Lion of Macedon (11 page)

“We will not know until you ask it,” replied the general, smiling.

“I am neither wealthy nor well liked. It is likely that when I come of age no senior’s mess will admit me. So, sir, much as I would like to be taught by you, what is the point?”

Xenophon nodded gravely. “There is much in what you say, young
strategos
. At best you will be a first ranker, at worst a line warrior. But you have it in you to become great, to be a leader of men. I know; there is no better judge of this than I. But your future may not be in Sparta—which will be Sparta’s loss. What do you desire?”

Parmenion shrugged. “Only acceptance, sir. I wish to be able to walk with my head high, having men say, ‘There is Parmenion, the Spartan.’ ”

“That is all you wish? Come, be honest with me,
strategos.”

Parmenion swallowed hard, then his eyes came up to meet the general’s piercing gaze. “No, sir, that is not all. I wish to grind my enemies into the dust, to bring them to despair. I
want to be a general, like you. I want to lead men into battle.” Suddenly he smiled. “I had a dream that I wish to make come true.”

“You may not obtain all that you desire,” said Xenophon, “but I will teach you all that I know. I will give you knowledge, but you must decide how to use it.”

A servant brought them food and watered wine, and Parmenion sat and listened as Xenophon told of the march to the sea and the evils that beset the Greeks. He outlined his strategies and his successes but also talked of his failures and the reasons for them. The hours passed swiftly, and Parmenion felt like a man dying of thirst who had found the well of all life.

He could see it all so clearly—the Greeks demoralized after the battle at Cunaxa yet still holding their formation. The Persian king, Artaxerxes, promising them safe passage through his realm and then treacherously murdering their generals, believing that without leaders the Greek
hoplites
would be easy prey to his cavalry. But the soldiers had remained steadfast. They elected new generals, and one of those was Xenophon. During the months that followed the Greeks marched through Persia, routing armies sent against them, crossing uncharted lands. The perils they faced were legion: countless enemies, the threat of starvation, ice-covered plains, and flood-ruined valleys. Yet Xenophon held them together until at last they reached the sea and safety.

“There is no warrior on earth,” said Xenophon, “to match the Greek. For we alone understand the nature of discipline. There is not one civilized king who does not hire Greek mercenaries as a backbone for his forces. Not one. And the greatest of the Greeks are the Spartans. Do you understand why?”

“Yes,” answered Parmenion. “Our enemies know—in their hearts—that we are the victors. And we know it in
our
hearts.”

“Sparta will never be conquered, Parmenion.”

“Unless there comes a foe with similar resolve—and greater numbers.”

“But that will not happen. We have a country split up into city-states, each fearing its neighbor. If Athens and Thebes again joined forces against Sparta, many city-states would fear such an alliance and join with Sparta against it. Our land has a history of such disputes. Alliances made and broken, scores of disparate groups betraying one another endlessly. Never has any city achieved a complete victory. We should have conquered the world, Parmenion, but we never will. We are too busy fighting among ourselves.” Xenophon rose. “It is getting late; you must return to your home. Come to me in three days. We will have supper and I will show you the books of the future.”

“Do you teach your son?” asked Parmenion as he rose to leave.

Xenophon’s face darkened. “I will be your teacher, and you will ask me questions concerning strategy. You will not ask questions concerning my family!”

“I apologize, sir. I did not mean to offend.”

Xenophon shook his head. “And I should not be so short-tempered. Gryllus is a troubled boy; he does not have a city. Like you he wants to be accepted, he wants to be admired. But he has no mind. His mother was a beautiful woman, Parmenion, but she also was cursed with limited intellect. It was as if the gods, having lavished beauty on her, decided that brains would be a luxury she would not need. My son takes after her. Now, we will speak no more of it.”

The silence of the night covered the city as Parmenion strolled along the moonlit streets. High on the acropolis he could just make out the tall statue of Zeus and the pillars of the bronze house. He came to the wide avenue of Leaving Street and stopped before the palace, gazing out at the guards patrolling the entrance. The Cattle Price Palace, home of Agisaleus. An odd name for an abode of kings, he thought. One of Sparta’s past kings had run short of money and had married the daughter of a Corinthian merchant in order to obtain a dowry of four thousand cattle. From the sale of
those he had built his palace. Parmenion stared at the building, at its colossal columns and its long, sloping roof. At first he had thought that the ancient king must have had a fine sense of humor to name it so, but now he realized it was more a sense of guilt. Forced to marry a foreigner, he had left his shame for future generations to share.

A strange people were the Spartans.

The only race in Greece to take their boy children as infants and train them for war, the only race to allow their women to exercise and grow strong in order to bear warriors to continue Sparta’s glory.

Parmenion moved on until he came to the street parallel to his own house. Here he stopped and scaled a high wall, his nimble fingers seeking out cracks in the mortar. Easing himself onto a tiled roof, he slid across to look down on the gate of his own small home. Hermias had said the campaign of hate was over, but Parmenion did not believe it. Keeping low to the shadows, he inched his way to the overhang of the roof and scanned the alleys below for several minutes, listening and watching.

Just as he was sure that all was clear, he saw a movement from the west and recognized Hermias running up the cobbled street. He was about to shout a greeting when five figures detached themselves from the shadows and pounced on the running youth. Parmenion saw sticks and clubs in their hands. Hermias went down to a blow that cracked against his skull. Parmenion stood and launched himself, feet first, from the roof. He landed with gruesome force on the back of a cloaked figure and heard the sickening crack of splintering bone; his victim gave a terrible scream and fell to the cobbles. Parmenion fell with him, then rolled to his feet. A stick lashed toward his head, but he ducked inside and hammered his fist into a hooded face. The hood fell back, and Parmenion recognized Gryllus. The Athenian, blood pouring from crushed lips, leapt to the attack. Parmenion stepped in close and whipped two blows to the other boy’s belly before sending a hooking left to his ear. Gryllus went down hard. A club
crashed against Parmenion’s back, hurling him forward, but he spun on his heel and blocked the next blow with his forearms. Grabbing his opponent’s cloak, he dragged him forward. Their heads cracked together, but Parmenion had dipped so that his brow crushed his opponent’s nose. His attacker tore himself clear and staggered away. Parmenion scooped up a fallen club and swung it viciously as they closed in on him, smashing it into the arm of his nearest attacker. The boy he had leapt upon was lying unconscious on the ground, and Gryllus had run. Only three youths faced him now, but one of them had stumbled back with one arm hanging uselessly at his side.

Parmenion charged the other two, ramming his club forward into the belly of the first and then hurling himself at the second. He fell to the ground, his opponent beneath him, and rolled. The other youth came up with a knife in his hand, the blade shining wickedly in the moonlight.

“Now you die, mix-blood!” came the voice of Learchus. The remaining two attackers sprinted away as Parmenion rose smoothly, his club held two-handed. Learchus sprang forward, but Parmenion sidestepped, cracking the club down on the other’s wrist. The dagger fell from his fingers. Parmenion gathered it and advanced.

Learchus backed away, Parmenion following, until he reached the wall.

Parmenion flicked a glance at the still form of Hermias, saw the blood oozing from a wound in the temple.

“You went too far,” he told Learchus, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes gleaming. “Too far,” he repeated, reaching up and pushing back the hood.

The knife plunged into Learchus’ belly, ripping up into the lungs. Parmenion stepped inside, his face inches from the astonished, wide-eyed features of Learchus. “This is what death feels like, you Spartan whoreson.”

“Oh, Gods,” cried Learchus, sagging back into the wall. Parmenion grabbed him by the hair and hauled him back to his feet.

“Prayers will not help you now.”

The breath rattled from Learchus’ throat, and his eyes closed. Parmenion let the body fall, his anger disappearing. He gazed down at the corpse, then let slip the bloody dagger. Hearing Hermias groan, he ran to his side. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“My head … hurts.”

“Let me help you.”

“Your hand is injured,” said Hermias, touching the blood.

“It is not mine,” muttered Parmenion, pointing to the dead Learchus.

“You killed him? I don’t believe it. Oh, Parmenion!”

“Let me get you inside, then I’ll find the officer of the watch.”

Within the hour the body had been removed, and Parmenion was escorted by Lepidus to the barracks, where the elderly general stood waiting in the dormitory doorway. Without a word the general turned and stalked up the stairs to a room overlooking the central courtyard. He sat down at a bench table and gestured to Lepidus to seat himself. Parmenion was left standing before the men. He stared at their faces in the flickering lamplight. Lepidus he knew well; the man was tough but not unfair. The general he knew only by sight as an iron-haired disciplinarian, a veteran of a score of battles. The old man glared at him.

“What do you have to say?” he asked, his voice rasping like a sword dragged from its sheath.

“Five hooded men attacked a friend of mine,” said Parmenion. “What would you have me do? I went to his aid.”

“You killed a fellow Spartan—a youth of good family.”

“I killed a cowardly attacker who with a group of friends, armed with clubs, attacked an unarmed youth.”

“Do not be insolent with me, boy!”

“Then do not patronize me, sir!”

The general blinked. His powerful fists clenched, and Parmenion felt he was about to rise and strike him down, but the old man took a deep breath and calmed himself. “Describe to
me all that happened.” Parmenion did so without including his final conversation with Learchus.

“Is it true,” asked the general, “that you are unpopular with the other boys?”

“Yes.”

“Is it also true that you have been a victim of their … sport before now?”

“Yes.”

“Then you knew when you attacked them that they were probably hunting you, that your friend was struck by mistake?”

“Of course. Hermias is very well liked.”

“So, then, had you waited until they recognized their error, there would have been no battle. They would have left. You agree?”

“I did not think of that then, though I can see you are correct, General. But I saw my friend struck, and I went to his aid.”

“You leapt upon one boy, breaking his shoulder, hit another with a club, breaking his arm, and stabbed the last, killing him. It is your fault, half-breed. You understand that? A fine boy lies dead because you did not think. Only a savage can use the excuse of lack of thought. Left to me, I would see you die for this. Now get out of my sight.”

Lepidus waited until they could hear the boy padding down the stairs. Then he rose and walked to the door, pushing it closed.

“He is a disgrace,” said the old man.

“No, General,” said Lepidus sadly. “What happened in this room tonight was a disgrace.”

“You dare to criticize me?”

Lepidus stared at the man. “As a Spartan it is my right. He went to the aid of a friend, risking himself. But he did not hesitate. You, of all men, should see that. There will be no judgment against him tomorrow. If there is, I shall speak out.”

Lepidus turned and left the room. He walked out into the
night and found himself drawn back to the scene of the fight. A lamp was burning in the window of Parmenion’s house, and Lepidus tapped at the gatepost.

Parmenion opened the grilled gate and stepped aside for the officer. Lepidus walked into the small building and sat on the narrow bed. Parmenion offered him a goblet of water, but he waved it away.

“I want you to put from your mind what happened tonight at the barracks,” said Lepidus. “And I would like you to forgive the general. Learchus was his nephew, and he loved the boy. What you did was admirable. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir, admirable.”

“Sit down, Parmenion. Here, beside me.” The boy did so. “Now give me your hand and look me in the eyes.” Parmenion did as he was bade. He felt the strength in the older man’s grip and saw the concern in his face. “Listen to me, boy. There are few left, it seems, who understand what being a Spartan is about. When we fight, we fight to win. We stand by our friends, we kill our enemies. The attack on Hermias was cowardly. You did well. I am proud of you.”

“I did not have to kill Learchus,” said Parmenion.

“Do not admit that to anyone. You understand me?”

“Yes,” answered Parmenion wearily, all the events of the last few days rearing up in his mind and threatening to overwhelm him: the death of his mother, the victory at the games, the loss of Derae, and now the murder of Learchus. “I understand you.”

“Listen to me. You were worried about your friend, and you took on a gang. That was courageous. And yes, you killed someone. The important—the vital—issue is, Did you enjoy killing him?”

“No,” said Parmenion.

“Then do not worry about it.”

Parmenion looked into Lepidus’ face and nodded.

But I did enjoy it, he thought, may the gods forgive me. I wish I could have killed them all.

* * *