An athletics competition had been under way for twelve days, its size and scope rivalling the Games of Olympia, and the city was packed to overflowing as citizens from surrounding areas and guests from all over the country arrived for the wedding. All the champions of Greece were present at the Games and the King presented to each winner a crown of laurel leaves made from finest gold. There were only two Macedonian victors: Philotas won the middle-distance race, and Alexander rode Bucephalus to victory against horsemen from Thrace, Athens, Sparta, Thessaly and Corinth.
The 10,000 crowd sent up a thundrous roar as Alexander crossed the line on the giant black stallion, his nearest competitor some twenty lengths back. The prince cantered Bucephalus in a long circuit of the stadium, acknowledging the cheers, finally halting before the royal dais where Philip sat with Cleopatra beside him, flanked by his generals Parmenion, Antipater, Attalus and Cleitus.
'A fine victory,' said Cleitus, gazing admiringly at the young rider.
'Anyone would have won on that horse,' muttered Philip, pushing himself to his feet. Lifting the golden laurel crown from the table beside him, he handed it to Parmenion. 'Go,' he said, 'present the winner with his prize.'
The crowd fell silent as the general walked out to the prince. Everyone knew the King should have presented the prize and a confused murmuring began in the stands. Alexander lifted his leg and leapt from Bucephalus' back, bowing his head to receive the laurel crown. As it was placed upon his head he gave a wide grin and waved to the crowd, earning another ovation.
With the smile still in place he whispered to Parmenion: 'What is wrong with my father? Have I done something to displease him?'
'We will talk later,' Parmenion replied.
'I shall come to your home.'
'No, that would not be wise. Mothac has a small house in the western quarter, near the Temple of Healing. Be at the rear of the Temple at midnight. I will see you there. Be sure you are not followed.'
Still smiling, Alexander took hold of Bucephalus' mane and vaulted to the beast's back. Parmenion returned to the dais and, as he mounted the steps, caught sight of Attalus watching the prince riding towards the exit gates.
The years had not been kind to the swordsman. His hair was white and thinning, his face lean and skeletal, with deep lines carved into his cheeks, the skin of his throat loose and wrinkled. Yet he was barely sixty. Attalus saw Parmenion watching him and smiled. The Spartan nodded in reply, then took his place at the King's side as the boxing bouts began.
Parmenion waited for another hour, then he asked leave of the King and walked back from the dais, moving to the huge tents erected outside the stadium where food and drink was being served. Everything was free and many of the city's poor were congregating here, drinking themselves into a stupor. The Spartan moved slowly through the crowds towards the Officers' Tent.
He saw Philotas talking with the youngster Ptolemy and the sombre Craterus. The youths spotted him and Philotas broke away from them.
'I ran well,' said Philo. 'Did you see me?'
'I did. Your timing was impeccable.'
'Am I as fast as you were?'
'I would say faster,' Parmenion admitted. 'I never had a finishing burst of speed. I thought for a moment the Spartan would take you, but you destroyed him from the final bend.'
For a moment Philo stood as if shocked by the compliment, then his face softened.'Thank you, Father. I. .thank you.
Will you join us for a drink?'
'No, I am tired. I think I will go home.'
The young man's disappointment was sincere, but it was replaced almost instantly by the guarded, cynical look Parmenion had come to know so well. 'Yes, of course,' said Philo. 'I should have known better than to ask you to spend time with me. It is not possible to break the habits built up during a lifetime.' And he swung away, returning to his companions.
Parmenion cursed softly and moved on. He should have stayed, and guilt touched him. Philo was right: he had never had time for the boy, nor for any of his sons save one. Alexander.
At the rear of the Officers' Tent was the paddock where the horses were tethered. A servant brought him his mount and he rode slowly back through the city to his town house. Phaedra was not due until tomorrow, which gave him at least a few more hours of relative contentment.
He found Mothac in the small study to the rear of the house. The old Theban was poring over reports from Asia, and there were papers and scrolls scattered across the wide desk.
'Anything new?' asked Parmenion, removing his ceremonial helmet and laying it carefully on the bench beside him.
'New? It is all new,' answered Mothac. 'And yet as old as the balls of Zeus. Treachery, double-dealing, compromise.
New names, ancient vices. But I must say, I do love diplomacy.' He lifted a scroll and grinned. 'I have a letter here from a man named Dupias, assuring me that he is an ardent supporter of Philip. Through his good offices we can be assured of a fine reception in Tyre, should the Persian army be overcome by the "valiant Macedonians".'
'It sounds promising,' said Parmenion.
'True, and yet I have a report from another source that Dupias is in the pay of the Persians.'
'Even better. We can use him to feed Darius false information.'
'Yes. Life is wonderfully complex. I can remember the boring old days when all that counted was the strength of a man's sword-arm and the justice of his cause.'
'No, you can't,' Parmenion told him. 'It just seems that way. The past is all bright colours. The shades of grey have vanished. This is how it has always been. If you walk from here to the Guards Barracks and talk to those earnest young men, they will tell you of the justice of their cause and boast of the strength of their sword-arms. Their eyes will shine with glory. It is the way of young men.'
Mothac sighed. 'I know that. I was trying to be light-hearted. What is the matter with you?'
Parmenion shrugged. 'It is all going sour, Mothac. I think Philip is preparing to assassinate Alexander.'
'What? I can't believe that!'
'He told me yesterday that he does not intend to take the prince with him on the Persian expedition. He will have a role in Macedonia. What does that suggest?'
The old Theban ran his fingers over his bald dome, scratching the skin of his crown. 'Philip is too canny to leave a potential enemy behind him — but to kill his own son? Are you sure?'
'I am sure.'
'What will you do?'
'I have no idea. I am meeting the prince tonight; I will advise him to leave Pella.'
'What is wrong with Philip?' asked Mothac. 'The boy loves him, there is no question of that. You know how many spies report to me, but none has ever suggested that Alexander would betray his father.'
'Unfortunately that is not true of his followers,' put in Parmenion. 'I have seen the reports of comments by Philo and Nearchos, Ptolemy and Cassander. The young men worship Alexander. And then there is Pausanius — an ugly business.'
'He brought it on himself,' muttered Mothac. 'Pausanius is a fool. Philip has always enjoyed the attention of young men, but none of them last in his affections. The boy was too pushy.'
'That may be true,' Parmenion admitted, 'but he is still a high-born Macedonian, and his punishment was cruel and ill-advised.'
Mothac said nothing. How could he argue? Pausanius had enjoyed the King's devotion and while the favourite had made an enemy of Attalus — making him the butt of many jokes and jibes. Attalus had waited for the youngster to fall from favour, and had then ordered Pausanius. to be soundly thrashed and abused by soldiers from his personal guard.
The humiliation was intense, for the young noble had been left, naked and tied, on a stall in the market-place. The incident had many repercussions. The young men who followed Alexander were all friendly to Pausanius, and saw his treatment as unjust. The older nobles at court were cheered by his humiliation, seeing it as a timely and salutary lesson for a youth they considered a loud-mouthed braggart.