The workers were all soldiers from the Pelagonia and Lynkos districts to the north-west, land currently occupied by Bardylis and his Illyrians. The men worked cheerfully enough, especially when the King struggled alongside them, but he knew they remembered his promise that they could return to their homes within three months of the victory against the Paionians.
That was five weeks ago – and still there was no treaty with Bardylis. Yet, looking on the positive side, Philip thought that was promising, for the Illyrians had not marched further into Macedonian territory and Bardylis was considering Philip’s offer to marry his daughter. As a gesture of good faith and ‘continuing brotherhood’ Bardylis had requested that the Macedonian King hand over to Illyria all the lands between the Bora mountains and the Pindos range; six districts in all including Pelagonia, rich in timber, with good grazing and fine pastures.
‘Ugly brides do not come cheaply, it seems,’ Philip had told Nicanor.
Now the King was ridding himself of tension by sheer physical labour. The trench would be finished by tomorrow, then the footings could be completed and he could watch, with pleasure, the growth of the barracks.
No simple structure of wood and mud-brick, the
frontage would be carved stone, the roof clay-tiled, the rooms airy and full of light.
‘But you are talking of a palace, sire,’ the architect had objected.
‘And I want three wells and a fountain in the central courtyard. Also a special section for the commanding officer, with an andron to accommodate twenty – no, thirty men.’
‘As you wish, sire . . . but it will not be cheap.’
‘If I wanted cheap, I would have hired a Spartan,’ Philip replied, patting the man’s thin shoulder.
The King wandered to a pile of rocks and sat down. A workman brought him a goblet of water from a cool stone jar; it tasted like nectar. He thanked the man, recognizing him as the burly, bearded warrior who had led the cheering after the first battle.
‘What is your name, friend?’
‘Theoparlis, sire. Most call me Theo.’
‘It should be a fine building, Theo. Fit for the troops of the King.’
‘Indeed it will, sire. I am sorry I shall not enjoy the pleasure of living in it, but in two months I shall be returning to my wife in Pelagonia – is that not true?’
‘It is true,’ agreed Philip. ‘And before another year is out I will come to you there – and offer you a place in this fine barracks and a house for your wife in Pella.’
‘I will look forward to your visit,’ said Theo, bowing and returning to his work. Philip watched him go and then swung his gaze to the east, where two riders were making their way from the city centre. He drained his water and watched them. The lead rider wore a bronze breastplate and an iron helm, but Philip was more intent on the horse, a chestnut stallion of some sixteen hands. All Macedonian nobles were raised as horsemen, and Philip’s love of the beasts was second to none. The stallion had a fine head, eyes set well apart – a good indication of sound character. Its neck was long, but not overly so, the mane cropped like a helmet plume. Philip strolled towards the riders, angling so that he could see the stallion’s back and flanks. Its shoulder-blades were sloping and powerful, which would
give the beast long sweeping strides, making it fast and yet comfortable to ride. Straight shoulders, Philip knew, led to jarring steps and discomfort for the rider.
‘You there!’ came a voice and Philip glanced up. The second rider, a short stout man riding a sway-backed grey gelding, was pointing at him. ‘We are looking for the King. Take us to him.’
Philip studied the man. He was bald, but red and silver hair grew over his ears like a laurel crown. ‘Who wants him?’ he asked.
‘That is none of your concern, peasant,’ snapped the rider.
‘Gently, gently, Mothac,’ said the other man, lifting his leg and jumping to the ground. He was tall and slim, though his arms were well muscled, showing the scars of many fights. Philip looked up into the man’s eyes; they were pale blue, but the face was tanned to the colour of leather, making them as grey as storm-clouds. Philip’s heart leapt as he recognized Parmenion, but quelling the urge to run forward and embrace the Spartan he kept his face free of emotion and wandered forward.