Lion of Macedon (2 page)

It had begun with a morbid fascination to know the day of her death. She had tracked the limitless paths of the future, tracing the myriad lines of possible tomorrows. In some futures she had died of illness or plague, in others of seizures or murder. In one she had even fallen from a horse, though riding was distasteful to her and she could not imagine ever being persuaded to mount such a beast.

But as she idly traced the possibilities, she became aware of a dark shadow at the edge of her last tomorrow. No matter when she died, the shadow was constant. It began to gnaw at her. With all the thousands of futures, how could this shadow remain? Tentatively she moved beyond the days of her death and saw the futures expand and grow. The shadow was stronger now, its evil palpable. And in a moment that touched her beyond terror she realized that even as she knew of the shadow, so it was becoming aware of her.

Yet Tamis was not without courage. Steeling herself, she chose a path and flew to the heart of the shadow, feeling the power of the Dark God eating into her soul like acid. She could not hold her presence here for long and fled back to the transient security of a solid present.

The knowledge she had gained became a terrible weight that burdened the old priestess. She could share it with no one and knew that at the most critical moment, when the evil needed to be challenged, she would be dead.

She prayed then, harder than she ever had, her thoughts spinning out into the cosmos. A darkness grew inside her mind, then a single light shone and she saw a face, lined but strong, hawklike with piercing blue eyes beneath a helm of iron. The face blurred and faded, to be replaced by that of a boy. Yet still the eyes were piercing blue, the mouth set in a determined line. A name came to her. But was it that of a savior or a destroyer? She could not know; she could only hope. But the name echoed in her mind like distant thunder.

Parmenion!

SPARTA, SUMMER, 385 B.C.

They came at him silently from the shadows, faces hooded and masked, wooden clubs raised.

Parmenion darted to the left, but two more attackers ran into his path and a club slashed past his head, grazing his shoulder. His fist hammered into the masked face, then he cut to the right and sprinted toward Leaving Street. The cold, marble eyes of the statue of Athena gazed down on the boy as he ran, drawing him on toward her. Parmenion leapt to the base of the statue, clambering up to stand against the stone legs.

“Come down! Come down!” chanted his tormentors. “We have something for you, mix-blood!”

“Then come up and give it to me,” he told them. The five attackers ran forward. Parmenion’s foot lashed into the face of the first, hurling him back, but a club cracked against his leg to knock him from his feet. He rolled, kicking out and sending an assailant sprawling, then he was up again and leaping high over them to land heavily on the street. A hurled club took him between the shoulder blades, and he staggered. Instantly they were upon him, pinning his arms.

“Now we have you,” said a voice, muffled by the woolen scarf masking the mouth.

“You don’t need the mask, Gryllus,” hissed Parmenion. “I’d know you by the smell.”

“You will not contest the final tomorrow,” said another
voice. “You understand? You should never have been allowed to take part. The general’s games are for Spartans, not half-breeds.”

Parmenion relaxed, his manner becoming subdued, his head dropping. The hold on his arms eased … suddenly he wrenched free, his fist thundering into Gryllus’ face. They swarmed in on him then, punching and kicking, driving him to his knees. Gryllus hauled him up by his hair as the others pinned his arms once more.

“You asked for this,” said Gryllus, drawing back his fist. Pain exploded in Parmenion’s jaw, and he sagged against his captors. The blows continued, short, powerful hooks to the belly and face.

Parmenion did not cry out.
There is no pain
, he told himself.
There is no … pain
.

“What’s going on there?”

“It’s the night watch!” whispered one of his captors. Loosing their hold on Parmenion, the youths sprinted off into an alleyway. Parmenion fell to the street and rolled. Above him loomed the silent statue of Athena of the Road. As he groaned and lurched to his feet, two soldiers ran to him.

“What happened to you?” asked the first, gripping Parmenion’s shoulder.

“I fell.” Parmenion shook loose the helping hand and spit blood.

“And your friends were assisting you to rise, I suppose,” grunted the man. “Why don’t you walk with us for a while?”

“I need no escort,” Parmenion told them.

The soldier looked into the youth’s pale blue eyes. “They are still in the alley,” he said, keeping his voice low.

“I did not doubt it,” answered Parmenion, “but they’ll not take me unawares again.” As the soldiers moved away, Parmenion sucked in a deep breath and began to run, ducking into alleys and cutting left and right toward the marketplace. For a while he heard his pursuers, but then there was only the silence of the city night.

They would expect him to make either for the barracks or
for the home of his mother. He would do neither. Instead he ran through the deserted marketplace and on to the sanctuary hill above the city.

Back at the statue of Athena an old woman stepped out into the moonlight, leaning on a long staff. She sighed and sat down on a marble seat, her body weary, her mind touched with sorrow.

“I am sorry, Parmenion,” she said. “Strong though you are, I must make you iron. You are a man of destiny.” She thought then of the other boys in the barracks. How easy it was to make them hate the half-breed, such a simple enchantment. To heal a boil took more psychic energy than to encourage hatred. It was a disturbing thought, and Tamis shivered.

Glancing up at the statue, she saw the blind marble eyes staring down at her. “Do not be so haughty,” she whispered. “I know your true name, woman of stone. I know your weaknesses and your desires, and I have more power than you.”

Tamis pushed herself to her feet.

A face came to her mind, and she smiled. Despite the enchantment Parmenion had one friend, a boy impervious to the fuel of hatred. Although it went against her plans, yet still she found the thought comforting.

“Sweet Hermias,” she said. “If all men were like you, then my work would not be necessary.”

Parmenion sat on a rock waiting for the dawn, his belly hungry but his jaw too bruised to chew on the stale bread he had saved from the previous day’s breakfast. The sun rose slowly over the red hills of the Parnon range, and the water of the Eurotas River sparkled into life. The sun’s warmth touched Parmenion’s wiry body, causing him to shiver involuntarily. Spartan training taught a man to ignore pain, to close his mind to cold or heat. To a great degree he had mastered this, but the new warmth served only to remind him how cold he had been on this long night, hidden upon the sanctuary hill above the city.

The statue of Zeus, Father of Heaven—twelve feet tall, majestic and bearded—stared out over the lands to the west of the city, seeming to study the towering Mount Ilias. Parmenion shivered once more and took a tentative bite from the dark bread, stifling a groan as pain flamed from his jaw. The punch from Gryllus had been powerful, and held as he was, Parmenion could not roll with the blow. He lifted a finger to his mouth. A tooth was loose. Tearing the bread, he pushed a small piece to the right of his jaw, chewing gently. Having finished his meager breakfast, he stood. His left side was tender. Lifting the
chiton
tunic, he examined the area; it was an angry purple, and there was blood above the hip.

He stretched, then froze as he heard movement on the climbing path. Swiftly he ran behind the marble sanctuary to the Muses, crouching to wait for the newcomers, his heart pounding. He picked up a sharp shard of broken marble; it had an edge like an ax blade. If they came at him again, someone would die!

A slender boy in a blue tunic walked into view. He had dark curly hair and thick brows. Parmenion recognized his friend Hermias, and relief washed over him. Dropping the stone, he pushed himself wearily to his feet. Hermias saw him and ran forward, gripping him by the shoulders. “Oh, Savra, my friend, how much more must you suffer?”

Parmenion forced a smile. “Today will see the end of it. Maybe.”

“Only if you lose, Savra. And you
must
lose. They could kill you. I fear they will!” Hermias looked into his friend’s pale blue eyes and saw no compromise there. “You are not going to lose, though, are you?” he said sadly.

Parmenion shrugged. “Perhaps—if Leonidas is more skillful, if the judges favor him.”

“Of course they will favor him. Gryllus says that Agisaleus is coming to watch—you think the judges will allow a nephew of the king to be humiliated?”

Parmenion laid a hand on Hermias’ shoulder. “Since that
is the case, why are you worried? I will lose. So be it. But I will not
play
to lose.”

Hermias sat down at the foot of the statue of Zeus and took two apples from his hip pouch. He passed one to Parmenion, who bit carefully into it. “Why are you so stubborn?” Hermias asked. “Is it your Macedonian blood?”

“Why not the Spartan blood, Hermias? Neither people is renowned for giving ground.”

“It was not meant as an insult, Savra. You know that.”

“Not from you, no,” said the taller youth, taking his friend’s hand. “But think on it, you all call me Savra—
lizard
—and you think of me as a half-breed barbarian.”

Hermias pulled away, his expression showing his hurt. “You are my friend,” he protested.

“That is not at issue, Hermias, nor is it an answer. You cannot help what you are—you are a Spartan, pure-blooded, with a line of heroes that goes back far beyond Thermopylae. Your own father marched with Lysander and never knew defeat. Probably you have friends among the helots and the other slave classes. But you still see them as slaves.”

“You also had a Spartan father who came back on his shield, with all his wounds in front,” insisted Hermias. “You are Spartan, too.”

“And I have a Macedonian mother.” Parmenion removed his tunic, wincing as his arms stretched over his head. His lean body was marked by bruises and cuts, and his right knee was swollen. His angular face was also bruised, the right eye almost closed. “These are the marks I bear for my blood. When they took me from my mother’s house, I was seven years old. From that day to this I have never known the sun to shine on a body that did not carry wounds.”

“I, too, have suffered bruises,” said Hermias. “All Spartan boys must suffer—else there would be no Spartan men, and we would no longer be preeminent. But I hear what you say, Sav … Parmenion. It seems Leonidas hates you, and he is a
powerful enemy. Yet you could go to him and ask to serve him. Then it would stop.”

“Never! He would laugh at me and throw me out into the street.”

“Yes, he might. But even so, the beatings would end.”

“Would you do that if you were me?”

“No.”

“Then why should I?” hissed Parmenion, his pale eyes locking to his friend’s face.

Hermias sighed. “You are hard on me, Parmenion. But you are right. I love you as a brother, and yet I do not see you as Spartan. I do inside my head—but my heart …”

“Then why should the others—who are not my friends—accept me?”

“Give us time—give us all time. But know this: Whatever you choose, I will stand beside you,” said Hermias softly.

“That is something I never doubted. Now call me Savra—from you it has a good sound.”

“I shall be at your side for the contest, and I will pray to Athena of the Road for your victory,” said Hermias, smiling. “Now, would you like me to stay with you?”

“No, but thank you. I will remain here awhile with Father Zeus, and I will think, and I will pray. I will see you at Xenophon’s house three hours after noon for the contest.”

Hermias nodded and wandered away. Parmenion watched him go, then swung his attention to the awakening city.

Sparta. The home of heroes, birthplace of the finest warriors ever to walk the green earth. From here, less than a century before, the legendary sword king had set off for the pass of Thermopylae with three hundred warriors and seven hundred helots. There the tiny force had faced an army of Persians numbering more than a quarter of a million.

And yet the Spartans had held, hurling back the foe until at last the Persian King Xerxes sent in his Immortals. Ten thousand of the finest warriors Persia could muster from her great empire, highly trained, the elite corps. And the Spartans humbled them. Parmenion felt his heart swell as he pictured
those grim-eyed men in their full-faced helms of bronze, their blood-red cloaks, and their shining swords. The might of Persia—the might of the world!—broken upon the swords of three hundred Spartans. He turned to the southeast. There, out of sight now, was the monument to the king who died there. Betrayed by a Greek, the Spartans had been surrounded and massacred. They had known of the betrayal, and the king had been urged by his allies to flee the field. His words were engraved on the hearts of all Spartans: “A Spartan leaves the battle carrying his shield—or upon it. There will be no retreat.” It seemed ironic to Parmenion that his greatest hero and his worst enemy should share the same name and bloodline—Leonidas. And at times he wondered if the king of legend had been as cruel as his namesake. He hoped not.