David Gemmell - Dark Prince

Neither should you point out to them that Spartan skill comes only with years of training. You must coax the best from them, encourage them always. If you cannot commend their skill, then commend their courage. Treat them like brothers. Any officer who finds such methods disagreeable must be returned to his regiment. I saw several men today shouting and screaming at the recruits; that must stop.'

Black-bearded Timasion leaned forward. 'I appreciate what you are saying, my lord, but the truth is that no matter how hard we train the slaves they will not stand against the Makedones phalanx. Because it does take years of training for men to instantly follow a shouted command, to move smoothly into place, to change ranks. You cannot expect the slaves to learn it in a week or less.'

'Timasion is right,' said Lycon. 'An army is only as strong as its weakest part. We will have no cavalry and the wings will be slaves and veterans. The veterans we can trust, but they are too old to withstand a charge — and the slaves will break.'

'I will not argue with you, my friends,' Parmenion told them, 'but let me say this: To speak of defeat, or breaking, is to herald it. Once we believe that we are lost, then we are lost. The recruits are men; they will do their part. Trust me on this — and if you do not trust me, then pretend to. I want no talk of defeat or weakness. We are all warriors here, and we all understand the nature of war. Everything you say is true. . but it must not be said. Ultimately battles are won or lost on the actions of a single man. One man panics and it spreads like the plague. One man holds and others hold with him. I do not want the slaves to march out with defeat in their hearts. I want them marching like men, full of belief and hope. I want them to be proud, filled with the knowledge that their Spartan overlords hold them in high esteem. I do not care if it is not true. . but it must appear to be true. And then, when they have done their part and the victory is ours, it will be true.'

'You honestly believe we can win?' asked Leonidas.

'I don't believe it -1 know it! We are Spartans. They will not break us. No. They will break upon us. Their cavalry will skirt us. They will ride for the city, for they will know that every man in the ranks will see them and fear for the lives of his wife and children, his mother, his sisters. Then their infantry will attack, outnumbering us by perhaps three to one. The battle will be won or lost in the next hour.'

'How can you be sure that the cavalry will pass us by?' asked Lycon.

'I saw his methods at Man tinea. Philippos is not a cavalryman; he uses his infantry for all major thrusts. And he wants the city taken. He wants it all, and he has no patience. But more important than this, he would not wish to push us back in a fighting retreat only to have us defending Sparta. He will want us isolated, the city destroyed behind us.'

'And if you are wrong?' put in Timasipn. 'How then can we survive?'

Parmenion forced a smile. 'I am not wrong, but if his cavalry do not attack the city, then Oleander will march out with all his men and join us on the field of battle. One other matter. The slaves must not be issued with red cloaks; only the Spartans must wear them.'

'But why?' Oleander asked. 'Surely the object is to make the recruits feel like Spartans?'

'I want the Spartan regiments to stand out. I want the enemy to see them clearly.'

'It will be a day long remembered,' muttered Timasion. 'Five thousand Spartans against forty thousand barbarians!'

'It will be a day the Makedones will never forget,' promised Parmenion.

Nestus lay awake in the narrow pallet bed listening to the snoring of the other soldiers. Forty men slept in this long room, forty non-ranking Spartan soldiers, none of whom would speak to the giant. He was a man alone, and bitterness swamped him.

His own father had refused to receive him, and word of his shame had swept through the city. Friends shunned him in the streets, turning their faces away and pretending not to see him.

His mouth was dry and he rose from the bed and padded through to the empty dining area, where he poured himself a goblet of water. A cold breeze touched his bare back and he shivered.

Life had been so full of promise a mere two years before. He had loved Derae and a splendid wedding had been planned. His father had been so proud. A link with the royal house — brother-in-law to the future King. Everyone knew that Leonidas was the heir apparent, and Nestus was his closest friend. Oh, how bright the future, how golden!

It even outshone his frustration at having to serve the mix-blood who had become Sparta's First General.

Parmenion…

Now more than ever the mere thought of the name made bile rise in his throat, left his heart hammering.

The day had been burned into his memory, never to be erased: Agisaleus dead, Leonidas to be King. Summoned to see his friend at the Cattle Price Palace, he had joyed in the options before him. Was he to be promoted? Which regiment would he command in the new order? But no. He had learned that the wedding was cancelled and that his bride — his love — was to wed Parmenion, in order that the half-breed could become Sparta's King.

'I should have killed him then,' whispered Nestus. He pictured his sword-blade sliding through Parmenion's ribs, the light of life fading from the bastard's eyes.

Slumping down at a long table, Nestus poured another goblet of water.

And what is there now, he asked himself? Death to follow his dishonour. The destruction of Sparta, the massacre of its people. His thoughts swung to Derae and he pictured her being dragged from the palace, raped and then butchered by the barbarians.

The curse of the gods was upon the city for allowing a half-breed to sit upon the throne!

The room grew colder, but Nestus scarcely noticed it.

Why should you stay? The thought leapt unbidden to his mind, shocking him with its clarity. 'Where else could I go?'

Creta. You have friends on the island. . and you have coin.

'I couldn't desert my friends, my family.'

They have deserted you. They shun you in the street.

'I did wrong. I drew a sword upon the King.'

The half-blood? A man who used dark sorcery to win his throne and steal your woman?

Sorcery? The thought had not occurred to him before. Of course, that was it. Leonidas had been bewitched. What other reason could there be for a noble-born Spartan to relinquish his rights to the throne?

Kill him.

'No. No, I couldn't.'

Like the heroes of old, kill the man who stole your bride. Take back what is rightfully yours. Derae loves you. Save her. Take her from the city — to safety in Creta.

'To safety, yes! I could rescue her. She loves me; she would come. We could be happy there. A short ride to Gytheum, then a ship. Yes! Kill the half-blood and reclaim what is mine! Yes!'

The cold disappeared and the room became clammy and hot. The sudden change made Nestus shiver and he rose, making his way back to his bed. Silently he dressed in a grey chiton tunic and calf-length sandals. Then, taking up his cloak and sword, he walked from the barracks.

His father's house was dark and quiet and he climbed through a ground-floor window, moving stealthily through the rooms until he came to his father's study. Here, hidden behind a carved oak chest, was a niche in the stone of the wall; in it were five large leather pouches, heavy with gold. Taking two he left the house, making his way to the stables. A groom sleeping in a bed of hay by the door awoke as Nestus entered. The giant's fist crashed into the man's face, splintering his cheekbone; the groom sagged back unconscious.

Nestus put bridles and reins on two of the fastest horses, then bound their hooves with cloth before leading them out into the moonlit street and on to the Cattle Price Palace. There were only two sentries at the main doors, and both men were known to him. Leaving the horses tethered out of sight beyond the main wall, Nestus strode through the great gates and approached the men.