A crown of golden oak leaves upon his head, Philip walked at the centre of the procession, flanked by the Royal Guard with Alexander at their head. Behind them came ambassadors from the city states of Athens, Corinth, Thebes and even Sparta, plus representatives from Boeotia, Pherae, Euboea, Thrace, Illyria and Paionia.
Philip glanced back over his right shoulder at the towering distant mountains, then forward again to the great sweep of the Emathian Plain. Macedonia. His land!
Unlike Pella, where the King's palace stood at the centre of the city, here in this ancient capital it was built on the top of a high hill, with the city spread out below white and glistening. In the distance Philip could see the amphitheatre where he would address his people, and from the foot of the hill to the entrance the crowds lining the route.
Handlers urged the white bulls forward and they began the long descent to the plain, passing on the left the disguised tombs of Macedonia's Kings, buried deep beneath the hillsides with tall trees growing above them. Lying here were Philip's ancestors, their riches hidden from the prying eyes of would-be thieves.
One day I will lie in such a place, he thought. And shivered, despite the sunshine.
The procession stretched for almost a quarter of a mile, and the crowds on either side of the avenue threw flowers under the feet of the walkers. Philip waved to his people, acknowledging their cheers, feeling the power of their love wash over him.
'Long live the King!' someone shouted, and the cry was taken up all along the route.
His leg began to ache, but they were close now to the amphitheatre where 2,000 Macedonians, and other dignitaries, waited to see their King and listen to his words of future glories. None of them yet knew of the success Parmenion and Attalus had enjoyed in the invasion of Persia, and Philip shivered with anticipation, his speech prepared.
'Fellow Macedonians, we stand at the gates of a new era. The power of the Persians is finished, the dawn of freedom awaits. .'
The procession cut off to the left, ready to enter the arena from the wide gates. Philip and his Royal Guard moved to the right, to the low tunnel leading to the royal dais. In the shadows of the tunnel he paused, looking back at the armed men guarding him.
'I do not wish to enter here surrounded by swords,' he said. 'It will make me appear as a tyrant. I shall go in first; you follow me some thirty paces back.'
'As you wish, Father,' Alexander agreed.
Philip stepped into the shadows, his single eye fastened on the square of light ahead.
The Ruins of Troy, Winter 335 BC
Parmenion rode Paxus to the brow of the hill overlooking the broken columns of Troy. His aides came alongside him
— six young men, sons of Macedon's noble families.
That is where Achilles fought and fell,' whispered Perdiccas, his voice trembling.
'Yes,' said Parmenion, 'where Priam the King stood fast against the armies of Greece. Where Hector was slain and where the beautiful Helen lived with the adulterer Paris. That is all that remains of the glory that once was Troy.'
'May we ride down, sir?' Ptolemy asked.
'Of course. But be wary. There are many villages nearby and the inhabitants may be none too friendly.'
The nobles urged their mounts forward, galloping down the hillside towards the ruins. To the south Parmenion could see a white-walled temple and he touched heels to Paxus and cantered towards it.
There were no Persian troops within a day's ride, and his warning to the young men had been largely unnecessary.
Yet he liked his officers to be constantly on their guard.
As he approached the Temple a short, plump woman opened a side gate and walked out to meet him. Parmenion reined in the stallion and halted before her.
'Would you be the Lion of Macedon, sir?' she asked.
Parmenion was surprised. Fifteen thousand Macedonian soldiers were in the vicinity, and there were at least a dozen officers of his own age and height.
'I have been called that, lady. Why do you ask?'
'My mistress sent me to find you. She is dying.'
'I am no Healer; I am a soldier. What did she tell you?'
'She said I was to walk from the Temple and approach the warrior riding the grey stallion. That is all, sir. Will you come?'
Parmenion shivered, suddenly cold despite the sunshine. Something stirred in his subconscious, but he could not raise it to full awareness. He looked down at the woman. Could this be a trap? Were there soldiers or killers waiting within those white walls?
No, he decided. There was no tension in the woman before him; she was simply a servant following the orders of her mistress. Parmenion dismounted and led the stallion through the narrow gate, following a twisted path through an overgrown garden.
Still his thoughts were troubled.
What was it about this place?
It was tranquil here, harmonious and restful, but his senses were shrieking at him and he found himself growing more tense.
He halted before the main doors and tied the stallion's reins to an overhanging tree branch. 'Who is your mistress?' he asked.
'She was the Healer, sir,' the woman answered.
It was dark within the Temple and Parmenion was led to a small room where the single window was covered with a thick, woollen curtain. An old woman lay on a narrow bed; her face was emaciated, her eyes blind. Parmenion moved to the window, drawing back the curtain. Bright sunshine filled the room.
The Spartan looked down on the brightly-lit face of the old woman and his breath caught in his throat. He staggered back, gripping the curtain to stop himself from falling. And then the memory surged up from the darkest recesses of his mind. He saw again the garden at Olympia, where he and Derae had first embraced. And he saw her lying in his bed and heard again her soft, sweet voice.
'I dreamt I was in a temple, and all was darkness. And I said, "Where is the Lion of Macedon?" The sun shone then and I saw a general in a white-plumed helmet. He was tall and proud, and standing with the light at his back. He saw me. . '
'Sweet Hera!' whispered Parmenion, falling to his knees. 'It cannot be you, Derae. It cannot!'
The old woman sighed. 'It is I,' she said. 'When they threw me from the ship I did not die. I reached the shore. I waited here for years, thinking you would come for me.'
With trembling fingers Parmenion reached out and took her hand. 'I thought you dead. I would have walked across Hades for you.'
'I know.'
'Why did you not get a message to me?'
'I couldn't. I became a Healer, a priestess. And when I found out where you were, I saw you living in Thebes with another woman.' There was nothing he could say and he felt incapable of forcing words through the lump in his throat. He merely sat, holding her swollen, arthritic hand as she told him of the years spent at the Temple, of the spirit journeys across the seas, of saving him and Thetis from the plague in Thebes and guiding him through the underworld to save the soul of Alexander, healing Parmenion of his brain tumour and returning to him a portion of his youth. Lastly she told him of her journey, disguised as Thena, into the world of the Enchantment. This time he groaned aloud.
'Why did you not show yourself to me?'
'I think I would have — but then you found the other. . me.' His tears fell then and she felt a soft, warm droplet touch her hand. 'Oh, my dear, do not be sad. I have had a wonderful life, healing many. And I have watched you and watched over you. I feel no sorrow. I have treasured our days together, holding them warm and glowing in my memories.'