Lion of Macedon (49 page)

All was darkness beyond the city, but somewhere out there to the south Pelopidas had fallen, fighting alongside the Thessalians against the tyrant of Pherae. The enemy advancing on all fronts, Pelopidas had charged into their center, cleaving his way toward the tyrant. It had changed the course of the battle, but the Theban had died in the charge. The victorious Thessalians had cut the manes and tails from their horses in honor of the dead general.

Parmenion shivered. He had thought Pelopidas invulnerable. “But no man is,” he whispered. “May the gods bless your spirit, Pelopidas. May you know joy in the Hall of Heroes.”

“Do you believe that he does?” asked Philip, moving up the steps and sitting opposite Parmenion.

The older man sighed. “It would be fitting. You should have seen him at Leuctra. Like a god of war he cleared the enemy, striking down the battle king.”

Philip nodded. “While you charged the enemy center, sending their javeliners and archers running from the field. It was your victory, Parmenion, the forerunner of many more in Cappadocia, Phrygia, Egypt, Mesopotamia. You have never lost. Why is that?”

“Perhaps I fight like twenty lions, sire.”

“It was a serious question,
strategos
.”

“Your barracks supplies the answer. The footings must be right, the foundations solid, the walls resting on firm ground. An army needs many things, but above all it needs confidence, belief that it will win the day. Training gives confidence;
those are the footings. Good officers are the foundations.”

“And the walls?” asked the king.

“Infantry, sire. No army can hope to conquer without good infantry.”

“Could you build me an army within a year?”

“I could, but what would you do with it?”

Philip chuckled. “We are in a difficult position here, you and I. You are a mercenary, which means that at any time you could be standing alongside Cotys or Bardylis. I cannot tell you all my plans. And I would guess that unless I do, you will not serve me. How do we resolve this problem?”

“Tell me all you have done so far, sire, leaving nothing out. And that includes the murder of your stepbrother.”

“Why not?” answered Philip. For almost an hour the king spoke of his efforts to stave off disaster, his wooing of Athens, his offer to Bardylis, and his assurances to Cotys in Thrace. At last he faded to silence and looked at Parmenion’s face in the moonlight. The Spartan was expressionless, his eyes locked to Philip’s.

“And that is all?” he asked finally.

Philip considered lying but on impulse shook his head. “No, that is not all. Cotys may already be dead.” He watched Parmenion relax.

“Indeed he is, sire. But that still leaves the pretender Pausanius.”

“Who also will soon be dead,” said Philip, his voice barely above a whisper. “That is all I can tell you.”

“How many men would you require within the year?”

“Two thousand horsemen and ten thousand infantry.”

“Too many,” said Parmenion. “They would be inadequately trained. Content yourself with six thousand foot soldiers. That should give you enough men to tackle Bardylis. How does your treasury stand?”

“Almost empty,” admitted Philip.

“Then your first action must be to relieve the governor at
Crousia and restore your fortunes. Then you must purchase armor and weapons. In Phrygia they make fine breastplates of baked leather, lined with thick cloth—not quite as effective as bronze but lighter. The Phrygian helm is also highly regarded.”

“You are giving me good advice,
strategos
, but you do not say whether you will join with me.”

“I’ll stay for the year, sire. I’ll train your army. After that … we’ll see.”

Philip stood and gazed out over the lantern-lit city. “Normally it is the king who is petitioned, but here you have reversed the position. What did I say that made you decide to stay?”

“It was nothing you said, sire. It was something you did.”

“But you will not tell me?”

“Exactly, sire. Now, to the terms. Tomorrow I would like to meet those of your officers and friends who are presently in Pella. My position will be that of first general, answerable to no man but yourself. I will warrant no argument as to the methods I use in training the men, nobles or peasants. You will give me your full backing in everything connected with training. Do you agree?”

“I agree. But what will you be seeking to do first?” asked Philip.

“The formation of an elite force, the king’s infantry companions, the royal guard—five hundred men, the best you have.”

“Like the Sacred Band of Thebes?”

“Better,” said Parmenion. “For they will be Macedonian!”

With the trench foundation complete, the soldier workers made way for the stonemasons, carpenters, and wall builders. Idle now, the men gathered in small groups to dice and gamble and talk of going home. Rumors spread through the ranks. The king was preparing to invade Illyria to win back their homelands, the Thebans were marching on Pella, the Thracians were massing an army.

Theo took little notice of the stories. He was more interested in events closer to the capital and listened intently to the gossip about the pale-eyed Spartan now seen with the king and his officers. Only yesterday those same officers had been seen running in the hills, sweat shining on their bodies, their legs trembling. It had been a source of much amusement for the men. Horsemen did not take well to running. The Spartan had run with them, long loping strides that carried him far ahead, drawing them behind him like tired hounds in pursuit of a stag.

But, despite the amusement it offered, it set Theo to thinking. Why should they run? What point was there?

Now a hundred volunteers had been sought to attend the Spartan at the new training field. Theo was the first to step forward.

One hour after dawn he rose from his blankets and joined the straggling line of men who wandered to the field where the Spartan sat waiting. The man was wearing a woolen tunic and carried no weapons. Yet around him were stacked wooden shields and a pile of short clubs.

When the men had gathered, he gestured for them to sit, then cast his eyes slowly over the group. “What is the prime objective in a battle?” he asked suddenly, lifting his hand, finger pointed. He stabbed it out in the direction of a man to the left of Theo.

“To win it,” answered the man.

“Wrong.” The finger moved again, and Theo could feel the tension around him as men willed it to pass them by. The Spartan’s hand dropped to his lap. “Does any man have an answer?”

Theo cleared his throat. “Not to lose it?” he said.

“Good,” said the Spartan. “Think about that for a moment.” His pale eyes studied them. “Victory in battle is a fickle spirit that floats in the air, never knowing where to settle. A cavalry charge smashes the enemy, forcing the opposing king to retreat. Has he lost? Not yet. If his flanks can close in around the cavalry, robbing them of mobility, he can
yet draw victory to him. But if he does, has he won? No, not if the cavalry are tight-knit and continue to drive directly at him, killing his guards. Why did Bardylis destroy your army?” Once again the finger rose, pointing at a man at the rear of the group.

“The gods favored him,” answered the man to a chorus of approval.

“Maybe they did,” said the Spartan. “But in my experience, the gods always favor the clever and the strong. You lost because your king—a brave and dynamic man—threw everything into a single charge. When it failed, he failed. You failed.”

“And the Spartans would have done better?” shouted a man behind Theo.

“Perhaps not,” snapped Parmenion, “but
you
will. The king has asked me to find for him a special group of fighting men. They will be the king’s companions, and they will fight on foot.”

“We are horsemen,” said the same man. Theo glanced around, recognizing Achillas.

“Indeed you are,” agreed the Spartan, “and as such you will earn your twenty-five drachmas. But the men I select will be double-pay men. Each will have fifty drachmas a month. Those men interested should remain; the others are free to return to their duties.”

Not a man moved: fifty drachmas was a fortune. They were all small farmers, needing money for the purchase of horses, or bulls, or goats, or cereal seed. It was not a sum to be dismissed lightly.

The Spartan stood. “Be warned that from every hundred I may choose only five, maybe ten men. The king desires the best. Now stand.”

As they rose, Parmenion opened a box by his side and took out a small brooch the size of a man’s thumbnail. It was made of iron. “On this brooch is the club of Heracles. When a man has five of these, he will have won his place in the king’s company. With every badge goes a prize of ten drachmas.

The first will be won by a man who can run. Ten circuits of the field. Prepare yourselves.” The men began to remove their breastplates. “Stop,” said Parmenion. “When you charge the enemy, you will not discard your armor. You will run as you are. Go!”

They set off at a murderous pace that faltered within a lap. Theo settled in at the center of the leading group, feeling his breastplate rubbing at the back of his neck. By five circuits the leaders had pulled half a lap clear of the following pack, and by seven they had started to overtake the back markers. Theo finished fifth and slumped to the ground as Achillas stepped up to receive his badge.

The Spartan waited until all the men had finished.

“Take up shields and swords,” he ordered them. The swords were wooden but of the same weight and length as the short stabbing blades used by most
hoplites
. “Now we will see how you fight,” he said. “Choose an opponent and form into two lines. You will fight only until a blow is struck that with a real sword would kill or disable. The loser will walk back to sit on the right, the victor to the left.”

The contest took more than an hour, and by the end the men were cheering the finalists as they circled one another, blocking with shields, lunging, parrying. Theo had won his first two bouts but had been beaten on the third. Achillas had reached the last four but had lost to Damoras, who now fought Petar, a man from Theo’s area in the north of Pelagonia. Damoras was stronger, but Petar, the shorter man, had greater speed and his wooden blade cracked against Damoras’ skull, causing his opponent to stagger. “Killing blow!” shouted Parmenion. Petar dropped shield and sword and punched the air with delight, taking his badge from Parmenion and holding it up for his friends to see.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Parmenion, “for a little amusement. Pair off with the first man you fought.” As the warriors shuffled into place, the Spartan lifted two badges from the box. “You will run five laps of the field, carrying your partner on your back. You may choose when to carry or be carried.
But the first pair to return here will receive a badge each.”

Theo found himself paired with a slender man from Lyncos. There was little chance of the warrior being able to carry him at speed, so Theo offered to do the carrying. The man leapt to his back.

“When you are ready!” yelled the Spartan. “Go!”

The fifty pairs set off. Theo, his powerful legs pumping hard, took an early lead, but before half a lap he felt himself losing strength. Gritting his teeth, he struggled on, being passed by several pairs. On the second lap he had to stop. The slender warrior tried manfully to keep up with the pack, but under Theo’s formidable weight he stumbled and fell. Theo had regained his breath. The problem was trying to run while holding his partner’s legs in place. Pushing the man in front of him, he ducked down, lifting the warrior to his shoulders. The man hooked his legs behind Theo’s back and the huge Macedonian set off in pursuit of the pack. There was no question now of changing places, and Theo did not try to sprint. Conserving as much of his strength as possible for the final lap, he slowly reeled in the leaders. By the final circuit Theo was third. The second pair stumbled and fell, leaving him chasing Achillas and his partner.

Achillas was tiring as Theo came up behind. The man Achillas was carrying glanced back and shouted to his partner to put in an extra effort. But Achillas was finished; he dropped his partner and ran around to change places. It was all Theo needed. Putting in a last desperate push, he reached the finish two paces ahead of the second pair.

Parmenion stepped forward with the victors’ badges, but the young warrior with Theo refused.

“I did not earn it,” he said.

“What is your name, lad?” asked the Spartan.

“Gaelan.”

“What shall I do with the badge, Gaelan?”

“Give them both to my partner. He did all the work.”

“And what do you say?” Parmenion asked Theo.

Theo put his arm around Gaelan’s shoulder. “We were a team.” He took the badge from Parmenion and pressed it into Gaelan’s hand. “We won as a team and will share the prize.”

“Good,” said the Spartan. “A fine way to end a morning’s work. Go away and eat. Return in two hours, when the final badges will be won.”

As Parmenion sat alone at the training field, drinking water and eating a simple meal of figs and fruit, the king rode up with two of his officers.

“How goes it,
strategos
?” Philip asked.

Parmenion rose and bowed. “There are some with promise,” he said. “But we shall see.” He strode forward, rubbing his hand down the chest of the king’s horse. “A good animal—fine lungs and strong legs.”

“A Thracian sire and a Macedonian dam,” Philip told him, patting the stallion’s neck. “But he’s young yet; he’ll learn. Will you sell me your stallion? He would make a magnificent breeder.”

Parmenion laughed. “I’ll not sell him, but you are free to put him in with your mares. I daresay he will enjoy the experience.”

Philip nodded. “Tell me, are all Persian cavalrymen mounted on such beasts?”

“No, sire. He is special, from the great king’s herd. Only the royal guard will have mounts of similar quality.”

“And how many men make up the king’s guard?”

“One thousand, sire.”

Philip looked thoughtful, then he grinned. “Time for the hunt,” he said. “I will leave you to your lunch.” Touching heels to the stallion, he cantered away toward the distant forest, his officers trailing behind.