Lion of Macedon (12 page)

Tamis leaned on her staff, staring at the servant kneeling before her.

“My master urges you to come to the house of Parnas,” said the man, avoiding her eyes.

“Urges? When his son lies dying? Surely you mean begs?”

“The noble Parnas would never do that but I beg you, honored one. Save Hermias,” pleaded the servant, tears in his eyes.

“Perhaps I can save him, perhaps not,” she answered. “But tell your master that I will ask the gods for guidance. Go now!”

Tamis turned on her heel and vanished into the dark interior of her dwelling place. The fire was burning low, but as she sat before it, the flames flickered and rose to form the face of Cassandra.

“I did not summon you,” said Tamis. “Begone!”

“You must heal the boy, Tamis. It is your duty.”

“Don’t talk to me of duty. Learchus is dead, and I have denied the dark one a possible father of the flesh. That was my duty. Hermias is holding back the development of Parmenion. Because of their friendship he still retains, in part, a gentle soul. I did not cause Hermias to be hurt. No blame attaches to me; it was the will of the source. And now he will die, for a blood clot is in his brain. As it moves, it will kill him.”

“But you can heal him,” said the fire woman.

“No. When he is dead, Parmenion will become the man of iron I need.”

“Can you honestly believe, Tamis, that this is the will of the source? That a boy with no evil in his heart should die?”

“Children with no evil in their hearts die all the time, Cassandra. Do not preach to me. They die in fires, in droughts, in plagues, and in wars. Does the source stop them? No. And I no longer complain about it. This is his world. If he chooses for innocents to die, then that is his right. I caused Hermias no harm even though he stood in my way. Now he is dying. I interpret that as a prayer answered.”

Tamis closed her eyes and floated free of her body, rising through the low roof and drifting high above the city.

The house of Parnas stood in the east of the city, and she flew toward it, hovering in the flower-garlanded courtyard where a group of Hermias’ friends had gathered. Parmenion stood alone by the far wall, ignored.

“They say he was vomiting in the night,” said fat Pausias. “Then he passed out. His color is terrible. The surgeon has bled him, but to no avail.”

“He is strong,” said Nestus. “I am sure he will be all right.” The sword champion glanced at Parmenion, then walked across to where he waited.

“What happened last night?” Nestus asked. “All I have heard is rumor.”

“Hermias was attacked,” answered Parmenion. “He was struck on the head by a club. He was dazed and groggy when I brought him home.”

“It is said you killed Learchus. Is it true?”

“I did not know it was Learchus,” lied Parmenion. “He was merely one of a group attacking Hermias.”

Nestus sighed. “This is bad, Savra. Very bad. I cannot say I have ever liked you, but you know that I have never had any part in the attacks on you.”

“I know that.”

“If Hermias dies, the others will be arraigned for his murder.”

“He will not die!” Parmenion snapped.

A movement by the gates caught Parmenion’s eye, and he turned to see Derae and two of her friends enter the courtyard. She saw him but made no sign of recognition as she walked slowly to the open doors of the
andron
.

Tamis entered the main building, drawn by the girl’s soul fire, which blazed like concentrated starlight.

The father of Hermias was sitting in the
andron
talking to the surgeon, Astion. He looked up as Derae entered, then stood, his face drawn and haggard. He kissed her cheek, offering her watered wine.

“Can I see him?” she asked.

“He is dying, my dear,” said Parnas, his voice breaking.

“He is my friend, my dearest friend,” Derae told him. “Let me go to him.”

Parnas shrugged and led her to the bedroom where Hermias lay, his face as pale as the linen sheet that covered his body. Derae sat beside him, her hand moving to stroke his brow.

“No!” shouted Tamis, though none could hear her. Derae’s soul fire flared, bathing Hermias in blinding light. Tamis could not believe what she was seeing: At the boy’s temple the light turned gold, then red, the blood clot beneath the bone dispersing. Hermias groaned and opened his eyes.

“Derae?” he whispered. “What are you doing here? It is most unseemly.”

“They told me you were dying,” she answered, smiling. “But I can see that is not the case.”

“I had the most terrible dreams,” he told her. “I was in a place of darkness where nothing grew and no birds sang. But even now the memory fades.…”

“So it should, for the sun is shining outside and all your friends are gathered here.”

“Parmenion?”

“He also,” she said, her smile fading. “Now I will leave you to your rest.”

Standing, she returned to the
andron
. “He is awake,” she told Parnas, “and his color is good.”

Parnas ran to the bedroom, embracing his bewildered son.

The surgeon seized Derae’s arm. “What did you do?” he asked.

“I did nothing. As soon as I sat down, he awoke.”

Tamis listened to the words, her anger rising. You do not know, you stupid child! You have the gift, and you do not realize it!

Furious, the seer returned to her body. The fire was dead, the room in darkness. Derae’s power was a new element,
and Tamis gathered her strength to walk the paths of this new future.

It was dusk when Leonidas was summoned to the rooms of the barrack senior. He had been riding along the banks of the Eurotas River for most of the day and had learned of the previous night’s tragedy only upon his return, when he found Lepidus waiting for him at the stables.

The soldier had said little as they walked to the barracks, mounting the stairs to the general’s rooms. Inside, seated with the senior, were two of the city’s
ephors
, councillors responsible for the day-to-day organization of Sparta’s rigid social, legal, and economic structure. Leonidas bowed to them both. One he recognized as Memnas, a friend of his father’s. Memnas was the chief magistrate, and he headed the night watch and the militia.

The senior stood. “Your friend Learchus lies murdered,” he said.

Leonidas felt the shock of the words. “Murdered? I was told he was killed in a fight,” he replied.

“That is what we are to determine,” put in Memnas. He was a short, slender man with a trident beard and dark hawklike features. In the blue robes of the
ephor
he seemed a frail figure, yet he had marched with Agisaleus into Persia and had fought, so it was said, like a lion. “Be seated, young man. We have asked you here so that you may corroborate the claims of the killer.”

“I was not there, sir. How can I help you?”

“Two boys—friends of yours—lie injured, one with a broken shoulder and another with a broken arm. They will say nothing of the incident save that it was a brawl. They did not see the killing blow struck. They also say that Parmenion attacked them without warning, and they deny harming Hermias.”

“What would you have me do?” asked Leonidas. “I am not a militiaman, nor yet a member of the night watch.”

“You are from a noble family and highly regarded in the barracks. Find out the truth and come back to us within two hours. Otherwise there will be a full—and public—inquiry that will, whatever the outcome, harm the reputation of Lycurgus barracks.”

“I will do what I can, but I promise nothing,” Leonidas told them.

He found Gryllus at the gymnasium; the Athenian youth’s nose was swollen, his eyes bruised. Leonidas walked him to the square, finding a quiet spot lit by the torches of the oracle shrine. There Gryllus told him all he could recall of the fight.

“He murdered him, Leon!” he said, at last. “I still can’t believe it!”

“You went after him at night, hooded and masked. And not for the first time, Gryllus. What did you expect? That he would greet you with flowers?”

“He killed him with his own dagger. I saw it. He backed him to a wall and then stabbed him.”

“You saw it and did nothing?”

“What could I do? He is a demon—possessed. He leapt from the sky. We didn’t know it was Hermias; we were just going to stop Savra from running in the trials. We did it for you, to avenge your shame!”

Leonidas’ hand snaked out, his fingers circling Gryllus’ throat. “You did nothing for me!” he hissed. “I have seen it in you for a long time, Athenian. You like inflicting pain, but you are not man enough to stand alone. You run with a pack, like the cowardly dog you are. Now hear this: Tomorrow you will be gone from Sparta. I care not where. If you are here, I will come after you myself and rip out your bowels with a blunt knife.”

“Oh, please, Leonidas.”

“Be silent! You will tell no one else of your … infamy. Learchus’ death is on your head, and one day you will suffer for it.”

Leonidas returned to the
ephors
at the appointed time.

“You have discovered the truth?” Memnas asked.

“I have, sir. A group of youths attacked Hermias, believing him to be Parmenion. The half-breed is innocent of blame; he acted to save his friend.”

“And the names of the other youths?”

“That was not part of your instruction to me, sir. The ring-leader—an Athenian—will be leaving the city tonight. He will not return.”

“Perhaps it is better that way,” said Memnas.

Two hours after dawn the five hundred youngsters of Lycurgus barracks were marched to the training ground, where file leaders ordered them into line to await the barrack senior. First- and second-year children were allowed to sit at the front, while those aged nine to nineteen stood silently at attention. All the older youths now knew of the tragedy, and not one person had spoken to Parmenion since muster.

He glanced to his left and right. The boys on either side of him had edged away, creating distance. Parmenion did not respond but stared stonily ahead, longing for the day to pass swiftly.

The children at the front stood up as the barrack senior strode into view flanked by two of the city councillors in their blue ceremonial robes. Parmenion felt panic flare within him. The blue-clad
ephors
looked grim, and he pictured them marching to him and escorting him to the execution ground. Tearing his eyes from them, he gazed at the general. In full armor the barrack senior looked even more ferocious than when Parmenion had seen him the previous night.

The old man’s eyes scanned the ranks. “Many of you already know,” he roared, “of the death of our comrade Learchus. The
ephors
here,” he added, gesturing at the councillors, “have investigated fully and have, in their wisdom, declared the incident closed. So be it. Today the body of our departed friend is being laid out. Tomorrow we will attend the cremation. The lament will be sung by Leonidas. That is all!” He stepped back, spun on his heel, and stalked away.

Lepidus ordered the boys to stand down and then spoke for a moment or two with the
ephors
before making his way to Parmenion and leading him to one side. “That was hard on you, and you did well to be here. But there is something else. After today you will no longer be part of Lycurgus barracks. Next week you will join the Menelaus group.”

“What about my mess bill here? I have just paid for the year ahead. I have no more money.”

“I will loan you the sum,” said Lepidus. “I wish I could give it to you, but I am not a rich man.”

“No! I will not leave,” argued Parmenion, fighting to control his temper. “There are no grounds. I will refuse to go.”

“Life will be unbearable for you here, boy! Surely you can see that. Your presence would wreck morale. And the barracks system depends on morale. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” answered Parmenion softly. “I would like to see the barrack senior to discuss the move.”

“He does not want to talk to you,” said Lepidus, aware of a change in Parmenion but unable to pin down the exact nature of it.

“His wants are immaterial. If he does not see me, then I stay. Tell him that, Lepidus!” And Parmenion walked away without a word.

That afternoon he was summoned to the senior’s rooms. The old man did not look up from his desk as Parmenion entered. “Make this swift,” he snapped. Then he heard the rasp of a chair leg against the floor and looked up shocked to see Parmenion seated before him. “What do you think you are doing?” he asked.

“I am negotiating, General,” answered Parmenion, meeting the other man’s eyes and holding his gaze. “You want me gone? I wish to go. But there is the matter of my mess fees. Three days ago I paid over one hundred and forty drachmas to this barracks. My mother sold a one-third share in our landholding to raise that money.”

“That is not a problem of mine,” said the old man.

“But it is,” Parmenion told him. “Since I have paid, then I will stay. You have no right to request me to leave. I have broken no rule.”

“Broken …? You murdered a boy!” snarled the old man, pushing himself to his feet.

“Not according to the
ephors,”
answered Parmenion calmly. “Now if you wish me to leave, you will supply me with two hundred drachmas. Is that clear enough for you … sir?”

For almost a minute the general stared at Parmenion, his face deep crimson. Then he smiled and relaxed. “So the Macedonian blood finally rises to the surface. There’s not a man in that whole country who wouldn’t sell his wife to buy a sheep. Very well,
peasant
, I will give you your two hundred—much good will it do you. You may stay on in any barracks, but when you reach manhood, you will find no one willing to endure you in any soldiers’ hall. You will never be a Spartan, Parmenion.
Never!”

The youngster chuckled. “You mean that as an insult? I do not take it so. I know what I am, General, as I know what you are. I would be obliged if the money could be sent to my home before sunset.”

Parmenion stood and bowed.

Within the hour he was standing before another old man, fierce-eyed and grim-lipped. Leaning back in his chair, Agenor linked his arms behind his bald head and observed the young man. “I want no deaths here,” stated the officer.