The fourth man ran out into the night. Attalus' sword was knocked from his hand, then a fist cracked against his chin and he sagged against the wall. Alexander moved in behind the attacker and, just as the man's knife rose above Attalus' throat, the prince's blade clove into the killer's back.
Attalus staggered as the man fell, then stooped to gather his sword.
Parmenion had started to climb the stairs when a weird, unearthly cry came from the lower andron. Alexander was first to the door, which seemed to be locked. The prince hurled himself against it, but it did not move despite the fact that the hinges were torn loose.
Nothing seemed to be holding the door in place, yet it stood as strong as iron.
Alexander stepped back and stared for a moment at the wood. Then he raised his sword.
'That will not cut. .' began Parmenion.
The sword slashed down and the door seemed to explode inwards, shards and splinters flying into the room.
Alexander leapt inside, with the two officers following him. All three froze as they saw the huge demon at the far end of the andron, the King advancing upon it.
Snake arms slashed out to circle the King's waist and drag him from his feet. Alexander and Parmenion sprang forward. Attalus, horror-struck, found he could not move.
The King was slowly lifted towards the creature's cavernous maw, its fangs dripping saliva on his chest. Alexander ran forward but then stopped, his sword-arm swinging back like a javeliner. His hand flashed forward, the iron blade slicing through the air. Just as the fangs were about to close on Philip the sword punched home through the demon's eye. As its neck arched back, Philip thrust his dagger into the stretched, scaly skin of the throat. Black blood bubbled from the wound and the snake arms went into spasm, dropping the King to the mosaic floor where he landed heavily and lay winded. Parmenion ran in, hacking and cutting at the creature as Alexander moved to the King, pulling him back across the centre of the room.
Smoke billowed from the demon's wounds, filling the andron and choking the lungs of the warriors.
'Get back!' Parmenion shouted.
Attalus joined Alexander and together the two men lifted Philip, carrying him out into the corridor. Parmenion joined them and together the trio carried the wounded King out of the palace, laying him down between the twin pillars of the doorway.
'Fetch a surgeon,' ordered Parmenion, but Attalus knelt by the King, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.
'He must not die!' the swordsman whispered.
Parmenion shook him roughly. 'Nor will he! Now fetch a surgeon!'
'Yes. . Yes,' muttered Attalus, pushing himself to his feet and running to the Guards Barracks.
'The wounds are deep,' said Alexander, 'but I do not think they are mortal. Already the gash in the thigh is clotting.'
'He is a tough man.' The moon emerged from behind the clouds, bright silver light bathing the palace entrance. 'Look at that!' whispered Parmenion, pointing to Philip's iron breastplate. The metal was twisted and bent where the snake arms had coiled around it. Swiftly the two men unbuckled the armour, pulling it clear; then with a dagger Alexander slit Philip's chiton tunic. The King's upper body was covered in bruises. Parmenion pressed a finger to Philip's ribs.
'One at least is cracked,' he announced.
The King stirred, his eyes opening. 'Alexander?' he whispered.
'I am here, Father.'
'Thank. . the. . gods. Will you forgive me?'
'There is nothing to forgive. Parmenion says you have suffered under a Dark Enchantment. All is well now. We are together.'
Philip struggled to rise, but Parmenion gently pushed him back. 'Wait for the surgeon.'
'A pox on all surgeons!' snorted Philip. Parmenion shook his head, but helped the King to a sitting position.
'What was that thing?'
'Euclistes,' answered Alexander. 'Once a Titan, but now a servant to all with the power to call upon him.'
'How do you know of him?' Parmenion asked.
The prince smiled. 'I had a fine teacher. Aristotle told us many tales of the damned.'
'You saved my life again, boy,' said Philip, reaching out and gripping his son's arm. 'Three times now.' Suddenly the King chuckled. 'You know, I think I might just live for ever. Gods, if eight assassins and a beast like that cannot kill me, then what can?'
Aigai, Summer 336 BC
Philip awoke to the brightness of the summer sunshine streaming through the open window. He stretched and rose from the bed, listening to the sounds of bird-song from the garden below his rooms. The scent of flowers filled the air and he felt almost young again.
He padded to a long bronze mirror, standing before it and gazing at his reflection. No longer was he overweight; the muscles of his belly stood out ridged and firm, and his black beard and tightly curled hair shone with health. The scars on his hip and thigh had faded now to faint white lines against his bronzed skin. 'I am in my prime,' he told his reflection. He had seldom felt better. The wound in his leg rarely troubled him now, and the pain from his blinded eye was but a memory.
Servants brought him his white tunic and ceremonial cloak and he dressed and dismissed them before wandering out to the balcony. The sky was wondrously blue, not a cloud in sight. High above the palace a golden eagle banked and glided on the warm air currents.
It was a good day to be alive!
Last evening Cleopatra had delivered him a son — a healthy, bawling babe with jet-black hair. Philip had raised him high, carrying him to the window and holding him up for the troops and crowds outside to see. Their cheers had almost made the palace tremble. Today they would celebrate his birth in true Macedonian style with marches, games, parades and performances from the finest actors in Greece. It would be a day to remember — and not just for the arrival of a new prince.
At midnight Philip had received word from Parmenion. The forward troops had crossed the Hellespont into Persia unopposed. Several of the Asian Greek cities, including Ephesus, had risen against the Persian overlords. Philip's dreams were all coming true.
Twenty years of planning, scheming, battling and plotting- and here it was: the culmination of all he had fought for.
Athens had finally agreed to Philip becoming the Leader of Greece. All the city states had followed her lead, save Sparta; but Sparta no longer counted. The Greek army had invaded Persia and soon Philip would join them. Then they would free all the Greek cities of Asia and the Persian King, Darius, would pay a fortune in tribute to prevent Macedon's army from marching further into his empire.
Philip laughed aloud, the sound rippling out over the gardens.
In the five months since the demon almost slew him, the King had rediscovered the joys of living. Olympias' face appeared before his mind's eye and he scowled, but not even thoughts of her could dampen his mood.
A servant entered and announced that Alexander was waiting outside.
'Well, bring him in, man!' ordered Philip.
Alexander was dressed in the black and silver armour of the Royal Guard, a white-plumed helm on his head. He bowed and smiled. 'You look splendid, Father. White suits you.'
'I feel good. It will be a fine day.'
'Indeed it will. The crowds are already gathering and the procession is ready.'
'As am I,' Philip announced. Together the two men strode from the palace. Outside the great gates the marchers were preparing themselves. There were horsemen from all the provinces and troops from every district. There were actors and singers, poets, jugglers, tumblers.
Two white bulls garlanded with flowers were led out at the start, gifts for Zeus the Father of the Gods. They were followed by twenty carts bearing carved wooden statues of Artemis, Apollo, Ares, Aphrodite and all the gods of Greece.