Lion of Macedon (37 page)

Back in their room she helped him remove his breastplate and shirt. Only then did she see the vivid red scar on his upper right bicep. “It did not bleed much,” he said, trying to reassure her. “It was a mercenary who got too close. Epaminondas killed him.”

“I do not want to know the details,” she snapped. “I will have a bath prepared.”

They had made love that night, but Thetis could not relax and Parmenion’s needs were too urgent. The following morning he was gone again.

As the months passed, Epaminondas, Calepios, and others gradually re-formed the old Boeotian League, launching it in Thebes after a general assembly attended by councillors from all the freed cities. The meeting was democratic, and hopes were high for the year ahead.

Parmenion, released for the autumn from military duties, was less sure of the future. On one of their rides he confided to Thetis his fears.

“It is less democratic than it appears,” he said as they sat in the high meadow they had come to consider their own private place. “Thebes can veto any decision and directly controls the votes of Thespiae, Plataea, and Tanagra.”

“Why is that a problem?” countered Thetis. “Thebes is a great city, and all our councillors value freedom and care
about the rights of others. You heard Calepios’ speech. The new federal state of Boeotia will have no dictators.”

“I heard it, and I hope it proves true. But an old friend once told me that society is like a spear point—wide at the base, pointed at the tip. Democrats believe you can reshape it, removing the point. But as if by magic, it will grow again. There will always be kings, Thetis, and if not kings, then dictators. It is the nature of man to strive to rise above others, to impose his will on all.”

“There is no one like that in Thebes,” she said. “Maybe in ancient times, yes, but this is the modern world, Parmenion. It does not have to be like that anymore. Epaminondas will never be a dictator, nor Pelopidas. Nor you. I think you worry too much.”

And the years appeared to prove her right. Five years after the retaking of the Cadmea, a peace agreement was reached between Athens and Sparta that allowed Thebes and the Boeotian cities the right of self-government.

Thetis remembered that autumn well. Epaminondas had come to the house, accompanied by Calepios, to discuss with Parmenion the terms of the settlement. Against all tradition the Spartan had stopped Thetis as she was leaving the room and signaled for her to sit beside him.

The two Thebans had looked astonished. “It saves me going over everything twice,” Parmenion told them. “She will only insist on hearing it all after you have gone.”

“But …” stuttered Calepios. “She … a woman …”

“Is this the great orator?” asked Parmenion, struggling to look serious. “Come now, Calepios, you have known Thetis for years. It should not be difficult to speak in front of her.”

“It is not a question of difficulty,” snapped Calepios, “but one of decorum. I know you Spartans have curious ideas about women, but here in Thebes we prefer to maintain civilized standards. Such matters as we are to discuss would both bore and confuse dear Thetis.”

“I am sure Calepios is right,” said Thetis, rising, “and I am grateful for his kindness in thinking of me.” She had swallowed
her anger and retired to her rooms. Later Parmenion gave her a full account of the meeting, but not before his own anger had been unleashed.

“You should have stayed!” he stormed. “Your advice would have been valuable.”

“You do not understand,
strategos
. The meeting would not have gone ahead; Calepios would have left. You cannot flout tradition—not in Thebes. Now tell me how
you
view the peace talks.”

“Athens is short of money, and Sparta is all but bankrupt,” Parmenion told her. “Therefore, all we have won is a little breathing space. The war is not over, but we will use the time wisely.”

“How much time?”

He had shrugged. “Two years, three. But this issue will not be decided without a battle, and that means Thebes against Sparta, for Athens is mainly a sea power.”

“The Spartans are only men like other men,” she had pointed out.

“Perhaps, but they have never lost a major battle against a foe of equal numbers. And whatever happens, we cannot yet match their strength.”

“You will think of something, my love; you are the
strategos.”
She said it lightly, but he had brightened, his smile returning.

Now Thetis shook her head clear of memories and rose from the bed. Parmenion moaned in his sleep but did not wake as she dressed and moved downstairs, where Mothac was preparing breakfast.

The Theban smiled as he saw her. “Another fine day,” he said as she entered the kitchen. There were gray hairs in Mothac’s red beard, and his hair was thinning at the crown. Thetis shivered. It was all very well lying in bed reliving memories, but it had the effect of highlighting the passing of time.

Cleo had long since left, wedded to the son of Norac the
smith, and Thetis now helped Mothac in the work of the household.

“You should take a wife,” she said suddenly as they sat in the courtyard enjoying the early-morning sunshine.

“I had a wife,” replied Mothac. “I don’t want another. But I would have liked a son.”

Thetis found her good mood evaporating, and Mothac’s hasty apology did nothing to alter the downward slide of her emotions. They finished their breakfast in silence, and Mothac went back to the kitchen to prepare Parmenion’s daily infusion of sylphium.

A son. The one gift she could never give to Parmenion.

She had long known she was barren, having never suffered the monthly periods of bleeding endured by all other women. But only since she had lived with Parmenion had the knowledge turned to bitterness. Parmenion never spoke of it, and this cheered her, but she knew that all men reached a point in their lives where they desired an heir.

She heard Parmenion approaching but did not turn. His hands touched her shoulders, his lips kissing the back of her neck.

“Good morning, lady,” he said.

She smiled. “You sleep later and later,” she chided. “I think you are becoming old and lazy.”

“I was with Calepios until almost dawn.”

She looked into his face. “Is it war again?”

“I don’t know. Epaminondas is going to Sparta to meet with Agisaleus.”

“Is that wise?” she asked.

“There is to be a meeting of all the cities. Agisaleus has promised safe conducts, and Athens will be represented. It may bring lasting peace.”

“But you do not think so?”

“I cannot make up my mind. My fear is that Athens and Sparta will reach agreement, leaving Thebes standing alone. If that is the case, then Agisaleus will feel free to
lead his forces into Boeotia, and this time we will have to face him.”

“Thebes against Sparta,” she whispered.

“To the death,” he said.

“And is that what you want?” she asked suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“You hate the Spartans. Would you really desire peace?”

Parmenion smiled. “You are an astute woman, Thetis. But you are right. I do not want peace. These years have been hard, but I am close now to my dream. One day the Spartans will come—and I will have my vengeance.”

“And then?” she pressed.

“What can I say? I have lived so long with no other dream; I can see nothing beyond the humbling of Sparta. They have taken so much from me, and they shall pay in blood and shame for every moment of it.”

“Either that or you will die,” she pointed out.

“One or the other,” he agreed.

Parmenion called a halt to the combat training, and the warriors of the Sacred Band sheathed their swords. In full battle armor, they were sweating heavily. Some sank to the hard-baked clay of the training ground, others wandering to the shade near the grave of Hector.

“Do not be so swift to relax, gentlemen,” called Parmenion. “Ten circuits should be enough to stretch those tired muscles.”

A groan went up, but the men began to run. Parmenion was about to join them when he saw a young boy sitting beneath the trees watching the training intently. The youngster was around thirteen years of age, with dark, tightly curled hair and a face that, given time, would be exceedingly handsome. But it was his expression that touched a chord in Parmenion. The face was still, the emotions masked, and Parmenion remembered his own boyhood long ago, the trials and suffering he had endured in Sparta.

He strolled across to where the boy sat. “You are studying the art of war?” he asked.

The boy stood and bowed. He was not tall but sturdily built. His dark eyes fixed to Parmenion’s face. “It is good to study the ways of foreigners,” he said, his voice soft.

“Why is it good?”

“One day we may be enemies. If so, I will know how you fight. If we are friends or allies, I will know whether you can be relied upon.”

“I see,” said Parmenion. “You are a wise young man. You are a prince, perhaps?”

“Indeed I am. A prince of Macedonia. My name is Philip.”

“I am Parmenion.”

“I know. I have seen you run. Why is it you compete under a Macedonian name?”

Parmenion sat down, beckoning the boy to join him. “My mother was Macedonian,” he told him. “It is a tribute to her. You are a guest in our city?”

The boy laughed. “You do not need to be coy, Parmenion. I am a hostage against the good behavior of Macedonia. But life here is good, and Pammenes takes fine care of me. It is better, I think, than being back in Macedonia. There I would probably be killed by an anxious relative.”

“Harsh words, young prince.”

“Harsh but true,” said the boy. “I am one of many brothers and half brothers, all of whom have some right to the throne. It is not our way to leave rivals alive. I can see the logic of it, I suppose.”

“You seem to be taking your plight with great calmness, young prince.”

“What else can I do?”

Parmenion smiled. “That is not a question I can answer. I am not a prince.”

“No,” agreed Philip, “and I do not wish to be one. Nor would I want to be a king. Certainly not in Macedonia.”

“What is wrong with Macedonia?” queried Parmenion. “I
have heard it is a beautiful land, full of rolling plains and fine forests, mountains and pure streams.”

“So it is, Parmenion. But it is also a land surrounded by strong enemies. To the west there are the Illyrians of King Bardylis: tough, doughty warriors. To the north there are the Paionians: tribesmen who love nothing better than to ride south for plunder. To the east there are the Thracians: good horsemen, fine cavalry. And to the south there are the Thessalians and the Thebans. Who would want to be king of such a country?”

Parmenion did not reply. The boy’s eyes were sorrowful, his mood dark, and there was nothing the Spartan could say. In all probability the lad was right. Once back in Macedonia, his life would be worth little. The thought depressed Parmenion.

An uncomfortable silence developed, and Parmenion rose to leave. The Sacred Band was still toiling around the circuit, and the Spartan turned to the young prince. “I learned a long time ago never to give in to despair. Fortune may be fickle, but she loves a man who tries and tries again. I think you have a strong mind, Philip. You are a thinker, a planner. Most men just react to circumstances, but thinkers create the circumstances. If there are relatives who wish to see you dead, then make them love you. Show them you are no threat. Show them you can be useful. But more than anything, boy, you must become a hard man to kill.”

“How do I do that?”

“By staying alive. By thinking of all the ways your enemies will come at you. By preparing for them. Despair is the brother of defeat, Philip. Never let it touch you.”

The boy nodded, then pointed to the runners who were staggering to a halt on the tenth circuit. Parmenion strode out to meet them. “I think that will be all, gentlemen,” he said. “Be here tomorrow one hour after dawn.”

“Have a heart, Parmenion,” called one youngster. “Three days in a row?”

“I have no heart,” he said. “I am a man of stone. One hour after dawn, if you please.”

Turning back to the trees, he saw that the boy had gone. Parmenion sighed. “May the gods favor you, Philip of Macedon,” he whispered.

For three weeks the peace conference at Sparta seemed likely to end all thoughts of war. Trade agreements were negotiated and signed, border disputes argued over but finally settled. Epaminondas was treated like an honored guest and twice dined with King Agisaleus.

Pelopidas returned to Thebes in the fourth week, regaling Parmenion with stories of the geniality that surrounded the conference.

“I think Agisaleus has resigned himself to losing his power over us,” said Pelopidas. “There was a representative of the great king there, a golden-haired Persian with a curled beard. You should have seen the clothes he wore: I swear to Zeus, he had more jewels sewn into his coat than stars in the sky! He positively shimmered whenever he entered the room.”

“Did he speak?” asked Parmenion.

“He opened the conference, bringing us all the greetings and blessings of the great king. He said the king was happy that his children were to become reconciled, one to the other.”

“Speaking of kings, what of Cleombrotus?”

“He has not been present,” Pelopidas answered. “It is said he is ill. But I’ll tell you this; Sparta is an appalling city. I don’t know how you could stand the smell. All the waste flows to the streets, and the flies are thicker than smoke. An ugly place, fit for an ugly people.”

“Ill?” queried Parmenion. “With what?”

“They did not say, but it could not have been very serious, for they seemed unconcerned by his absence. You know, when you told me that Spartan women were allowed to walk in the open, I really did not believe you. But you were right. They were everywhere. And some of them even stripped part naked and ran in the meadows. I’ll say this; I don’t know
how such an ugly race of men could ever sire such beauties. There was one woman, with hips like—”

“I know about the women,” said Parmenion patiently. “I lived there. I am more concerned with Cleombrotus; he is strong as an ox and would not have missed the conference willingly. What proof did you have that he was in Sparta at all?”