Lion of Macedon

by David Gemmell

  There was a thin pallet bed in one corner, but no other furniture. Tamis squatted down in front of the dead fire. Lifting her hand, she spoke three words and flames leapt from the cold ashes, burning brightly. For a while she stared into the dancing fire, until at last the weight of her loneliness bore her down. Her shoulders sagged.

  ‘Where are you, Cassandra?’ she whispered. ‘Come to me.’

  The flames licked higher, curling as if seeking to encircle an invisible sphere. Slowly a face formed within the flames, a regal face, fine-boned with a long, aquiline nose. Not a beauty, to be sure, but a handsome strong-featured face, framed with tightly-curled blonde hair.

  ‘Why do you call me from my sleep?’ asked the fire woman.

  ‘I am lonely.’

  ‘You use your powers too recklessly, Tamis. And unwisely.’

  ‘Why should I not call upon you?’ the old woman asked. ‘I too have need of friends - of company.’

  ‘The world teems with the living,’ the fire woman told her. ‘That is where your friends should be. But if you must talk, then I must listen.’

  Tamis nodded and told Cassandra of the shadow in the future, of the coming of the Dark God.

  ‘What has this to do with you?’ Cassandra asked. ‘It is part of the perennial battle between the Source and the Chaos Spirit.’

  ‘I can stop the birth, I know that I can.’

  ‘Stop the... what are you saying? You have seen what is to be. How can you change it?’

  ‘How can you ask that question?’ countered Tamis. ‘You know as well as I that there are a thousand thousand possible futures, all dependent on limitless decisions made by men and women and, aye, even children and beasts.’

  ‘That is precisely what I am saying, Tamis. You were not given your powers in order to manipulate events; that has never been the way of the Source.’

  ‘Then perhaps it should have been,’ snapped Tamis. ‘I have studied hundreds of possible futures. In four, at least, the Dark God can be thwarted. All I needed to do was trace the lines back to the one element that can change the course of history. And I have done that!’

  ‘You speak of the child Parmenion,’ said the fire woman sadly. ‘You are wrong, Tamis. You should cease your meddling. This matter is beyond you; it is greater than worlds; it is a part of the cosmic struggle between Chaos and Harmony. You have no conception of the harm you can do.’

  ‘Harm?’ queried Tamis. ‘I know the harm that will be caused should the Dark God live to walk the lands in human form. The mountains will be bathed in blood, the rivers will spout smoke. The earth will be desolate.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cassandra. ‘And, of course, you alone have the power to stand against this evil?’

  ‘Do not patronize me! You think I should live as you did, giving prophecies that no one believed? What use were they? What use were you? Begone!’

  The fire died down, the face disappearing.

  Tamis sighed. Right or wrong the course was set, the lines laid down. Parmenion would be the Warrior of the Light, holding back the darkness.

  Do not meddle! Who do they think destroyed the plans of the last Coming more than twenty years ago, when the child was due to be fathered by the Persian King? Who was it that entered the concubine’s mind on the night of conception and made her walk to the top of the tower to fling herself to the stones below?

  ‘It was I!’ hissed Tamis. ‘I!’

  And you were wrong! said a small voice deep in her mind. You are wrong now. Parmenion has his own life to live. It is not for you to alter his destiny.

  ‘I am not altering it,’ she said aloud. ‘I am helping him to fulfil it.’

  He must be allowed choices.

  ‘I will give him choices. At the cusp moments of his life, I will go to him. I will offer him choices.’

  And what if you are wrong, Tamis?

  ‘I am not wrong. The Dark God must be stopped. He will be stopped. Leave me be!’

  In the silence that followed Tamis glared around the squalid room, heavy of heart. With her powers she could have ensured a palace of riches, a life of splendour. Instead she had chosen this.

  ‘I have made my gifts to the Source,’ she told the room, ‘and the Light is with me in all that I do.’

  There was no one to argue, but Tamis was still unsure. She pointed to the blaze and called out a name. A man’s face appeared.

  ‘Play for me, Orpheus. Let the music ease my heart.’

  As the sweet notes of the lyre sounded in the room Tamis moved to her bed, lying back and thinking of the futures she had seen. In three of them the Dark God had been born in Sparta, the ruling city of Greece.

  Three possible fathers. Learchus, who could rise to greatness. Nestus, related to the royal family. And Cleombrotus, who would be King.

  Tamis closed her eyes. ‘Now we will see your destiny, Parmenion,’ she whispered. ‘Now we will see.’

  Parmenion lay on a hillside to the east of the city, watching the young girls run and play. His interest in their activities surprised him, for this was not a pastime he would have considered before last summer. He recalled the day when a new kind of joy entered his life. He had been running up and down the hillside when a voice as sweet as the birth of morning spoke to him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Parmenion turned to see a young girl, perhaps fourteen years of age. She was wearing a simple white tunic, through which he could see not just the exquisite shape of her small breasts but also the nipples, pressing against the linen. Her legs were tanned and smooth, her waist narrow, her hips rounded. He glanced up guiltily, aware that he was reddening - and found himself gazing into wide, grey eyes set in a face of surpassing beauty.

  ‘I was... running,’ he answered.

  ‘I saw that,’ she said, lifting a hand and pushing her fingers through her red-gold hair. It seemed to Parmenion that sunlight became trapped in her curls, glinting like jewels. ‘But tell me why?’ she went on. ‘You run up the hill. Then you run down the hill. Then up again. There is no sense to it.’

  ‘Lepidus - my barrack master - says that it will strengthen my legs. I am fast.’

  ‘And I am Derae,’ she told him.

  ‘No, my name is not Fast.’

  ‘I know that. I was joking with you.’

  ‘I see. I... I must be going.’ He turned and fled up the hill. Surprisingly, considering his previous exertions, he moved at a pace he had not considered possible.

  For almost a year since this meeting he had come to the hills and the fields beyond the lake to watch the girls run. Lepidus had told him that only in Sparta were women allowed to develop their bodies. Other city states considered such exercise indecent, claiming that it incited men to commit grave crimes. Parmenion felt this could well be true, as he lay on his belly in acutely pleasurable discomfort, his eyes following Derae.

  He saw the girls line up for the short race. Derae was on the outside. She won easily, her long legs stretching out, her feet scarcely seeming to make contact with the grass.

  Only twice in the year had he found the courage to speak to her as she approached the field. But always she greeted him with a cheerful smile and a wave, then was away and running before a conversation could develop. Parmenion did not mind. It was enough that he could gaze on her every week. Besides, there would be little point in getting to know her, since no Spartan man was allowed to marry before he reached Manhood at twenty.

  Four years. An eternity.

  After an hour the girls finished their exercise and prepared to return to their homes. Parmenion rolled on to his back, closing his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun.

  He thought of many things as he rested there, his hands behind his neck. He thought of the battle with Leonidas, k and the endless torment of the barracks, and of Xenophon,

  I and of Hermias, and of Derae. He tried not to think too much about his mother, for the wound was too fresh, and when her face floated before his mind he felt himself unmanned, out of c
ontrol.

  A shadow fell across him.

  ‘Why do you watch me?’ asked Derae. Parmenion jerked up to a sitting position. She was kneeling on the grass beside him.

  ‘I did not hear you approach.’

  ‘That does not answer my question, young Fast.’

  ‘I like to watch you,’ he answered, grinning. ‘You run well, but I think you pump your arms too much.’

  ‘So, you watch me because you like to criticize my running?’

  ‘No, that is not what I meant.’ Parmenion took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘I think you know that. I believe you are joking with me again.’

  She nodded. ‘Only a little, Parmenion.’

  He was exultant. She knew his name. It could only mean that she had asked about him, that she was interested in him.

  ‘How is it you know me?’

  ‘I saw your battle with Leonidas.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, disappointed. ‘How so, since no women were allowed to spectate?’

  ‘My father is a close friend of Xenophon’s and the general allowed the three girls to watch from an upstairs window. We had to take turns, because we were not to be seen. You played an interesting game.’

  ‘I won,’ said Parmenion defensively.

  ‘I know. I have just told you I was there.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were criticizing me. Everyone else has.’

  She nodded solemnly. ‘You didn’t even need the Sciritai. Had you advanced in Sixteen formation you would still have broken through Leonidas’ lines, since he reduced his strength to four.’

  ‘I know that too.’ He shrugged. ‘But I cannot take back the move.’

  ‘Do you still have the sword?’

  ‘Of course. Why would I not?’

  ‘It is very valuable. You might have sold it.’

  ‘Never! It is one of the seven swords. I will treasure it all my life.’

  ‘That is a pity,’ she said, moving smoothly to her feet. ‘For I would like to have bought it.’

  ‘What need would you have of a sword?’ he asked, rising to stand before her.

  ‘I would give it to my brother,’ she answered.

  ‘It would be a handsome gift. Do you object to my watching you run?’

  ‘Should I?’ she countered, smiling.

  ‘Are you betrothed?’

  ‘Not yet, though my father talks of it. Is this a proposal, Parmenion?’

  Before he could answer a hand grabbed his shoulder, dragging him back. Instantly he spun, his fist cracking into Leonidas’ jaw and staggering him. The golden-haired Spartan rubbed his chin, then advanced.

  ‘Stop it!’ shouted Derae but the youths ignored her, their eyes locked together, their concentration total. Leonidas leapt forward, feinting a hook before thundering a straight right to Parmenion’s face. The smaller man rolled with the blow, grabbing Leonidas’ tunic and hammering his knee into his opponent’s groin. Leonidas grunted with pain and doubled over. Parmenion’s forehead crashed against Leonidas’ face and he sagged and half-fell. Parmenion pushed him away, then saw a large jagged stone jutting from the grass. Tearing it clear he advanced on the dazed Leonidas, wanting nothing more than to smash open his skull.

  Derae leapt into his path, her open hand connecting with his cheek like a thunderclap. His fingers circled her throat and the stone came up... he froze as he saw the terror in her eyes.

  Dropping the stone, he backed away. ‘I... I am sorry ... He... he is my enemy.’

  ‘He is my brother,’ she said, her expression as cold as the stone he had dropped.

  Leonidas, recovered now, stepped alongside her. ‘You come near my sister again - and you will answer to me with a blade in your hand.’

  Suddenly Parmenion laughed, but there was no humour in the sound. ‘That would be a pleasure,’ he hissed, ‘for we both know what blade I would carry. One that you will never own - though your soul yearns for it. But fear not, Leonidas, I want nothing from you - or your family.’

  ‘You think I fear you, peasant?’

  ‘If you don’t - you should. Come against me whenever you will, you arrogant pig. But know this - I will destroy you!’

  Turning on his heel Parmenion stalked from the scene.

  Hermias left the training ground and loped through the streets, across the market-place, arriving at the lake sanctuary as the girls were leaving. There was no sign of Parmenion, and he was about to duck away behind the trees when Derae saw him and waved. Smiling shyly, he stepped forward. Derae ran to him, kissing his cheek. ‘It is not often we see you here, cousin. Are you developing an interest in girls?’

  Two of Derae’s friends moved alongside him, touching his tunic and pretending to examine the weave.

  Hermias blushed. ‘I am looking for my friend, Parmenion.’

  Her face darkened. ‘He was here. Now he is not,’ she snapped.

  ‘Has he offended you?’ asked Hermias fearfully.

  Derae did not answer for a moment. Leonidas would be furious if he learned she had spoken of his defeat, yet she felt driven to talk of the incident. Linking arms with Hermias she walked away from the other girls, and they sat down in the shade by the Sanctuary Lake. There she told Hermias all that had occurred.

  ‘You cannot know what he has suffered, Derae,’ he explained. ‘For some reason - and I cannot fathom it - he is hated by all. He can do nothing right. When he wins a race there are no cheers, even when he runs against boys from other barracks. And yet he is kind, thoughtful. They set on him in gangs, beating him with sticks. Few there are who would attempt to tackle him singly.’

  ‘But my brother would have no part in such wickedness,’ said Derae. ‘He is noble and strong, he would never run with a pack.’

  ‘I agree with you. I have always... respected Leonidas. But the beatings are done in his name and he makes no attempt to stop them. The last was the evening before the Game, and Parmenion was forced to hide all night upon the acropolis. You saw his bruises.’

  Derae picked up a flat stone and hurled it out over the lake, watching it skim across the sparkling blue water. ‘No one is ever hated without reason,’ she said. ‘He is obviously arrogant and low-born. Leonidas says he is a half-breed, a mix-blood, yet he struts among true Spartans looking down on them.’

  Hermias nodded. ‘There is truth to that. But when all men are against you, all that is left is pride. He will not let them humble bin. I advised him to play to lose in the Game, but he would not. And look what happened! Everyone hates him even more now. What future is there for him, Derae? He is running out of money; he has no status.’

  ‘Has he no friends at all - save you?’

  ‘None. There is a girl, I think. He watches her every week. When he talks of her he is a different man. But I do not know her name, and I doubt he has even spoken to her.’

  ‘He has spoken to her,’ said Derae. ‘He even grabbed her throat and threatened her with a rock.’

  Hermias closed his eyes and leaned back, resting his head on the grass. ‘It was you, then. I do not understand. Was he cursed at birth by some malevolent spirit? I must find him.’

  ‘I think you should avoid him, Hermias. I looked into his eyes and there is something deadly there. My blood turned cold.’

  ‘He is my friend,’ answered Hermias, rising smoothly to his feet, ‘and I have news for him. But first I must see Leonidas. Where will I find him?’

  ‘He said he was going to practise with spear and sword -he should still be at the training field. But do not tell him it was I who told you.’

  ‘Please, Derae, he will think Parmenion has sent me.’

  Derae shook her head and rose. ‘Very well, Hermias. Tell him you spoke to me. But, be warned, he now regards Parmenion as a sworn enemy. You will find no comfort there.’

  Leonidas - in breastplate, kilt and greaves - was battling against a youth called Nestus, and the training field rang with the sound of sword on shield as the two attacked one another. No wooden practice blade
s here, both were using the short iron stabbing swords of the hoplite. There was tension in the spectators as the combatants circled, seeking openings. The powerfully-built Nestus was the barracks champion with the short sword, but Leonidas was cool, strong and fast. Both youths were breathing heavily and Nestus was cut on his upper arm, a thin trickle of blood dripping to the dust. Leonidas leapt in but Nestus darted forward, his shield crashing against Leonidas to send him sprawling to the ground. Instantly Nestus was upon him, his blade resting against Leonidas’ throat. A muted cheer went up. Leonidas grinned and rolled to his feet, discarding his shield. Embracing the other man, he congratulated him and then walked away to the shade where water-skins were hanging.

  Hermias ran to him, helping him remove his breastplate.

  ‘Thank you, cousin,’ said Leonidas, wiping sweat from his face. ‘Damn, but he is good. I am getting closer to him, though, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Hermias. ‘You had a chance at a groin thrust. In a real battle you would have used it - and won.’

  ‘You saw that? Yes. He has a habit of raising his shield too high. What brings you here? Not to fight, surely?’

  ‘No,’ said Hermias, taking a deep breath. ‘I came to talk of Savra.’ He looked away from Leonidas’ face, bracing himself for the anger he felt sure would follow.

  ‘Has he spoken to you?’ asked Leonidas softly.

  ‘No. Derae told me.’ He glanced at Leonidas, finding the absence of anger disconcerting.

  ‘What do you require of me?’

  ‘An end to the beatings and the violence.’

  ‘They are nothing to do with me. I do not sanction them; I learn of them only after they have taken place. He is not popular.’ Leonidas shrugged. ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Tell Gryllus and Learchus that such... beatings .. . displease you.’

  ‘Why should I do this?’

  ‘Because you are a noble man. You are not a coward and you need no one to fight battles for you.’

  Leonidas chuckled. ‘Flattery, Hermias?’

  ‘Yes. But I believe it is true nonetheless. They cannot beat him into submission. One day they will kill him - and for what? Because they think it would please you. Would it please you, cousin?’