Lion of Macedon (30 page)

As he had stood in the doorway, her perfume had washed over him, filling his senses. And in her face, as he reprimanded her, there had been shock, surprise, and a hurt he could not understand. He felt an almost physical need to seek her out and apologize. But for what? How had he offended her?

At last he dropped into a troubled sleep and dreamed of Derae.

Parmenion awoke three hours later and climbed to the flat roof to watch dawn illuminate the city. He turned his gaze southwest to the towering peaks of Mount Cithaeron and the mountains beyond. This is a beautiful land, he thought, yet we squabble over it like children.

He sat in the sunlight, thinking back to his days with Xenophon.

“Greece can never rise to full glory,” the general had told him, “for we are not a complete nation and we have no national view. We have the finest soldiers in the world, the best generals, and we are supreme on the sea. Yet we are like the wolf pack; we rend and tear at each other while our enemies gloat.”

“But the wolves always find a leader,” Parmenion had pointed out.

“Yes,” Xenophon agreed, “and there the comparison ends. Greece is composed of scores of city-states. Even a man of greatness from—let us say—Athens would not be able to bind Greece together. The Spartans would envy and fear him, the Thebans likewise. They would not see him as a Greek but as an Athenian. The hatreds are too deeply ingrained, and they will not be overcome—at least not in my lifetime. So what
do
we see? Persia controls the world, and she uses Greek mercenaries to do it—while here we live in a
country with beautiful mountains and poor soil. Everything we need we import from Egypt or Asia, paying the Persians handsomely for each transaction.”

“What if one man were to lead a united force against the Persians?” asked Parmenion.

“He would need to be a colossus among men, a demigod like Heracles. More than that, he would have to be a man without a city, a Greek. And there are no such men, Parmenion. I had hoped Sparta would take the lead, but Agisaleus cannot forget his hatred of Thebes. The Athenians learn with their mothers’ milk to hate Spartans. Thebans and Corinthians loathe Athenians. Where, then, can Greece find a leader?”

“What would you do?”

“If I were a god, I would lift the nation from the sea and shake her so that all the cities fell to dust. Then I would gather the survivors and tell them to build one great city and call it Greece.”

Parmenion chuckled. “And then the Athenian survivors would take the northern part of the city and call the district Athens, while the Spartans would take the southern part. Then each would decide that their neighbor’s district was more precious than their own.”

“I fear you are right, my boy. But set against my despair, there is a good side to the situation.”

“And what is that?” Parmenion asked.

“There will always be a demand for good generals.”

Now Parmenion smiled at the memory and climbed down from the roof. Mothac brought him a goblet of the sylphium brew, which he drank swiftly. He had experienced no head pain since the night of Derae’s miracle, and his body felt strong once more.

“I need to run,” he told Mothac.

But the training ground was packed with warriors practicing with sword and shield. Pelopidas was roaring out orders, and several officers were moving among the men, offering advice
or encouragement. Parmenion stood and watched for some minutes, then Pelopidas saw him and ran to where he stood.

“They are coming along well,” said the Theban. “Good men, proud men.”

“Given time, you will have a fine force here,” said Parmenion, choosing his words with care. “But how much close formation work do you plan?”

“We always conclude with a formation run. But the men prefer more open combat; it makes them competitive.”

“Indeed it does, my friend, and you are quite right. Yet, as I am sure you are aware, when they meet the Spartans, it will be in close formation. If they are spread like this, they will be cut to pieces.”

“Would you be willing to help train the men?” Pelopidas asked.

“It would be an honor,” answered Parmenion. The Theban took his arm and led him out onto the field.

“Splendid attack!” shouted Pelopidas as a swordsman blocked a thrust and hammered his shoulder into his opponent, knocking him from his feet. The man grinned and saluted with his wooden blade.

“What is the man’s name?” asked Parmenion as they walked on.

“I don’t know. Do you want me to find out?”

“No,” answered Parmenion softly. Pelopidas gathered the men together, forming them in a huge semicircle around Parmenion.

“This is the man who planned the retaking of the Cadmea,” he roared. “This is the
strategos
who climbed the walls and rescued Epaminondas.” The men cheered loudly, and Parmenion reddened; his heart pounded, and irrationally he felt the onset of fear. Pelopidas spoke easily to the soldiers, and it was obvious that he was much admired, but Parmenion had never before addressed such a group, and his nerves were in tatters. “He will be training you in close formation maneuvers so that the next time we meet the Spartans we will close around them like an iron fist!” Pelopidas
turned to Parmenion. “Do you wish to say anything to the men?”

“Yes,” said Parmenion. There were several hundred men seated around him, their eyes upon him. He could feel those eyes pressing on his soul, and his legs felt weak, almost unable to support him. “Close formation fighting …” he began.

“We can’t hear him!” someone called from the back. Parmenion took a deep breath.

“Close formation fighting is about brotherhood,” he shouted. “It is about understanding and caring. It is about putting the good of all above what is good for one.” He paused to take a breath.

“What is he talking about?” asked a man in the front row. A ripple of laughter spread back through the ranks, and anger flared in Parmenion’s heart.

“Stand up!” he bellowed, his voice ringing with authority. The soldiers obeyed instantly. “Now form a complete circle with me at the center,” he told them, striding to the middle of the training field. The soldiers rose and trooped after him.

“Who is the best swordsman here?” he asked them as they formed a great circle, many ranks deep.

“Pelopidas!” they shouted.

“And the worst?” This was greeted by silence until a young man raised his hand. He was slender to the point of emaciation.

“I am not very skilled—yet,” he said, “but I am getting stronger.” More laughter followed this admission.

“Let both men come into the circle,” said Parmenion.

Pelopidas rose and walked with the young man to stand beside the Spartan. “May I say something?” the Theban general asked Parmenion, who nodded. “Some of you men,” began Pelopidas, “laughed when our friend—and brother—Callines admitted his shortcomings with the blade. His admission took courage.” His angry eyes raked the men. “Courage,” he repeated, “and a man with that kind of courage will improve. And you will help him, as we will all help each other. The cause of Thebes is sacred to me, and every man who aids
Thebes is sacred to me. We are not just men playing a game of war; we are a sacred band, bound to one another in life and death. Let there be no more sneering.” He stepped back and turned to Parmenion. “I am sorry,
strategos;
please continue.”

Parmenion allowed the silence to grow. The words of Pelopidas had surprised him, but the sentiments were good.

“You have heard something today,” said Parmenion at last, “that you should burn into your hearts. Because in days to come, when you are old, your hair gray and your grandchildren playing at your feet, you will hear men say with pride, ‘There he is. He was one of the sacred band.’ And you will look up and see young men gaze at you with awe and envy.” Once more he let the silence swell. “Now, let us have two more swordsmen, good men of talent and speed.”

When the four men were standing ready, holding their swords and shields of bronze, Parmenion walked to Pelopidas. “Your sword, sir.” Mystified, Pelopidas handed the wooden blade to the Spartan, who turned to the young man beside the Theban general. “Your shield, sir.” The man surrendered it. Parmenion dropped the weapons at the inner rim of the circle and repeated the maneuver with the other pair. “We have here,” he told the bewildered watchers, “an example of close formation fighting. Four men with only two swords and two shields. The shield bearer must protect the swordsman but has himself no weapon with which to attack. The swordsman must protect the shield bearer though he has no shield to defend himself. Each man in the pair must depend on the other. Now to battle, if it please you, gentlemen.”

Pelopidas and the slender Callines advanced together. The opposing swordsman launched a sudden attack. Pelopidas blocked the blow with his shield, and Callines lunged, but his strike cracked against the shield of his opponent. The warriors circled each other but could find no openings. After several minutes the enemy pair dropped back for a whispered conference, then advanced once more, the swordsman suddenly
moving to the right, seeking to outflank Pelopidas. Ignoring him, Pelopidas darted for the shield bearer, hurling himself at the man. Their shields met with a clash, and Pelopidas’ opponent was hurled from his feet. Callines ran forward, touching his sword to the fallen man’s throat. Pelopidas swung as the swordsman came up behind him, and only the rim of his shield deflected the blow. Callines came to his aid. Pelopidas parried a thrust, then swung his shield into his opponent’s sword arm, pushing it back. Callines leapt, his blunt sword ramming into the man’s groin, and the warrior fell to the earth with a groan.

“What you just saw,” said Parmenion, moving to the center of the circle and hauling the man to his feet, “was your worst swordsman killing two opponents. That, in essence, is the secret of the phalanx. Ordinary men, well trained, can prove magnificent in battle. But great warriors become invincible. You will be invincible!”

For two hours Parmenion worked the men, until Pelopidas called a halt and allowed the training to end. Taking Parmenion’s arm, he led him to the shade by the grave of Hector. “You did well, my friend. Very well indeed,” said the Theban. “You gave us a name, an inspired name. From today we are the Sacred Band.”

“No,” answered Parmenion. “The name was yours; you coined it when you spoke up for young Callines. But it is fitting, and it does no harm for warriors to feel bonded. You are a fine leader.”

“Enough compliments,” said Pelopidas, “I feel uncomfortable with them. Now tell me why you asked the name of the first swordsman you saw?”

Parmenion smiled. “It is not I who should know his name—it is you. A general is like a craftsman who knows the name and merits of each of the tools he possesses. The men look up to you; they admire you for your courage and your strength. As a general you cannot make a friend of every man, for that might lead to lax discipline. But speak to
each by name and they will fight the better for you—and for Thebes.”

“But will we beat the Spartans?” asked Pelopidas.

“If any man can, you will,” Parmenion assured him.

Derae opened her eyes, but the darkness was total. She could feel the warmth on the right side of her face and knew that the sun was up, and she wept for her loss.

Blindness. The fear of humans from the dawn of time: helpless against the whims of nature, the cruelty of savage beasts.

Her last sight had been of Tamis looming above her, the copper vial in her hand with steam rising from the bubbling contents within. Then the touch of fire on her open eyes and the scream of agony that followed the kiss of acid.

She heard the door open and felt the bed shift as Tamis sat beside her. “Lie still,” said the old woman, “and listen to me. Hold your body still and think of a blue sky and a long stem of gold. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” answered Derae weakly.

“Picture the stem of gold against the blue and see the tip swell and grow—bending, twisting, becoming a loop joined back to the stem like a huge needle of gold. Do you have it in mind?”

“I do. Gold against blue,” Derae whispered.

“Now, below the loop, like the cross-guard of a Persian sword, two further stems grow from the gold. Hold it in your mind, the blue and the gold. Tell me what you feel?”

“I feel as if warm air is blowing inside my head.”

“Good. Now soar!” ordered Tamis. Derae felt all weight fall from her, as if chains of lead had parted. She floated—and opened her eyes. The ceiling was close, and she rolled her spirit, looking down to see herself lying on the pallet bed with Tamis beside her. The old woman looked up. “Now you can see,” Tamis told her, “and you have discovered one of the secrets of the source. A gift to him is returned manifold.
You are free, Derae. Free to fly and free to learn. Go! Travel like the eagle and see all that you desire. But look not to the future, my child, for you are not ready.”

Derae’s soul sped from the temple, glorying in the sunlight, moving up through clouds and across the ocean. Far below her she saw the mainland of Greece, its rearing mountains and arid plains. Tiny triremes were anchored in the bay near Athens, and fishing boats bobbed on the waters around them. Southwest she flew to Sparta, hovering above her old home, seeing her mother and her sister in the courtyard.

Sorrow swept over her; she did not wish to see them like this; rather, she desired to see what
was
. The scene blurred and shifted, and she watched herself running from the gateway, down to the meadow where the girls could exercise, while on a nearby hilltop she saw the boy Parmenion lying on his belly, waiting for a glimpse of her.

The scenes were painful, but she could not resist following them through. She watched again his rescue of her and their first day of passion in the summer home of Xenophon. She could not bear to see her death, so she remained with Parmenion, observing with horror as he destroyed Nestus.

Then she followed his journey to Thebes and his brief, passionless encounters with Thetis the whore. Anger flared in her. How could he? she wondered.

Yet, despite her anger, she felt pride when he planned the retaking of the Cadmea and watched, astonished, as he collapsed and was carried to his bed. She saw Mothac’s concern, his anger at the physician, and, at the last, his desperate pleading with the whore, Thetis. And this time she watched the complete scene, hearing Parmenion whisper her name in his sleep.