‘We cannot use the weapons of the enemy,’ Tamis had said. And yet, fifty years ago, the seeress had entered the mind of the pregnant Persian, taking control of her limbs. Then she had walked her to the top of the tower, forcing her to climb the parapet and leap to her death. Derae shook herself clear of the shared memory and, with growing unease, continued her journey. As the years moved on, her mood darkened. Tamis had begun to manipulate events. She it was who asked Xenophon to teach the boy strategy; she also used her powers to keep Parmenion separated from the other boys of his barracks, instilling in them a dislike for the young mix-blood.
But worst of all, Derae found the answer to a lifelong mystery.
Though she had loved Parmenion desperately, she had never understood why they had been so reckless in their love-making, so stupid and so open.
Now she saw. . . .
Now she knew. . . .
For, as with the hooded woman in Tamis’ dream, so Tamis herself had floated above the lovers, using her power to blind them to peril, urging them on, driving them to their destruction.
Worse, it was Tamis who had spirit-led the raiders to her, Tamis who had caused her horse to bolt, leaving her with no escape. It was Tamis who had filled Nestus with the craving for vengeance, who had planted in him the desire to see Derae killed.
Tamis had engineered it all.
Parmenion had been manipulated, steered like a horse with invisible reins – led to Thebes, led to Persia, led to Macedonia.
But the last lie was the worst of all. Derae saw herself battling against her bonds in the sea after being thrown from the ship. The leather at her wrists had stretched in the water and she had torn her hands free and swum for her life, the thunder of the breakers coming ever closer. She was strong and young, and she had battled the force of the deep almost to the beach when a huge wave picked her up and dashed her head against a rock. Seconds later, Naza had waded out and dragged her in to the shore.
‘She is alive!’ said the old man.
‘Carry her to the temple,’ Tamis ordered. Alive! Not chained by the bonds of death at all. Lies, lies, lies! She could have left at any time and gone to Parmenion; she could have saved him from his life of emptiness and torment.
‘Phase don’t hate me!’
Derae fled to her body and rose, staring down at the old woman as she slept. She wanted to strike her, to wake her and scream the truth at her.
A servant of the Light? A woman who professed to believe in the power of love?
Derae staggered back from the force of her own hatred and ran from the room, colliding with Leucion in the corridor beyond. She almost fell, but his arms went around her.
‘What is wrong, lady?’
‘Everything,’ whispered Derae.
And the tears followed.
Pella, Spring, 358 BC
Philip watched the 1,000-strong Foot Companions form into a fighting square and charge across the field. At a shouted order from Parmenion they halted, still in formation, and wheeled to the left. Another order saw the rear five ranks pull clear and stream out to widen the front line.
The discipline was good and the King was well pleased. He saw the men gather up their sarissas – spears three times the length of a tall man – that Philip had personally designed. Each spear had an iron point and, at the base, a spike. The warrior in the front row of the phalanx held the sarissa shaft in the crook of his right arm, while a second man behind him took up the weight of the spear, ready to ram it forward into the enemy ranks. It was an unwieldy weapon, but Philip believed it would give the raw Macedonian infantry a tactical advantage in their first battles. The phalanx would advance against the enemy, who would come to meet them expecting the surging, shoving clash of armoured men. But with the sarissa Philip felt he had an edge.