Gemmell, David – Lion of Macedon 01

‘Thank you,’ answered Philip. The beasts were pretty to look at but their chests were not deep, and this, he knew, indicated little room for lungs and heart and therefore a lack of stamina and strength.

The two men mounted the horses and rode slowly towards the palace, the walking women trailing behind.

In fields to left and right other horses were cropping grass. They were spindly-legged beasts, many of them roach-backed, the spine curving upwards thus making them uncomfortable to ride.

Philip found his disgust hard to conceal. ‘What is the point of breeding such useless animals?’ he asked Parmenion.

The Spartan pointed back to the port. ‘Chariots and wagons, sire, but no horsemen. Obviously they do not concern themselves with riding.’

The King grunted. Nothing offended a Macedonian more than poor horse-breeding.

His good humour was restored at the palace when they were met by three beautiful women, dressed in robes of yellow and green. ‘Are there no men here?’ he asked.

‘Only you and your companion, sire,’ one of them replied. They were led to sumptuous apartments with silk-covered couches and gold-embroidered curtains.

‘If there is anything you require, my lord, you have merely to ask,’ said a young raven-haired girl.

Philip smiled and took hold of her waist. ‘Exactly what is meant by anything?’ he asked.

Her hand slid under his tunic, caressing the skin of his inner thigh. ‘It means exactly what you want it to mean,’ she told him.

Parmenion strode to the window, drawing back the hangings and staring out over the fields and meadows. He was tired and wished only for a bath. Hearing the girl giggling behind him, he cursed softly.

‘What is wrong with you, strategos?’ asked Philip, and Parmenion turned. The girls had gone.

‘I am just ill at ease.’

‘You should take my advice. Enjoy these women, it is good for the soul.’

‘Maybe I will,’ Parmenion told him.

Philip filled two wine cups from a pitcher on a small table, passing one to Parmenion. ‘Sit with me a while, my friend,’ said the King, leading Parmenion to a couch. ‘When I was in Thebes they told me about your love for a priestess called Thetis . . .’

‘I do not wish to talk of it, sire.’

‘You have never spoken to me of her, nor of the other woman you loved. Why is that?’

Parmenion swallowed hard and looked away. ‘What point is there in talking of the past? What does it achieve?’

‘Sometimes it lances the boil, Parmenion.’

The general closed his eyes, fighting back the rush of memories. ‘I… have loved two women. Both, in different ways, died for me. The first was called Derae and she was Spartan. Because of our . . . love . . . she was sacrificed: thrown into the sea off the coast of Asia. The second was Thetis; she was killed by assassins sent by Agisaleus. There have been no others. Never again will someone I love die for me. Now, if it please you, sire, I would prefer . . .’

‘It does not please me,’ said Philip. ‘It is a fact of life that people die. My first wife, Phila, died only a year after our wedding. I adored her; on the night she died I wanted to cut

my throat and follow her to Hades. But I didn’t – and now I am about to meet a woman of dreams.’

‘I am pleased for you,’ said Parmenion coldly. ‘But we are different men, you and I.’

‘Not so different,’ Philip put in. ‘But you wear armour, both on your body and on your spirit. I am younger than you, my friend, but in this I am as a father to a frightened son. You need a wife, you need sons^of your own. Do not concern yourself about love. Your father, whoever he was, gave you as his gift to the world. You are his immortality. In turn your sons will do that for you. Now, I will preach no more. I shall bathe, and then I shall send for that sweet-limbed young girl. You, I suspect, will walk around the palace grounds examining natural defences and seeking out hidden assassins.’

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