‘You were magnificent on that first night,’ she said.
‘I remember nothing of it, more’s the pity. But I remember the morning after. You have been a fire in my blood for two years – ever since the dream. Only the gods will know how I have missed you these last seven months. Why did you have to spend so long in Epirus?’
‘I suffered problems with the pregnancy. To have travelled might have meant losing your son.’
‘Then you were wise to wait. Everything I have built has been for you – and for him.’
‘He will be your heir? she asked, whispering the question.
‘My only heir, I promise you.’
‘What of your sons from future wives?’
‘They will not take his place.’
‘Then I am content, Philip. Truly content. Will you attack the Olynthians?’
Philip chuckled and sat up. ‘Parmenion told me you were a student of strategy. I did not believe him. Why do you concern yourself with such matters?’
Her green eyes hardened. ‘My father was a King, from a
line of Kings. You think I should learn to weave and grow flowers? No, Philip, that is no life for Olympias. Now tell me about the Olynthians.’
‘No,’ he said, rolling from the bed.
‘Why? Do you think me stupid? I want to help you. I want to be a part of your plans.’
‘You are a part of my plans,’ he said, swinging to face her. ‘You are the mother of my son. Can you not be content with that? I have many advisers, but few are those with whom I share my private thoughts. Can you understand that? No one can betray my plans, if no one knows the full extent of them.’
‘You think I would betray you?’ she snapped.
‘I never met a woman yet who knew when to hold her tongue!’ he roared, ‘and you are proving no exception.’ Philip threw a cloak around his shoulders and strode from the room.
It was close to midnight and the corridor beyond was deserted, only two of the seven lanterns still flickering. The King marched to the end of the corridor, wrenching open the doors. The two guards beyond snapped to attention. Ignoring them, Philip stepped out into the moonlit gardens. The guards glanced at one another, then followed him.
‘Leave me be!’ he thundered.
‘We cannot, sire. The Lord Attalus . . .’
‘Who is the King here?’ he bellowed, glaring at them. They shifted uneasily, and his anger passed. He knew their problem. If the King walked away into the night to be murdered, their own lives would be forfeit; they were in an impossible situation. ‘I am sorry, lads. A burst of temper, no more than that.’ He sighed. ‘Women! They bring out the worst and the best in any man.’ The men grinned. ‘All right, follow me to the home of Parmenion.’
The half-naked King and the two black-cloaked guards crossed the gardens to the western wing of the palace. Lantern-light could be seen from Parmenion’s quarters and the King did not bother to knock on the narrow side door. Opening it, he stepped inside.
Parmenion was sitting with his servant and friend, the Theban Mothac. Both men were poring over maps. The Spartan glanced up, showing no surprise at the King’s entrance.
‘And what are we studying?’ asked Philip, striding across the room to stare down at the maps.
‘The upper reaches of the River Axios, north of the Bora mountains,’ said Parmenion. ‘The maps came today. I commissioned them last year.’
‘You are anticipating problems in that area?’ Philip enquired.
‘There is a new Illyrian leader named Grabus who is trying to organize a league with the Paionians. They could prove troublesome.’
Philip sat on a couch and swung to Mothac. ‘Pour me some wine, Theban,’ he commanded.
‘Why?’ responded Mothac, eyes blazing. ‘Have you lost the use of your arms?’
‘What?’ shouted Philip, his face reddening, his earlier anger returning with redoubled force.
‘I am no Macedonian – and not your servant,’ Mothac told him. Philip lurched to his feet.
‘Enough!’ stormed Parmenion, leaping between the two men. ‘What nonsense is this? Mothac, leave us!’ The Theban made as if to speak, then spun on his heel and stalked from the room. ‘I am sorry, sire,’ the Spartan told the King. ‘He is not himself. I cannot believe he would act in that manner.’