Philip did not wait for the others to reach him but ran down the stairs, taking them three at a time, trying to keep the weight on his good leg.
Half-way down he stumbled, pitching forward and losing his grip on his sword. He hit hard, rolling to the foot of the stairs and striking his head on the base of a statue. Half-stunned, he struggled to rise. His sword was ten steps above him, but there was no chance to recover it, for the six remaining assassins were almost upon him.
Glancing to his right, he saw the bodies of two sentries and ran towards them. An assassin leapt to his back, a wiry arm encircling the King's throat, but Philip ducked his head, twisted on his heel and threw the man into the path of his fellows. His vision blurred, Philip staggered on towards the fallen guards, desperate to lay his hands upon a weapon. A thrown knife slashed into his leg, but he ignored the pain and threw himself full-length to fall across the body of a guard. He just had time to grab for a sword before the assassins were upon him. Rolling, he thrust the blade upwards, lancing it through a man's groin. A booted foot cracked against his temple and a knife plunged into his thigh. With a roaring battle-cry Philip came to his knees and launched himself at the killers. The sword was knocked from his right hand, but his left caught an assassin by the throat — the man stabbed out at the King, but the blade was blocked by Philip's breastplate. The King's fingers dug into the man's neck, closing like an iron trap around his windpipe; a sword lanced into his hip, just below the breastplate, and he cried out, releasing his hold on the assassin's throat. The man staggered back, gasping for breath. Philip's fist cracked against another man's chin and, for a moment only, he had space. Lurching to his left the King staggered towards an open doorway — the assassins sprang after him but he reached the empty room and slammed shut the door, dropping the narrow bar into place.
The assassins hurled themselves at the door, which creaked and tore at its hinges.
Knowing they would not be thwarted for long, Philip swung round, seeking a weapon. But the room was the lower, small andron. Windowless, it boasted only six satin-covered couches, a row of tables and an iron brazier filled with glowing coals. Earlier that evening he had sat here with Cleopatra calmly discussing their future.
A door panel cracked open and the King moved into the centre of the room, blood gushing from the wounds in his leg and hip. The entire door sundered and the five remaining assassins pushed inside. Philip ran to the brazier as they advanced. One assailant, bolder than the rest, charged at the King, but he swept up the brazier to hurl it into the man's face. Hot coals struck the assassin's mask, falling into his hood and down behind the neck of his dark tunic. He screamed as smoke and flames billowed up around him, and the smell of scorched flesh filled the air. The man fell, hair and beard alight, and writhed screaming as flames engulfed him.
The four remaining killers edged forward to encircle the King.
Weaponless and wounded, Philip waited for death.
But the assassins suddenly froze and the King saw their eyes widen in fear and shock. One by one they backed away from him, turning to flee from the room.
Philip could scarce believe his luck. Then a cold breeze whispered against the back of his neck and he turned.
The far wall shimmered, then darkened — a huge, bloated shape forming from floor to ceiling. A head emerged, gross and distorted, lidless eyes peering into the room. The mouth was rimmed with long fangs, curved like sabres. The King blinked, unable to believe what his eyes were seeing. It must be a nightmare, he thought, but the pain from the wounds in his leg and hip were all too real.
With a whispered curse Philip started to run towards the door — just in time to see it slam shut, bars of fire dancing across it. He swung back to the monster. The creature had no arms, but in their place huge snakes grew: heads the size of wine barrels, fangs as long as swords. A sibilant hissing came from the snakes and they writhed towards the King.
Backing away, Philip came to the corpse of the assassin he had struck with the brazier and, stooping, lifted the man's knife. It seemed but a tiny weapon against the monstrosity emerging from the wall.
The creature came clear at last and stood on its huge fur-covered legs, its head touching the high ceiling, its eyes focused on the man before it. The snake arms swept out.
Left without an avenue of retreat, the King advanced on the enemy.
Parmenion's mount, the grey Paxus, found itself hard pressed to keep up with Bucephalus, who cantered on ahead tirelessly, and the Spartan did not push him. Paxus was a thoroughbred of the same blood-line as Titan, Bucephalus'
sire, but there was no comparison between the stallions. Though fast, Paxus could not match the awesome speed of the black, nor his stamina.
Yet still Parmenion had to hold back on the reins, for Paxus dearly wanted to run, to take on his rival. The general's thoughts were sombre as he rode behind Alexander. The prince had dismissed his Companions, assuring them of his safety and — disgruntled and unsure — they had ridden away. But it was not their unease that bothered Parmenion. It was Hephaistion. The young officer had approached them from the south, spoken quietly to Alexander and then angled his mount away to the south-west. He did not speak to Parmenion and avoided the general's gaze.
Parmenion was hurt, though his face did not show it. He had been surprised when Hephaistion was not present at the camp-site, and now he knew that the young man's loyalty was no longer his for the asking. Youth will always call upon youth, he told himself, but the hurt remained.
The moon was high when the trio rode into Pella. The mounts of both Parmenion and Attalus were lathered and tired, but Bucephalus' black flanks merely gleamed. Alexander waited while the others came alongside and grinned at Parmenion. 'Never was a prince given a greater gift,' he said, patting the stallion's sleek, dark neck.
At the stables a sleepy groom, hearing hoofbeats on the flagstones, wandered out into the night, bowing as he saw the prince. 'Give him a good rub-down,' ordered Alexander as he dismounted. The prince seemed in good humour as he walked towards the palace — but then he stopped in mid-stride, his eyes narrowing.
'What is wrong?' Attalus asked.
Parmenion saw instantly what was troubling the prince. 'There are no sentries,' hissed the general. Drawing his sword, Parmenion ran towards the huge bronze-reinforced oak doors beneath the twin columns at the front of the palace. As he reached them he saw a fallen spear in the shadows and his heart began to hammer. 'The King!' he shouted, hurling himself at the door on the left. It slammed open and the Spartan ran inside.
Lamps flickered on the walls and by their dim light he saw the sentries lying flat upon the floor. A shadow moved to his right and four armed men emerged from the lower andron; they were clad in dark chiton s and leggings, their faces hooded and masked. Seeing the Spartan they ran at him, long knives in their hands, and Parmenion leapt to meet them. Veering, three of the assassins tried to make a break for the doorway, but Alexander and Attalus moved into their path.
Parmenion swayed aside from a vicious thrust, sending his own blade slashing down into the outstretched arm. The iron edge bit deep, smashing bone and severing arteries. Screaming, the knifeman fell back. Parmenion stepped forward to plunge his sword into the man's chest.
Behind him Alexander despatched another assassin with a thrust to the belly, while Attalus grappled with a third.