Dark Prince

'Drunk I may be, but I am not fooled by him.' Pushing himself to his feet, Mothac stumbled from the tent.

* * *

The old Theban sucked in great gulps of the cool night air and wandered away from the camp, out to a low range of hills to the south. He sat down against the hillside and lay back, trying to focus on the stars, but they swam around making him feel nauseous. Rolling to his side, he retched violently. His head began to pound and he sat up, the screwed-up parchment falling from his hand.

He picked it up, smoothing it out. Perhaps if he showed it to Parmenion? No, it would serve no purpose, he knew.

The report would be disbelieved. Parmenion was truly blind to any criticism of the young King.

The moon was bright and Mothac read once more the report from his agent in Pella. Much of it concerned the new regent, Antipater, left in charge of the army at home, with Olympias ruling as Queen. It also spoke of unrest in the western regions. But the last section spoke of the murder of Cleopatra and her baby son.

A palace servant talked of the double killing and was then murdered himself. All the slain man's friends, and the families of those friends, were removed from Pella and executed.

But the story survived, whispered among Alexander's enemies. It was surely too appalling to be true, wrote Mothac's agent. Alexander was said to have gone to Cleopatra's apartments and strangled her with a golden wire. Then he took the babe to the rooms of a foreign witch woman from Samothrace where, in order to ensure the success of his bid for the throne, he sacrificed the child to an unknown god — and then ate the babe's heart.

Sober now, Mothac stared at the parchment. A chill breeze blew at his back and he shivered.

'It is time to die,' hissed a cold voice. A searing pain clamped around Mothac's heart with fingers of fire. The old man struggled to rise, but the agony was too great and he sank back to the grass, the parchment fluttering from his fingers.

As it touched the ground the document burst into flames — writhing on the grass with dark smoke billowing from it.

Rolling to his belly Mothac tried to crawl, but a powerful hand grasped his shoulder and turned him to his back. He looked up and saw a pair of yellow, slitted eyes, and felt the long dagger slide under his breastbone.

Then all pain left him and the grass was cool against his neck. He remembered a day in a Thebes of long ago, when he had sat by a trickling stream with Elea beside him, her head resting on his shoulder.

The colours were bright, the greens of the cypress trees above him, the dazzling blue of the sky, the statues in the garden seemingly carved from virgin snow. Life had been beautiful that day and the future was brimming with the promise of further joy.

'Elea. .'he whispered.

* * *

Alexander rose slowly from the depths of a dark dream and drifted up towards consciousness, becoming aware first of the silk sheet covering his naked frame. It was luxurious and soft, clinging to his skin, warm, and comforting. He rolled to his back and noticed that his hand seemed to be coated with mud, the fingers stuck together. Opening his eyes, he sat up. The dawn light was bathing the outer wall of the tent and he lifted his hand to rub sleep from his eyes. He stopped and his heart began to hammer. Hand and arm were covered with dried blood, as was the bed. He cried out and dragged back the sheet, searching his body for a wound.

Hephaistion ran into the tent, sword in hand. 'What is it, sire?'

'I have been stabbed,' replied Alexander, on the verge of panic, his hands probing the skin of his body. Hephaistion dropped his blade and moved to the bedside, eyes scanning the King's naked torso.

'There is no cut, sire.'

'There must be! Look at the blood!'

But there was no wound. By the doorway of the tent lay a dagger, the blade crusted with congealed blood.

Hephaistion scooped it into his hand. 'It is your dagger,' he said, 'but the blood is not yours.'

Alexander padded across to the far wall where a pitcher of water had been left on a small table. Swiftly the King washed himself clean, still searching for a cut or gash. He swung on Hephaistion. 'What is happening to me?'

'I don't understand you, sire,' answered the young officer.

'Last night. . the feast. When did I leave?'

'Just before dawn. You had drunk a great deal and were staggering. But you refused my offer of a helping hand.'

Alexander returned to the bed and sat with his head in his hands. 'The blood must have come from somewhere!'

'Yes, sire,' said Hephaistion softly.

'Am I going insane?'

'No! Of course not!' Hephaistion crossed the room, putting his arm around the King's shoulder. 'You are the King-the greatest King who ever lived. You are blessed by the gods. Do not voice such thoughts.'

'Blessed? Let us hope so.' Alexander took a deep breath.

'You said you would talk to me, sire, about Parmenion.'

'I did?'

'Yes. But now that he has won such a victory I doubt you'll want him to join Attalus.'

'What are you talking about? Is this a dream?'

'No, sire, you remember. . several nights ago? We discussed Parmenion and you said it might be necessary to kill him.'

'I would never say such a thing. He is my oldest friend; he risked his life for me. . many times. Why do you say this?'

'I must have misunderstood, sire. You were talking about allowing him a long rest, like Attalus. I thought. .'

'You thought wrong! You hear me?'

'Yes, sire. I am sorry.'

Men began shouting outside the tent and Hephaistion turned, moving swiftly out into the sunshine. Alexander remained slumped on the bed, trying to remember what happened after the feast. He could picture the laughter and the jests and Cleitus, the old cavalryman, dancing on a table. But he could not recall leaving the feast, nor coming to his bed.

Hephaistion returned and walked slowly across the tent, his face grave.

'What is happening out there?' asked the King.

Hephaistion sat down but said nothing, his eyes not meeting Alexander's gaze.

'What is it, man?'

'Parmenion's friend, the Theban Mothac… he has been murdered.' Hephaistion glanced up. 'Stabbed, sire. . many times.'

Alexander's mouth was dry. 'It wasn't me. I loved that old man. He taught me to ride; he used to lift me upon his shoulders. It wasn't me!'

'Of course it wasn't, sire. Someone must have come into the tent while you were sleeping, and smeared blood upon you.'

'Yes. . yes. No one must know, Hephaistion. Otherwise stories will start to spread. . you know, like in Pella about the child.'

'I know, sire. No one will hear of it, I promise you.'

'I must see Parmenion. He will be distraught. Mothac was with him back in Thebes when Parmenion freed them, destroying the power of the Spartans. My father was there. . did you know that?'

'Yes, sire. I will call your servants and they will fetch you clothes.'

Picking up the blood-covered dagger Hephaistion dipped it into the murky red water of the pitcher, washing the weapon clean. Then he moved to the bed, dragging clear the blood-covered sheet and rolling it into a tight bundle.

'Why would anyone do this to me, Hephaistion?'

'I cannot answer that, sire. But I will double the guard around your tent.'

Carrying the blood-soaked sheet, the young officer backed away and Alexander sat silently staring down at his hands. Why can I not remember, he thought. Just like in Pella after he had seen the woman, Aida.

She had held his hand and told his fortune. Her perfume had been strong and she had talked of glory. Her skin was whiter than ivory. He remembered reaching out, as if in a daze, and cupping his palm to her breast. Her fingers had stroked his thigh and she had moved in to him, her lips upon his.