Lion of Macedon (53 page)

Parmenion was just settling down to sleep when he heard the sound of knuckles rapping at his door. “Who is it?” he called.

“Grigery, sir. The king has requested your presence.”

Parmenion sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He
glanced to his cuirass and helm where they lay on the floor alongside his sword, then stood and walked to the door, pulling it open. Grigery bowed. Parmenion stepped from the room and followed the warrior along the wide corridor to the king’s apartments. The man walked well, perfectly balanced, moving on the balls of his feet. He was an athlete, Parmenion knew—and more than that, a warrior to watch.

Grigery ushered him into an anteroom and announced him to Bardylis. To the Spartan’s surprise, the king was alone. He did not rise from his couch when Parmenion entered but acknowledged the Spartan’s bow with a wave of his hand.

“Welcome to my home, Parmenion. It is an honor to have such a famous general in Illyria.”

“It hardly matches the honor for me, your Majesty. It is rare to be invited to a private audience with a king of such renown.”

“You speak well, Spartan, but let us put aside such niceties,” snapped the old man. “Come and sit beside me and tell me what you are doing in Macedonia.”

Parmenion sat alongside the king. “A general moves where there is employment. I fear I almost outstayed my welcome in Asia. King Philip was kind enough to offer me a temporary commission.”

“Temporary?”

“I am to train a few hundred warriors in order that he may guard his borders with Paionia. And also to supply him with a royal guard.”

The king smiled, showing badly discolored teeth. “And what of Illyria? How does he feel about those borders?”

Parmenion thought swiftly. “He does not like the current situation, but then, would you? But I have told him there is little he can do. It would take considerable resources, an army of mercenaries, and even then he would face a less than even chance of success.”

“You are extremely forthright,” said the King, surprised.

“I am speaking no secrets, your Majesty. And I sense it would be … inappropriate to lie to you.”

“Would you come to my employment?”

“Of course, sire. But I have given my word to Philip that I will stay one year and train his guard. After that? I will be seeking a new post. However, I do not think you need me. I am usually employed by men who have lost; very few victors have need of a mercenary general.”

“That is true,” Bardylis agreed. “Tell me, do you like Philip?”

“Very much. He is a kind man, in some ways a gentle man. Where I have traveled, such men are few.”

“Is that why he did not kill the son of Perdiccas?”

“I imagine so, your Majesty. But it is difficult to know all that is in the king’s mind.”

“One last question, Parmenion: If Philip did raise an army, would you march against me?”

“Naturally, your Majesty. I would be a curious general if I did not.”

The king chuckled. “I could have you killed, you know.”

“All things are possible,” admitted Parmenion, looking closely at the old king. “But I don’t think you will.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re bored, sire, and small a threat as he is, Philip intrigues you.”

“You are an observant man. I think I should watch you. But go now and enjoy your stay in Illyria.”

For three days Philip was feted as Bardylis arranged banquets, athletic displays, dances, and the staging of a Corinthian comedy at a theater on the outskirts of the city. The Macedonian king seemed to be enjoying the pageants, though for Parmenion the days grew increasingly irksome. The warrior Theoparlis seemed tense and upset, and twice Parmenion had seen him in conversation with the sneering Grigery.

The Spartan approached Theo as the crowds left the theater.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“I am well,” responded Theo, striding on ahead.

Parmenion put the problem from his mind as Philip came
alongside, linking arms. “A good play, did you not think?” Philip asked.

“I am not a lover of comedies, sire.”

Philip leaned in close. “To marry someone like Audata, a man must need to love comedy,” he whispered.

Parmenion chuckled. “There is more to love than beauty, I am told.”

“Yes, but looks must count for something. I sat with her for two hours yesterday, and throughout that time I sought one physical feature that I could compliment her on.”

“What did you find?”

“I thought of telling her she had very nice elbows.”

Parmenion laughed aloud, the tension easing from him. “What happened then?”

“We made love.”

“What? In her father’s palace? Before the wedding? And how did you manage it if you found nothing attractive in her?”

Philip looked suddenly serious. “I had a dream, Parmenion. I pictured the woman I saw in it, the woman I will meet next year on Samothrace.” As they walked back to the palace, Philip told the Spartan of the mystical encounter.

“And you are sure it was an omen?”

“I would stake my life on it, and I would
give
my life to make it true. She was wonderful, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She is a gift from the gods, Parmenion, I know it. She promised to bear me a son, a child born of greatness.”

As they approached the palace, Philip took Parmenion’s arm and stopped. “This afternoon,” said the king, “Bardylis wants me to see his army. It should be enlightening.”

“Indeed it should,” agreed Parmenion. “So what concerns you?”

“Theoparlis. He has grown sullen, and I think the man Grigery has been baiting him. He must not be drawn into a fight. Antipater has been asking questions about Grigery; it seems he is the king’s champion and a demon with a sword.”

“I shall prevent any duel between Macedonian and Illyrian,” promised Parmenion.

“Good. Have you seen Bardylis again?”

“No. I think I convinced him there was no intention of a war with Illyria.”

“Do not be too sure,” warned Philip. “I think the man is a sorcerer, a reader of minds.”

In the afternoon Philip and his companions watched the Illyrian cavalry charging across a wide field, their lances bright in the sunlight. Then the infantry marched forward in phalanx formation. Each man was armed with a spear and a short sword and carried a square shield of bronze-reinforced wood; they wore crested helms, breastplates, and greaves, though their thighs were bare. At an order from their general, the phalanx smoothly changed formation, moving out in a long line three men deep, spears leveled. Philip and his Macedonians were standing at the edge of the field when the king noticed the Illyrians on either side edging back.

“Stand firm, no matter what,” whispered Philip.

With a thunderous roar the infantry charged. Philip watched the spearmen closing on him and for a moment wondered if this was the end of his life. It seemed that nothing could stop the charging mass and that within seconds an iron point would plunge into his unprotected breast. But he stood still with hands on hips, facing the charging men.

At the last possible second the phalanx halted. Philip gazed down at a spear point hovering a finger’s breadth from his chest. Slowly he lifted his hand to it, rubbing his thumb on the metal. He looked into the spearman’s eyes.

“There is rust on this,” he said softly. “You should take better care.” Then he turned away.

Not one of his company had moved a muscle during the charge, and this filled Philip with pride. Bardylis waved, and Philip joined the old king on a wide seat at the head of a table laden with food.

Parmenion was about to take his seat at the table when he
noticed Grigery and Theo some twenty paces away. Once more the Illyrian was making some sneering comment, and even from this distance Parmenion could see Theo’s face redden, his hand moving toward his sword hilt.

“Theo!” he roared, and the soldier froze. Parmenion walked over to the two men. “What is happening here?” he asked.

“This louse-ridden dog has challenged me,” said Grigery. “I forbid it,” stated Parmenion.

“It is not for you to forbid anything in Illyria,” retorted Grigery, his dark eyes gleaming.

Parmenion took a deep breath. “Did Theoparlis strike you?” he asked softly.

“No.”

“I see. So, there was nothing like this,” said Parmenion, lashing Grigery’s face with a backhanded blow that spun the man from his feet. A great roar went up from the officers who were preparing to dine. Parmenion ignored the warrior, who was scrambling to his feet, and walked to Bardylis. He bowed low.

“Your Majesty, I must apologize for this unseemly scene. But your man Grigery has challenged me to battle with him, and I seek your permission to accept.”

“It was not with you!” Grigery shouted.

“Then you do not wish to fight the man who struck you?” asked Parmenion.

“Yes … I mean …” His eyes turned to the king.

“All men have seen the beginning of this quarrel,” said Bardylis. “Now we must see the end. I give you permission to fight.”

“Thank you, lord,” said Parmenion. “Might I, as a guest, ask one favor? It seems only right, since we have interrupted a fine meal, to give you a spectacle not just of skill but of courage. Would you therefore have any objection if we fought in the manner of Mesopotamian nobles before their king?”

Bardylis stared hard at Parmenion. He had no idea of how Mesopotamian warriors fought but equally had no intention of disclosing this fact.

“As you will.”

“Let a brazier be prepared,” said Parmenion, “with hot coals to the depth of a man’s forearm.”

Bardylis ordered two servants to fetch the brazier. Parmenion walked some distance from the table, and Philip and the others joined him there.

“What in Hades is happening here?” Philip asked.

“I had no choice, sire. I promised you no Macedonian and Illyrian would fight. Whatever happens here will be seen to be between a Spartan and a warrior of Bardylis.” He swung to Theo. “There is honey on the table. Fetch it—and some red wine. Find bandages and soak them in the wine.”

“What is this manner of fighting?” asked Antipater.

“It is something new,” Parmenion told him.

“You lied to Bardylis?” the king whispered.

“Yes. You need not worry, sire; he cannot read minds.”

Four servants, using crossbars of thick wood, carried a burning brazier out into the field. Parmenion removed his breastplate and helm, tunic and greaves and, drawing his sword, walked out to stand before the brazier. Nonplussed, Grigery also stripped himself and moved to stand opposite him. The king and his officers formed a circle around the warriors and waited for the battle to begin.

“You need a fire to keep you warm, old man?” asked Grigery.

“Do as I do,” Parmenion told him. The Spartan turned to the brazier and thrust his sword blade deep into it; leaving it there, he stood back with arms folded across his chest. Grigery plunged his blade alongside Parmenion’s.

“Now what?” the Illyrian asked.

“Now we wait,” the Spartan told him, locking his gaze to Grigery’s eyes.

Slowly the minutes passed. The spectators’ eyes flicked
from the naked men to the blades, which had begun to glow a deep red.

The leather binding on the grip of Grigery’s blade twisted and cracked, then smouldered, black smoke rising from it. Slowly it peeled away. Parmenion’s sword had a metal grip, bound with fine gold wire over snakeskin. The skin burst into flame, the wire falling loose.

“When you are ready,” said Parmenion, “take your sword and begin.”

Grigery licked his lips and stared at the smoldering swords.

“You first,” he hissed.

“Perhaps we should do it together. Are you ready?”

Grigery reached out, but the heat close to the hilt was unbearable, and his hand flinched back. He gazed around the crowd, seeing their fascination with the contest, and his eyes rested on the king, whose features were cold. Grigery knew what was expected of him, and he looked back at the red-hot sword.

“The longer you wait, the hotter it will become,” said Parmenion mildly.

“You miserable whoreson!” screamed Grigery, his hand grabbing for his sword and wrenching it clear. The agony hit him as his flesh blistered and peeled away, sticking to the sword hilt. With a terrible cry he hurled the weapon from him. Parmenion reached out his left hand, drew his sword from the flames, and walked to Grigery.

The Spartan’s face was without expression, but his breathing was quick and shallow, his teeth clenched and bared. Lifting the sword, he wiped the gleaming blade across Grigery’s chest. The sizzling of burning hair and flesh carried to all the listeners, and Grigery leapt back, falling to the grass.

Parmenion turned to Philip and bowed, then he raised the red-hot blade and saluted Bardylis. Parmenion’s arm flashed down, and the sword plunged into the earth by his feet. The Spartan walked through the crowd to where Theo waited with the honey, which he smeared on the blistered, weeping
flesh. “The bandages,” he croaked. Theo lifted them from the shallow wine dish, squeezed the excess liquid from them, and carefully wrapped the general’s hand.

“How did you do that?” asked Theo.

“Can’t talk … at … the moment,” said Parmenion, closing his eyes as the cool bandages drew the heat from his palm. He felt sick and weak, and his legs were trembling. Gathering his strength, he looked at Theo. “Take the honey and the rest of the bandages to Grigery. Do it now!”

As Theo moved away, Parmenion heard footsteps approaching. He turned to see Bardylis and Philip, followed by a score of officers.

“You are an interesting man, Parmenion,” said the old king, “and I should have known better than to allow a test of endurance against a Spartan. How is your hand?”

“It will heal, your Majesty.”

“But you were not sure, were you? That is why you used your left.”

“Exactly so.”

“Are you strong enough to dine with us?”

“Indeed I am, sire. Thank you.”

The pain was indescribable, but Parmenion willed himself to sit through the meal, even to eat, contenting himself with the knowledge that Grigery was nowhere to be seen.

THE TEMPLE, AUTUMN, 359 B.C.