‘You’ll win, though, Philip. You will. There’s not a man in Greece to out-think you.’
Philip chuckled and threw his arm around his friend’s
shoulder. ‘I would accept that compliment more readily if there was any basis for it in fact. But I need a miracle. I need Parmenion.’
‘What can a Spartan do for us?’
‘He can build me an army – and, by the bones of Heracles, I need one. Find him for me, Nicanor. Send out riders, use the seers. Anything. Find him.’
Pushing the problems from his mind, he found himself remembering his days as a hostage in Thebes eleven years ago, when he had watched the legendary Parmenion training the Sacred Band. There was something about the man, a calm that spoke of great strength, and in his pale eyes Philip had seen an understanding, sensing an affinity with the Spartan warrior.
Then had come Leuctra and the defeat of the awesome Spartans. Parmenion’s victory. From that time Philip had begun to look for news of the Spartan’s travels, listening eagerly to tales of his victories in Egypt and Persia. Satraps offered him fortunes in gold and jewels, vying for the favours of the greatest general of the age. Even the Great King was said to be in awe of his skill.
Once an enemy army surrendered when they heard that Parmenion had been hired to lead a force against them. Even his name had power.
How I need you now, thought Philip.
Attalus approached the King as he stood by the window, his thoughts distant. ‘What of the babe, sire?’ he whispered. ‘Do you wish it despatched?’
It was a reasonable question and Philip considered it. If allowed to grow, his nephew would one day perhaps seek to win his father’s throne. And it was customary to eliminate all other claimants.
Philip sighed. ‘Where is Simiche?’
‘As you commanded, the Queen is a prisoner in her rooms. She still has three hand-maidens, and the child is with her.’
‘I will do it,’ said Philip. He walked swiftly from the throne-room and down the long corridor to the adjoining building in the east. Two guards saluted as he reached the
Queen’s quarters; he nodded to them and entered Simiche’s private chamber. The Queen was a small woman, elfin-faced, her hair long and dark. She looked up as he entered and almost managed to keep the fear from her face. The toddler, Amyntas, smiled as he saw his uncle and tottered towards him. Simiche stood and gathered the child to her, stroking his dark curls.
Philip dismissed the hand-maidens, who ran from the room. Simiche said nothing; she did not plead, she merely sat, cuddling her son. Philip was torn. His hand was on his knife-hilt, but he stood in the centre of the room confused and uncertain. Perdiccas could have ordered Philip’s death, but he had not. Now Philip was standing before the woman Perdiccas had loved and the son he had adored.
He sighed. ‘The boy will be safe, Simiche,’ he said at last. ‘No harm will come to him. You will go to my summer home and raise him there. I will see you have a good allowance for his education.’
‘Do not deceive me, Philip,’ she replied. ‘If you plan to have us killed, do it now. Do not raise false hopes. Be a man – and use that knife. I will not resist.’
‘You have my word, Simiche. There is no question of killing the boy.
She closed her eyes, her head dropping. Tears fell to her cheeks, the release of tension making her tremble as she hugged the boy to her, kissing his face. He struggled to be free of such intense emotion. Philip sat beside the Queen, putting his arm around her. The boy reached out, and giggled as he tugged the King’s dark beard.
‘May the gods bless you,’ Simiche whispered.
‘They are not making good work of it at present,’ said Philip.
‘They will,’ she promised him. ‘Perdiccas loved you, Philip – but he was in awe of you. He said you had greatness within you and I believe that now. What will you do?’
He shrugged and smiled, ruffling the boy’s hair. ‘I have no army, and am being attacked from the west, the north, the east and the south. I think I will shave off my beard and become a travelling actor – a reader of comedies.’