Attalus chuckled and knelt by the body, pushing shut the mouth and closing the dead eyes. ‘Yes, that is better,’ whispered the King. ‘Good. Let it be done.’
As the evening approached Attalus sat in his rooms, sipping watered wine. He did not want to be drunk for this evening’s work, yet his impulses urged him to drink the flagon dry. He prided himself on having an ordered mind and pushed away the wine cup. What is the matter with you? he asked himself. The answer came swiftly. He did not feel comfortable with the thought of Philip’s death, though he could not think why. It was not as if he liked the boy -Attalus did not like anyone. And yet I do not wish to see him dead, he realized. The whole business was becoming disturbing. Ptolemaos was a fool; he was ruthless enough, but there his talents ended. Archelaos was no better. If anything, he had less talent than his father. Unrest was growing. Many of the nobles now stayed away from the palace, and the morale of the army was low. If Ptolemaos should fall, then his favourites would be dragged down with him, and Attalus had no wish to win a place among the fallen.
But what do I do? he wondered.
Attalus found his mood darkening along with the sky. He had no choice. Not yet. First kill Perdiccas, then find the
leading Macedonian dissident and be ready to switch horses when the days of blood drew near. He cursed – and reached once more for the wine.
He waited until midnight and then walked silently along the deserted corridors, coming at last to the oak doors of Perdiccas’ rooms. He could see light beneath the door and pushed his ear against the wood. There were voices within, though he could make out no words. He cursed softly, and was about to leave when the door was pulled open and he found himself facing Philip. The boy looked shocked, his hand flicking towards his dagger.
‘There is nothing to fear,’ said Attalus, easing past him and into the room. The older prince was sitting on a couch, eating bread and cheese; he looked stronger than Attalus had ever seen him. The warrior turned to Philip. ‘I was looking for you,’ he lied easily, ‘but you were not in your rooms. I thought you might be here.’
‘Why should you seek me out in the night?’ asked Philip, suspicious.
‘There is a plot to kill you,’ said Attalus, ‘but then you know that. Hence the midnight feast. No wonder the poisons failed to take effect. But that is by the by. Ptolemaos has ordered me to kill your brother tonight. You are to die next week.’
Attalus heard the rasping whisper of an iron blade hissing from a scabbard and swung to see Perdiccas advancing with a sword. He had not realized how tall the prince was, nor sensed the power in him.
‘That is not necessary,’ he said, his voice low. ‘I am not here to obey the order, I am here to warn you.’
‘Why should I believe you?’ countered Perdiccas, holding the point of the blade to Attalus’ throat.
‘Wait!’ urged Philip, as he saw his brother tense for the thrust. ‘Let us not be rash! I believe him.
‘Thank you,’ whispered Attalus, slowly reaching up and pushing the blade from his skin. ‘The question is, what do we do? I would suggest riding from the palace and heading for Amphipolis. Once there you can gather support from discontented nobles and – perhaps – seize the throne.’
‘No,’ said Philip.
‘What else is there?’ put in Perdiccas.
‘You take the throne tonight,’ Philip said. ‘Ptolemaos murdered our father and the throne is yours by right. We kill the King.’
‘Gods, man! You are insane,’ responded Perdiccas. ‘We have no allies we know of. The guards are loyal to Ptolemaos – we’d be cut down.’
‘Not so,’ said Philip. ‘Ptolemaos is not a popular man, so no one will feel any lingering loyalty when he is dead. I saw Archelaos ride from the palace this afternoon and I am told he is heading for Thebes. So he will be no threat. With the King dead, the nobles will gather to choose a successor -but by then the guards will already have declared their loyalty to you.’