Free Dark Prince by David Gemmell Page A

the sunshine, feeling the cool breeze against his wet body. Mothac summoned the boat, throwing the lead rope to the oarsman.
    “That’s enough for today,” he shouted. The oarsman nodded and led the mare back to dry land. The old Theban sat beside Parmenion, offering him a jug of water.
    “That hat looks ridiculous,” remarked Parmenion.
    Mothac grinned and pulled the floppy hat from his head. “It’s comfortable,” he said, wiping sweat from the rim and covering his bald dome once more.
    Parmenion sighed. “It’s a shame he had to die,” he said.
    “The horse or the man?” snapped Mothac.
    Parmenion smiled ruefully. “I was talking of the horse. Though you are correct; I should have been thinking of the man. But Titan must have been in great pain; those maggots were eating his brain. I find it obscene that such a magnificent beast should have been brought low by such vile creatures.”
    “He was only a horse,” said Mothac. “But I shall miss Croni. He had a family in Thessaly. How much shall I send?”
    “Whatever you think fit. How have the men taken his death?”
    “He was popular,” Mothac answered. “But they are hard men. You impressed them with your ride.” He chuckled suddenly. “By Heracles, you impressed me!”
    “I will never see another horse like him,” said Parmenion sadly.
    “I think you might. The foal is the image of his sire. And he will be big—he has a head like a bull.”
    “I saw him in the stables last night with his dead mother. Not a good omen for the son of Titan—his first act in life to kill his dam.”
    “Now you are sounding like a Thessalian,” Mothac admonished him. The Theban drank deeply from the water jug and leaned back on his powerful forearms. “What is wrong between you and Philip?”
    Parmenion shrugged. “He is a king in search of a glory he does not wish to share. I cannot say I blame him for that. And he has the lickspittle Attalus to whisper poison in his ear.”
    Mothac nodded. “I never liked the man. But then, I never liked Philip much, either. What will you do?”
    The Spartan smiled. “What is there to do? I will fight Philip’s battles until he decides he has no more need of me. Then I will come here and grow old with my sons around me.”
    Mothac grunted and swore. “You would be a fool to believe that—and you are no fool. If you left Philip, every city in Greece would vie for your services. Within a season you would be leading an army. And since there is only one great enemy, you would be leading it against Philip. No, Parmenion, when Philip decides he needs you no longer, it will be Attalus who delivers the dismissal—with an assassin’s knife.”
    Parmenion’s pale blue eyes grew cold. “He will need to be very good.”
    “And he is,” warned Mothac.
    “This is a gloomy conversation,” Parmenion muttered, rising to his feet.
    “Has the king invited you to the victory parade?” Mothac persisted.
    “No. But then he knows I do not enjoy such events.”
    “Perhaps,” said Mothac, unconvinced. “So where will the next war be fought? Will you march on the cities of the Chalcidice or down through Boeotia to sack Athens?”
    “That is for the king to decide,” answered Parmenion, his gaze straying to the eastern mountains. The look was not lost on the Theban.
    “Then it is to be Thrace,” he said, his voice low.
    “You see too much, my friend. I thank the gods you also have a careful tongue.”
    “Where will his ambition end?”
    “I don’t know. More to the point, he does not know. He is not the man I once knew, Mothac; he is driven now. He had hundreds of Phocians executed after the Crocus Field, and it was said he stood and laughed as they died. Yet before we left Macedonia I watched him judge several cases at court. I knew, on this particular day, that he wanted to hunt and was hoping to conclude by early afternoon. At last he declared an end to the proceedings, telling the petitioners to come back on another day.