Lion of Macedon

by David Gemmell

  Lepidus looked up as the sweating youngsters passed him. He envied them their youth and their energy, remembering his days in the barracks, his longing to march with the phalanx into battle.

  He saw a boy at the back of the pack. ‘More effort, young Pausias!’ he yelled, and the boy sprinted into the group, trying to hide from his critical eye.

  Lepidus’ mind wandered and he saw again his own youth. Sparta was different then, he told himself, more true to the principles laid down by the divine Lycurgus. The boys in the barracks were allowed two tunics, one for summer and one for winter. There were no minstrels performing in the Theatre of Marble, no plays, no parties at the homes of the rich. One bowl of black soup a day for the youngsters, and iron discipline maintained by the birch. A race bred for battles. He looked at the runners. Good boys, strong and proud, but Leonidas had many tunics and a warm cloak against the winter wind. And Hermias spent most of his evenings at home with his parents, eating good food and drinking watered wine. Young Learchus had a gold-embossed dagger, made by a craftsman in Thebes, while lazy Pausias filled his belly with honeycakes and ran with all the speed of a sick pig. These boys did not survive on a bowl of soup a day.

  Transferring his gaze to Leonidas, he saw that the youth had moved up into second place and was loping along behind Gryllus. The Athenian was a fine runner, but Lepidus knew that Leonidas would accelerate into the last bend and leave him gasping. Only the boy Parmenion could live with the pace Leonidas could set, but never over twenty-five laps, when Leonidas’ greater strength would count.

  Using Sciritai alongside real men! Lepidus shook his head. That morning he had been summoned to the Senior over the move.

  ‘It was none of my doing, sir,’ he said to the grim-eyed old man.

  ‘Then it should have been,’ snapped the ageing general. ‘The King was displeased, and one of our finest young men was shamed. Are you saying the boy had never attempted such a move in practice?’

  ‘Never, sir,’ answered Lepidus, his unease growing. This man had been his commanding officer in seven campaigns, and although both were now past forty years from Manhood the general still inspired awe in Lepidus.

  ‘Put him right, Lepidus. Where will we be if we allow Spartan men to develop such appalling methods?’

  ‘He is a half-blood, sir. He will never be Spartiate.’

  ‘His father was a fine warrior,’ answered the general, ‘and the mother bore herself well. But I hear what you say. Blood will out. Send the boy to me.’

  ‘He is with Xenophon, sir. His mother’s burial is today and the Athenian has him as a house-guest.’

  The general’s fist slammed down on the table. ‘I don’t want one of my boys as that man’s catamite!’

  ‘I will see he is back tomorrow.’

  ‘Do so,’ grunted the old man. ‘And, Lepidus, there will be no presentation of the Victory Rod.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘No presentation this year.’

  Lepidus looked into the old man’s eyes and swallowed hard. ‘I do not much like the boy, sir, but he won. How can we refuse him the Rod?’

  ‘An example must be set. Do you know that my helots are talking of his win, that it is common knowledge among the Sciritai?’

  Lepidus had said no more. Now he sat, grateful for the shade from the tall cypress tree, and watched the boys run. He had little time for Parmenion, whom he saw as a sly, cunning youth; but he had earned the Rod, and it was unfair to deprive him. He wondered how the other boys would take the decision. Parmenion was not popular, but the award night was usually a riotous affair and much looked forward to.

  The race was entering its final stages: Lepidus stood and walked to the centre of the field.

  Gryllus still held the lead, but Hermias was now alongside Leonidas and vying for second place, blocking the taller youth’s chances of an outside run at Gryllus. Leonidas cut to his right, barging Hermias aside. The slender youth staggered and lost ground, but Leonidas surged forward, catching Gryllus just before the line and breasting home ahead. Hermias came in fifth.

  Lepidus waited while the youngsters regained their breath, then called them to him.

  ‘A fine run - save for you, Pausias. Five more laps, if you please.’ The boys jeered at the fat youth as he set off on his lonely run. ‘Now, gentlemen, the notices. First, the Olympiad trials. Leonidas and Parmenion will represent this barracks in the middle and long races. Leonidas will also compete in the javelin with Nestus. Hermias and Asiron will represent us in the short race. I will speak to the athletes when you are dismissed. Second, four boys were late for muster yesterday. This is not showing a good example to the younger members of the barracks. We are Spartans, gentlemen, and that means we understand discipline. It will not happen again. Third, the presentation of the Victory Rod...’ His eyes moved to Leonidas and a fleeting smile touched the boy’s face. He knows then, thought Lepidus, and anger flared in him like a candle-flame. ‘The presentation will not take place this year, and there will be no celebration.’ To Lepidus’ amazement a great cheer went up, and his face darkened. ‘Gentlemen!’ he yelled, raising his arms. Silence fell. ‘I do not understand the cause of this joy. Would someone explain it to me? You, sir,’ he said, pointing to Learchus.

  ‘Savra cheated,’ Learchus answered, and Lepidus saw several heads nod in agreement.

  ‘He did not cheat!’ roared Lepidus. ‘He won! And that is what Spartans are supposed to do. And let me make something very clear to you all. Had Leonidas ordered his own cavalry forward, they would have intercepted the charge. Then, as Parmenion advanced, his right would have been exposed to javelins and arrows. Parmenion would have been annihilated. I do not excuse his use of the Sciritai, but when I see Spartans whining about defeat I despair. You are dismissed!’

  Spinning on his heels he stalked from the training ground, leaving a stunned audience behind him.

  ‘I didn’t think he liked Savra,’ whispered Learchus.

  ‘What he said was right,’ Leonidas said.

  ‘No, Savra cheated,’ put in Gryllus.

  Leonidas stood and turned to the others. ‘He was right! I took Savra lightly and he humbled me. I should have worn the Cloak of Shame. There were a dozen ways I could have crushed him, had I guessed at his plan, and three which could have won me the battle even though I failed to read his intent. I did not use them. Now let that be an end to it.’

  Leonidas walked away and Gryllus turned to Learchus, leaning in close. ‘The mix-blood is staying at my father’s house today,’ he whispered. ‘But tonight he will go home for the burial night.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So he cannot run in the Olympiad trials if his legs are injured.’

  ‘I don’t know

  ‘He humbled our friend!’ hissed Gryllus.

  ‘What if your father finds out?’

  ‘It will be dark. And Savra will not name us.’

  ‘Tonight then,’ Learchus agreed.

  The body, wrapped in white linen, was lifted from the bed and laid on a length of stout canvas hung between two poles. Parmenion watched as the women carried his mother from the House of Death towards the burial hill. There were four bearers, dressed in white, and plump Rhea followed behind as the Mother of Mourning. Behind her came Parmenion, and beside him the Athenian general Xenophon.

  The burial ground was beyond the Theatre of Marble in the east of the city, and the small procession made its way through the teeming market-place and on past the Monument to Pausanius and Leonidas.

  They reached the cavemouth, where an old woman sat waiting, her white hair fluttering in the slight breeze.

  ‘Who seeks to walk with the dead?’ she asked.

  Rhea stepped forward. ‘My friend Artema,’ she answered.

  ‘Who carries the river price?’

  ‘I, Parmenion.’ He dropped a silver tetradrachma into her outstretched palm. She cocked her head to one side, her pale eyes turned towards him. For a moment she sat as still as death, then her eye
s swung to where Xenophon stood silently.

  ‘The One Who Is and the One Who Is To Be,’ whispered the old woman. ‘Invite me to your home, general.’

  The departure from ritual shocked Xenophon. He took a deep breath. ‘As you wish, old mother.’

  ‘Bring the dead to rest,’ she said. Rhea ordered the bearers forward and the darkness of the cave mouth swallowed them. The two men stood at the entrance.

  ‘I could not afford mourners,’ said Parmenion. ‘Will the gods look unkindly on her for that?’

  ‘An interesting debating point,’ answered Xenophon. ‘Are the gods swayed because of faked tears and wailing? I would doubt it. Good men have died unmourned and unnoticed, while some of consummate evil have had thousands of mourners at their funerals. It is pleasant to believe that the gods are a little more discerning than men.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘I believe there are powers that govern our lives. We give them many names.’

  ‘She will live again then, you think?’

  ‘I like to believe so. Come, we will walk awhile. The day is not too hot.’

  Together they strolled back to the Monument to Pausanius and Leonidas. It was a huge marble cube, topped with a statue of a Spartan hoplite, the base engraved with the story of the mighty battle at Plataea, where the invading Persian army had been crushed by the power of the Spartan phalanx. Xenophon removed his white cloak and sat in the shade. An elderly widow approached them, offering fresh pomegranates. Xenophon dropped a coin in her palm and bought three. He tossed one to Parmenion.

  ‘What was the lesson of Plataea?’ asked Xenophon, taking a dagger from his belt and quartering his fruit.

  ‘The lesson?’ queried Parmenion. He shrugged. ‘They advanced on the Persian centre, which broke and ran. What should we learn?’

  ‘Why did they run?’

  Parmenion sat beside the general. Peeling the skin from his fruit he ate swiftly, spitting the pips to the ground. ‘I don’t know. They were frightened?’

  ‘Of course they were frightened,’ snapped Xenophon. Think!’

  Parmenion felt embarrassed, his face reddening. ‘I do not know enough of the battle,’ he admitted. ‘I can’t answer you.’

  Xenophon seemed to relax. He finished the pomegranate and leaned back against the cool marble. ‘Examine the evidence, Parmenion.’

  ‘I don’t know what you want!’

  ‘If you can answer me this question, then I will do what you asked of me -I will teach you. If not... there would be no point. Think about it, and come to me this evening.’ Xenophon rose and walked away.

  Parmenion sat for a long time, puzzling at the question, but the answer eluded him. He wandered down to the market-place, crept behind a stall and stole two pies. He was spotted by the stallholder, but he ducked into an alley and sped along Leaving Street before the man could catch him. Spartan youths were encouraged to supplement their meagre meals by theft. If caught they were punished severely - not for the theft itself, but for the crime of being caught.

  In Leaving Street he saw two elderly men sitting close to the palace of Agisaleus. He walked over to them and bowed. One of the men looked up after a while, acknowledging his presence. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘Sir,’ said Parmenion, ‘what was the lesson of Plataea?’

  ‘Lesson?’ answered the man. ‘What lesson? The only lesson handed out was to the Persians and the world. You don’t take on a Spartan army and expect to win. What a foolish question to ask!’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Parmenion, bowing and moving away.

  What kind of a riddle had Xenophon set him? Was the answer so obvious? If so, why did the Athenian put it in the first place? Parmenion ran to the acropolis, where he ate his pies and stared out over the Taygetus mountains.

  ‘Examine the evidence,’ Xenophon had said. What evidence? Five thousand Spartan warriors had met with Xerxes’ great army on the field of Plataea. The Persians were crushed, the war won. Pausanius had been the Spartan general.

  What lesson?

  Parmenion rose and loped down the hill to the monument. There he read the description of the battle engraved on the marble, but it told him nothing he did not know. Where then was the evidence?

  He began to get angry. The Athenian did not want to train him and had found this clever excuse. Set him a problem that had no answer, then turn him away. But even through his rage Parmenion dismissed the thought. Xenophon needed no excuses. A simple ‘No’ would have been sufficient.

  The monument to Pausanius and Leonidas....

  It loomed above him, its secret hidden in stone. He stared up at the hoplite statue. The warrior’s long spear was broken, yet still he looked mighty.

  Was he Leonidas or Pausanius, Parmenion wondered, or just a soldier?

  Leonidas? Why did the King slain at Thermopylae appear on the monument to Plataea? He was killed months before. The Greeks had asked the Spartans to spearhead their army against .the coming Persian invasion, but the Spartans were celebrating a religious festival and the priests refused to sanction such a move. However the Spartan King, Leonidas, was allowed to take his personal bodyguard of 300 men to the Pass of Thermopylae. There they had fought the Persian horde to a standstill, and even when betrayed and surrounded the Spartan line still held. The Persians, too frightened to attack, finished off the defenders with arrows and javelins.

  Like the sun coming through cloud, the answer to Xenophon’s question shone in Parmenion’s mind. What was the lesson of Plataea? Even in defeat there is victory. The Persians, too frightened to tackle even the remnants of the 300, had finally come face to face with 5,000 Spartan warriors. They had watched the line advance, spears levelled - and they had run. That was why the Monument was shared. Plataea was also a victory for Leonidas the King, a victory won by courage and defiance and a hero’s death.

  He gazed up at the marble hoplite. ‘I salute you, Leonidas,’ he said.

  Xenophon’s servants moved back as the old woman entered the gates of his home. None dared to approach her. She could see their fear and smiled mirthlessly as she stood leaning on her staff, waiting for the lord of the house.

  She felt the pressure of many eyes upon her. Once, those eyes would have glowed with lust - once, the mere sight of Tamis would have inflamed passions and had men willing to kill their brothers merely for the right to hold her hand. The old woman hawked and spat. Once upon a time.... Who cared any longer about once upon a time? Her first husband had died in a war against Athens, her second in a battle in Thrace. The third had contracted a fever during a hot summer when the water went bad, and died in agony while Tamis was visiting Delphi. The last she could have saved -had she known of his illness. Could have? Might have? What did it matter now? The past was dead.

  She heard a door open and the confident steps of the Athenian general approaching her. She watched him with the eyes of her body and her Talent, seeing both the handsome general and the glow of his soul-fire.

  ‘Welcome to my home, lady,’ he said.

  ‘Lead me to the shade and allow me a drink,’ she told him. His hand touched her arm, and she felt his power. It disconcerted her, reminding Tamis of days of youth. The strength of the sunlight faded as he led her to an alcove to the right. Here she could smell the perfume of many flowers and feel the cool stone of the wall. She sat and waited in silence until a servant brought her a goblet of cold water from the well.

  ‘You have a message for me from the goddess?’ enquired Xenophon.

  Tamis sipped the water. It touched a raw nerve in a rotting tooth and she placed the goblet on the stone table. ‘You will not find what you desire, Athenian. No more distant wars for you. No more glory on the battlefield.’ She felt his disappointment, sharp and raw. ‘No man achieves all his dreams,’ she said, more softly. ‘Yet you will be remembered by men for a thousand years.’

  ‘How so, if my glories are ended?’

  ‘I do not know, Xenophon. But you can trust my words. However,
I did not come here to speak of you. I came to talk of the cub.’

  ‘Cub? What cub?’

  ‘The boy who buried his mother. The One Who Is To Be. He will know glory, and pain, and tragedy, and triumph. He is the important one.’

  ‘He is just a child. He is not a King, nor even a gentleman. What can he do?’

  Tamis drained the water. She was comfortable here and yet unwelcome. It would have been pleasant to pass the day in the shade, thinking back to happier days in her long, long life. She sighed. ‘His destiny is of glory, but his name will not be remembered like yours, even though he will lead armies across the world. It is your duty to teach him, to give him that which you hold.’

  ‘I hold nothing!’ snapped Xenophon. ‘I am not rich, nor do I have a command.’

  ‘You have everything he needs, Athenian, stored in your mind. You know the hearts of men and the ways of battle. Give him these gifts. And watch him grow.’

  ‘He will take Sparta to glory?’

  ‘Sparta?’ she laughed grimly. ‘Sparta’s days are done, Xenophon. We have the crippled King. They did not listen to the oracle. Lysander thought he knew best - as men are wont to do. But there will be no new glory for Sparta. No, the boy will go elsewhere. You will send him when the time comes.’ Tamis stood.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Xenophon, rising. ‘You feed me riddles. Why can you tell me no more?’

  ‘Because that is all I know, Athenian. You think the gods allow their servants to share all their knowledge? I have done what I had to do. I know nothing more.’

  With that lie upon her lips, Tamis walked back into the sunlight and out into the street.

  Tamis made her slow way through the streets of Sparta and on past the lake and the small Temple to Aphrodite. She followed a narrow track to the door of her house - a low, mean dwelling, one-roomed with a central fire-pit and an open roof to allow the smoke to drift clear.