Lion of Macedon

by David Gemmell

  ‘But you are talking of a palace, sire,’ the architect had objected.

  ‘And I want three wells and a fountain in the central courtyard. Also a special section for the commanding officer, with an andron to accommodate twenty - no, thirty men.’

  ‘As you wish, sire... but it will not be cheap.’

  ‘If I wanted cheap, I would have hired a Spartan,’ Philip replied, patting the man’s thin shoulder.

  The King wandered to a pile of rocks and sat down. A workman brought him a goblet of water from a cool stone jar; it tasted like nectar. He thanked the man, recognizing him as the burly, bearded warrior who had led the cheering after the first battle.

  ‘What is your name, friend?’

  ‘Theoparlis, sire. Most call me Theo.’

  ‘It should be a fine building, Theo. Fit for the troops of the King.’

  ‘Indeed it will, sire. I am sorry I shall not enjoy the pleasure of living in it, but in two months I shall be returning to my wife in Pelagonia - is that not true?’

  ‘It is true,’ agreed Philip. ‘And before another year is out I will come to you there - and offer you a place in this fine barracks and a house for your wife in Pella.’

  ‘I will look forward to your visit,’ said Theo, bowing and returning to his work. Philip watched him go and then swung his gaze to the east, where two riders were making their way from the city centre. He drained his water and watched them. The lead rider wore a bronze breastplate and an iron helm, but Philip was more intent on the horse, a chestnut stallion of some sixteen hands. All Macedonian nobles were raised as horsemen, and Philip’s love of the beasts was second to none. The stallion had a fine head, eyes set well apart - a good indication of sound character. Its neck was long, but not overly so, the mane cropped like a helmet plume. Philip strolled towards the riders, angling so that he could see the stallion’s back and flanks. Its shoulder-blades were sloping and powerful, which would give the beast long sweeping strides, making it fast and yet comfortable to ride. Straight shoulders, Philip knew, led to jarring steps and discomfort for the rider.

  ‘You there!’ came a voice and Philip glanced up. The second rider, a short stout man riding a sway-backed grey gelding, was pointing at him. ‘We are looking for the King. Take us to him.’

  Philip studied the man. He was bald, but red and silver hair grew over his ears like a laurel crown. ‘Who wants him?’ he asked.

  ‘That is none of your concern, peasant,’ snapped the rider.

  ‘Gently, gently, Mothac,’ said the other man, lifting his leg and jumping to the ground. He was tall and slim, though his arms were well muscled, showing the scars of many fights. Philip looked up into the man’s eyes; they were pale blue, but the face was tanned to the colour of leather, making them as grey as storm-clouds. Philip’s heart leapt as he recognized Parmenion, but quelling the urge to run forward and embrace the Spartan he kept his face free of emotion and wandered forward.

  ‘You are a mercenary?’ Philip asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Parmenion. ‘And you are a builder?’

  Philip nodded. ‘It is to be a barracks, I am told. Perhaps one day you will be quartered here.’

  ‘The footings are deep,’ observed the warrior, walking to the trench and watching the workmen.

  ‘There are occasional earthquakes,’ Philip told him, ‘and it is essential for the foundations to be sound. It does not matter how pretty the building - without good foundations it will fall.’

  ‘The same is true of armies,’ said the warrior softly. ‘Did you fight against the Paionians?’

  ‘I did. It was a good victory.’

  ‘Did the King fight?’

  ‘Like a lion. Like ten lions,’ said Philip, smiling broadly.

  The man nodded and was silent for a moment, then he turned to the King and he too smiled. ‘I am glad to hear it -I would not wish to serve a coward.’

  ‘You seem sure the King will employ you?’

  The warrior shrugged. ‘Did you like my horse, sire?’

  ‘Yes, he is a fine... how did you know me?’

  ‘You are much changed from the boy I saw in Thebes, and I might not have recognized you. However, you are also the only man not working - and such, I would guess, is the King’s prerogative. I am hot, and my throat is dusty - and it would be pleasant if we could find a place out of the sun and discuss why you asked me here.’

  ‘Indeed we shall,’ said Philip, smiling broadly. ‘But first let me say that you are a prayer answered. You have no idea how greatly you are needed.’

  ‘I think I have,’ answered Parmenion. ‘I remember a young boy telling me of a country surrounded by enemies -Illyrians, Paionians, Thracians. A soldier remembers such things.’

  ‘Well, it is worse now. I have no army to speak of and little but my wits to hold back our foes. Gods, man, but I’m pleased to see you!’

  ‘I may not stay,’ warned Parmenion.

  ‘Why?’ Philip asked, a cold fear touching his heart.

  ‘I do not yet know if you are a man I would wish to serve.’

  ‘You speak frankly, but I cannot question the wisdom behind the words. Come with me to the palace; there you can bathe and shave and refresh yourself. Then we can talk.’

  Parmenion nodded. ‘Did you really fight like ten lions?’ he asked, his face expressionless.

  ‘More like twenty,’ replied Philip, ‘but I am modest by nature.’

  Parmenion climbed out of the bath and strolled to the window, allowing the water to evaporate from his skin, cooling it. Running his fingers through his thinning hair, he turned to Mothac.

  ‘What did you think of him?’

  Mothac shook his head. ‘I don’t like to see a King in a loincloth, digging dirt like a peasant.’

  ‘You’ve been among the Persians too long, my friend.’

  ‘Will we stay?’

  Parmenion did not answer. The journey had been long across Asia Minor and into Thrace, crossing mountains and rivers. And despite the saving of a week’s travel after the meeting with Aristotle, he was tired and felt the dull ache of the old spear-wound under his right shoulder. He rubbed himself down with a towel, then lay on a couch while Mothac massaged oil into his back.

  Macedonia. It was greener than he had imagined, more lush. But he experienced a slight disappointment, for he had hoped to feel that he had come home. Instead it was just another land, boasting tall mountains and fertile plains.

  Dressing in a simple tunic and sandals, he wandered out to the courtyard to watch the setting sun. He felt old and bone-weary. Epaminondas was dead - slain at Mantinea just as Tamis had foretold. Parmenion shivered.

  Mothac brought him a pitcher of wine and they sat in comfortable silence. As the sun set Mothac lit a lantern and the two men ate a frugal meal of bread and cheese.

  ‘You liked him, didn’t you?’ asked Mothac at last.

  ‘Yes. He reminds me of Pelopidas.’

  ‘He’ll probably end his life the same way,’ remarked Mothac.

  ‘By Heaven, you’re in a sour mood,’ snapped Parmenion. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘With me? Nothing. But I want to know why we left Susa to come here. We had the life of princes; we were rich, Parmenion. What does this frontier land hold for us? The Macedonians will never amount to anything. And what do you have to gain here? You are known as the greatest general in the civilized world. But it is not enough, is it? You cannot resist the impossible challenge.’

  ‘You are probably right. But I asked you if you wanted to stay in Persia. I put no bridle on you, Mothac.’

  The Theban grunted. ‘You think friendship has no chains? Well, it has. Even to following you - and your pride - into this wilderness with its half-Greek barbarians.’

  Parmenion reached out and gripped his friend’s arm.

  ‘You shame me, Mothac. And I am sorry if this enterprise does not meet with your approval. I don’t understand all the reasons that drew me here. Partly it was the call of blood. My
ancestors lived on this land, fought for it, died for it; I had to see it. But there is truth in what you say. I know what men call me, but are they correct? I have always led well-trained armies, mostly outnumbering the enemy. Here, as you observe, there is a challenge. The Illyrians are disciplined and well-led, the Thracians ferocious and many, the Olynthians rich enough to hire the best mercenaries. What glory would there be in leading any of them? But Macedon?’ He smiled. ‘I cannot resist it, my friend.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mothac wearily. ‘I have always known.’

  ‘That we would come to Macedonia?’

  ‘No. It is not easy to put into words.’ He was silent for a while, his green eyes fixed to Parmenion’s face. Finally he smiled, reaching forward to grip his friend’s shoulder. ‘I think - deep inside - you are still the mix-blood boy in Sparta, striving to prove your worth. And, if you succeed here - which is doubtful - you will hunt the impossible challenge elsewhere. And the foolish Mothac will be with you. And now I’ll say goodnight.’ The Theban rose and walked away to his rooms.

  For a while Parmenion sat alone, his thoughts sombre, then he strolled out into the gardens beyond the courtyard and up the steps of the high wall, where he leaned on the parapet looking south towards Thessaly.

  Mothac was right, he knew. The boy Savra remained within the general Parmenion - sad and lonely, still seeking a home, a love, happiness. He had hoped to find it in Persia, in wealth and renown. But fame was no answer, and fortune merely served to remind him of all the joys he could not buy.

  All was darkness beyond the city, but somewhere out there to the south Pelopidas had fallen, fighting alongside the Thessalians against the Tyrant of Pherae. The enemy advancing on all fronts, Pelopidas had charged into their centre, cleaving his way towards the Tyrant. It had changed the course of the battle, but the Theban had died in the charge. The victorious Thessalians had cut the manes and tails from their horses in honour of the dead general.

  Parmenion shivered. He had thought Pelopidas invulnerable. ‘But no man is,’ he whispered. ‘May the gods bless your spirit, Pelopidas. May you know joy in the Hall of Heroes.’

  ‘Do you believe that he does?’ asked Philip, moving up the steps and sitting opposite Parmenion.

  The older man sighed. ‘It would be fitting. You should have seen him at Leuctra - like a god of War he clove the enemy, striking down the Battle King.’

  Philip nodded. ‘While you charged the enemy centre, sending their javeliners and archers running from the field. It was your victory, Parmenion, the forerunner of many more in Cappadocia, Phrygia, Egypt, Mesopotamia. You have never lost. Why is that?’

  ‘Perhaps I fight like twenty lions, sire.’

  ‘It was a serious question, strategos.’

  ‘Your barracks supplies the answer. The footings must be right, the foundations solid, the walls resting on firm ground. An army needs many things, but above all it needs confidence, belief that it will win the day. Training gives confidence, those are the footings. Good officers are the foundations.’

  ‘And the walls?’ asked the King.

  ‘Infantry, sire. No army can hope to conquer without good infantry.’

  ‘Could you build me an army within a year?’

  ‘I could - but what would you do with it?’

  Philip chuckled. ‘We are in a difficult position here, you and I. You are a mercenary - which means that at any time you could be standing alongside Cotys or Bardylis. I cannot tell you all my plans. And I would guess that, unless I do, you will not serve me. How do we resolve this problem?’

  ‘Tell me all you have done so far, sire, leaving nothing out. And that includes the murder of your stepbrother.’

  ‘Why not?’ answered Philip. For almost an hour the King spoke of his efforts to stave off disaster, of his wooing of Athens, his offer to Bardylis and his assurances to Cotys in Thrace. At last he faded to silence and looked at Parmenion’s face in the moonlight. The Spartan was expressionless, his eyes locked to Philip’s.

  ‘And that is all?’ he asked finally.

  Philip considered lying, but on impulse shook his head. ‘No, that is not all. Cotys may already be dead.’ He watched Parmenion relax.

  ‘Indeed he is, sire. But that still leaves the pretender Pausanius.’

  ‘Who also will soon be dead,’ said Philip, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘That is all I can tell you.’

  ‘How many men would you require within the year?’

  ‘Two thousand horsemen, and 10,000 infantry.’

  ‘Too many,’ said Parmenion. ‘They would be inadequately trained. Content yourself with 6,000 foot-soldiers - that should give you enough men to tackle Bardylis. How does your treasury stand?’

  ‘Almost empty,’ admitted Philip.

  ‘Then your first action must be to relieve the governor at Crousia and restore your fortunes. Then you must purchase armour and weapons. In Phrygia they make fine breastplates of baked leather, lined with thick cloth - not quite as effective as bronze, but lighter. The Phrygian helm is also highly regarded.’

  ‘You are giving me good advice, strategos, but you do not say whether you will join with me.’

  ‘I’ll stay for the year, sire. I’ll train your army. After that... we’ll see.’

  Philip stood and gazed out over the lantern-lit city. ‘Normally it is the King who is petitioned, but here you have reversed the position. What did I say that made you decide to stay?’

  ‘It was nothing you said, sire. It was something you did.’

  ‘But you will not tell me?’

  ‘Exactly, sire. Now to the terms. Tomorrow I would like to meet those of your officers and friends who are presently in Pella. My position will be that of First General, answerable to no man but yourself. I will warrant no argument as to the methods I use in training the men, nobles or peasant. You will give me your full backing in everything connected with training. Do you agree?’

  ‘I agree. But what will you be seeking to do first?’ asked Philip.

  ‘The formation of an elite force, the King’s Infantry Companions, the Royal Guard - 500 men, the best you have.’

  ‘Like the Sacred Band of Thebes?’

  ‘Better,’ said Parmenion. ‘For they will be Macedonian!’

  With the trench foundation complete, the soldier workers made way for the stone-masons, carpenters and wall-builders. Idle now, the men gathered in small groups to dice and gamble and talk of going home. Rumours spread through the ranks. The King was preparing to invade Illyria, to win back their homelands, the Thebans were marching on Pella, the Thracians were massing an army.

  Theo took little notice of the stories. He was more interested in events closer to the capital, and listened intently to the gossip about the pale-eyed Spartan now seen with the King and his officers. Only yesterday those same officers had been seen running in the hills, sweat shining on their bodies, their legs trembling. It had been a source of much amusement for the men. Horsemen did not take well to running. The Spartan had run with them, long loping strides that carried him far ahead, drawing them behind him like tired hounds in pursuit of a stag.

  But, despite the amusement it offered, it set Theo to thinking. Why should they run? What point was there?

  Now 100 volunteers had been sought to attend the Spartan at the new training field. Theo was the first to step forward.

  One hour after dawn he rose from his blankets and joined the straggling line of men who wandered to the field where the Spartan sat waiting. The man was wearing a woollen tunic and carried no weapons. Yet around him were stacked wooden shields and a pile of short clubs.

  When the men had gathered he gestured for them to sit, then cast his eyes slowly over the group. ‘What is the prime objective in a battle?’ he asked suddenly, lifting his hand, finger pointed. He stabbed it out in the direction of a man to theleftofTheo.

  ‘To win it,’ answered the man.

  ‘Wrong.’ The finger moved again and Theo could feel the tension aroun
d him as men willed it to pass them by. The Spartan’s hand dropped to his lap. ‘Does any man have an answer?’

  Theo cleared his throat. ‘Not to lose it?’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ said the Spartan. ‘Think about that for a moment.’ His pale eyes studied them. ‘Victory in battle is a fickle spirit that floats in the air, never knowing where to settle. A cavalry charge smashes the enemy, forcing the opposing King to retreat. Has he lost? Not yet. If his flanks can close in around the cavalry, robbing them of mobility, he can yet draw Victory to him. But, if he does, has he won? No, not if the cavalry are tight-knit and continue to drive directly at him, killing his guards. Why did Bardylis destroy your army?’ Once again the finger rose, pointing at a man at the rear of the group.

  The gods favoured him,’ answered the man, to a chorus of approval.

  ‘Maybe they did,’ said the Spartan. ‘But, in my experience, the gods always favour the clever and the strong. You lost because your King - a brave and dynamic man - threw everything into a single charge. When it failed - he failed. You failed.’

  ‘And the Spartans would have done better?’ shouted a man behind Theo.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ snapped Parmenion, ‘but you will. The King has asked me to find for him a special group of fighting men. They will be the King’s Companions, and they will fight on foot.’

  ‘We are horsemen,’ said the same man. Theo glanced round, recognizing Achillas.

  ‘Indeed you are,’ agreed the Spartan, ‘and as such you will earn your twenty-five drachms. But the men I select will be double-pay men. Each will have fifty drachms a month. Those men interested should remain, the others are free to return to their duties.’

  Not a man moved: fifty drachms was a fortune. They were all small farmers, needing money for the purchase of horses, or bulls or goats, or cereal seed. It was not a sum to be dismissed lightly.

  The Spartan stood. ‘Be warned that from every hundred I may choose only five, maybe ten men. The King desires the best. Now stand.’

  As they rose Parmenion opened a box by his side and took out a small brooch the size of a man’s thumbnail. It was made of iron. ‘On this brooch is the club of Heracles. When a man has five of these, he will have won his place in the King’s Company. With every badge goes a prize of ten drachms. The first will be won by a man who can run. Ten circuits of the field. Prepare yourselves.’ The men began to remove their breastplates. ‘Stop,’ said Parmenion. ‘When you charge the enemy you will not discard your armour. You will run as you are. Go!’