Lion of Macedon (8 page)

At this stage their barrack officer, Lepidus, would normally complete a throw, and Leonidas turned his eyes on the man.

Lepidus shook his head and took up his javelin. He strode back seven paces, tested the weapon for weight, then ran forward and, with a grunt of effort, launched it. Even as it left the officer’s hand Leonidas allowed himself a smile of triumph.

Lepidus saw the javelin fall less than three paces short of Leonidas’ mark. He swung and bowed to the younger man. “You have a good arm,” he said, smiling warmly, “but you are not dipping your body back far enough on the launch. There is at least another eight paces in you. Work on it.”

“I will, sir,” promised Leonidas.

“Now I’d like to see you Spartan gentlemen run,” Lepidus told them. “Twenty laps of the racecourse, if it please you.”

“And if it does not?” shouted a boy at the back.

“Twenty-five laps,” said Lepidus. A groan went up, but the youngsters ran off to the start. Lepidus wandered to a wooden bench seat in the shade and watched the young men. Gryllus took the lead, followed by Learchus. But Leonidas had eased himself into fourth place behind Hermias. Lepidus rubbed at his shoulder, where a Persian lance point was still buried under the bone. The joint ached murderously in winter, and even in summer any effort, such as throwing a javelin, caused a dull ache.

Lepidus looked up as the sweating youngsters passed him. He envied them their youth and their energy, remembering
his days in the barracks, his longing to march with the phalanx into battle.

He saw a boy at the back of the pack. “More effort, young Pausias!” he yelled, and the boy sprinted into the group, trying to hide from his critical eye.

Lepidus’ mind wandered, and he saw again his own youth. Sparta was different then, he told himself, more true to the principles laid down by the divine Lycurgus. The boys in the barracks were allowed two tunics, one for summer and one for winter. There were no minstrels performing in the Theater of Marble, no plays, no parties at the homes of the rich. One bowl of black soup a day for the youngsters, and iron discipline maintained by the birch. A race bred for battles. He looked at the runners. Good boys, strong and proud, but Leonidas had many tunics and a warm cloak against the winter wind. And Hermias spent most of his evenings at home with his parents, eating good food and drinking watered wine. Young Learchus had a gold-embossed dagger made by a craftsman in Thebes, while lazy Pausias filled his belly with honey cakes and ran with all the speed of a sick pig. These boys did not survive on a bowl of soup a day.

Transferring his gaze to Leonidas, he saw that the youth had moved up into second place and was loping along behind Gryllus. The Athenian was a fine runner, but Lepidus knew that Leonidas would accelerate into the last bend and leave him gasping. Only the boy Parmenion could live with the pace Leonidas could set, but never over twenty-five laps, when Leonidas’ greater strength would count.

Using Sciritai alongside real men! Lepidus shook his head. That morning he had been summoned to the senior over the move.

“It was none of my doing, sir,” he said to the grim-eyed old man.

“Then it should have been,” snapped the aging general. “The king was displeased, and one of our finest young men was shamed. Are you saying the boy had never attempted such a move in practice?”

“Never, sir,” answered Lepidus, his unease growing. This man had been his commanding officer in seven campaigns, and although both were now past forty years from manhood, the general still inspired awe in Lepidus.

“Put him right, Lepidus. Where will we be if we allow Spartan men to develop such appalling methods?”

“He is a half-blood, sir. He will never be Spartiate.”

“His father was a fine warrior,” answered the general, “and the mother bore herself well. But I hear what you say. Blood will out. Send the boy to me.”

“He is with Xenophon, sir. His mother’s burial is today, and the Athenian has him as a houseguest.”

The general’s fist slammed down on the table. “I don’t want one of my boys as that man’s catamite!”

“I will see he is back tomorrow.”

“Do so,” grunted the old man. “And Lepidus, there will be no presentation of the victory rod.”

“Sir?”

“No presentation this year.”

Lepidus looked into the old man’s eyes and swallowed hard. “I do not much like the boy, sir, but he won. How can we refuse him the rod?”

“An example must be set. Do you know that my helots are talking of his win, that it is common knowledge among the Sciritai?”

Lepidus had said no more. Now he sat, grateful for the shade from the tall cypress tree, and watched the boys run. He had little time for Parmenion, whom he saw as a sly, cunning youth, but he had earned the rod, and it was unfair to deprive him. He wondered how the other boys would take the decision. Parmenion was not popular, but the award night was usually a riotous affair and much looked forward to.

The race was entering its final stages: Lepidus stood and walked to the center of the field.

Gryllus still held the lead, but Hermias was now alongside Leonidas and vying for second place, blocking the taller
youth’s chances of an outside run at Gryllus. Leonidas cut to his right, barging Hermias aside. The slender youth staggered and lost ground, but Leonidas surged forward, catching Gryllus just before the line and breasting home ahead. Hermias came in fifth.

Lepidus waited while the youngsters regained their breath, then called them to him.

“A fine run—save for you, Pausias. Five more laps, if you please.” The boys jeered at the fat youth as he set off on his lonely run. “Now, gentlemen, the notices. First, the Olympiad trials. Leonidas and Parmenion will represent this barracks in the middle and long races. Leonidas will also compete in the javelin with Nestus. Hermias and Asiron will represent us in the short race. I will speak to the athletes when you are dismissed. Second, four boys were late for muster yesterday. This is not showing a good example to the younger members of the barracks. We are Spartans, gentlemen, and that means we understand discipline. It will not happen again. Third, the presentation of the victory rod …” His eyes moved to Leonidas, and a fleeting smile touched the boy’s face. He knows, then, thought Lepidus, and anger flared in him like a candle flame. “The presentation will not take place this year, and there will be no celebration.” To Lepidus’ amazement a great cheer went up, and his face darkened. “Gentlemen!” he yelled, raising his arms. Silence fell. “I do not understand the cause of this joy. Would someone explain it to me? You, sir,” he said, pointing to Learchus.

“Savra cheated,” Learchus answered, and Lepidus saw several heads nod in agreement.

“He did
not
cheat!” roared Lepidus. “He won! And that is what Spartans are supposed to do. And let me make something very clear to you all. Had Leonidas ordered his own cavalry forward, they would have intercepted the charge. Then, as Parmenion advanced, his right would have been exposed to javelins and arrows. Parmenion would have been annihilated. I do not excuse his use of the Sciritai, but when I see Spartans whining about defeat, I despair. You are dismissed!”

Spinning on his heels, he stalked from the training ground, leaving a stunned audience behind him.

“I didn’t think he liked Savra,” whispered Learchus.

“What he said was right,” Leonidas said.

“No, Savra cheated,” put in Gryllus.

Leonidas stood and turned to the others. “He was right! I took Savra lightly, and he humbled me. I should have worn the cloak of shame. There were a dozen ways I could have crushed him, had I guessed at his plan, and three that could have won me the battle even though I failed to read his intent. I did not use them. Now let that be an end to it.”

Leonidas walked away, and Gryllus turned to Learchus, leaning in close. “The mix-blood is staying at my father’s house today,” he whispered. “But tonight he will go home for the burial night.”

“So?”

“So he cannot run in the Olympiad trials if his legs are injured.”

“I don’t know.”

“He humbled our friend!” hissed Gryllus.

“What if your father finds out?”

“It will be dark. And Savra will not name us.”

“Tonight, then,” Learchus agreed.

The body, wrapped in white linen, was lifted from the bed and laid on a length of stout canvas hung between two poles. Parmenion watched as the women carried his mother from the house of death toward the burial hill. There were four bearers dressed in white, and plump Rhea followed behind as the mother of mourning. Behind her came Parmenion, and beside him the Athenian general, Xenophon.

The burial ground was beyond the Theater of Marble in the east of the city, and the small procession made its way through the teeming marketplace and on past the monument to Pausanius and Leonidas.

They reached the cave mouth, where an old woman sat waiting, her white hair fluttering in the slight breeze.

“Who seeks to walk with the dead?” she asked.

Rhea stepped forward. “My friend Artema,” she answered.

“Who carries the river price?”

“I, Parmenion.” He dropped a silver tetradrachma into her outstretched palm. She cocked her head to one side, her pale eyes turned toward him. For a moment she sat as still as death, then her eyes swung to where Xenophon stood silently.

“The one who is and the one who is to be,” whispered the old woman. “Invite me to your home, General.”

The departure from ritual shocked Xenophon. He took a deep breath. “As you wish, old mother.”

“Bring the dead to rest,” she said. Rhea ordered the bearers forward, and the darkness of the cave mouth swallowed them. The two men stood at the entrance.

“I could not afford mourners,” said Parmenion. “Will the gods look unkindly on her for that?”

“An interesting debating point,” answered Xenophon. “Are the gods swayed because of faked tears and wailing? I would doubt it. Good men have died unmourned and unnoticed, while some of consummate evil have had thousands of mourners at their funerals. It is pleasant to believe that the gods are a little more discerning than men.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I believe there are powers that govern our lives. We give them many names.”

“She will live again, then, you think?”

“I like to believe so. Come, we will walk awhile. The day is not too hot.”

Together they strolled back to the monument to Pausanius and Leonidas. It was a huge marble cube, topped with a statue of a Spartan
hoplite
, the base engraved with the story of the mighty battle at Plataea, where the invading Persian army had been crushed by the power of the Spartan phalanx. Xenophon removed his white cloak and sat in the shade. An elderly widow approached them, offering fresh pomegranates.
Xenophon dropped a coin in her palm and bought three. He tossed one to Parmenion.

“What was the lesson of Plataea?” asked Xenophon, taking a dagger from his belt and quartering his fruit.

“The lesson?” queried Parmenion. He shrugged. “They advanced on the Persian center, which broke and ran. What should we learn?”

“Why did they run?”

Parmenion sat beside the general. Peeling the skin from his fruit, he ate swiftly, spitting the pips to the ground. “I don’t know. They were frightened?”

“Of course they were frightened,” snapped Xenophon. “Think!”

Parmenion felt embarrassed, his face reddening. “I do not know enough of the battle,” he admitted. “I can’t answer you.”

Xenophon seemed to relax. He finished the pomegranate and leaned back against the cool marble. “Examine the evidence, Parmenion.”

“I don’t know what you want!”

“If you can answer me this question, then I will do what you asked of me—I will teach you. If not … there would be no point. Think about it and come to me this evening.” Xenophon rose and walked away.

Parmenion sat for a long time, puzzling at the question, but the answer eluded him. He wandered down to the marketplace, crept behind a stall, and stole two pies. He was spotted by the stallholder, but he ducked into an alley and sped along Leaving Street before the man could catch him. Spartan youths were encouraged to supplement their meager meals by theft. If caught, they were punished severely—not for the theft itself but for the crime of being caught.

In Leaving Street he saw two elderly men sitting close to the palace of Agisaleus. He walked over to them and bowed. One of the men looked up after a while, acknowledging his presence. “Well?” he asked.

“Sir,” said Parmenion, “what was the lesson of Plataea?”

“Lesson?” answered the man. “What lesson? The only lesson handed out was to the Persians and the world. You don’t take on a Spartan army and expect to win. What a foolish question to ask!”

“Thank you, sir,” said Parmenion, bowing and moving away.

What kind of a riddle had Xenophon set him? Was the answer so obvious? If so, why did the Athenian put it in the first place? Parmenion ran to the acropolis, where he ate his pies and stared out over the Taygetus mountains.

“Examine the evidence,”
Xenophon had said. What evidence? Five thousand Spartan warriors had met with Xerxes’ great army on the field of Plataea. The Persians were crushed, the war won. Pausanius had been the Spartan general.

What lesson?

Parmenion rose and loped down the hill to the monument. There he read the description of the battle engraved on the marble, but it told him nothing he did not know. Where, then, was the evidence?

He began to get angry. The Athenian did not want to train him and had found this clever excuse. Set him a problem that had no answer, then turn him away. But even through his rage Parmenion dismissed the thought. Xenophon needed no excuses. A simple no would have been sufficient.

The monument to Pausanius and Leonidas …

It loomed above him, its secret hidden in stone. He stared up at the
hoplite
statue. The warrior’s long spear was broken, yet still he looked mighty.

Was he Leonidas or Pausanius, Parmenion wondered, or just a soldier?

Leonidas? Why did the king slain at Thermopylae appear on the monument to Plataea? He was killed months before. The Greeks had asked the Spartans to spearhead their army against the coming Persian invasion, but the Spartans were celebrating a religious festival, and the priests refused to sanction such a move. However, the Spartan king, Leonidas, was
allowed to take his personal bodyguard of three hundred men to the pass of Thermopylae. There they had fought the Persian horde to a standstill, and even when betrayed and surrounded, the Spartan line still held. The Persians, too frightened to attack, finished off the defenders with arrows and javelins.