Lion of Macedon (14 page)

“An ill day, Xenophon,” said the red-bearded Spartiate. “My daughter, Derae, has been taken.”

“Taken? How?” Xenophon asked.

“She was riding alone to the east of our column; I think she must have stopped by a stream and dismounted. I have a Thracian servant who reads tracks, and he said her horse must have run clear when they surprised her. They are heading north, into the hills.”

“We will join with you, of course,” said Xenophon.

Parmenion swung his horse’s head and cantered back to the wagon. “Hand me the bow,” he ordered Tinus.

The man reached into the back of the wagon and lifted out a bow of horn and a goatskin quiver containing twenty arrows. Parmenion hooked the quiver over his shoulder and scanned the countryside. The men were heading north, Patroclian had said, but by now they would know that Derae was part of a larger group, and it would make little sense to hold to their course. To the northeast was a heavily wooded line of hills beyond which Parmenion could see a high pass that swept northward. Without waiting for the others, he heeled the mare into a run and rode for the wooded slopes.

“Where in Hades is he going?” asked Leonidas.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” snapped Patroclian. “Let’s ride!”

The warriors set off for the north.

Parmenion rode high into the hills, angling his mount toward the pass. The footing was treacherous here, scree and loose shale. He slowed the mare, dismounted, then led her up into the trees. On reaching safe ground, he tethered her to a bush and climbed a tall cypress tree. From its uppermost branches he scanned the surrounding hills, seeing no sign of movement save for the dust of the hunting party as it galloped north. He stayed in the tree for some time and was just beginning to face the possibility of being wrong when several
black and gray crows took off from the trees some two hundred paces to his right. They seemed panicked, and he focused on the area, straining to see through the undergrowth. After a moment or two he caught the glint of sunlight on metal and heard a horse whinny. Swiftly he climbed down the tree, mounted the mare, and set off at a run for the pass.

He reached it ahead of the raiders and dragged on the reins; the mare whinnied and reared. Parmenion leapt from her back and swiftly hobbled her. Climbing to the peak of a tall, rocky outcrop overlooking the narrow pass, he slid an arrow from the quiver and noched it to the string.

His heart was beating wildly, and there was a pounding pain behind his eyes. The headaches had been worse of late, waking him in the night and leaving him nauseous and shaken. But now he had no time to be concerned with petty pain.

His reaction to the news of Derae’s abduction had surprised him. She had been in his thoughts often, but he had never allowed himself to believe he could win her. Now, with the thought of her being taken from him for good, he felt a rising sense of panic and a realization that she was part of his dreams. A foolish dream! his mind screamed at him as he crouched, waiting for the raiders. Leonidas would never allow such a marriage. Marriage? He pictured Derae standing beside him at the sacred stone to Hera, her hand on his, the priestess binding their arms together with laurel leaves.…

Wiping his sweating palms on his tunic, he forced such thoughts from his mind and stared at the tree line. Several minutes later the first of the scouts came into view. The man was sun-bronzed and dark-bearded, wearing a Phrygian helm with a metal crest and a red eye painted on the brow. He was carrying a lance. Beside him rode a warrior wearing a wide Boeotian helm of beaten iron; he was carrying a bow in his left hand, with an arrow ready noched.

Parmenion crouched down behind a rock and waited, listening
to the steady rhythmic sound of hooves on stone. Then, risking a glance, he saw the main group, numbering more than thirty, riding out behind the scouts. He could see Derae, her hands tied behind her. There was a rope around her neck, being held by a warrior on a tall gray stallion. The man was wearing silver armor and a white cloak. To Parmenion, he looked like a prince from legend.

Laris rode his stallion clear of the trees and tugged on the rope. The girl almost stumbled. He glanced back at her and smiled. What a beauty! There had been no chance yet to hear her screams, to enjoy her writhing beneath him, but that would come once they had thrown off their pursuers. Spartans! The weak-livered councillors of Corinth had all but wet themselves when he had talked of invading Spartan lands. Could they not see that the Spartans could be taken? If Thebes, Corinth, and Athens joined forces, they could destroy Sparta once and for all. But no. Ancient fears held sway. Remember Thermopylae, they said. Remember the defeat of Athens twenty years ago. Who cared about events a lifetime in the past? At best the Spartans could put fifteen thousand men in the field. Corinth alone could match half that number, and Athens make up the rest. Thebes and the Boeotian League could double the force.

Dismissed! The shame of it burned at Laris. But now he had shown them: with a mere forty men he had raided deep into Spartan lands. True, they had found little gold and the men were unhappy, but he had proved a point. If forty could ride into the home of warriors and emerge unscathed, what would be the result when forty thousand marched in?

He looked up to see the scouts riding into the pass.

Suddenly an arrow flashed through the air to strike Xanthias in the throat, and with a terrible cry he pitched from his mount. Instantly all was chaos. Men leapt from their horses, taking shelter behind the rocks. Laris slid to the ground, dragging Derae down beside him.

A young Spartan stood in full view of the men.

“Release the woman!” he called, “and there will be no further killing.”

“Who speaks?” yelled Laris.

“A man with a bow,” answered the warrior.

“And why should we trust your word, man with a bow?”

“Look behind you,” shouted the archer. “Can you see the dust cloud? You are trapped. If you wait, you will die. If you advance, you will die. List your choices, if you will.”

“I see no one up there with you,” said Laris, rising and drawing his sword.

“Do you not? Then it must be that I am alone. Attack me and find out!”

“Show us your men!”

“Your time is running out, along with my patience. If you do not have the wit to save your comrades, perhaps another man among them will make the choice for you.”

The warrior’s words stung Laris. Already his men were far from happy, and now this lone archer was questioning his leadership.

A man rose from behind a rock. “For Athena’s sake, Laris! Let the woman go, and let us get away from here!”

The leader turned to Derae. His knife slashed the thongs binding her hands, then he lifted the noose from around her neck. He turned to see the Spartan riding toward him, his bow looped over his shoulder. Laris scanned the rocks but could see no one. He licked his lips, convinced the bowman was alone, longing to plunge his blade into the Spartan, to see his lifeblood draining from him.

The warrior smiled at him. “I have told the others to let you pass, and you can trust my word. But I should ride fast. I do not speak for those who follow.”

The men ran for their horses. Laris suppressed the urge to strike out; he could hear the hoof beats of the Spartan force. Grabbing his stallion’s mane, he leapt to the beast’s back and galloped through the pass. As he had expected there was no one there—no archers, no
hoplites
, no slingers. Just rock and
shale. He could feel the eyes of his men upon him. He had been tricked by one Spartan. One man had made him surrender his prize.

What would they say in Corinth?

Parmenion leaned out, taking Derae’s hand and swinging her up behind him. Then he touched heels to the mare and walked the beast back into the trees.

Within minutes Patroclian came galloping toward them, followed by Leonidas and the others. Parmenion raised his hand, and the red-bearded Spartiate drew rein as Derae eased herself to the ground.

“What happened here?” Leonidas demanded, pushing his way to the front.

“Parmenion and the others blocked the pass,” said Derae. “He killed one of their scouts, then negotiated to allow them through if they gave me up.”

“What others?” asked Patroclian.

“Archers, I suppose,” said Derae. “He threatened to kill all the raiders unless they released me.”

“Where are these other men?” Patroclian enquired of Parmenion. “I would like to thank them.”

“There are no others,” Parmenion told him. Edging his mount forward, he rode through the group and back down the scree slope to where the wagon was waiting. Tossing the quiver and bow to Tinus, he lifted a water skin from the seat beside the servant and drank deeply.

Xenophon rode alongside. “You did well,
strategos
. We found where the trail swung east, but we would have been too late had you not blocked the pass. I am proud of you.” He tossed a blood-covered arrow to Tinus. “It was a fine strike at the base of the throat, severing the windpipe and lodging in the spine. A fine strike!”

“I was aiming for the chest or belly, but I overcompensated for the gradient.”

Xenophon was about to speak when he noticed Parmenion’s
hands begin to tremble. He glanced at the young man’s face, which showed no expression, though the blood had drained from it.

“Are you well?” asked the Athenian.

“My head is pounding, and there are lights flashing in my eyes.”

“We will camp here,” said Xenophon. Parmenion dismounted and staggered several paces before falling to his knees and vomiting. Then he stood and sucked in great gulps of air. Xenophon brought him the water skin, and he rinsed his mouth. “You feel better?”

“I am shaking like a leaf in a storm—I can’t believe it. Back there I was so calm, but now I am acting like a frightened child.”

“Back there was the work of a man, a cool man. A man of iron nerve,” Xenophon assured him. “This takes nothing from it.”

“I feel as if there are hot lances inside my head. I have never known pain like it.” Parmenion sat down, resting his back against the wagon wheel. “And the light is burning my eyes.” Tinus climbed down from the wagon, holding a wide hat of straw over Parmenion’s head to shade him. The pain grew, and Parmenion slipped into darkness.

Parmenion awoke several times in the night, but his head seemed filled with searing light, bringing agony and nausea. With an effort of will he slipped back into the sanctuary of sleep. When finally he opened his eyes, the absence of pain was almost blissful. He was lying in a cool room with the shutters closed, and he could hear the low hum of conversation beyond the whitewashed walls. He sat up and saw that his left forearm was bandaged, but he could not remember being wounded.

Someone stirred in a chair across the room, and a man rose and walked over to him. He was short and slender, with wispy gray hair. He smiled.

“The pain is gone, yes?” inquired the man, his voice deep and faintly comical coming from so frail a body.

“Yes,” agreed Parmenion. “What happened to me?”

“The world,” said the man, sitting on the bed beside him, “is made up of four elements: earth, air, fire, and water. But it is held in harmony by the will of the gods. As I understand it, you displayed an act of rare courage. You put yourself under severe stress. This caused an excess of fire in your system, heating your blood and destroying your harmony. Hot blood coursed in your brain, causing intense pain and nausea.”

“You bled me, then,” said Parmenion, touching the bandage on his arm.

“I did. It is well known that this relieves the pressure. If you feel faint, I will repeat the process.”

“No, I feel fine.”

“Good. I will tell the general you are well. But you ought to be purged, young man; it would be safer.”

“Truly, I am well. The pain has gone. I commend your skill.”

The little man smiled. “In truth I am better with wounds, but I study,” he confided.

“Will this happen to me whenever I face danger?”

“It is unlikely. I have known many men to suffer such head pain, but the attacks are usually rare and only accompany times of undue stress. It is common also among clerics who complain of blurred vision and dancing lights before their eyes. Opium is the best cure for this, processed to the Egyptian formula. I will leave some with Xenophon in case your pain returns.”

Parmenion lay back. He fell asleep once more, and when he awoke, Xenophon was sitting beside him.

“You gave us a scare,
strategos
. The good doctor wanted to drill a hole in your skull to release the bad humors, but I dissuaded him.”

“Where are we?”

“Olympia.”

“You mean I have slept for a full day?”

“More than that,” replied Xenophon. “It is now almost noon on the second day. I had hoped to take you hunting, but as it is the doctor says you should rest for today.”

“I am well enough to ride,” Parmenion argued.

“I am sure you are,” agreed Xenophon soothingly, “but I will not allow it. The doctor has spoken, and we will follow his advice. Anyway, there is a guest to see you, and I am sure you will not object to spending time with her while I ride out to hunt with her father.”

“Derae? Here?”

“Waiting in the gardens. Now remember, my boy, to appear feeble and wan. Elicit her sympathy.”

“I need to bathe and shave.”

“And to dress, let us not forget that,” said Xenophon as the naked Parmenion threw back his sheet and rose from the bed.

The gardens were constructed around a shallow stream flowing from the eastern hills. White boulders had been carefully polished and placed in circles, half-buried in the soil. Around them, brightly colored flowers had been planted after the fashion of the Persians. Stone pathways had been designed to meander through groves of oak trees, and stone benches were placed in shaded hollows. There were statues from Corinth and Thebes, mostly showing the goddess Athena in full armor and one of Artemis carrying a bow. By a small man-made lake there was a series of statues portraying the twelve labors of Heracles. Usually Parmenion would sit by them, enjoying the cool breeze across the water, but not today. He found Derae sitting by the stream under the shade of a willow. She was dressed in an ankle-length
chiton
of white edged with green and gold. Around her waist and looped over her shoulders was a sea-green
chlamys
, a long, rectangular strip of fine linen, delicately embroidered. As she saw him, she stood and smiled. “Are you now well, hero?” she asked.