At last the display finished and Philip led the cheers. Several of Alexander's companions clapped their hands, which made the King frown. It was becoming the custom to show appreciation by slapping the palms together, but for centuries such clapping had been considered an insult. It had originated in the theatre, used by the crowd to drown out bad actors and forcing them to leave the stage. Then the Athenians began to use clapping at the end of a performance to signify approbation. Philip did not like such changes.
The jugglers were replaced by a knife-thrower of exquisite skill. Seven targets were set up and the man, a slim Thessalian, found the centre of each while blindfolded. Philip rewarded him with a gold coin.
There followed four acrobats, slim Thracian boys, and a saga poet who sang of Heracles and his labours. Through it all Philip's cup was never empty.
Towards midnight several of the older officers, Parmenion among them, asked leave of the King and returned to their homes. But Philip, Attalus, Alexander and a dozen others remained, drinking and talking.
Most were drunk, Philip noted, especially Attalus who rarely consumed alcohol. His pale eyes were bleary, but he was smiling blissfully, which brought a chuckle from the King who clapped him on the shoulder.
'You should drink more often, my friend. You are altogether too solemn.'
'Indeed I should,' Attalus replied, enunciating the words with great care and total concentration. 'It is… an…
extraordinarily. . fine feeling,' he concluded, standing and performing an exaggerated bow.
Philip flicked a glance at Alexander. The boy was cold sober, nursing the same cup of wine he had ordered some two hours before. 'What's the matter with you?' he roared. 'The wine not to your liking?'
'It is very good, Father.'
'Then drink it!'
'I shall — in my own time,' responded the prince.
'Drink it now!' the King ordered. Alexander raised the goblet in a toast, then drained it at a single swallow. Philip summoned a servant. 'The prince has an empty cup. Stand by him and see that it does not become empty again.'
The man bowed and carried a pitcher to the end of the table, positioning himself behind Alexander. Satisfied with the young man's discomfiture Philip swung back to Attalus, but the swordsman had fallen asleep on the table with his head resting on his arms.
'What's this?' shouted Philip. 'Is the King to be left to celebrate alone?'
Attalus stirred. 'I am dying,' he whispered.
'You need some wine,' said Philip, hauling the drunken man to his feet. 'Give us a toast, Attalus!'
'A toast! A toast!' roared the revellers.
Attalus shook his head and lifted his wine-cup, slopping half the contents to the table. 'To Philip, my ward Cleopatra and to their unborn son.' The swordsman saw Alexander and smiled. 'Here's to a legitimate heir!' he said, raising his cup.
A stunned silence fell upon the revellers. Alexander's face lost all colour and he pushed himself to his feet. 'What does that make me?' he demanded.
Attalus blinked. He could not believe that he had used the words. They seemed to spring to his lips unbidden. But once said they could not be withdrawn. 'Do you hear me, you murderous whoreson?' Alexander shouted. 'Answer me!'
'Be silent!' bellowed Philip, surging to his feet. 'What right have you to interrupt a toast?'
'I will not be silent,' responded Alexander. 'I have taken your insults long enough. But this is not to be borne. I care nothing for the succession — you can leave your crown to a goat for all I care — but any man who questions the legitimacy of my birth will answer for it. I will not sit by and allow my mother to be called a whore by a man who clawed his way to eminence over the bodies of men he has poisoned or stabbed in the back.'
'You've said enough, boy!' Philip pushed back his chair and rushed at Alexander, but his foot cracked against a stool and he stumbled as he reached him. His crippled leg gave way beneath him and he began to fall. His left hand flashed out, reaching for Alexander, but his fingers only hooked into the necklet gleaming at the prince's throat. It tore clear instantly and Philip crashed into the table, striking his head on a chair as he fell.
Alexander staggered, then righted himself. There was no sound in the hall now, and the lamps flickered as a chill breeze swept through the open windows.
The prince looked down at the fallen man. 'There he lies,' he said, his voice deep and uncannily cold. 'The man who would stride across the world cannot even cross a room.'
Alexander backed away towards the door, Ptolemy and Craterus following him. The prince spun on his heel and strode from the hall.
Parmenion did not hear the hammering on the main doors, for the feast had left him exhausted and he had slumped into a deep, dreamless sleep. The past days had been full of gloom and heartache, with the departure of Mothac and the arrival of the shrill Phaedra.
A servant silently entered his room, gently shaking the general's shoulder. Parmenion awoke. 'What is it?' he mumbled, glancing through the open window at the still dark sky.
'The King sends for you, sir. It is urgent.'
Parmenion sat up, rubbing his eyes. Swinging his legs from the bed, he waited while the servant brought him a clean chiton and a fur-lined hooded coat. The winter was drawing in and now there was a chill to the night air.
Dressed at last, he walked downstairs and saw Philotas, cloaked and ready to accompany him.
'Do you know what's happening?' he asked his son.
'Alexander has fled the city,' answered Philo. 'There were heated words after you left.'
Parmenion cursed inwardly and strode from the house, Philo following him. The younger man increased his pace and came alongside Parmenion.
'There could be civil war,' said Philo. Parmenion glanced at his son, but said nothing. 'Craterus, Ptolemy and Cassander have all gone with Alexander,' the younger man continued. 'And that officer of yours, Hephaistion. I never trusted him. How much of the army do you think will desert to the prince?'
Parmenion paused and turned on his son. 'There will be no civil war,' he said, his voice colder than the night air. 'No matter how hard you may push for it, Philo.'
'What does that mean?'
'The words are not hard to understand,' snapped Parmenion. 'You have carried your lies and your twisted half-truths to the King, and you — and whoever you serve — are responsible for tonight's events. But there will be no war. Now get away from me!'
Parmenion swung away from his son and marched on towards the palace, but Philo ran alongside, grabbing his father's arm.
'How dare you treat me like a traitor!' stormed the youth, his eyes blazing with anger. 'I serve the King loyally.'
Parmenion looked into his son's face and took a deep breath. 'It is not your fault,' he said at last, his voice echoing his sorrow. 'Your mother was once a seeress, albeit not a good one. She became convinced you were to be a great King.
And when you were too young to understand she filled your mind with thoughts of future glories. She was wrong.
Listen to me now: she was wrong. Everything you strive for will only see you slain.'
Philo stepped back. 'You have always hated me,' he said. 'Nothing I have ever done has earned your praise. But Mother's vision was not wrong. I know it; I can feel it within me. I have a destiny that will dwarf all your achievements. Nothing will stop me!' The younger man backed away still further, then stalked off into the night.
Parmenion sighed, the weight of his years seeming suddenly intolerable. He shivered and walked on to the palace.
Despite the lateness of the hour servants and slaves still moved through the halls and corridors and he was led to the throne-room where Philip waited with Attalus. The swordsman was sober now. He nodded to the Spartan, but said nothing as Philip outlined the events of the evening.