Lion of Macedon (5 page)

The two youths walked up the stony path to the sanctuary of Ammon, a small, circular building of white stone fronted by marble
hoplites
. From here Parmenion could see the sacred lake and, beyond the city, the tree-shrouded temple of Aphrodite, goddess of love.

“Are you nervous?” asked Hermias as they sat beneath the marble statues.

“My stomach is knotted, but my mind is calm,” Parmenion told him.

“What formation will you use?”

“A new one.” Swiftly Parmenion outlined his plan.

Hermias listened in silence, then shook his head. “You must not do this, Savra! Please listen to me! It is unthinkable!”

Surprised by his friend’s reaction, Parmenion chuckled. “It is just a mock battle, Hermias. Wooden soldiers and knucklebones. Is not the object to win?”

“Yes, yes, but … they will never allow it. Gods, Savra, can you not see it?”

“No,” answered Parmenion. “Anyway, what does it matter? No one will have to sit through a two-hour ordeal. Win or lose, it will be over in minutes.”

“I do not think so,” whispered Hermias. “Let us go back.”

Xenophon’s courtyard was crowded, the guests climbing to the banked seats against the western wall, where they could sit in the shade. Parmenion was uncomfortably aware of the poverty he showed in his ill-fitting
chiton
, but then, his mother had only the one small landholding, and from that meager income she had to find enough money for food and clothing and to pay for Parmenion’s training. All Spartan youths were charged for their food and lodging, and inability to pay meant loss of status. When poverty struck a family, they lost not only the right to vote but the right to call themselves Spartan. It was the greatest shame a man could suffer. Ejected from his barracks, he would have to take employment and become little better than a helot.

Parmenion shook himself clear of such somber thoughts and stared at the ten-foot-square killing ground shaped in sand. The carved wooden soldiers stood in ranks beside it. Gold on the left, blood on the right. Unpainted and unadorned, yet still they were handsome. Reaching down, he picked up the first gold
hoplite
line; it had been carved in white wood, but the years had stained it yellow. There were only ten figures pinned to the small support plank, but these represented a hundred heavily armored warriors bearing round shields, spears, and short swords. They had been carved with care, even down to the leather kilts and bronze greaves. Only the helms were now outdated; full-faced and plumed, they had been discontinued thirty years before. But these carvings were old and almost sacred. The great Leonidas of legend had used them when he won the eleventh games.

Parmenion replaced the Spartan file and moved to the Sciritai. These were less well carved and not as old. The men here carried no spears and wore round leather caps.

A shadow fell across Parmenion, and he glanced up to see a tall man wearing a yellow tunic edged with gold. He had rarely seen a more fine-looking warrior: his hair was golden, streaked with silver, his eyes the blue of a summer sky.

The man smiled at him. “You would be Parmenion. Welcome to my house, young general.”

“Thank you, sir. It is an honor to be here.”

“Yes, it is,” Xenophon agreed, “but you have earned that honor. Walk with me.”

Parmenion followed Xenophon into a shaded alcove decorated with a magnificent display of purple flowers that draped the wall like the cloak of a king.

“The straws have been drawn, and you will make the first move. Now, tell me the first three orders you will give,” said Xenophon. Parmenion took a deep breath. For the first time his nerves seemed to fail him, and he found himself staring back at the crowd in the courtyard. In a real battle, once the fighting started, it was almost impossible to change the strategy swiftly, not when thousands of men were struggling together with swords and shields clashing. That was why, in the game, the first three orders were given to the judges so that no competitor could suddenly change his mind if faced by a superior move from his opponent.

“I am waiting, young man,” whispered Xenophon. Parmenion turned his pale blue eyes on the handsome Athenian. Then he told him, watching the older man’s reaction.

Xenophon listened without expression, then he sighed and shook his head. “It is not for the senior judge to offer advice; therefore, I will say only that if Leonidas chooses any of four—perhaps five—options, you will be routed catastrophically. You have considered this, of course?”

“I have, sir.”

“Have you also considered the question of tradition and of Spartan pride?”

“I merely wish to win the battle.”

Xenophon hesitated. Already he had exceeded his duties. Finally he nodded and returned to the ritual. “May the gods favor you, Sparta,” he said, bowing. Parmenion returned the bow and watched the Athenian stride across to where Leonidas waited. He swallowed hard. If the general was a friend to Leonidas and should impart even a clue as to Parmenion’s battle plan …

Do not even think it! Xenophon is a great general, Parmenion
chided himself, and would never stoop to anything so base. This was the man who, after the defeat at Cunaxa, had seen his friends brutally assassinated and had taken command of a demoralized Greek army and fought his way across Persia’s vast empire to the sea. Xenophon would not betray him.

But he is also the father of Gryllus, thought Parmenion, and a friend to the family of Leonidas.

The crowd rose, and Parmenion watched as Agisaleus entered, flanked by his generals and two of his lovers. The king bowed as the crowd applauded him, then limped to his seat at the center of the first row, directly beside the sand pit. Parmenion’s mouth was dry as he walked to where Hermias stood, averting his eyes from the cloak.

Xenophon called the other two judges to him. For some minutes he spoke to them, then took his seat beside the king. The first of the judges—an elderly man with short-cropped white hair and a closely trimmed beard—approached Parmenion.

“I am Clearchus,” he said. “I will place the army as you have commanded, General. You may ask my advice on matters of time delay, but nothing else.” He opened a pouch at his hip and removed from it three knucklebones. In the six indentations on each bone were painted numbers, from three to eight. “To decide losses, I will roll these bones. The highest figure and the lowest figure will be removed, and the remaining number will be regarded as the fallen. You understand?”

“Of course,” Parmenion replied.

“A simple yes is required,” Clearchus stated.

“Yes,” said Parmenion. Clearchus moved to stand alongside the yellow wood army as the second judge positioned himself on the other side of the pit by the red wood soldiers.

For the first time Parmenion locked his gaze to Leonidas. The other youth grinned at him, his eyes mocking. Leonidas was considered beautiful, but despite the yellow-gold hair and the handsome mouth, Parmenion saw only the ugliness of cruelty.

As was the custom, the two combatants walked around the pit to face one another.

“Will you give ground to the Spartan gold?” asked Parmenion, following the ritual.

“The Spartan red never gives ground,” replied Leonidas. “Prepare to die.”

The crowd applauded, and the king rose, raising his hands for silence. “My friends, today I offer a special gift to the victor: one of the seven swords of Leonidas the king!” He held the iron blade aloft, where the sunlight caught it, turning it to silver. A great roar went up.

Leonidas leaned in close to Parmenion. “I will humble you, mix-blood.”

“Your breath smells worse than a cow’s ass!” replied Parmenion, enjoying the flush of color that leapt to Leonidas’ cheeks. Both youths returned to their places.

“Begin!” ordered Xenophon.

Clearchus stepped forward. “The general Parmenion has ordered the troops into Lysander’s fifth formation, with the Sciritai on the left, sixteen deep, the Spartans at the center, sixteen deep, and mercenary javelin throwers behind the cavalry on the right. The general positions himself
behind
the center.” Parmenion saw several warriors in the crowd shaking their heads in disapproval and could guess their thoughts. No general could expect his men to fight for him if he did not have the courage to stand with them in the front lines.

Three helots moved forward, lifting the ranks of wooden soldiers into place on the sand.

The second judge addressed the crowd. “The general Leonidas has ordered the third Agisalean formation, the Spartans on the right, ten deep, the cavalry in the center, Sciritai and javeliners on the left. He positions himself in the second line of the center.” Applause went up, and Leonidas bowed. As a Spartan general should, he had chosen to place himself close to the front rank.

The crowd leaned forward, staring intently at the formations. It was obvious that Parmenion was planning a defensive battle, ready to repel a frontal assault. Leonidas had stretched his line and was planning the traditional angled attack from the left while moving to encircle the enemy. Much would now depend on the rolling of the knucklebones to decide casualties.

Clearchus cleared his throat, and all in the crowd knew the words that would follow—the formations made it obvious. No move. The Spartan gold would wait until Leonidas attacked, relying on the knucklebones to decide the outcome. But conversation ceased as Clearchus spoke.

“The general Parmenion orders the cavalry forward at the charge, veering toward enemy center.” All eyes swung to the judge by Leonidas. The first three moves could not be changed, and much would depend on Leonidas’ use of cavalry. It was unusual—though not unheard of—for a cavalry charge to be signaled at the onset.

“The general Leonidas orders the javeliners and Sciritai to advance on the right.”

Now the whispers began, for Leonidas had not anticipated a cavalry attack and had issued no orders to his own horsemen.

A helot with a measuring rod moved the yellow wood horsemen forward. The judges conferred, and Xenophon addressed the crowd.

“It is agreed unanimously that the speed of the charge has routed the opposing cavalry, forcing them back into the
hoplite
ranks. Casualties are sixty suffered by Leonidas and nine by Parmenion.”

The voice of Clearchus then rose among the clamor. “The general Parmenion instructs the Spartans and Sciritai to merge lines and advance at a run, thirty-two deep, at the enemy’s right.”

Parmenion stood stock-still, eyes locked to Leonidas, who was staring horror-struck at the massed advance. Parmenion
could understand how he was feeling; he was facing not one improbable plan of action but two. No Spartan force would ever consider merging with the Sciritai, and no Greek army would ever attack the enemy’s right—its strongest point. To do so meant exposing a vulnerable flank, for the shield was borne on the left arm, and therefore the advancing phalanx would be open to javelins, rocks, arrows, and stones.

But not here, thought Parmenion. Not today. For Leonidas’ center had been wrecked by his own cavalry, and there were no peltasts or archers close enough to wreak havoc on his advancing line with missiles. He looked up, wanting to see, to remember, every change of expression on the face of his enemy, longing to see and memorize the moment when defeat first registered.

“The general Leonidas orders the rear six lines to move out and encircle the enemy.”

Parmenion was exultant, but he hid his feelings, making a mask of his features, only the flaring nostrils and the quickening of his breathing betraying his excitement. Leonidas was beaten. A massed charge was bearing on his right, and he had thinned his line to only four ranks.

The helots lifted the wedges and carried them forward. There was no need for the judges to confer; every soldier in the crowd knew what must happen when a phalanx thirty-two deep struck a line of four ranks. The strength and courage of the few could not stop the weight of the charge. Leonidas was not merely beaten—he was crushed. The golden-haired Spartan stared at the soldiers, then stepped back and spoke swiftly to his judge. The man’s words stunned Parmenion.

“The general Leonidas is asking the judges to countermand the second order of the general Parmenion on the grounds that it has no credibility. If such an order were given in battle, the Spartans would no doubt refuse to obey it.”

Parmenion reddened and looked to the king. Agisaleus sat back and began a conversation with the young man on his
right. Xenophon called the judges to him, away from the crowd, but all could see that the argument that followed was heated.

Parmenion’s heart sank as he stared down at the tiny battlefield and the wooden soldiers locked in frozen battle. Could they disqualify him? Of course they could. He gazed up at the rows of spectators. Who are you, Parmenion? he asked himself. You are a poverty-stricken half-breed. What do they care for you? This is a day for Leonidas, and you have spoiled it for them.

Xenophon walked back to the sand pit. The crowd waited for the verdict, and even the king sat forward, his eyes on the Athenian.

“The challenge is an interesting one, which has split the judges. It is true that the merging of lines with the Sciritai would not be considered honorable, nor even likely.” He paused, and Parmenion saw heads nod in agreement, felt the eyes of Leonidas on him. His opponent allowed himself a smile. Parmenion swallowed hard. “However,” Xenophon continued, “it seems to me that the question is not one of honor but of tactics and discipline. The general Parmenion, knowing the strength of his enemy and that his enemy had used this formation in his last five battles, chose an unusual course of action. I am an Athenian, but I speak with the authority of one who admires beyond all men the qualities of the Spartan army. And the question here is of discipline. The challenge stands or falls on one point: Would the Spartans refuse to obey such an order? The answer is a simple one. When, in all of their glorious history, have Spartan soldiers
ever
failed to obey an order?” Xenophon paused once more, his eyes sweeping the ranks of the spectators and resting at last on the king. “The move stands,” said Xenophon. “The general Leonidas is defeated and, since he placed himself at the second line, is also slain. The Spartan gold have the day. The general Parmenion is the supreme
strategos.”