‘Thank you, sire,’ said Attalus, his eyes gleaming as he bowed low. ‘But what of Elyphion?’
‘Who is the foremost judge in Macedonia?’ responded Philip.
‘The King, sire.’
‘Indeed he is. For his greed, I sentence Elyphion to five years working in this mine. See to it that he works well.’
Elyphion threw himself to his knees.’I beg you, sire . . .’
‘Get him out of my sight!’ roared the King. Three soldiers dragged the weeping man away.
‘What of his wives?’ Nicanor asked.
‘Buy them a house in Crousia and give them an allowance. The treasures are to be brought to Pella. Where is the man’s servant?’
‘Here, sire. My name is Paralus.’ Philip looked into the man’s eyes. He was of medium height, his hair short and tightly curled, his nose hooked, his complexion dark.
‘You are a Persian?’
‘Phrygian, sire.’
‘How long have you served Elyphion?’
‘Since he bought me eleven years ago, when I was twelve.’
‘How did you serve him?’
‘At first I was his catamite – one of them. Then he had me trained to keep his accounts.’
‘Where does he hide his gold?’
‘There is a store-room beneath the palace.’
‘Attalus, have the contents sent to me – less one hundredth. Now, Paralus, you have a new master. Will you serve him well?’
The servant glanced from Attalus to the King. ‘Sire, Elyphion promised me my freedom on my twenty-fifth year. He said he would then pay me for my work. Does his promise still hold true? Or do I remain a slave under this new master?’
‘I give you a better promise. In three months you will be a free man. From this moment you will be paid according to the value Attalus sets on your work. Now I ask you again, will you serve us well?’
‘I will, sire – and honestly.’
‘Let it be so,’ Philip told him.
Illyria, Autumn, 359 BC
Bardylis sat very still as the razor-sharp knife scraped away the hair beneath his braided top-knot. The skin of his scalp was loose and wrinkled, but the servant’s hands were steady as the blade caressed the skin.
‘One nick and I will have your hands cut off,’ said Bardylis suddenly. The servant froze for a moment, then rubbed more oil into the King’s face and head to soften the bristle. The knife slid over the skin above Bardylis’ right ear, then the servant moved to stand in front of the King.
‘Move your head back, sire,’ he said. Bardylis looked up at the man and offered his neck. The knife continued its work until at last the servant stepped back.
Bardylis stroked the skin of his face and head. ‘You did well, Boli,’ he told the man. ‘Now tell me, why did my threat not unnerve you?’
The man shrugged. ‘I don’t know, lord.’
‘Then I shall tell you,’ said Bardylis, smiling. ‘It is because you decided that if you made a single nick you would cut my throat and then run for your life.’
Boli’s eyes widened and Bardylis saw that the truth had hit home. He gave a dry chuckle and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Do not let it concern you.’
‘If you knew that, lord, then why did you threaten me?’
‘A little danger adds spice to life, and – by the Balls of
Zeus – when you reach eighty-three you need a lot of spice. Send in Grigery.’
Bardylis wandered to a bronze mirror and gazed at his reflection, hating the sagging skin of his face, the spindly limbs and the thin, white hairs of his long moustache. There were times when he wished he had not been quite so skilful at recognizing traitors. Perhaps, he thought idly, I should have let Bichlyis kill me. His son had been a fine warrior, tall and proud; but he had reached fifty years and still his father ruled the Dardanoi. The rebellion had been shortlived, his army crushed, and Bardylis had watched his son being slowly strangled to death.
He turned away from the mirror as the man who had killed his son entered. Grigery was tall, wide-shouldered and slim-hipped. Though he boasted the shaved skull and braided top-knot of the Dardanoi, he had grown neither beard nor moustache, his clean-shaven face pale and handsome after the fashion of the southern Greeks.