Free Dark Prince by David Gemmell Page B

But as he left the judge’s chair, an old woman with a petition came close to him, calling out for justice. He turned and said, ‘No time, woman.’ She just stood there for a moment and then, as he walked on, shouted: ‘Then you’ve no time to be king!’ Everyone close by held their breaths. Was she to be executed? Or flogged? Or imprisoned? You know what he did? He canceled the hunt and listened to her case for the rest of the day. He even judged it in her favor.”
    Mothac rose and waved for the boat to come out to them. “I did not say he was not a great man, Parmenion. I merely pointed out that I do not like him and I do not trust him. Neither should you. One day he will order your death. Jealousy breeds fear, and fear sires hatred.”
    “No one lives forever,” replied Parmenion uneasily.

PELLA, MACEDONIA, AUTUMN
    “I shall walk ahead of the guards. My people will see me,” said Philip.
    “Madness!” snapped Attalus. “What more can I say to you? There are killers in Pella, just waiting for the opportunity to come at you. Why are you set on this course?”
    “Because I am the king!” thundered Philip.
    Attalus sat back on the couch, staring sullenly at his monarch. “You think,” he asked finally, “that you are a god? That cold iron cannot penetrate your body, cannot slice your heart?”
    Philip smiled and relaxed. “No delusions, Attalus. How could I?” he added, touching the scar above his blinded right eye. “But if I cannot walk in the streets of my own capital, then my enemies have truly won. You will be there. I trust you to protect me.”
    Attalus looked into the king’s face, seeing no compromise there, and recalled the first time they had met, in Thebes seventeen years earlier. The king had been merely a boy then, a frightened boy waiting for the assassin’s blade. Yet in his eyes had been the same fierce glow. His uncle the king, Ptolemais, had tried to have him quietly poisoned, but the boy had outwitted him, saving his brother Perdiccas and killing Ptolemais as he lay in his bed. This he had achieved as a thirteen-year-old. Now, at thirty, Philip had united Macedonia, creating a nation to be feared.
    But such pride was double-edged, Attalus knew, bringing either greatness or an early grave. Macedonian spies in theCalcidean city of Olynthos reported that an elite group of assassins had been hired to end the threat of Philip of Macedon. It took no genius to realize they would strike at the festival of thanksgiving, when the king, dressed only in tunic and cloak, walked unarmed among the crowds to the temple of Zeus.
    “Think of Alexander,” urged Attalus. “If you are slain, then he will be in great peril. You have no other heirs, which means the nobles will fight among themselves to succeed you. Alexander would be killed.”
    For a moment only Philip wavered, stroking his thick black beard and staring from the wide window. But when he turned back, Attalus knew the cause was lost. “I will walk among my people. Now, have enough flowers been distributed along the route?”
    “Yes, sire,” answered Attalus wearily.
    “I want them strewn before my feet. It will look good; it will impress the ambassadors. They must see that Macedonia is with me.”
    “Macedonia
is
with you—regardless of whether they throw flowers.”
    “Yes, yes. But it must be seen. The Athenians are stirring up more trouble. They do not have the finance to mount a campaign themselves, but they are working hard on the Olynthians. I do not desire a war—yet—with the Chalcidean League. Now how do I look?”
    Attalus curbed his temper and gazed at the king. Of medium height, he was broad-shouldered and powerful, his black tightly curled hair and beard shining like a panther’s pelt, the tawny flecks in his single green eye highlighted by the crown of golden laurel leaves. His tunic was summer blue, his cloak night black.
    “You look splendid—a king of legend. Let us hope you look as fine at the end of the