Lion of Macedon (48 page)

The man chuckled and leaned back against the trunk of the flowering tree. “Straight for the heart, eh? Ever the general. Well, there’s no harm in that, my Spartan friend. It has served you well over the years, has it not? Me? As I said, I am a scholar. I have never been a warrior, though I have known many. You remind me much of Leonidas the sword king. He was a man of great prowess and had a gift for making men great.”

“The sword king died more than a century ago,” said Parmenion. “Are you telling me you knew him?”

“I did not say I
knew
him, Parmenion. I said you
reminded me
of him. It was a shame he felt he had to die at Thermopylae;
he could have made Sparta truly great. Still, he also was a strong echo of the great song, three hundred men against an army of two hundred thousand. Wondrously brave.”

“When I was in Thebes,” said Parmenion, “there was a man who tried to teach me to catch fish with my bare hands. Talking to you reminds me of those days. I hear your words, but they slip by me, the meanings obscure. How can you help me?”

“At this moment you do not need me, Spartan,” said the man, his smile fading. Reaching out, he gripped Parmenion’s arm. “But there will come a time. You will be given a task, and my name will come into your mind. It is then that you must seek me out. You will find me where first we met. Do not forget that, Parmenion—much will depend on it.”

Parmenion stood. “I will remember, and once more I thank you for your hospitality. If we go back the way we came, will we see again the river and the mountains?”

“No. This time you will emerge in the hills above Pella.”

The gray-haired man stood and offered his hand. Parmenion took it, feeling the strength in the grip. “You are not as old as you look,” said the Spartan with a smile.

“There is great truth in that,” the man answered. “Seek me out when you have need. And by the way, even as we speak, the Thracian king is dying, poisoned by one of Philip’s friends. Such is the fate of greedy kings, is it not?”

“Sometimes,” agreed Parmenion, vaulting to the stallion’s back. “Do you have a name, scholar?”

“I have many. But you may call me Aristotle.”

“I have heard of you, though never as a
magus
. It is said you are a philosopher.”

“I am what I am. Ride on, Parmenion—the song awaits.”

The trench was more than two hundred feet long, the fifty men digging with picks and shovels through layers of clay and rock, the sun beating down on their bare backs as they labored. Other soldiers worked to clear the debris, which they threw onto the backs of the trench.

Philip drove his pick into the ground before him, feeling his shoulders jar as the metal edge struck rock once more. Laying the tool aside, he dropped to his knees and dug into the clay, hooking his fingers around the stone and dragging it clear. It was larger than he had first thought, its weight as great as that of a small man. He was about to call for help when he saw several of the men looking at him and grinning. He smiled back, placed his arms alongside the rock, and heaved it to his chest. With a powerful surge he rose and rolled the offending stone to the bank. Then he climbed out and walked the line of the trench, stopping to speak to the workers, gauging their progress.

At each end the trench turned at right angles, the workers following the lines of ropes pegged to the ground. Philip walked back from the site and pictured the new barracks. It would be two stories high, with a long dining hall and seven dormitories housing more than five hundred men. The architect was a Persian who had been trained in Athens, and Philip had demanded that the building be completed by the next spring.

The workers were all soldiers from the Pelagonia and Lynkos districts to the northwest, land currently occupied by Bardylis and his Illyrians. The men worked cheerfully enough, especially when the king struggled alongside them, but he knew they remembered his promise that they could return to their homes within three months of the victory against the Paionians.

That had been five weeks ago, and still there was no treaty with Bardylis. Yet, looking on the positive side, Philip thought that was promising, for the Illyrians had not marched farther into Macedonian territory and Bardylis was considering Philip’s offer to marry his daughter. As a gesture of good faith and “continuing brotherhood,” Bardylis had requested that the Macedonian king hand over to Illyria all the lands between the Bora mountains and the Pindos range: six districts in all, including Pelagonia, rich in timber, with good grazing and fine pastures.

“Ugly brides do not come cheaply, it seems,” Philip had told Nicanor.

Now the king was ridding himself of tension by sheer physical labor. The trench would be finished by tomorrow, then the footings could be completed and he could watch with pleasure the growth of the barracks.

No simple structure of wood and mud brick, the frontage would be carved stone, the roof clay-tiled, the rooms airy and full of light.

“But you are talking of a palace, sire,” the architect had objected.

“And I want three wells and a fountain in the central courtyard. Also a special section for the commanding officer, with an
andron
to accommodate twenty—no, thirty men.”

“As you wish, sire … but it will not be cheap.”

“If I wanted cheap, I would have hired a Spartan,” Philip replied, patting the man’s thin shoulder.

The king wandered to a pile of rocks and sat down. A workman brought him a goblet of water from a cool stone jar; it tasted like nectar. He thanked the man, recognizing him as the burly bearded warrior who had led the cheering after the first battle.

“What is your name, friend?”

“Theoparlis, sire. Most call me Theo.”

“It should be a fine building, Theo. Fit for the troops of the king.”

“Indeed it will, sire. I am sorry I shall not enjoy the pleasure of living in it, but in two months I shall be returning to my wife in Pelagonia. Is that not true?”

“It is true,” agreed Philip. “And before another year is out I will come to you there and offer you a place in this fine barracks and a house for your wife in Pella.”

“I will look forward to your visit,” said Theo, bowing and returning to his work. Philip watched him go and then swung his gaze to the east, where two riders were making their way from the city center. He drained his water and watched them. The lead rider wore a bronze breastplate and an iron helm,
but Philip was more intent on the horse, a chestnut stallion of some sixteen hands. All Macedonian nobles were raised as horsemen, and Philip’s love of the beasts was second to none. The stallion had a fine head, eyes set well apart—a good indication of sound character. Its neck was long but not overly so, the mane cropped like a helmet plume. Philip strolled toward the riders, angling so that he could see the stallion’s back and flanks. Its shoulder blades were sloping and powerful, which would give the beast long sweeping strides, making it fast and yet comfortable to ride. Straight shoulders, Philip knew, led to jarring steps and discomfort for the rider.

“You there!” came a voice, and Philip glanced up. The second rider, a short stout man riding a swaybacked gray gelding, was pointing at him. “We are looking for the king. Take us to him.”

Philip studied the man. He was bald, but red and silver hair grew over his ears like a laurel crown. “Who wants him?” he asked.

“That is none of your concern, peasant,” snapped the rider.

“Gently, gently, Mothac,” said the other man, lifting his leg and jumping to the ground. He was tall and slim, though his arms were well muscled, showing the scars of many fights. Philip looked up into the man’s eyes; they were pale blue, but the face was tanned to the color of leather, making them as gray as storm clouds. Philip’s heart leapt as he recognized Parmenion, but quelling the urge to run forward and embrace the Spartan, he kept his face free of emotion and wandered forward.

“You are a mercenary?” Philip asked.

“Yes,” replied Parmenion. “And you are a builder?”

Philip nodded. “It is to be a barracks, I am told. Perhaps one day you will be quartered here.”

“The footings are deep,” observed the warrior, walking to the trench and watching the workmen.

“There are occasional earthquakes,” Philip told him, “and it
is essential for the foundations to be sound. It does not matter how pretty the building. Without good foundations it will fall.”

“The same is true of armies,” said the warrior softly. “Did you fight against the Paionians?”

“I did. It was a good victory.”

“Did the king fight?”

“Like a lion. Like ten lions,” said Philip, smiling broadly.

The man nodded and was silent for a moment, then he turned to the king and he, too, smiled. “I am glad to hear it. I would not wish to serve a coward.”

“You seem sure the king will employ you.”

The warrior shrugged. “Did you like my horse, sire?”

“Yes, he is a fine—how did you know me?”

“You are much changed from the boy I saw in Thebes, and I might not have recognized you. However, you are also the only man not working, and such, I would guess, is the king’s prerogative. I am hot, and my throat is dusty, and it would be pleasant if we could find a place out of the sun and discuss why you asked me here.”

“Indeed we shall,” said Philip, smiling broadly. “But first let me say that you are a prayer answered. You have no idea how greatly you are needed.”

“I think I have,” answered Parmenion. “I remember a young boy telling me of a country surrounded by enemies: Illyrians, Paionians, Thracians. A soldier remembers such things.”

“Well, it is worse now. I have no army to speak of and little but my wits to hold back our foes. Gods, man, but I’m pleased to see you!”

“I may not stay,” warned Parmenion.

“Why?” Philip asked, a cold fear touching his heart.

“I do not yet know if you are a man I would wish to serve.”

“You speak frankly, but I cannot question the wisdom behind the words. Come with me to the palace; there you can bathe and shave and refresh yourself. Then we can talk.”

Parmenion nodded. “Did you really fight like ten lions?” he asked, his face expressionless.

“More like twenty,” replied Philip, “but I am modest by nature.”

Parmenion climbed out of the bath and strolled to the window, allowing the water to evaporate from his skin, cooling it. Running his fingers through his thinning hair, he turned to Mothac.

“What did you think of him?”

Mothac shook his head. “I don’t like to see a king in a loincloth, digging dirt like a peasant.”

“You’ve been among the Persians too long, my friend.”

“Will we stay?”

Parmenion did not answer. The journey had been long across Asia Minor and into Thrace, crossing mountains and rivers. And despite the saving of a week’s travel after the meeting with Aristotle, he was tired and felt the dull ache of the old spear wound under his right shoulder. He rubbed himself down with a towel, then lay on a couch while Mothac massaged oil into his back.

Macedonia. It was greener than he had imagined, more lush. But he experienced a slight disappointment, for he had hoped to feel that he had come home. Instead it was just another land, boasting tall mountains and fertile plains.

Dressing in a simple tunic and sandals, he wandered out to the courtyard to watch the setting sun. He felt old and boneweary. Epaminondas was dead, slain at Mantinea just as Tamis had foretold. Parmenion shivered.

Mothac brought him a pitcher of wine, and they sat in comfortable silence. As the sun set, Mothac lit a lantern and the two men ate a frugal meal of bread and cheese.

“You liked him, didn’t you?” asked Mothac at last.

“Yes. He reminds me of Pelopidas.”

“He’ll probably end his life the same way,” remarked Mothac.

“By heaven, you’re in a sour mood,” snapped Parmenion. “What’s wrong with you?”

“With me? Nothing. But I want to know why we left Susa to come here. We had the life of princes; we were rich, Parmenion. What does this frontier land hold for us? The Macedonians will never amount to anything. And what do you have to gain here? You are known as the greatest general in the civilized world. But it is not enough, is it? You cannot resist the impossible challenge.”

“You are probably right. But I asked you if you wanted to stay in Persia. I put no bridle on you, Mothac.”

The Theban grunted. “You think friendship has no chains? Well, it has. Even to following you—and your pride—into this wilderness with its half-Greek barbarians.”

Parmenion reached out and gripped his friend’s arm. “You shame me, Mothac. And I am sorry if this enterprise does not meet with your approval. I don’t understand all the reasons that drew me here. Partly it was the call of blood. My ancestors lived on this land, fought for it, died for it; I had to see it. But there is truth in what you say. I know what men call me, but are they correct? I have always led well-trained armies, mostly outnumbering the enemy. Here, as you observe, there is a challenge. The Illyrians are disciplined and well led, the Thracians ferocious and many, the Olynthians rich enough to hire the best mercenaries. What glory would there be in leading any of them? But Macedon?” He smiled. “I cannot resist it, my friend.”

“I know,” said Mothac wearily. “I have always known.”

“That we would come to Macedonia?”

“No. It is not easy to put into words.” He was silent for a while, his green eyes fixed to Parmenion’s face. Finally he smiled, reaching forward to grip his friend’s shoulder. “I think—deep inside—you are still the mix-blood boy in Sparta, striving to prove your worth. And if you succeed here—which is doubtful—you will hunt the impossible challenge elsewhere. And the foolish Mothac will be with you. And now I’ll say good night.” The Theban rose and walked away to his rooms.

For a while Parmenion sat alone, his thoughts somber, then he strolled out into the gardens beyond the courtyard and up the steps of the high wall, where he leaned on the parapet, looking south toward Thessaly.

Mothac was right, he knew. The boy Savra remained within the general Parmenion, sad and lonely, still seeking a home, a love, happiness. He had hoped to find it in Persia, in wealth and renown. But fame was no answer, and fortune merely served to remind him of all the joys he could not buy.