The trireme's ram smashed through the timbers of the death ship's stern, the force of impact hurling Parmenion from his feet. Sliding across the rain-lashed deck he caught hold of a section of rail and struggled to rise. He saw Gorgon hurl the tree-root high into the air, watched it caught by the storm winds and carried to the trireme's deck. Locked together now, the two ships wallowed in the swell. The rowers on the trireme tried to back oars, in an attempt to pull away from the doomed vessel. But the magic which kept the death ship afloat was gone and the full weight of the saturated timbers dragged down on the enemy trireme, pulling the prow down, the stern rising up from the water.
The death ship rolled, pitching Parmenion towards the sea. But he clung on grimly with his left hand, while his right scrabbled at the fastenings of his breastplate. He would never be able to swim with its weight upon his torso. A massive wave crashed over the decks, pulling the Spartan loose and carrying him over the side.
His helm was ripped from his head — and still the breastplate was in place. Staying calm Parmenion drew his dagger, cutting away the last thongs holding the armour in place. Shrugging free of the breastplate, he surfaced in time to see the doomed ships vanish beneath the waves.
To his right, for a moment, he saw Attalus desperately trying to keep his head above water. Dropping his dagger Parmenion struck out towards the Macedonian. Still in full armour, Attalus sank beneath the waves. Parmenion dived deep, his powerful legs propelling him towards the drowning swordsman.
It was pitch-dark, but a flash of lightning speared the sky and, for a heartbeat only, Parmenion saw the still struggling Macedonian. Grabbing hold of Attalus' shoulder-guard, Parmenion swam for the surface. His lungs were close to bursting as his head came clear. Attalus came up alongside him, but sank almost immediately under the weight of his breastplate. Parmenion dived once more, feeling for the dagger Attalus wore on his left hip. It was still in place. The Spartan drew it and sawed at the breastplate thongs. The blade was razor-sharp and the wet leather parted. Attalus ducked his head, pushing the breastplate up and away from him. Free of its weight, he rose to the surface.
A wave lifted the warriors high and Parmenion saw the distant shoreline. Keeping his movements slow and preserving his strength, the Spartan angled his body towards the beach, allowing the currents to carry him to safety.
He did not look back for Attalus, nor allow his mind to dwell on the fate of Alexander and the others. Alone against the might of sea and storm he anchored his thoughts to a single objective.
Survival.
Book Three, 352 BC
The Cliffs of Arkadia
Ektalis sat apart from his men under a small overhang of rock, watching the rain on the grey stone cascading down before him. He was drier here, but the wind occasionally blew the curtain of water against his bare legs, where it trickled behind the bronze greaves he wore. Staring gloomily out over the storm-lashed gulf, Ektalis wished he were back in Korinthos with his wife and sons.
He glanced to his left where the remaining ten men of his detachment sheltered in a shallow cave, then looked to his right where the five Makedones sat in the open, watching the sea.
Ektalis felt his hatred rise like bile in his throat. Loathsome barbarians! How such a cultured city as Korinthos could form an alliance with the Demon King was beyond him. But form it they had, and now he rode with the devil's army.
If you were a man, he told himself, you would have stood against the decision in the agora when the councillors put the question to the public vote. But you did not… and stayed alive. The debate had been heated. Leman, Parsidan and Ardanas — good friends all — had spoken heroically, denouncing the alliance. All had been murdered within a day of the meeting. Now Philippos ruled.
Ektalis shivered as the wind hurled more rain over his drenched white cloak. 'Find the Golden Child,' his general had told him. 'It is the King's order.'
He is not my King, Ektalis wanted to say. But he had not. Instead he had saluted, gathered his century and set off for the west. The priests first said the boy was in the Forest of Gorgon. Now a message had been received saying he was aboard a ship heading towards the coast. There were ten bays where a ship could come in close to the shore and Ektalis ordered men to guard them all.
Then the five Makedones had arrived — grim, cold-eyed warriors, proud and haughty. What have they to be proud about, wondered Ektalis? Ten years ago they were mating with sheep in the barbarous hills of their native land. They have no culture — no history. But now they strode among civilized men, looking down upon them, treating them like slaves. Treating ms like slaves, he corrected himself.
But then that is what we are, he realized. Slaves to the dreams of a child-murdering madman.
A patch of blue appeared in the sky to the east, sunlight shining on the distant hills. For a moment only, Ektalis felt his spirits lift; then he saw the Makedones rise to their feet, one of them pointing at the shoreline. Ektalis glanced down to see a small child emerging from the water.
His heart sank. Everyone knew the boy's intended fate — to be sacrificed to the Demon King.
The rain petered out, the clouds breaking. Ektalis moved back to his men. Sending two of them to fetch the soldiers from the other bays, the Korinthian led his warriors down the cliff path to the beach, following the five Makedones who had already drawn their swords.
Then came a sight which Ektalis would long remember. A dolphin swam into view, with a naked woman alongside it holding to its fin. It moved close to the shore, allowing the woman to find her feet and walk through the swell.
'I praise thee, Poseidon, Lord of the Deep,' whispered a man alongside Ektalis. The other Korinthians took up the prayer. 'Look upon us with favour, bless our families and our city.'
The goddess moved forward, kneeling down beside the boy and putting her arms around him. The Makedones reached the sand and advanced upon her.
'Stop!' cried Ektalis, but the Makedones ignored him and he began to run, his men following. A lean Makedones warrior pulled back his sword, ready to ram it into the woman's belly. Ektalis hurled himself at the man, knocking him from his feet.
'What in Hecate's name do you think you are doing?' stormed the Makedones officer, a tall, broad-shouldered warrior with a trident beard.
'She is one of Poseidon's daughters, Canus. Did you not see her riding through the waves upon a dolphin?'
Canus shook his head. 'You fool! She is a witch, that is all. Now stand aside.'
'No!' cried Ektalis, drawing his own sword. 'She will not be harmed. Take the child, but the woman is not to be harmed.'
'If you go against me in this,' hissed Canus, his dark eyes gleaming, 'then you go against my King. And that is treason.'
'Even so,' answered Ektalis, trying in vain to suppress his fear.
Canus saw his terror and laughed. The sound of his laughter ripped into Ektalis worse than a blade, and he felt his new-found courage melting before it.
'Say the word, captain, and we'll cut the dogs into pieces,' said a Korinthian warrior. Ektalis was amazed. He knew the men held him in low regard — as well they might, for he had never been a man of action. Canus turned and stared at the eight Korinthians.
'You think to thwart me? You believe five Makedones could not kill you all? Well, think on this, you worthless scum. My thoughts are linked to the High Priest, and his to the King. Everything that happens here is known already.
And if you persist in this, then not only you will die but all your families. You understand?' Canus saw the Korinthians relax, hands moving away from sword-hilts, and turned back to the woman. But as he moved towards her Ektalis leapt to stand before her.