Lion of Macedon (19 page)

“It is a wonderful city,” said Parmenion later as the two men returned to Epaminondas’ white-walled home. A servant brought them platters of cheese and bread, and they sat on a first-floor balcony, enjoying the cool of the shade below the towering Cadmea.

“You have not seen one-tenth of it,” Epaminondas told him. “Originally the Cadmea was the city, and Thebes grew up around its base. Tomorrow we will see the theater, and I will show you the grave of Hector and the great north gate.”

“With respect, I would sooner see the training ground. My muscles ache from the ride, and I would like to run.”

“Then it shall be as you say.”

That night Parmenion slept in a room at the top of the house, and a cool easterly wind blew in through the open window. He dreamed of an ancient temple with huge, broken columns. An old woman was there, lying on a pallet bed beside an altar; he took her hand and gazed down into her blind eyes. It was a curious dream, and he awoke in the depths of the night feeling calm and strangely refreshed.

Lying back, he thought of Nestus and the terrible fear in the man’s eyes and remembered with sorrow the look on Hermias’ face as he had swung around with the bloody sword in his hands. Hermias was his friend no longer; worse, Parmenion had seen in him the beginnings of hate.

Through all the years of his childhood Hermias had been his one ally, loyal and steadfast. It hurt the young Spartan that such a gulf should have come between them. But that is yet another price I must pay, he thought, to achieve my revenge.

Revenge. The word stirred in him like a living thing—writhing, growing, dissolving the memories of the dream and the calm that followed it. Revenge will be neither simple nor swift, he told himself. I must bide my time, learn the
ways of this new city, seek out the rebels who hate the Spartans as I do. But I must act with care. His thoughts turned to Epaminondas. Here was a man to cultivate—a great warrior but also a thinker. Parmenion rose from the bed and drew the sword of Leonidas from its scabbard, the moonlight reflecting on the blade and turning it to silver. A longing began in him then to plunge the blade again and again into the hearts of his enemies, to see it dripping with their blood. Do I have the patience? he asked himself. How long can I wait?

Xenophon’s words echoed in his mind: “The good general—if he has a choice—does not engage in battle until he is sure he can win, no more than a warrior will charge into the fight with a piece of iron ore. He will wait until the armorer has forged from it a blade with a killing edge.”

Parmenion drew in a deep, calming breath and sheathed the sword. “You are right as always, Xenophon. And I miss you. I will bide my time.” Returning to his bed, he dozed for a while, cascading images flowing through his mind: the general’s games, his mother’s death, Derae running on the training ground, Derae lying beneath him in the oak grove, Nestus dying, drowning in his own blood.

And he dreamed he was walking on a dark hillside beneath a crimson sky. A white tree was growing there, its trunk made up of gaping skulls obscenely wedged together. Swords and spears, gripped by skeletal hands, were its branches, and the fruits of the tree were severed heads, dripping blood to the ground. Where the gore touched the earth, dark flowers grew, the blooms in the shape of faces. A cold wind moaned across the flowers, and Parmenion seemed to hear a thousand distant whispers sighing, “Spare me! Spare me!”

A shadow moved upon the hillside, and the Spartan swung to see a hooded figure rise up before the tree. “What do you wish for, young warrior?” came a woman’s voice from within the hood
.

“Blood and vengeance,” he replied
.

“You shall have it,” she told him
.

* * *

Parmenion awoke to the dawn and joined Epaminondas on the lower terrace for breakfast. The Theban was wearing a simple tunic of gray-green that made his pale, pockmarked face seem sallow and unhealthy. But his dark eyes were bright and his smile open and friendly as Parmenion joined him.

“You mentioned a run, Parmenion. Are you an athlete?”

“I am fast and should have represented Sparta in the Olympics. But I made a mistake in the final race and was edged out by Leonidas.”

“Interesting. There is a man in Thebes who runs with great speed. He is a Spartan from the citadel: his name is Meleager.”

“I have heard of him. Leonidas beat him by ten paces a year ago.”

“You think you could beat him?”

Parmenion broke bread and dipped it into a bowl of onions, soft cheese, and oil. “Unless he has grown wings.”

“How much money do you have?” Epaminondas asked.

“I signed over my house to Xenophon, in return for which he gave me a hundred and eighty drachmas and the bay mare. It will not last long.”

“Indeed it will not. Does Meleager know of you?”

Parmenion shrugged. “He will know of my name, but what has this to do with the money I hold?”

“Here in Thebes we wager on races. If you could beat Meleager—and no one else has—you could triple, perhaps quadruple your money.”

Parmenion leaned back in his chair. No one wagered in Sparta; it was considered vulgar. But it would be a fine way to extend his finances. At present he had barely enough money to see him through to the spring. If he did quadruple the amount, he would be able to eke out a careful existence for at least two years. But what if you lose? he asked himself. Races were tough, the runners using elbows and shoulders to barge their way through. Then there was the danger of being tripped or falling. Nothing was certain in competition.

“I will think on it,” said Parmenion.

The Iolaus training ground was bordered by oak trees to the north and west. To the east was the shrine to Artemis of the Glory, a high-columned temple dedicated to the goddess of the hunt, and to the south was the legendary grave of Hector, the mighty Trojan warrior slain by Achilles during the war with Troy.

As Parmenion stretched the muscles of his thighs and groin prior to his training run, he gazed at Hector’s tomb. It was of marble, decorated with raised reliefs, carvings that showed his valiant battle with the Greek hero. Parmenion had always felt a great admiration for Hector. Most Spartans spoke of Achilles, for he was the victor, and yet it seemed to Parmenion that Hector had shown the greater courage. An oracle had warned Hector that to fight Achilles would mean death, for his opponent was invincible. During the ten-year Trojan War both men had studiously avoided single combat. And then, one bright morning, Hector had seen Achilles riding toward him in a bronze chariot, his armor—caught in the sunlight—seeming to blaze with white fire. The two men had met on the field of combat—and Hector won. He struck down Achilles with a terrible blow to the neck and watched his nemesis writhe in his death throes.

What a glory for Hector, what a weight lifted from his heart! Now he would see his baby son grow to manhood; now he would know again the peace that the oracle had stolen. He knelt by the body and tore the white-plumed helmet from the head—only to find himself gazing down on the dead face of Patroclus, Achilles’ lover. Hector staggered back, shocked, confused. He ran to a Greek prisoner. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Why was Patroclus wearing Achilles’ armor?”

The man could not meet Hector’s fierce eyes but looked down. “Achilles has decided to return home. He will fight no more,” he said.

Oh, but he would. Hector knew that. In killing Patroclus he had hastened his own doom. Leaping into his chariot, he galloped his horses back into the city of Troy and waited for the challenge he knew must come.

Within the hour Achilles was at the gates.…

Parmenion finished his exercises and walked to the tomb, laying his hand upon it. “You went out to meet him, Hector,” he said. “That was bravely done. And you died as a man should, facing his enemy.”

The bones of Hector had been brought from the ruins of Troy and buried in Thebes because of another oracle that said, “Thebans in the city of Cadmos, your country shall have innocent wealth if you bring out of Asia the bones of Hector. Carry them home and worship the hero by the decree of Zeus.”

The Thebans had obeyed. Every year, according to Epaminondas, they declared a holy day for Hector and a great celebration was held at the training ground, where men and women danced and drank in honor of the Trojan. And wealth had followed, in trade with Athens in the south and the exporting of goods north to Thessaly and Macedonia, to the Illyrians and the Thracians. Thebes was awash with coin.

Parmenion sucked in a deep breath and began to run. The track was hard-baked clay, formed in a great oval that skirted the training ground. Five circuits represented a mile. He loped easily around the circuit, examining the ground. The races all began and ended at the shrine to Artemis, so he stopped on the last curve before the finish and knelt to examine the track. Here it was more concave, the clay powdery on the surface. This was no surprise, for the runners would kick for home and over the years the track had taken more punishment here. A man could slip and fall at this point if he was not wary. He would need to come wide on this last bend … but then, so would Meleager.

Parmenion continued his run for almost an hour, increasing his speed in short, lung-bursting sprints before dropping back to an even pace. Finally he jogged to where Epaminondas lay in the shade of a spreading oak.

“You run well,” said the Theban, “but I saw no evidence of great speed. Meleager is faster.”

Parmenion smiled. “I don’t doubt that he is. But speed
comes from strength, and the middle distance is a fine race for robbing a man of that. Will you wager on me?”

“Of course; you are my guest. It would be impolite not to do so. However, do not put all your money on yourself, Parmenion.” The Spartan laughed.

“When can I race him?”

“There will be games in three weeks. I will put your name forward. What shall we call you?”

“I was known as Savra in Sparta.”

“Lizard?” queried Epaminondas. “No, I don’t think so. We need something Macedonian.” He looked up, and there, through the trees, was the stone lion dedicated by Heracles. “There,” said the Theban. “We will keep it simple and call you Leon. You run like a lion, with your short bursts of speed.”

“Why not keep to Parmenion? This smacks of trickery.”

“Smacks of? It
is
trickery, my friend. Or perhaps it would soothe our consciences if we called it strategy. You almost won a place in the Spartan team for the coming Olympics. If we let that be known, no one will bet against you … and then you will earn no money. As it is—if you win—the gold you gather will be mostly Spartan.”

“I need money,” Parmenion agreed, grinning.

“And there you have it,” replied Epaminondas. “The victory of expediency over principles. And long may it remain so.”

“You are very cynical,” Parmenion observed.

The Theban nodded. “Indeed I am. But then, that is the lesson life teaches to those with eyes to see. No one is above price, be it money, or fame, or power.”

“You think you have a price?”

“Of course. To free Thebes, I would sacrifice anything.”

“There is no dishonor in that,” argued Parmenion.

“If you truly believe that, then you have a lot to learn,” the Theban answered.

During the weeks leading up to the race Parmenion had run hard for two hours every day, building strength and stamina.
Now, with only a day left, he had eased up on his training, merely loping around the track, gently stretching his muscles. He had no wish to start the race feeling tired. As Lepidus used to say, “Never leave your strength on the training ground, gentlemen.” Finishing his run, he bathed in the fountain by the shrine to Artemis. As usual he wandered through the city during the afternoon. Thebes continued to fascinate him with her complexity and color, and he was dazzled by the skills shown in her construction—she made Sparta seem like a collection of peasant houses thrown together during a storm.

The public buildings here were awesome, colossal pillars and beautiful statues, but even the private homes were well built, not of sun-dried brick but of stone shaped into polygons for close fitting. The windows were large, allowing greater light, and the inner walls were decorated with paintings or hangings of brightly colored wool. Even the poorer homes in the northern quarter were handsomely roofed with terra-cotta tiles and had skillfully carved shutters, while many courtyards boasted their own fountains.

His own home in Sparta had been modest, but not more so than many other dwellings: the floors of hard-packed earth, the walls of clay and rushes covered with lime mortar. But even Xenophon’s home, which Parmenion had seen as splendid, had nothing to rival the house of Epaminondas. Every floor of the eight-room building was stone-studded, decorated with mosaics of white and black stone set in circles or squares. The main room, the
andron
, was split-leveled with seven couches for the guests. And there was a bathroom with a water cistern inside the house!

Thebes was quite simply the most exciting place Parmenion had ever seen.

Toward dusk he would find a table at one of the many dining areas near the square and order a meal. Servants would carry food to him on flat wooden trays: a fresh loaf, a dish of soured cream, herbs and olive oil, followed by spiced fish. He would sit out under the starlight, ending his meal with
sweet honey cakes and feeling as if the gods themselves had invited him to Olympus.

It was only later, when alone in his upper room, that memories of Derae would steal upon him, bringing pain and clutching at his heart. Then he would rise from his bed and stare balefully out over the sleeping city, his thoughts bitter. Dreams of revenge grew inside his soul, building slowly like a temple of hate within him.

They would pay.

Who will pay?
asked a still small voice.

Parmenion pondered the thought. It was Leonidas who was his enemy, yet the whole of Parmenion’s life had been scarred by rejection, by the hated use of “mix-blood.” He had been welcomed nowhere save at the home of Xenophon. No one in Sparta had made him feel he belonged, not even Hermias.