Lion of Macedon (6 page)

There was no applause, but Parmenion did not care. He swung to Hermias, who threw aside the dark cloak and rushed forward to hug his friend.

The crowd was stunned. King Agisaleus fixed Xenophon with an angry look, but the Athenian merely shrugged and turned away. Then the whispers began as old soldiers discussed the strategy. Leonidas rose and stumbled back. Gryllus moved forward behind him, offering the cloak of shame, but Leonidas waved it away and strode from the courtyard.

An elderly helot moved from the shadows, touching Parmenion’s shoulder. “Sir, there is a woman at the gates. She says you must come quickly.”

“A woman? What woman?” asked Parmenion.

“It is something to do with your mother, sir.”

All sense of triumph and joy fled from Parmenion. He staggered as if struck … then ran from the courtyard.

The crowd fell silent as the young Spartan sped from the gates. Agisaleus pushed himself to his feet and moved toward Xenophon, his dark eyes angry.

“This was not supposed to happen!” hissed the king.

Xenophon nodded. “I know, sire,” he replied, keeping his voice low, “but then, none of us expected Leonidas to perform so badly. He showed no strategic skill and treated his enemy with contempt. But you are the king, sire. You are the foremost judge in Sparta. It is your right—should you desire it—to set aside my judgment.”

Agisaleus turned to look at the wooden soldiers lying forgotten in the sand pit. “No,” he said at last, “you were correct, Xenophon. But I’ll be damned if I’ll present the sword to the half-breed. Here! You give it to him.”

Xenophon took the weapon and bowed. The king shook his head and walked away, the crowd dispersing after him. As the Athenian moved into the shade of the
andron
porch and sat quietly, his thoughts turning to Parmenion, his son Gryllus approached him.

“That was disgraceful, Father,” said the boy.

“Indeed it was,” agreed the general. “Leonidas did not wear the cloak of shame. It was not seemly.”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it. The Spartan army would never allow mongrels like the Sciritai to merge lines. No one could have expected it. The game should have been restarted.”

“Go away, boy,” said Xenophon, “and try not to speak of matters of which you have little understanding.”

Gryllus stood his ground, his face reddening. “Why do you hate me, Father?” he asked.

The words shook the Athenian. “I do not hate you, Gryllus. I am sorry that you believe it.” Xenophon stood and approached the boy with arms spread, ready to embrace him.

“No, don’t touch me!” cried Gryllus, backing away. “I want nothing from you.” Turning, he ran across the courtyard and out onto the main street. Xenophon sighed. He had tried so hard with the child, painstakingly teaching him, trying to fill Gryllus with thoughts of honor, loyalty, duty, and courage. But to no avail. And Xenophon had watched him grow, had seen the birth of arrogance and cruelty, vanity and deceit. “I do not hate you,” he whispered, “but I cannot love you.”

He was about to enter the house when he saw an old man standing by the sand pit, staring down at the soldiers. As the host, Xenophon was compelled by good manners to speak to him, and he strolled across the courtyard.

“May I offer you refreshment?” he inquired.

The old man looked up into the general’s face. “You do not remember me?” he asked, lifting the stump of his right arm.

“Pasian? Sweet Hera! I thought you dead!”

“I should be—sometimes I wish I was. They cut my right hand away, General, leaving me to bleed to death. But I made it home. Sixteen years it took me.” Pasian smiled, showing broken, rotted teeth. “Home,” he said again, his voice wistful. “We fought our way clear of the Persians and forted up in a circle of boulders. We could see Agisaleus and the main force and thought they would come to our aid. But they did
not. We were only Sciritai, after all. One by one we died. I killed eleven men that day. The Persians were not best pleased with me, Xenophon; they took my hand. I managed to stop the bleeding, and I found a farmer who covered the wound with boiling pitch.”

“Come inside, my friend. Let me fetch you wine, food.”

“No, though I thank you. I came only to see the boy, to watch him win.”

“Leonidas?”

“No. The other boy, Savra. He’s no Spartan, Xenophon, and may the gods be praised for that!”

“How do you know him? He was not born when you marched into Persia.”

“I met him on the road, General … when I was almost home. You know, I had not realized how old I had become until I saw the hills of my childhood. All these years I have struggled to come home, and there I was, a decrepit cripple with a broken cart. I called out to him for help, and he came. He took me to my son’s house. And not once did he tell me I had lost him the great race. Can you imagine that?”

“He finished last, I believe,” said Xenophon.

“He was first—in sight of the city. And I have nothing to give him. No possessions. No coin. But I will pay my debt, Xenophon, by claiming another. Twice I saved your life. Will you honor my debt?”

“You know I will, as I hope you know that, had I been in Persia with Agisaleus, I would have come for you.”

Pasian nodded. “I do not doubt it, General. I understand the boy is a mix-blood, with little money and less influence. Help him, Xenophon.”

“I shall, I promise you.”

Pasian smiled and walked away, stopping for one last look at the sand pit. “I enjoyed the battle,” he said over his shoulder. “Nice to see the Spartans humbled.”

Parmenion raced out through the gates and into the noon-deserted streets. He did not feel the intensity of the sun on
his skin or the pain of his bruises. He did not see the houses as he passed them, or hear the yapping dogs that snapped at his heels.

His head was full of the roaring of anguish, and all he could see was his mother’s face floating before his mind’s eye—soft and smiling, calm and understanding.

She was dying.

Dying …

The word hammered at him over and over, and his vision blurred, yet still he ran. He knew then that he had always known. When the weight fell away from her once beautiful face, when her limbs had become skeletal and her eyes had grown dull. And all the other signs of blood and pain. Yet he could not face what he knew and had turned his eyes and his mind away.

He came to Leaving Street and cut off through the poorer quarter, cannoning into a fat trader and knocking him from his feet. The man’s curses followed him.

The doorway of his house was blocked by neighbors standing silently. He pushed his way through them and found Rhea sitting by the bedside. The doctor, Astion, was standing in the small courtyard with his back to the room. Parmenion stood in the doorway, his heart pounding as Rhea turned to him.

“She has gone,” said the woman, rising and moving to Parmenion, her plump arms circling him. “There is no more pain.”

Tears flowed to Parmenion’s cheeks as he stared at the slender body on the bed. “She did not wait for me,” he whispered.

Rhea hugged him for a moment and then moved to the door, gently pushing back the neighbors and friends, closing the door on them. Then she returned to the bed and sat, taking Artema’s small hand in hers. “Come,” she told Parmenion. “Sit by her on the other side. Say farewell.” Parmenion stumbled forward and took his mother’s right hand, and together they sat in silence for a while. Astion entered, but they did not see him and he left quietly.

“She talked of you at the end,” said Rhea. “She spoke of her pride. She wanted to wait, to see you, to know how you fared.”

“I won, Mother,” said Parmenion, gripping the lifeless fingers. “I won before them all.” He gazed down at Artema’s face. The eyes were closed, the features still.

“She looks peaceful,” Rhea whispered.

Parmenion shook his head. He could not see the
peace
, only the terrible finality of death, the total stillness, the separation. Yet her hand was warm and the fingers supple. How many times had she stroked away his pains or patted his face with these hands? He felt a terrible knotting in his stomach and a swelling in his throat. Tears fell more freely, coursing down his face and splashing against his mother’s hand.

“She talked of a white horse,” said Rhea. “She could see it on a hillside. It was coming for her, and she said she was going to ride it all the way back to Macedonia. I do not know if that is a comfort. She also said she could see your father, waiting for her.”

Parmenion could not speak, but reaching out, he touched the skin of his mother’s face.

“Say good-bye,” whispered Rhea. “Tell her good-bye.”

“I can’t,” sobbed Parmenion. “Not yet. Leave me for a while. Please, Rhea!”

“I need to prepare the … I’ll come back in a while.” She walked to the door and stopped. “I loved her; she was a fine woman and a good friend. I will miss her, Parmenion. There was not an evil thought in her; she deserved better.”

When he heard the door close, Parmenion felt the floodgates of his grief give way, and he sobbed uncontrollably, his mind awash with images. He could remember his father only dimly as an enormous dark giant moving about the house, but his mother had been with him always. When, as was the Spartan custom, he had been taken at seven to live in a barracks with other boys, she had wept and held him to her as if his life were in danger. He had sneaked out often, climbing over walls and rooftops to see her.

Now he would see her no more.

“If you loved me, you’d come back,” he said. “You would never have left me.” He knew the senselessness of the words, but they were torn from him.

He sat with the corpse until the light began to fade. Hearing a door open, he expected Rhea’s hand upon his shoulder.

“I bring your trophy, General,” said Xenophon softly. “Cover her face and we will talk in the courtyard.”

“I can’t cover her face!” protested Parmenion.

Xenophon moved to the other side of the bed. “She is not here, boy; she is gone. What you see is the cloak that she wore. It is no terrible thing to cover her.” His voice was gentle, and Parmenion blinked away his tears and stared up at the Athenian.

Tenderly Parmenion lifted the white sheet over the still face.

“Let us talk for a while,” said Xenophon, leading the boy into the courtyard and sitting on the stone seat. The Athenian now wore a long cloak of blue-dyed wool over a white linen tunic and calf-length sandals of the finest leather. Yet still he looked every inch the soldier. He was carrying the sword of Leonidas, which he placed in Parmenion’s hands.

The youth put it to one side without even looking at it. Xenophon nodded.

“It will mean more to you in days to come. But let it pass. You are young, Parmenion, and life holds many griefs in store. Yet none will ever touch you like this one. But you are a sensible lad, and you know that all people die. I have spoken to your neighbor about your mother; she was in great pain.”

“I know of her pains. I know of her struggles. I wanted … I wanted to build something for her. A house … I don’t know. But I wanted to make her happy, to give her things she desired. There was a cloth in the market she wanted, edged with gold, a shining cloth to make a dress for a queen, she said. But we could not buy that cloth. I stole it. But she took it back. She had nothing.”

Xenophon shook his head. “You see too little. She had a husband she loved and a son she adored. You think she
wanted more? Well, yes, she may have. But this is a cruel world, Parmenion. All any man—or woman—can expect is a little happiness. According to your neighbor, your mother was happy. She knew nothing of your … troubles … with the other youths. She sang, she laughed; she danced at festivals. And yes, she is dead—she will sing no more. But then, neither will she feel pain. Nor did she grow old and withered and outlive her son.”

“Why did you come here?” asked the boy. “You could have sent the sword.”

Xenophon smiled. “Indeed I could. Come home with me, Parmenion. We will dine, and you will tell me of your mother. It is important that we speak of her and send our praises after her. Then the gods will know what a fine woman she was and will greet her with fine wine and a dress of shining cloth, edged with gold.”

“I don’t want to leave her,” said Parmenion.

“It is too late; she has already gone. Now they must prepare her for burial, and it is not fitting that a man see a woman’s mysteries. Come.”

Parmenion followed the general out of the house, and they walked in silence along Leaving Street and on beyond the market to the larger houses of the nobility.

Xenophon’s house looked different without the crowds and with the sand pit removed. The scent from the purple flowers on the walls was everywhere, and a servant brought several lamps to light the courtyard. The night was warm, the air heavy, and Xenophon listened as Parmenion told the story of his mother’s life.

Servants brought watered wine and sweetmeats, and the two men sat together long into the night. At last Xenophon led Parmenion to a small room at the rear of the house.

“Sleep well, my friend,” said the general. “Tomorrow we will see to your affairs.” Xenophon paused in the doorway. “Tell me, young man,” he asked suddenly, “why did you finish last in the great race?”

“I made a mistake,” answered Parmenion.

“Is it one you regret?”

Parmenion saw again the old man’s face, the despair in his eyes. “No,” he said. “Some things are more important than winning.”

“Try to remember that,” the Athenian told him.

Tamis sat by the dying fire, watching the fading shadows dance on the white, rough-hewn walls of the small room. The night was silent save for the dry rustling of leaves as the night wind whispered through the trees.

The old woman waited, listening.

I was not wrong, she told herself defiantly. A branch clattered against her window as the breeze grew stronger, the fire flickering into a brief blaze, then dying down. She added dry sticks to the flames and pulled her thin shawl around her shoulders.

Her eyelids drooped, fatigue washing over her, yet still she sat, her breathing shallow, her heartbeat ragged.