Lion of Macedon

by David Gemmell

  Parmenion climbed to the highest point of the acropolis, gazing down at the city that circled the hill. Fewer than 30,000 people dwelt here, yet they were held in awe from Arcadia to Asia Minor, from Athens to Illyria. No Spartan army had ever been beaten in a pitched battle by a foe of equal numbers. The Spartan foot-soldier - the hoplite - was worth three Athenians, five Thebans, ten Corinthians and twenty Persians. These scales were drummed into Sparta’s children, and remembered with pride.

  Macedonians did not rate a mention in Spartan scales. Scarcely considered to be Greek, they were barbaric and undisciplined, hill tribes of little culture save that which they stole from their betters. ‘I am a Spartan,’ said Parmenion. ‘I am not a Macedonian.’

  The statue of Zeus continued to gaze at the distant Mount Ilias, and Parmenion’s words seemed hollow. The boy sighed, remembering the conversation minutes before with Hermias. ‘You are hard on me, Parmenion. But you are correct. I love you as a brother, and yet I do not see you as Spartan. I do inside my head - but my heart...’

  ‘Then why should the others — who are not my friends—accept me?’

  As a young child Parmenion had experienced few problems with other youngsters. But at seven, when all Spartan boys were taken from their parents and moved to barracks for training as warriors, he had first suffered the torment of his tainted blood. It was there that Leonidas -named for the King of glory - had taunted him, demanding that he kneel to him as befitted a man from a race of slaves.

  Smaller and younger, Parmenion had flown at him, fists lashing at the older boy’s face. Leonidas had thrashed him then - and many times since. Worse, Leonidas was of a noble Spartiate family and many of the other boys in the Barracks of Lycurgus had sought his favours. Parmenion became an outcast, hunted, hated by all save Hermias -even Leonidas could not turn on Aim, for he was the son of Parnas, the King’s friend.

  For eight years Parmenion had borne the blows and the insults, convinced that one day he would see their eyes look upon him as a brother Spartan. Today should have seen the hour of triumph. He had succeeded beyond his dreams in the General’s Games, battling his way to the final. But who should be his opponent - among all the youths in Sparta? None other than Leonidas.

  As Hermias had warned, victory would bring only more pain, yet he could not... would not... consider playing to lose. Every year the General’s Games were the high point of the calendar for the apprentice warriors in Sparta’s many barracks. The winner would wear the laurel crown and hold the Victory Rod. He was the strategos - the master!

  The Game pitched two armies against one another, the competitors acting as generals, issuing orders, choosing formations. The soldiers were carved from wood: there was no blood, no death. Losses were decided by two judges, who threw numbered knuckle-bones.

  Picking up a stick, Parmenion traced a rectangle in the dust, picturing the Spartan phalanx, more than 1,000 warriors with shields locked, spears steady. This was the main force in the game, the cavalry coming second. To the right he sketched a second block: the Sciritai, Spartan vassals who always fought alongside their masters. Doughty men, hard and ungiving, yet never were they allowed into the front rank of the battle. For they were not Spartan - and were therefore almost sub-human.

  This was his army, 3,000 men, Spartan foot, horse and the Sciritai reserve. Leonidas would command an identical force.

  Closing his eyes he recalled last year’s final, which had been played in Menelaus Barracks. The battle had taken two hours. Long before the conclusion, Parmenion had grown bored and had wandered away into the marketplace. It had been a battle of attrition, both phalanxes locked together, the judges throwing knuckle-bones and removing the dead until at last the White army overwhelmed the Red.

  A pointless exercise, Parmenion had decided. What good was such a victory? The winner had fewer than 100 men at the close. In real life he would have been overwhelmed by any second enemy force.

  A battle should not be fought in such a way.

  Today would be different, he decided. Win or lose, they would remember it. Slowly he began to sketch formations, to think and to plan. But his mind wandered, and he saw again the Great Race three weeks ago. He had planned for it, trained for it, dreamed of the laurel wreath of victory upon his brow.

  Twenty miles under the gruelling summer sun, out over the foothills, up the scree-covered slopes of the Parnon mountains, legs aching, lungs heaving. All the young men of Sparta in one great race, the ultimate test of juvenile strength and courage.

  He had outdistanced them all: Leonidas, Nestus, Hermias, Learchus and the best of the other barracks. They ate his dust and struggled behind him. Leonidas had lasted better than the rest, hang ing grimly to his shadow, but twelve miles from home even he had been broken by Parmenion’s final burst.

  And then Parmenion had run for home, saving the last of his energy for the sprint to the agora where the King waited with the laurel of victory.

  With the city in sight, white and beckoning, he had seen the old man pulling his hand-cart along Soldiers’ Walk at the foot of the olive grove, had watched in dismay as the right wheel came loose, tipping the cart’s contents to the dust. Parmenion slowed in his run. The old man was struggling to loosen a looped thong from the stump at the end of his right arm. He was crippled. Tearing his eyes from the scene, Parmenion ran on.

  ‘Help me, boy!’ called the man. Parmenion slowed, and turned. Leonidas was far behind him and out of sight... he tried to gauge how much time he had. With a curse he ran down the slope and knelt by the wheel. It was cracked through, yet still the Spartan boy tried to lift it into place, forcing it back over the axle. It held for a moment only -then broke into several shards. The old man slumped to the ground beside the ruined cart. Parmenion glanced down into his eyes; there was pain there, defeat and dejection. The man’s tunic was threadbare, the colours long since washed away by the winter rains, bleached by the summer sun. His sandals were as thin as parchment.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Parmenion asked.

  ‘My son lives in a settlement an hour from here,’ replied the old man, pointing south. Parmenion glanced at the wrinkled skin of his arm; it showed the cuts of many sword-blades, old wounds.

  ‘You are Spartan?’ enquired the boy.

  ‘Sciritai,’ the man answered. Parmenion stood and stared down at the cart. It was loaded with pots and jugs, several old blankets, and a breastplate and helm of a style the boy had only seen painted on vases and murals.

  ‘I will help you home,’ said Parmenion at last.

  ‘Was a time, boy, I would have needed no help.’

  ‘I know. Come. I will support the axle if you can steer and pull.’

  Hearing the sound of running feet Parmenion glanced up. Leonidas sped by along the crest of the hill; he did not look down. Swallowing his disappointment Parmenion took hold of the axle, heaving the cart upright. The old man took his place at the handles and the two made their way slowly south.

  It was dusk when Parmenion finally trotted through the gates. There to greet him were many of the youths from his barracks.

  ‘What happened, mix-blood? Did you get lost?’ they jeered.

  ‘More likely lay down for a rest,’ sneered another. ‘There’s no stamina in half-breeds.’

  ‘Last! Last! Last!’ they chanted as he ran on to the market-place where his barrack tutor, Lepidus, was waiting to count his charges home.

  ‘What in the name of Hades happened to you?’ asked the soldier. ‘Lycurgus Barracks should have won the day. We finished sixth, thanks to you.’

  Parmenion had said nothing. What was there to say?

  But that was in the past - and the past was dead. Parmenion grew hungry and wandered down into the market-place, and on along Leaving Street to the barracks. In the mess hall he queued with the other boys of Lycurgus and sat alone with his bowl of dark soup and chunk of black bread. No one spoke to him. Leonidas was on the other side of the hall, sitting with Gryllus and a dozen others; they affe
cted not to notice him. Parmenion ate his meal, enjoying the feeling of a full stomach, then he left and walked through the streets to the small home of his mother. He found her in the courtyard, sitting in the sunshine. She glanced up at him and smiled. She was painfully thin, her eyes sunken. He touched her shoulder and kissed her gently, his lips touching bone beneath the dry, taut skin.

  ‘Are you eating well?’ he asked her.

  ‘I have no appetite,’ she whispered. ‘But the sun is good for me, it makes me feel alive.’ He fetched her a goblet of water and sat beside her on the stone bench. ‘Do you contest the final today?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  She nodded and a strand of dark hair fell across her brow. Parmenion stroked it back into place. ‘You are hot. You should come inside.’

  ‘Later. Your face is bruised?’

  ‘I fell during a race. Clumsy. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Tired, my son. Very tired. Will the King be at Xenophon’s house to see you win?’

  ‘It is said that he will - but I might not win.’

  ‘No. A mother’s pride spoke. But you will do your best, and that is enough. Are you still popular with the other boys?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That would have pleased your father. He, too, was popular. But he never reached the final of the General’s Games. He would have been so proud.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you? Can I get you some food?’ Parmenion took her hand, holding to it tightly, willing his own strength to flow into her frail limbs.

  ‘I need nothing. You know, I have been thinking these last few days about Macedonia, and the forests and the plains. I keep dreaming of a white horse on a hillside. I am sitting in a field and the horse is coming towards me. I so long to ride that horse, to feel the wind on my face, whispering through my hair. It is a tall horse, with a fine neck. But always I wake before he reaches me.’

  ‘Horses are good omens,’ said Parmenion. ‘Let me help you inside. I will fetch Rhea - she will cook for you. You must eat, Mother, or you will never regain your strength.’

  ‘No, no. I want to sit here for a while. I will doze. Come to me when you have played the Game. Tell me all.’

  For a while he sat with her, but she rested her head against a threadbare pillow and slept. Moving back into the house, he washed the dust from his body and combed his dark hair. Then he pulled on a clean chiton tunic and his second pair of sandals. The chiton was not embroidered and was too small for him, barely reaching midway to his thighs. He felt like a helot - a slave. Parmenion walked to the next house and rapped his knuckles on the door-frame. A short, red-haired woman came out; she smiled as she saw him.

  ‘I will go in to her,’ she said, before he spoke.

  ‘I do not think she is eating,’ said Parmenion. ‘She is becoming thinner every day.’

  ‘That is to be expected,’ answered Rhea softly, sadness in her voice.

  ‘No!’ Parmenion snapped. ‘Now the summer is here she will improve. I know it.’

  Without waiting for her to speak, he ran back beyond the barracks and on to Leaving Street and the house of Xenophon.

  On the day of the Game Xenophon awoke early. The sun was just clearing the eastern peaks, long thin shafts of light spearing through the warped shutters of his bedroom window. He rolled to his side and groaned. He always enjoyed dining with the King but, as life so often proved, all pleasures had to be paid for. His head was pounding, his stomach queasy. He took a deep breath and sat up, pushing back the thin sheet which covered him and gazing down at his torso. The muscles of his belly were ridged and tight, belying his forty-seven years, the skin of his face and body burnished gold from frequent naked exercise in the early morning sunshine.

  The general rose and stretched before his bronze mirror. His eyesight no longer had the keenness of youth and he was forced to peer closely at his reflection, noting with distaste the slight sagging of skin beneath the blue eyes and the silver streaks appearing in the gold of his hair. He hated the process of ageing, and dreaded the day when lovers would come to him out of duty, or for money, rather than desire.

  The youth last night had been charmed by him, but more than anything he had wished to be seen with Xenophon, hero of the March to the Sea, the rebel Athenian acknowledged as one of the greatest generals of the age. At this morale-boosting thought Xenophon chuckled and moved back from the mirror. He opened the shutters, felt the sun on his skin, then sat once more on the firm bed.

  The March to the Sea: the year of glory. Was it the Fates, the will of Athena or blind luck? he wondered. How could a man ever know? Outside the sun was shining, the sky cloudless, just like that day at Cunaxa when all his dreams and beliefs were put to the test; when Cyrus had fought for his birthright. Xenophon’s eyes lost their focus as the events of the day swarmed up from the dark corridors of memory. Cyrus, as handsome as Apollo and as brave as Heracles, had led his troops into Persia to fight for the crown that was rightfully his. Xenophon had known they could not lose, for the gods would always favour the brave and doubly favour the just. And the enemy, though superior in numbers, had neither the strategic skill nor the valour at arms to defeat the Greek mercenaries who loved Cyrus. When it came the battle was a foregone conclusion.

  The two forces had met near the village of Cunaxa. Xenophon had been a junior officer under Proxenus then, and he remembered the sudden rush of fear as he first saw the enemy, stretched out in a vast battle-line. He had ordered his men into close formation and waited for orders. The Persians set up a great roar, clashing spear hafts to shields, while the Greeks stood silently. Cyrus galloped his charger along the front line, shouting, ‘For the gods and glory!’ Outnumbered, the Greek phalanx charged into the Persian horde, which broke and ran. Cyrus, looking like a god upon his white stallion, then led a ferocious assault on the enemy centre, sending his treacherous brother -Artaxerxes the King - fleeing from the field. The glory of victory, the fulfilment of destiny!

  Xenophon shivered and walked to the window, staring out over the roof-tops... but he did not see them. What he saw was sunlight on lance points, what he heard was the screams of the dying and the cacophonous clash of sword on shield at Cunaxa as the Greeks, in four-deep formation, routed the barbarians.

  Victory was theirs. Justice had prevailed, as all men of good heart knew that it would. And then?

  Xenophon sighed. And then a common Persian soldier-a peasant by all accounts, unable to afford armour or sword - had thrown a rock which struck Cyrus on the temple, toppling him from the saddle. The enemy, in the process of flight, saw him fall. They regrouped and charged, coming upon the valiant Cyrus as he struggled to rise. He was stabbed a score of times, then his head and right hand were cut from his body.

  Victory, like a fickle wife, flew from the Greeks.

  The gods died that day in Xenophon’s heart, though his intellect battled on to sustain a tenuous belief. Without gods the world was nothing, a place of torment and disillusion lacking order and reason. Yet, after Cunaxa, he had rarely known peace of mind.

  The general took a deep breath and struggled to suppress the bitter memories. A discreet knock came at his door. ‘Enter,’ he said, and his senior servant, Tinus, came in, bringing him a goblet of heavily watered wine. Xenophon smiled and thanked him.

  Two other male servants fetched spring water for his bath, then towelled him dry. His armour had been polished until the bronze gleamed gold and his iron helm shone like purest silver. One servant helped him into his white linen tunic, while the second lifted the breastplate over his head, fastening the straps at Xenophon’s side. A bronze-reinforced leather kilt was slung around his waist and tied at the hip. Bronze greaves were fastened to his shins. Xenophon waved the servants away and took up his sword-belt. The leather was pitted, the bronze scabbard showing many dents, but the sword within was iron and keen-edged. He drew it, enjoying the exquisite balance of its short blade and leather-bound grip. Sighing, he slammed the blade home in the scabbard before
buckling the sword-belt at his waist. He lifted his helm and brushed the white horsehair crest.

  Holding the helm under his arm, he turned towards the door. Tinus opened it and Xenophon walked out into the courtyard. Three female servants bowed as he passed; he acknowledged them with a smile and lifted his face to the sunlight. It was a fine day.

  Three helots were preparing the sand-pit to the judges’ instructions, shaping hills, valleys and streams. Xenophon stopped to examine their work. ‘Make that hill higher and more steep,’ he told one of the men, ‘and widen the valley floor. That is where the battle will be fought, and there must be room to swing the line.’

  He walked on, through the open courtyard gates and out towards the hillside and the Shrine to Athena of the Eyes. It was not a large shrine, three pillars supporting a low roof, but within was the sacred altar. Xenophon entered the building, removing his sword and standing it in the doorway. Then he knelt beneath the altar upon which stood the silver statue of a woman, tall and slender, wearing a Doric helm pushed back upon her head and carrying a sharp sword.

  ‘Praise be to thee, Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and War,’ said Xenophon. ‘A soldier greets thee.’ He closed his eyes in prayer, repeating the familiar words he had first used five years before when leaving the lands of the Persians.

  ‘I am a soldier, Athena. Do not let this be an end to my glories. I have achieved so little. Let me live long enough to carry your statue into the heartlands of the barbarian.’

  He glanced up at the statue, hoping for a response, yet knowing that only silence would follow. Xenophon rose and backed from the shrine. He saw movement on the acropolis and watched two boys embracing. Narrowing his eyes, he recognized one of them as Hermias. The other, then, must be the half-breed, the one they called Savra: a strange boy often seen running across roof-tops and high walls. Xenophon had only seen him twice at close quarters. With his curved, hawk-like nose he was neither handsome like Leonidas nor beautiful as Hermias, yet there was something about him. His blue eyes had a piercing look, both guarded and challenging, and he bore himself with a pride his poverty did not warrant. Once Xenophon had seen him running along Leaving Street, pursued by four other boys. On the second occasion Savra had been sitting with Hermias by the Temple to Aphrodite. He had smiled then at some light comment from Hermias and his face was transformed, the brooding glare disappearing. The change had shocked Xenophon and he stopped to stare at the boy. Savra had looked up then, seeing that he was observed. Swiftly his expression changed, like a mask falling into place, and the Athenian felt a sudden chill as those pale eyes focused on him.