Lion of Macedon (9 page)

Like the sun coming through cloud, the answer to Xenophon’s question shone in Parmenion’s mind. What was the lesson of Plataea? Even in defeat there is victory. The Persians, too frightened to tackle even the remnants of the three hundred, had finally come face to face with five thousand Spartan warriors. They had watched the line advance, spears leveled—and they had run. That was why the monument was shared. Plataea was also a victory for Leonidas the king, a victory won by courage and defiance and a hero’s death.

He gazed up at the marble
hoplite
. “I salute you, Leonidas,” he said.

Xenophon’s servants moved back as the old woman entered the gates of his home. None dared to approach her. She could see their fear and smiled mirthlessly as she stood leaning on her staff, waiting for the lord of the house.

She felt the pressure of many eyes upon her. Once those eyes would have glowed with lust; once the mere sight of Tamis would have inflamed passions and had men willing to kill their brothers merely for the right to hold her hand. The old woman hawked and spit. Once upon a time … Who cared any longer about once upon a time? Her first husband had died in a war against Athens, her second in a battle in Thrace. The third had contracted a fever during a hot summer when the water went bad and had died in agony while Tamis was visiting Delphi. The last she could have saved—had she known of his illness. Could have? Might have? What did it matter now? The past was dead.

She heard a door open and the confident steps of the Athenian general approaching her. She watched him with the eyes of her body and her talent, seeing both the handsome general and the glow of his soul fire.

“Welcome to my home, lady,” he said.

“Lead me to the shade and allow me a drink,” she told him. His hand touched her arm, and she felt his power. It disconcerted her, reminding Tamis of days of youth. The strength of the sunlight faded as he led her to an alcove to the right. Here she could smell the perfume of many flowers and feel the cool stone of the wall. She sat and waited in silence until a servant brought her a goblet of cold water from the well.

“You have a message for me from the goddess?” inquired Xenophon.

Tamis sipped the water. It touched a raw nerve in a rotting tooth, and she placed the goblet on the stone table. “You will not find what you desire, Athenian. No more distant wars for you. No more glory on the battlefield.” She felt his disappointment, sharp and raw. “No man achieves all his dreams,” she said more softly. “Yet you will be remembered by men for a thousand years.”

“How so, if my glories are ended?”

“I do not know, Xenophon. But you can trust my words. However, I did not come here to speak of you. I came to talk of the cub.”

“Cub? What cub?”

“The boy who buried his mother. The one who is to be. He will know glory, and pain, and tragedy, and triumph. He is the important one.”

“He is just a child. He is not a king, nor even a gentleman. What can he do?”

Tamis drained the water. She was comfortable here and yet unwelcome. It would have been pleasant to pass the day in the shade, thinking back to happier days in her long, long life. She sighed. “His destiny is of glory, but his name will not be remembered like yours, even though he will lead armies across the world. It is your duty to teach him, to give him that which you hold.”

“I hold nothing!” snapped Xenophon. “I am not rich, nor do I have a command.”

“You have everything he needs, Athenian, stored in your
mind. You know the hearts of men and the ways of battle. Give him these gifts. And watch him grow.”

“He will take Sparta to glory?”

“Sparta?” she laughed grimly. “Sparta’s days are done, Xenophon. We have the crippled king. They did not listen to the oracle. Lysander thought he knew best—as men are wont to do. But there will be no new glory for Sparta. No, the boy will go elsewhere. You will send him when the time comes.” Tamis stood.

“Is that all?” asked Xenophon, rising. “You feed me riddles. Why can you tell me no more?”

“Because that is all I know, Athenian. You think the gods allow their servants to share all their knowledge? I have done what I had to do. I know nothing more.”

With that lie upon her lips, Tamis walked back into the sunlight and out into the street.

Tamis made her slow way through the streets of Sparta and on past the lake and the small temple to Aphrodite. She followed a narrow track to the door of her house, a low, mean dwelling, one-roomed with a central fire pit and an open roof to allow the smoke to drift clear.

There was a thin pallet bed in one corner but no other furniture. Tamis squatted down in front of the dead fire. Lifting her hand, she spoke three words and flames leapt from the cold ashes, burning brightly. For a while she stared into the dancing fire, until at last the weight of her loneliness bore her down. Her shoulders sagged.

“Where are you, Cassandra?” she whispered. “Come to me.”

The flames licked higher, curling as if seeking to encircle an invisible sphere. Slowly a face formed within the flames, a regal face, fine-boned with a long, aquiline nose. Not a beauty, to be sure, but a handsome strong-featured face framed with tightly curled blond hair.

“Why do you call me from my sleep?” asked the fire woman.

“I am lonely.”

“You use your powers too recklessly, Tamis. And unwisely.”

“Why should I not call upon you?” the old woman asked. “I, too, have need of friends—of company.”

“The world teems with the living,” the fire woman told her. “That is where your friends should be. But if you must talk, then I must listen.”

Tamis nodded and told Cassandra of the shadow in the future, of the coming of the Dark God.

“What has this to do with you?” Cassandra asked. “It is part of the perennial battle between the source and the chaos spirit.”

“I can stop the birth, I know that I can.”

“Stop the … what are you saying? You have seen what is to be. How can you change it?”

“How can you ask that question?” countered Tamis. “You know as well as I that there are a thousand thousand possible futures, all dependent on limitless decisions made by men and women and, aye, even children and beasts.”

“That is precisely what I am saying, Tamis. You were not given your powers in order to manipulate events; that has never been the way of the source.”

“Then perhaps it should have been,” snapped Tamis. “I have studied hundreds of possible futures. In four, at least, the Dark God can be thwarted. All I needed to do was trace the lines back to the one element that can change the course of history. And I have done that!”

“You speak of the child Parmenion,” said the fire woman sadly. “You are wrong, Tamis. You should cease your meddling. This matter is beyond you; it is greater than worlds; it is a part of the cosmic struggle between chaos and harmony. You have no conception of the harm you can do.”

“Harm?” queried Tamis. “I know the harm that will be caused should the Dark God live to walk the lands in human form. The mountains will be bathed in blood, the rivers will spout smoke. The earth will be desolate.”

“I see,” said Cassandra. “And, of course, you alone have the power to stand against this evil?”

“Do not patronize me! You think I should live as you did, giving prophecies that no one believed? What use were they? What use were you? Begone!”

The fire died down, the face disappearing.

Tamis sighed. Right or wrong, the course was set, the lines laid down. Parmenion would be the warrior of the light, holding back the darkness.

Do not meddle! Who do they think destroyed the plans of the last coming more than twenty years ago, when the child was due to be fathered by the Persian king? Who was it that entered the concubine’s mind on the night of conception and made her walk to the top of the tower to fling herself to the stones below?

“It was I!” hissed Tamis. “I!”

And you were wrong!
said a small voice deep in her mind.
You are wrong now. Parmenion has his own life to live. It is not for you to alter his destiny
.

“I am not altering it,” she said aloud. “I am helping him to fulfill it.”

He must be allowed choices
.

“I will give him choices. At the cusp moments of his life, I will go to him. I will offer him choices.”

And what if you are wrong, Tamis?

“I am not wrong. The Dark God must be stopped. He will be stopped. Leave me be!”

In the silence that followed Tamis glared around the squalid room, heavy of heart. With her powers she could have ensured a palace of riches, a life of splendor. Instead she had chosen this.

“I have made my gifts to the source,” she told the room, “and the light is with me in all that I do.”

There was no one to argue, but Tamis was still unsure. She pointed to the blaze and called out a name. A man’s face appeared.

“Play for me, Orpheus. Let the music ease my heart.”

As the sweet notes of the lyre sounded in the room, Tamis moved to her bed, lying back and thinking of the futures she had seen. In three of them the Dark God had been born in Sparta, the ruling city of Greece.

Three possible fathers. Learchus, who could rise to greatness. Nestus, related to the royal family. And Cleombrotus, who would be king.

Tamis closed her eyes. “Now we will see your destiny, Parmenion,” she whispered. “Now we will see.”

Parmenion lay on a hillside to the east of the city, watching the young girls run and play. His interest in their activities surprised him, for this was not a pastime he would have considered before last summer. He recalled the day when a new kind of joy entered his life. He had been running up and down the hillside when a voice as sweet as the birth of morning spoke to him.

“What are you doing?”

Parmenion turned to see a young girl, perhaps fourteen years of age. She was wearing a simple white tunic through which he could see not just the exquisite shape of her small breasts but also the nipples, pressing against the linen. Her legs were tanned and smooth, her waist narrow, her hips rounded. He glanced up guiltily, aware that he was reddening, and found himself gazing into wide gray eyes set in a face of surpassing beauty.

“I was … running,” he answered.

“I saw that,” she said, lifting a hand and pushing her fingers through her red-gold hair. It seemed to Parmenion that sunlight became trapped in her curls, glinting like jewels. “But tell me why,” she went on. “You run up the hill. Then you run down the hill. Then up again. There is no sense to it.”

“Lepidus—my barrack master—says that it will strengthen my legs. I am fast.”

“And I am Derae,” she told him.

“No, my name is not Fast.”

“I know that. I was joking with you.”

“I see. I … I must be going.” He turned and fled up the hill. Surprisingly, considering his previous exertions, he moved at a pace he had not considered possible.

For almost a year since this meeting he had come to the hills and the fields beyond the lake to watch the girls run. Lepidus had told him that only in Sparta were women allowed to develop their bodies. Other city-states considered such exercise indecent, claiming that it incited men to commit grave crimes. Parmenion felt this could well be true as he lay on his belly in acutely pleasurable discomfort, his eyes following Derae.

He saw the girls line up for the short race. Derae was on the outside. She won easily, her long legs stretching out, her feet scarcely seeming to make contact with the grass.

Only twice in the year had he found the courage to speak to her as she approached the field. But always she greeted him with a cheerful smile and a wave, then was away and running before a conversation could develop. Parmenion did not mind. It was enough that he could gaze on her every week. Besides, there would be little point in getting to know her, since no Spartan man was allowed to marry before he reached manhood at twenty.

Four years. An eternity.

After an hour the girls finished their exercise and prepared to return to their homes. Parmenion rolled onto his back, closing his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun. He thought of many things as he rested there, his hands behind his neck. He thought of the battle with Leonidas and the endless torment of the barracks, and of Xenophon, and of Hermias, and of Derae. He tried not to think too much about his mother, for the wound was too fresh, and when her face floated before his mind, he felt himself unmanned, out of control.

A shadow fell across him.

“Why do you watch me?” asked Derae. Parmenion jerked up to a sitting position. She was kneeling on the grass beside him.

“I did not hear you approach.”

“That does not answer my question, young Fast.”

“I like to watch you,” he answered, grinning. “You run well, but I think you pump your arms too much.”

“So you watch me because you like to criticize my running?”

“No, that is not what I meant.” Parmenion took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I think you know that. I believe you are joking with me again.”

She nodded. “Only a little, Parmenion.”

He was exultant. She knew his name. It could only mean that she had asked about him, that she was interested in him.

“How is it you know me?”

“I saw your battle with Leonidas.”

“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “How so, since no women were allowed to spectate?”

“My father is a close friend of Xenophon’s, and the general allowed the three girls to watch from an upstairs window. We had to take turns because we were not to be seen. You played an interesting game.”

“I won,” said Parmenion defensively.

“I know. I have just told you I was there.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you were criticizing me. Everyone else has.”

She nodded solemnly. “You didn’t even need the Sciritai. Had you advanced in sixteen formation, you would still have broken through Leonidas’ lines, since he reduced his strength to four.”

“I know that, too.” He shrugged. “But I cannot take back the move.”

“Do you still have the sword?”

“Of course. Why would I not?”

“It is very valuable. You might have sold it.”