blame?’ he snarled. ‘Who else but that cursed Persian brat? He loses seventy men because he cannot be bothered to clear the fighting ground of boulders. Seventy! Then he had the brass balls to tell me it doesn’t matter, they were only peasants.’
‘He is a royal prince, Parmenion. What did you expect when you revoked his commission? Praise? Another prize stallion?’
‘Persians!’ hissed Parmenion. ‘I am sick of them.’
‘No,’ said Mothac softly. ‘You are sick of Persia, my friend. And you are too canny not to have understood the consequences of dismissing Darius.’
‘What are you saying? That I wanted my own commission revoked?’
‘Exactly that.’
‘Nonsense! We have everything here that men could desire. Look around you, Mothac. Silks, fine couches,
beautiful grounds. How many Kings in Greece can boast such a palace? Slaves to obey our every desire, and more coin than we could spend in two lifetimes. You think I willingly threw this away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s get some air,’ muttered the Spartan, strolling out into the gardens and along the paved walkways. Mothac followed the general into the bright sunshine, silently cursing himself for forgetting his hat of straw. During the last ten years Mothac had grown steadily more bald, a calamity he blamed totally on the harsh Persian sun.
‘How could he have been so stupid?’ asked Parmenion. ‘He knew he could get no chariot support unless he cleared the ground. And he had 1,000 men under his command. It would have taken no more than an hour, perhaps two. But no, our fine Persian prince leaves his men sitting in the sunshine and rides into the hills to bathe in a cool stream.’
‘We were finished here anyway,’ pointed out the Theban. ‘The Satrap Wars are all but over. What else could the Great King have asked of you? You have won his battles in Cappadocia, Phrygia, Egypt, Mesopotamia and other places with names I cannot wrap around my tongue. We don’t need any more wars. Let us just sit here and enjoy our dotage. The gods know we need no more coin.’