Lion of Macedon (17 page)

For a moment Leonidas said nothing, his expression unreadable. “I love my sister,” he said, “even though she is willful. But you are my enemy, Parmenion, and will remain so until the day of your death, which I pray will be today. You cannot stand against Nestus.”

“Why must this go on?” Parmenion asked. “How can you carry this hatred when I will be wed to your sister?”

Leonidas reddened, and Parmenion saw not just anger but anguish in his eyes. “It would be unfair to speak of it now, before you fight. If you survive, then I will tell you.”

“Tell me, and to Hades with fairness!”

Leonidas took a step forward, seizing the front of Parmenion’s tunic. “Derae will soon be dead—can you understand that? My father had her named as Cassandra’s victim, and even now she is on board a ship bound for Troy. When they get close to the shore, she will be hurled over the side. That is what you brought her to, half-breed! You killed her!”

The words cut into Parmenion like knives, and he reeled back from the blazing anger in Leonidas’ eyes. Cassandra’s victim! Every year a young unmarried woman was sent from Sparta as a sacrifice to the gods, to drown off the coast of Troy. It was a penance for the murder of the priestess Cassandra after the Trojan War hundreds of years before. All major cities of Greece were obliged to send victims.

The girls were taken by ship to within a mile of the coastline of Asia, then their hands were tied behind their backs
and they were thrown from the deck. There was no hope for Derae; even if she got her hands free and managed to swim to the shore, the local villagers would pursue and kill her. That was part of the ritual.

“Well, what have you to say?” hissed Leonidas, but Parmenion did not reply. He walked out into the sunshine and drew his sword, hefting it for weight. He could not answer his enemy: all feelings had vanished from him. He felt curiously light-headed and free of torment. They had taken from him the only light in his life, and he would not live in darkness again. Better for Nestus to kill him.

Xenophon approached him after a while and called Nestus to the flat ground before the house. “I have sent for the surgeon. I think it advisable to wait until he arrives before this battle commences.”

“Doctors cannot help dead men,” Nestus observed.

“Very true, but it is likely that the victor will also receive wounds. I would not want a second man to bleed to death.”

“I do not wish to wait,” declared Nestus. “Soon the sun will be down. Let us begin.”

“I agree,” said Parmenion. Xenophon looked at him closely.

“Very well. You both have swords, and the required number of witnesses are present. I suggest you salute one another and then begin.”

Nestus drew his blade and glared at Parmenion. “There will be no salute to you, mix-blood.”

“As you wish,” Parmenion answered calmly. “But before we fight, I want you to know that I love Derae—even as you must.”

“Love? What would you know of it? I shall remember her with great fondness, and I shall especially remember the moment when I told her father, in her presence, the price he would have to pay for my shame. She did not look pretty then, half-breed, not as she fell to her knees begging her father not to let her die.”

“You asked for her death?”

“I demanded her death—as I demanded yours.”

“Well,” said Parmenion, feeling the heat of rising fury but holding it in check, “you had your way with her. Now let us see if you can fight as well as you can hate.”

Nestus suddenly lunged. The sword of Leonidas flashed up, iron clashing on iron as Parmenion parried the thrust. Nestus slashed a backhand cut, but Parmenion blocked it.

The watchers spread out around the fighters. Xenophon had walked back to the shade of the roof, where he sat hunched forward with his chin on his hands, watching every move. Nestus, he saw, had the strength, but Parmenion was more swift. Their swords rang together, and for several minutes they circled, testing one another’s skill. Then Parmenion’s blade slashed down to open a shallow cut at the top of Nestus’ right shoulder. Blood sprayed out, staining the young man’s blue tunic. Xenophon rose and rejoined the watching group, who were cheering Nestus on and shouting advice. Nestus launched an attack, sending a stabbing lunge toward Parmenion’s throat, but Parmenion sidestepped and lanced his blade into his opponent’s side, the sword ripping the skin and glancing from his ribs. Grunting with pain, Nestus backed away. Blood was now flowing from two wounds, and the watching men fell silent. Parmenion feinted a cut to the head but dropped the blade down, hammering it into his opponent’s left side. A rib snapped under the impact, and Nestus screamed in pain, only partly parrying a second lunge that opened the wound further. Blood now drenched his blue tunic and was coursing down his leg.

“Enough!” yelled Xenophon. “Stand back from each other!”

Both men ignored him. Stepping in close, Parmenion blocked a feeble thrust and plunged his sword into Nestus’ belly. With a terrible cry Nestus dropped his blade and fell to his knees.

Parmenion wrenched his sword loose and looked down at his opponent. “Tell me,” he hissed, “is this how Derae looked when
she
was upon her knees, begging for her life?”

Nestus was trying to stem the blood gushing from his belly. He looked up and saw Parmenion’s eyes. “No … more,” he pleaded.

“You came for death. You found it,” said Parmenion.

“No!” shouted Xenophon as the sword of Leonidas rose and hacked down into the kneeling man’s throat, severing the jugular and smashing the bones of the neck. Nestus rolled to his side.

Parmenion turned away from the corpse and focused his gaze on Leonidas. “Pick up his sword,” urged Parmenion. “Come on! Take it and die like he did.”

“You are a savage,” said Leonidas, seeing the light of madness in Parmenion’s eyes. The young Spartan strode forward and knelt by Nestus, rolling the man to his back and closing his eyes.

Xenophon took Parmenion’s arm. “Come away now,” said the general, his voice low. “Come away.”

“Does no one else want to fight me?” shouted Parmenion. His eyes raked the group, but no one would meet his stare.

“Come away,” urged Xenophon. “This is not seemly.”

“Seemly?” Parmenion tore himself from Xenophon’s grasp.
“Seemly?
They’ve killed Derae, and they’ve come to kill me. Where is seemly in all this?”

Xenophon turned to Leonidas. “There is a small wagon at the rear of the house—you may use it to return Nestus to his family. I suggest you leave now.” He swung back to Parmenion. “Sheathe your sword; there will be no more fighting here. The battle warrant was issued, and it has been served. Further bloodshed will accomplish nothing.”

“No,” said Parmenion. “They came to kill me, so let them try. Let them try now.”

“If you do not put away your sword and return to the house, the next person you fight will be me. Do I make myself clear to you?”

Parmenion blinked and opened his mouth to speak, but there were no words. He dropped the sword and strode to the
house. Clearchus and Tinus were standing in the doorway, but they moved aside to let him pass. He sat in his room, his mind reeling. Derae was gone. At this moment she was alive somewhere out to sea, but in a matter of days she would be dead, and he would not know the hour of her passing.

The door opened, and Clearchus came in, carrying a bowl of water and a towel. “Better clean the blood off,” advised the servant, “and change your tunic. What would you like for your supper?”

Parmenion shook his head. “Supper? I just killed a man. How can you ask me about supper?”

“I’ve killed a lot of men,” said Clearchus. “What has that to do with food? He was alive. Now he’s not. He was a fool; he should have listened to Xenophon and rested first. But he didn’t. So … what would you like for supper?”

Parmenion rose and felt the tension slide from him as he looked into the old man’s face. “You don’t hate me, do you? Why is that? I know you did not like me when you were my judge at the games. Why is it you now befriend me?”

Clearchus met his gaze and grinned. “A man can change his mind, boy. Now, since you seem incapable of deciding what to eat, I shall prepare some fish in soured milk; it sits well on a queasy belly. Now bathe and change. You’ll have a long ride tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Where should I go tomorrow?”

“Corinth would be a good place to start, but I think Xenophon will send you to Thebes. He has a friend there, a man named Epaminondas. You’ll like him.”

“We have such dreams,” said Xenophon as they walked together in the gardens under bright moonlight, “and sometimes I think the gods mock us. I wanted to conquer Persia, to lead a united army into the richest kingdom the world has ever seen. Instead I live like a retired gentleman. You wanted to find love and happiness; it has been taken from you. But you are young, Parmenion; you have time.”

“Time? Without Derae nothing is worthwhile,” answered Parmenion. “I know it deep inside my soul. She was the one. We were so close during those five days.”

“I know this may sound callous, my friend, but perhaps your passion deceives you. You are not yet a worldly man, and it may be that you were merely infatuated. And there are many women in Thebes to make a man happy.”

Parmenion gazed out over the man-made lake, watching the fragmented moon floating on the surface. “I shall not love again,” he said. “I will never open my heart to the risk of so much pain. When my mother died, I felt lost and alone, but deep in my heart I had been expecting it and, I suppose, preparing for it. But Derae? It is as if a beast with terrible talons had reached inside me and ripped away my heart. I feel nothing. I have no dreams, no hopes. For a moment back there I was willing for Nestus to kill me. But then he told me he had ordered Derae’s death.”

“Not too clever of him, was it?” observed Xenophon dryly. Parmenion did not smile.

“When I killed Learchus that night, I felt a surge of joy. I gloried in his death. But today I killed a man who did not deserve to die, watched the light of life fade from his eyes. Worse, he begged me not to strike the death blow.”

“He would have died in agony from the stomach wound,” said Xenophon. “If anything, you ended his misery.”

“That is not the point, is it?” asked Parmenion quietly, turning to face the silver-haired Athenian.

“No, it is not. You destroyed him, and it was not good to see. Also, you made enemies. No one who saw the duel will forget the way he died. But in Thebes you can make a new life. Epaminondas is a good man, and he will find a place for you.”

Parmenion sank back on a marble seat. “Derae had a dream about me, but it was a false one. She dreamt she was in a temple and I came to her dressed as a general; she called me the Lion of Macedon.”

“It has a good ring to it,” said Xenophon, suddenly feeling the chill of the evening and shivering. “Let us go back to the house. I have some gifts for you.”

Clearchus had set out the presents on a long table and Parmenion moved first to the bronze breastplate. It was simply made and not, as in more expensive pieces, shaped to represent the male chest. Yet it was strong and would withstand any sword thrust. At the center of the breast was a lion’s head cast in iron. Parmenion glanced up at Xenophon. “Perhaps she was not so wrong,” the Athenian whispered. Parmenion reached out and stroked his fingers across the lion’s jaws. Beside the breastplate was a round helm, also of bronze and lined with leather. There were greaves, a bronze-studded leather kilt, and a short dagger with a curved blade.

“I do not know what to say,” Parmenion told his friend.

“They were to have been a manhood gift. But now, I think, is a better time. There is something else which I hope will prove useful.”

Xenophon lifted a leather-bound scroll and passed it to Parmenion, who opened the tiny buckles and spread the parchment. “It details my journeys across Persia and the march to the sea. I do not claim to be a great writer, but there is much that a soldier can learn from my notes, and many of my friends have asked me for copies of it.”

“I will never be able to repay you for your kindness.”

“Friends never need repaying; it is what makes them friends. Now prepare yourself for the journey. With luck the Spartans will forget about you as time passes.”

Parmenion shook his head. “They will not forget, Xenophon. I will see to that.”

“You are a man alone, and such thoughts are foolish. Sparta is the power in Greece and will remain so long past our lifetimes. Forget about vengeance, Parmenion. Even the might of Persia could not bring down Sparta.”

“Of course you are correct,” said the young man, embracing his friend.

But as the dawn was breaking and he rode from the estate,
he thought of Derae’s dream and of Thebes and the Spartan garrison there. A hostile force, hated and feared, dwelling at the center of a city of thirty thousand Thebans.

Drawing his sword, he gazed down at the gleaming blade. “I pledge you to the destruction of Sparta,” he whispered. Raising the weapon high, he pointed it to the southeast, and though the city was far beyond his range of vision, he pictured the sword poised above it with the sun’s harsh light turning it to fire.

“I carry the seeds of your hatred,” he shouted, hurling his words to the winds, “and I know where to plant them.”

Yes, he thought, Thebes is the right destination for the Lion of Macedon.

THEBES, AUTUMN, 382 B.C.