Lion of Macedon (20 page)

They will all pay, he told himself: the whole city. There will come a day when the very name Parmenion will bring a wail of anguish from ten thousand throats.

And in this way Parmenion cloaked the hurt of Derae’s death.

Epaminondas spent little time with Parmenion in the days before the race. Every evening he would visit friends in distant parts of the city, going out early and arriving home late. He was cool during this time, though not unfriendly, but Parmenion took to wandering the city, learning its roads and streets, orienting himself.

On most days he saw Spartan soldiers walking through the marketplaces or sitting at the dining areas. Their voices were loud and pompous, he felt, and the manner of the soldiers was arrogant. In his calmer moments Parmenion knew this was untrue; they were merely unwelcome strangers in a foreign city. But his hatred was growing now, and he could rarely look upon the soldiers without feeling its dread power.

On the night before the race Epaminondas invited him to the
andron
, and the two men reclined on couches and discussed the contest.

“Meleager likes to wait at the shoulder of the leader, then strike for home from a hundred paces,” said the Theban.

“That suits me well,” responded Parmenion.

“He has a friend who runs with him, dark-bearded, short. In three races, when it looked as if Meleager could be beaten, this man tripped and fell in front of the leader, bringing him down.”

“Meleager should have been disqualified.”

“Perhaps,” Epaminondas agreed. “On the second occasion at least. But he is a Spartan, and Theban objections count for little. I have managed only odds of three to one. How much money will you wager?”

Parmenion had given great thought to the race. At four to one he could have afforded to hold back some coin. But now? He lifted the pouch from his belt and handed it to the Theban.

“I have one hundred and sixty-eight drachmas. Wager it all.”

“Is that wise?”

Parmenion shrugged. “It would be nice to have choices. If I lose, I will sell the bay mare and seek employment in a mercenary company. If not? Then I will be able to hire rooms.”

“You know you are welcome to stay with me.”

“That is kind, but I will be a burden to no man.”

The training ground was packed with people when the two men arrived early the following morning, and tiered seats had been set at the center of the field. Parmenion was restless as he waited for the races to begin. There was a boxing tourney first, but it was a sport that did not interest him, and he wandered to the grave of Hector and sat in the shade of an oak tree.

The middle race was new to the Greeks, and pride of place still went to the
stadia
, a sprint of two hundred paces. In many cities, Xenophon had told him, training groups did not have oval tracks and runners were forced to move up and down the
stadia
distance, turning around poles set in the
earth. But the Persians loved the longer-distance races, and gradually they had caught the interest of spectators in Greece. Part of the appeal, Parmenion knew, was born of the wagers. If a man was to bet on a runner, then he liked to watch a longer race where his excitement could be extended.

For a while he dozed, then was woken by a roar from the crowd as the final boxing match ended with an earsplitting knockout. Parmenion rose and went in search of Epaminondas, finding the Theban at the northern end of the ground, watching the javelin throwers.

“It is a good day for running,” said Epaminondas, pointing up at the sky. “The clouds will make it cooler. How do you feel?”

“There’s some tightness in the neck,” admitted Parmenion, “but I am ready.” Epaminondas pointed to a spot some thirty paces away, where a tall, clean-shaven man was limbering up. “That is Meleager,” he said, “and beyond him is his friend—I believe he is called Cletus.”

Parmenion watched them closely. Meleager was stretching his hamstring by lifting his leg to a bench and bending forward. Then he eased the muscles on both sides of the groin. Cletus was loping up and down, swinging his arms over his head. Meleager, Parmenion saw, was tall and lean, ideally built for distance running. He watched the man for some time; his preparation was careful and exact, his concentration total.

“I think it is time you began your own preparations,” said Epaminondas softly, and Parmenion came to with a jerk. He had been so engrossed with Meleager that he had almost forgotten he was to race him. He smiled guiltily and ran down to the start. Stripping off his
chiton
and sandals, he put himself through a short stretching routine, then ran gently for several minutes until he felt the stiffness leave his muscles.

The runners were called to the start by an elderly man with a short-cropped white beard. Then, one by one, the twelve racers were introduced to the crowd. There were seven Thebans
running, and they received the loudest cheers. Meleager and Cletus were given shouts of encouragement by a small Spartan contingent. But Leon, the Macedonian, was greeted only by polite applause.

Once more in line, the runners watched the starter. He raised his hand.

“Go!” he yelled. The Thebans were the first to sprint to the front, the line of runners drawing out behind them. Meleager settled down alongside Cletus in fourth place, Parmenion easing up behind them. The first five of the twenty laps saw no change in the leadership. Then Parmenion made his move. Coming smoothly on the outside, he ran to the front and increased the pace with a short punishing burst of half a lap, opening a gap of some fifteen paces between himself and the second man. At a bend he risked a glance behind him and saw Meleager closing on him. Parmenion held to a steady pace, then put in a second burst. His lungs were hot now, and his bare feet felt scorched by the baked clay. The clouds parted, brilliant sunshine bathing the runners. Sweat coursed down Parmenion’s body. By lap eleven Meleager was still with him despite four bursts of speed that had carried Parmenion clear. Slowly, inexorably, the Spartan had reeled him back. Meleager did not panic. Twice more he pushed ahead; twice more Meleager came back at him.

Parmenion was beginning to suffer, but, he reasoned, so, too, was Meleager. On lap sixteen Parmenion produced another effort, holding the increased pace for almost three-quarters of a lap, and this time Meleager was left some twenty paces adrift. He had misread the surge and expected Parmenion to falter. Now he began to close the gap. By the nineteenth—and last—circuit Meleager was only six paces behind.

Parmenion dared not look back for it would break his stride pattern, and late in the race that could cost him. He was coming up now to the back markers, ready to lap them. Two
were Thebans, but ahead he saw Cletus. The man kept glancing back, and Parmenion sensed what was coming. The Spartan would fall in front of him, dragging him down, or would block him as Meleager swept past.

He could hear panting breath just behind him, and as Parmenion closed on Cletus, he guessed Meleager’s plan. The Spartan racer was trying to move alongside him, boxing him in and forcing him into the back of the man ahead. Anger swept through Parmenion, feeding strength to his limbs.

He injected more speed until he was just behind Cletus.

“Make way on the outside!” he yelled, and at the same moment he cut inside to his left. The Spartan tripped and fell to his right, crashing into Meleager. Both men tumbled to the ground, and Parmenion was clear, racing into the final lap. The crowd was on its feet now as he ran to the finishing line.

It didn’t matter to them that he was Leon, an unknown Macedonian. What mattered was that two Spartans had rolled in the dust by his feet.

Epaminondas rushed to his side. “The first victory for the Lion of Macedon,” he said.

And it seemed to Parmenion that a dark cloud obscured the sun.

Parmenion set out his winnings on the stone courtyard table, building columns of coin and staring at them with undisguised pleasure. There was 512 drachmas, a king’s ransom to a Spartan who had never before seen such an amount in one place, let alone owned it.

There were five gold coins, each worth twenty-four drachmas. He hefted them, closing his fist around them, feeling the weight and the warmth that spread through the metal. The four hundred silver drachmas he had built into twenty columns like a miniature temple.

He was rich! Spreading the gold coins on the table, he stared down at the handsome, bearded head adorning each of
them. They were Persian coins, showing the ruler Artaxerxes with a bow in his hand. On the reverse was a woman holding a sheaf of corn and a sword.

“Will you stare at them all day?” Epaminondas asked.

“Yes,” replied Parmenion gleefully. “And tomorrow!”

The Theban chuckled. “You ran well, and I took great pleasure over the way you tricked Cletus. How they must be suffering now. Meleager will have beggared himself to settle his debts.”

“I don’t care about him,” said Parmenion. “Now I can afford to rent a home and perhaps even hire a servant. And today I shall go to the marketplace and buy myself a cloak and several tunics—and a pair of fine sandals. And a bow. I must have a bow. And a hat! Perhaps one of Thracian felt.”

“I have rarely seen a man so happy with his fortune,” Epaminondas told him.

“But then, have you ever been poor?” Parmenion countered.

“Happily that is a state I know little of.”

The two men spent the afternoon in the main marketplace, where Parmenion bought a cloak of sky-blue wool, two tunics of fine linen, and a pair of calf-length sandals. He also allowed himself one extravagance—a headband of black leather, finely woven with gold wire.

Toward dusk, as they were making their way back to Epaminondas’ house, the Theban suddenly cut off to the left down an alley. Parmenion touched his friend’s sleeve. “Where are we going?”

“Home!” answered Epaminondas.

“Why this way?”

“I think we are being followed. Do not look back!” he snapped as Parmenion started to turn. “I do not want them to know we have spotted them.”

“Why would we be followed?”

“I do not know. But when we turn the next corner—run!”

The alley twisted to the right, and as soon as they were out of sight, the two men ran along the path, cutting left and right through the narrow streets until they reached an alley at the
back of Epaminondas’ home. The Theban halted at the mouth of the alley and glanced out. Four men were sitting on a low wall at the rear of the house. They were armed with daggers and swords, whereas Parmenion and the Theban were without weapons. Swiftly the Theban ducked back out of sight.

Epaminondas took another circuitous route to the front of the house. Here, too, a group of armed men waited.

“What do we do?” queried Parmenion.

“We have two choices: either we brazen it out or we go elsewhere.”

“Who are they?” the Spartan asked.

“Scum, by the look of them. If I had my sword, I would not hesitate to confront them. But who do they want? You or me?” Epaminondas leaned against a wall. There were only two reasons why the men could be waiting. One, the authorities had found out about the small group of rebels who met at the home of Polysperchon; two, Meleager had learned of Parmenion’s true identity and had paid these rogues to exact revenge. Neither thought was comforting, but on the whole Epaminondas hoped it was the latter.

“Show me more routes to the house,” said Parmenion softly.

“For what reason?”

The Spartan grinned. “So that I can lead them on a chase. Trust me, Epaminondas. Much of my early life was spent in this way, being hunted, chased, beaten. But not this time, my friend. Now show me the alleys and back roads.”

For almost an hour the two men wandered through the twisting alleys between the houses until Parmenion had memorized various landmarks. Then they returned to the opening at the rear of the house.

“Wait here,” said Parmenion, “until they have left. Then you can get your sword. And mine, too.”

The Spartan ran back into the maze of buildings, emerging from an alley some forty paces to the left of the waiting group. One of them looked up and nudged the man beside him. The group stood.

“Are you the man Parmenion?” asked a stocky, redheaded warrior.

“Indeed I am.”

“Take him!” the man yelled, drawing a sword and rushing forward.

Parmenion turned on his heel and sprinted for the alley, the four attackers in pursuit. Epaminondas darted across the open ground to the rear of the house and hammered on the door. A servant opened it, and the Theban moved through to the
andron
, gathering up his sword. He sent the servant to Parmenion’s room to fetch the sword of Leonidas and, armed with two blades, ran back toward the street.

“Where are you going, master?” called the servant fearfully.

Epaminondas ignored him.

All was quiet at the rear of the house, and Epaminondas waited, his mind calm, his body ready. There would be little point in entering the maze of alleys; better to wait until Parmenion brought the pursuers to him. Finding his mouth to be dry, he allowed himself a wry smile. It was always this way before a battle: a dry mouth and a full bladder. Then he heard the pounding of feet and saw Parmenion race into view with the four men just behind him. The young Spartan sprinted forward, holding out his hand. Epaminondas tossed him his sword; Parmenion caught it deftly and swung to face the attackers.

The men halted their charge and stood back, uncertain.

“We have no quarrel with you,” the red-bearded leader told Epaminondas. The Theban cast his eyes over the man, taking in his grease-stained tunic and his matted beard. The man’s forearms were crisscrossed with scars.

“You have been a soldier, I see,” said Epaminondas. “You have fallen a long way since then.”

The man reddened. “I fought for Thebes—precious good it did me. Now stand aside, Epaminondas, and let us deal with the trickster.”

“In what way have you been tricked?” Epaminondas asked.

“He ran under the name Leon when in fact he is the Spartan racer Parmenion.”

“Did you lose money?” asked the Theban.