‘Love me!’ she whispered. ‘Love me!’
He entered her, and so exquisite was his pleasure that his orgasm was instant. Incredibly though, he stayed erect, his passion seeming inexhaustible. He felt her trembling beneath him, moaning and crying out. He rolled from her, but she would not let him go – stroking him with gentle fingers, caressing him with soft lips. Finally he groaned and rolled to his back, where he lay with his arms around her.
‘Who are you?’ he asked her. ‘I must know. I must have you.’
‘ You will see me again, Philip. With you I will have a child, the son of a King.’
‘Where can I find you?’
‘The time is not yet. I will meet you two years from now on the Island of Mysteries. There we will be wed; thereyour son will be conceived.’
‘Your name, tell me your name!’
‘Tell me your name!’ he shouted.
‘What is it, sire?’ asked Nicanor, moving to where the King lay. Philip opened his eyes and saw the stars, bright in the night sky.
‘It was a dream,’ he whispered. ‘A gift from the gods.’
*
Unable to return to sleep, Philip sat for the rest of the night reliving the scene of his vision. In two years, she had said, she would be on the Island of Mysteries. Samothrace.
He had never been there – had never wished to. But now, he knew, only death would stop him from keeping that appointment.
Soon after dawn he woke the others and they rode down into the valley of the mines. Crousia was not a large settlement, fewer than 1,000 people dwelt here, and Elyphion’s palace overshadowed the town with its white pillars and elegant statues, its high pointed roof bearing a beautiful relief showing the goddess Athena rising from the brow of her father Zeus.
The 200 riders reined in their horses before the building and Philip dismounted. An elderly servant emerged from an outbuilding and stood slack-jawed, staring at the army before the palace.
‘You!’ shouted Philip. ‘Take my horse.’ The man stumbled forward.
‘Are you . . . expected?’ he asked, his eyes fearful.
‘I would hope not,’ answered Philip, tossing him the reins and striding towards the huge double doors beyond the pillars. Attalus, Nicanor and Antipater followed him into the building and the four men stopped in the great hallway within. Persian carpets covered the floor, statues lined the walls and an enormous mosaic decorated the ceiling -showing the Trojan prince, Paris, with the goddesses Aphrodite, Hera and Athena.
Philip felt almost humbled by the awesome surroundings. He noticed that his muddy boots had marked the carpet, and that his hands were grime-smeared.
‘Elyphion!’ he bellowed, the word echoing in the marble hallway. Servants ran from hidden doorways with panic in their eyes. One, a slender boy with golden hair, cannoned into Antipater and fell to his knees. The soldier helped him to his feet.
‘Don’t kill me!’ the boy begged.
‘No one is going to kill you,’ Antipater told him. ‘Fetch your master. Tell him the King is here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The boy began to move towards the stairs, then turned. ‘I am sorry sir, but . . . which King?’
‘The King of Macedonia,’ said Antipater.
An older man stepped forward and bowed to Philip. ‘Sire, perhaps you would like to wait in the andron. I shall fetch you refreshments.’
‘At last,’ said Philip, ‘a servant with his wits about him.’ The group followed the man into a long room to the right. Here there were silk-covered couches, and the walls were painted with hunting scenes: riders chasing a white stag, Heracles slaying the Nemean lion, archers loosing their shafts at a huge bear. ‘By the gods,’ said Philip, ‘it makes Pella look like a cattle-shed. I would be envious, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was built with my gold.’
The servant brought them wine from Elyphion’s vineyard—red, sweet and fortified with spirits. Philip lounged down on a couch, lifting his filthy boots to the silk and smearing mud on the cloth.
His mood was dark and his companions said nothing as they waited. At last Elyphion appeared. Attalus had said the man was fat, but this proved an understatement – great folds of flesh hanging beneath his chin, his enormous belly pushing at the blue Persian robes he wore. His dark hair was cut short and sat atop his head like a small, badly-fitting cap. He tried to bow, but the belly defeated him.