Dark Prince



Book One, 352 BC

Pella, Macedonia, Summer

The golden-haired child sat alone, as he usually did, and wondered whether his father would die today. Some
distance away, across the royal gardens, his nurse was talking to the two sentries who guarded him during the hours
of daylight. The soldiers, grim-eyed warriors, did not look at him and shifted nervously if he approached.

Alexander was used to this reaction. Even at four he understood it.

He remembered with sadness the day three weeks ago when his father, garbed for war, had walked along this same
garden path, his cuirass gleaming in the sunlight. It was so beautiful that Alexander had reached out to touch the
gleaming plates of iron, edged with gold, the six golden lions on the breast. But as his hand came forward Philip had
moved swiftly back.

'Don't touch me, boy!' he snapped.

'I would not hurt you, Father,' whispered the prince, staring up at the black-bearded face, with its blind right eye like
a huge opal beneath the savagely scarred brow.

'I came to say goodbye,' muttered Philip, 'and to tell you to be good. Learn your lessons well.'

'Will you win?' the child asked.

'Win or die, boy,' answered the King, kneeling to face his son. He appeared to relax, though his expression remained
stern. 'There are those who think I cannot win. They remember Onomarchus defeated me when last we met. But . .
.'his voice dropped to a whisper, 'when the arrow tore into my eye at the siege of Methone they said I would die.
When the fever struck me down in Thrace men swore my heart stopped beating. But I am Macedon, Alexander, and I
do not die easily.'

'I don't want you to die. I love you,' said the child.

For a moment only Philip's face softened, his arm rising as if to reach out to his son. But the moment passed and the
King stood. 'Be good,' he said. 'I will. . . think of you.'

The sound of children's laughter brought Alexander's thoughts back to the present. Beyond the garden walls he could
hear the palace children playing. Sighing, he wondered what game they were enjoying. Hunt the Turtle perhaps, or
Hecate's Touch. He watched them sometimes from the window of his room. One child would be chosen as Hecate,
Goddess of Death, and would chase the others, seeking out their hiding-places, to touch them and make them slaves.
The game would go on until all the children had been found and enslaved by Death.

Alexander shivered in the sunshine. No one would ask him to play such a game. He looked down at his small hands.

He had not meant the hound to die; he had loved the pup. And he had tried so hard, concentrating always, so that
whenever he stroked the dog his mind was calm. But one day the playful hound had leapt at him, knocking him from
his feet. In that moment Alexander's hand had snaked out, lightly slapping the beast on the neck. The hound
collapsed instantly, eyes glazing, legs twitching. It had die...

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