Lion of Macedon (7 page)

As the night deepened, she heard the sounds of a walking horse, the slow, rhythmic thudding of hooves on hard-baked earth. With a sigh Tamis pushed herself to her feet, gathering up her staff and moving to the open doorway, where she stood watching the shadow-haunted trees.

The sound was closer now, yet no horse was in sight. Closing the eyes of her body, she opened the eyes of her spirit and saw the tall white stallion cross the clearing to stand before her. It was a huge beast of almost eighteen hands, with eyes the color of opals.

Tamis sighed and put aside her shawl, taking up instead a cloak of gray wool, which she fastened to her shoulders with a brooch of turquoise. Leaving the door open, she walked out into the night toward the city, the ghostly horse following behind.

Her thoughts were somber as she made her slow way through the nearly deserted market square, her staff tapping
against the flagstones. Parmenion’s mother had been a good woman, kind and thoughtful.
And you killed her
, whispered a voice in her mind.

“No, I did not,” she said, aloud.

You let her die. Is that not the same?

“Many people die. Am I responsible for all deaths?”

You wanted her dead. You wanted the child to suffer alone
.

“To make him strong. He is the hope of the world. He is the one destined to defy the Dark God. He must be a man of power.”

The voice was stilled, but Tamis knew she was unconvinced. You are getting old, she told herself. There is no
voice
. You are talking to yourself, and such debates are meaningless. “I speak with the voice of reason,” said Tamis. “She speaks with the voice of the heart.”

Is there no place now within you for such a voice?

“Leave me be! I do what must be done!”

A group of men were sitting close by in the moonlight, dicing with knucklebones. Several of them looked up as she passed, one surreptitiously making the sign of the circle to ward off evil. Tamis smiled at that, then put the men from her mind.

Arriving at the house of Parmenion, she closed her eyes, her spirit moving inside, hovering within the death room where Artema lay swathed in burial linen. But what Tamis sought was not here, and the sorceress returned to her body. Wearily she walked along the moonlit streets, the stallion following, until she stood before the gates to Xenophon’s home. Once more her spirit soared, moving through the house and up the stairs to a small room, in which Parmenion lay, lost in dreams.

There by the bed stood a pale figure, white and ethereal, like sculptured mist, featureless and glowing. Tamis felt the overpowering emotions within the room, love and loss and harrowing heartbreak. Parmenion’s dreams made him groan aloud, and the figure shimmered. Now Tamis sensed confusion and pain. A pale arm reached toward the boy but could not touch him. “It is time,” whispered Tamis.

“No.” The single word hung in the air, not a denial but an entreaty.

“He could not see you, even were he awake. Come away. I shall lead you.”

“Where?”

“To a place of rest.”

The figure turned back to the bed. “My son.”

“He will be a great man. He will save the world from darkness.”

“My son,” said the wraith, as if she had not heard.

“You are no longer of his world,” said Tamis. “Say your farewells swiftly, for soon it will be dawn.”

“He seems so lost,” whispered the wraith. “I must stay to comfort him.” The mist hardened, the features of Artema shining through. She turned to Tamis. “I know you. You are the seeress.”

“I am.”

“Why do you want to take me from my son?”

“You are no longer of his world,” repeated Tamis. “You … died.”

“Died? Oh, yes, I remember.” Tamis steeled herself against the grief born of knowledge that emanated from the ghost. “And now I will never hold him again. I cannot bear it!” Tamis swung away from the anguish in Artema’s eyes.

“Follow me,” she commanded, and returned to her body. For a while she stood in silence beyond the gates until at last the ghostly figure moved out into the courtyard.

“You say he will be a great man,” said Artema. “But will he be happy?”

“Yes,” lied Tamis.

“Then I must be content. Will I be reunited with his father?”

“I cannot say. For where you will ride I cannot go. But I pray it will be as you desire it. Mount the horse, for he alone knows the paths of the dead, and he will carry you safely.”

The figure of mist flowed to the stallion’s back. “Will you look after my son?” asked Artema. “Will you be his friend?”

“I will look after him,” promised Tamis. “I will see that he has all he needs to meet his destiny. Now go!”

The stallion lifted its head and began to walk toward the burial hill. Tamis watched until it was out of sight, then sank back to sit on a marble bench.

But will he be happy?

The question gnawed at her, changing her mood from sorrow to anger.

“The strong do not need happiness. He will have glory and fame, and his name will be whispered in awe by men of all nations. Generations will know happiness because of him. Surely that is enough?”

She glanced up at the window of Parmenion’s room. “It will have to be enough,
strategos
, because it is all I can give you.”

Parmenion awoke in the night, his mind hazy and uncertain. He sat up, unsure of where he was. Moonlight was streaming through the open window. He looked up at the moon and saw again his mother’s face, cold in death. Reality struck him worse than any blow he had received from Gryllus or the others, hammering home into his heart. He rolled from the bed and moved to the window that opened out onto the courtyard. He stared down at the empty square and saw that the sand pit had been removed, the scene of his triumph once more merely cobbled stone. He thought of his victory, but it was as nothing against the enormity of his loss. A child’s game—how could it have meant so much? He glanced back at the bed, wondering what had awoken him. Then he remembered.

He had been dreaming of a white horse galloping over green hills.

He looked up at the moon and the stars. So far away. Unreachable, untouchable.

Like his mother …

The sense of separation was unbearable. He sat down on a high-backed chair and felt the cool night breeze bathing his
skin. What did it matter now that he was despised? The one person who loved him was gone.

What will you do, Parmenion? Where will you go?
he asked himself.

He sat by the window until the dawn, watching the sun rise over the peaks of the Parnon mountains.

The door opened behind him, and he turned to see the man Clearchus, his judge from the games. Parmenion stood and bowed.

“No need to accord me your respect,” said the man. “I am little more than a servant here. The master of the house invites you to break your fast with him.”

Parmenion nodded, and the man made as if to leave, then turned. His hard face softened. “It probably means nothing, boy, but I am sorry about your mother. Mine died when I was eleven; it is not a loss that you forget.”

“Thank you,” said Parmenion. Tears welled, but he forced his face to remain set and followed Clearchus to the courtyard, where Xenophon sat waiting. The general rose and smiled. “I trust you slept well, young
strategos.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Be seated and take some food. There is bread and honey. I found the benefits of it when campaigning in Persia; it makes a good start to the day.”

Parmenion cut several slices from the fresh loaf and smeared them with honey.

“I have sent a message to the barracks,” said Xenophon. “You do not have to attend muster today. So I thought we would ride out toward Ilias.”

“I am not a good rider, sir,” Parmenion admitted. “We cannot afford a horse.”

“Then how can you know if you are a good rider or not? Enjoy your meal and then we will see how good you are.”

They finished their breakfast and moved back through the house to the long stables at the rear, where there were six stalls and five horses.

“Choose,” said Xenophon. “Examine them all and select a mount.”

Parmenion entered each stall, making a show of examining the horses. Not knowing what to look for, he stroked each mount, running his hand over their broad backs. There was a gray with a fine curved neck and strong back, but he looked at Parmenion with a jaundiced eye that seemed to promise pain. Finally the youngster chose a chestnut mare of fifteen hands.

“Explain the choice,” said Xenophon, slipping a bridle over the mare’s head and leading her out into the yard.

“When I stroked her, she nuzzled me. The others merely stood, except for the gray. I think he wanted to bite off my hand.”

“He would have,” Xenophon admitted, “but you made a fine choice. The mare is sweet-natured and swift to obey. Nothing shakes her.” The general laid a goatskin shabraque on the mare’s back. “It will not slip,” he told Parmenion, “but remember to grip her with your thighs, not your calves.” On the back of the gray he placed a magnificent leopardskin shabraque. “In Persia,” he said, “many of the barbarians use hardened leather seats strapped to the horse’s back. But that is for barbarians, Parmenion. A gentleman uses only a blanket, or at best an animal skin.”

The air was fresh, the early-morning sun lacking the strength-sapping power it would show within a few hours. They walked the horses across the planes and out to the rolling hills north of the city. Here Xenophon cupped his hands and helped Parmenion mount; then the general took hold of the gray’s mane and vaulted to the gelding’s back. The move was smooth, sure, and graceful, and Parmenion found himself envying the older man’s style.

“We will start by walking the horses,” said Xenophon, “allowing them to adjust to the weight.” He leaned forward, patting his mount’s long neck.

“You care for them,” said Parmenion. “You treat them like friends.”

“They
are
friends. There are so many fools abroad who
believe that a whip will subdue a horse and make it obey. They
will
subdue it—no doubt of that. But a horse without spirit is a worthless beast. Answer me this,
strategos
—who would you rather depend on in battle, a man who loves you or one you have tormented and beaten?”

“The answer is obvious, sir. I would rather have a friend beside me.”

“Exactly. Why is it different with a horse or a hound?”

They rode across the hills until they came to a level plain covered with dry grass. “Let them have their heads,” said Xenophon, slapping the rump of the gelding. The beast took off at a run, the mare following. Parmenion gripped the mare’s belly with his knees and leaned forward. The thunder of hoofbeats filled his ears, and the exhilaration of the rider swept over him. He felt alive, truly, wondrously alive.

After several minutes Xenophon swung his horse to the right, heading for a cypress grove to the east. There he slowed the gelding to a walk, and Parmenion cantered alongside. The Athenian leapt to the ground and smiled up at Parmenion. “You handled her well.”

The youngster dismounted. “She is fine. Very fine,” he said.

“Then pat her and tell her.”

“Can she understand me?”

“Of course not, but she can hear your tone and know from your touch that you are pleased with her.”

“Does she have a name?” Parmenion asked, running his fingers through the dark mane.

“She is Bella, Thracian stock with the heart of a lion.”

They tethered the horses and sat beneath the cypress trees. Parmenion suddenly felt uncomfortable. Why was he here? What interest did this legendary Athenian have in him? He did not want to be seduced by Xenophon, nor did he wish to be put in the position of having to reject such a powerful suitor.

“What are you thinking?” asked the general suddenly.

“I was thinking of the horses,” lied Parmenion.

Xenophon nodded. “Do not fear me, youngster. I am your friend—no more than that.”

“Are you a god to know my thoughts?”

“No, I am a general, and your thoughts are easy to read, for you are young and naïve. In your battle against Leonidas you fought to keep the elation of triumph from your face. That was a mistake, for you made of your features a mask and yet your eyes gleamed with the purest malice. If you wish to disguise your feelings, you must first fool yourself and when you look upon a hated enemy, pretend in your mind that he is your friend. Then your face will soften and you will smile more naturally. Do not try to be expressionless, for that only tells your enemy you are hiding something. And where you can, try to use a little honesty; it is the greatest disguise of all. But these are thoughts for another day. You wonder why Xenophon has taken an interest in you? The answer is not complex. I watched you play Leonidas, and your breadth of vision touched me. War is an art, not a science, and that is something you understand instinctively. You studied Leonidas, and you learned his weakness. You took a risk, and it paid off handsomely. Also, you used your cavalry well—and that is rare in a Spartan.”

“It did not impress the audience,” said Parmenion.

“There is a lesson there,
strategos
. You won, but you allowed a greater share of the glory to go to the Sciritai. That was not sensible. If the slave races ever believed they were the equal of the Spartans, there would be another revolt. And then city-states like Athens or Thebes would once more combine their forces to invade Spartan lands. It is a question of balance—that is what the warriors in the crowd understood.”

“Then I was wrong?” Parmenion asked.

“In a game? No. In life? Yes.”

“Why, then, did you give me the victory?” asked the youth.

“You won the battle,” answered Xenophon. “It matters nothing—in a game—that you would have gone on to lose the war.” The general stood and walked to his mount, and Parmenion followed him.

“Will you teach me?” asked the younger man before he could stop the words.

“Perhaps,” said Xenophon. “Now let us ride.”

Leonidas took three running steps and hurled the javelin high into the air, watching its curving arc as the sunlight caught the iron tip. The weapon dropped gracefully to thud home in the sun-baked earth a dozen paces farther than the longest throw of his peers. Leonidas swung and raised his arms, and a score of youths applauded.