Chapter 1
It will forever be one of the great “what ifs” of history. If I had only known sooner of the plot to poison my king the world may be a very different place. At age thirty-three, Alexander III of Macedon was too young to have perished. I will eternally blame myself, though others think his destiny was determined by the gods and not by one of his most loyal Elite corps of the Agema Royal Battalion. But, a plot so sinister and deadly, a murder so loathsome and filled with delirium and agonizing pain, should never have beset a man so great as he. If I had just understood what would have occurred after his passing, I would forever die a hundred deaths to spare our people of that nightmare to come.
Where can a simple man born to the sword begin his tale? What explanation or excuse can I come upon to ease my Hades-inspired guilty heart? All I can speak is of what I know. And of this, you must first understand who I am. I am Thessius, son of Percedicus.
When I was ten I drew my first sword. It was a time of men and war. It was the year 344 B.C. when the genius son born to Philip II, third son of Amyntas III, was merely twelve years old. At eighteen I was already proficient in the sabre, and because of my height, soon learned the handling of the great sarissa. King Philip was developing an army of impenetrable phalanxes, all pointing fifteen foot spears, shoulder to shoulder.
Nothing but missiles thrown at us could do us any harm. Of Philip, the men would be quick to gossip. Though we were sworn to him, and did desire to serve him for he paid us in silver coins, his constant battles with the wild-eyed, red-haired Queen Olympias, who surrounded herself in snakes, was enough fodder to keep us amused nightly. This, of course, was nothing compared to the regular occurrence of the bedding of young females, and males alike, who courted the king. Though we tried to prevent it, our young prince did hear our sniggering whilst we drank our fill before the evening fires. The ugliness of Philip, with his blinded eye oozing constantly, his right arm hanging useless, his gimpy limp, could only be contrasted to the intense beauty of his son.
