David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

'Have I spoken anything but the truth?" countered Parmenion, keeping his voice low.

'What has that to do with anything? If Sparta could govern with half the skill she displays in battle, then all of Greece would rejoice. But she cannot. That is the truth of the matter — and saying it will get you killed.'

'Other people are saying it,' Parmenion told him. 'The talk at the barracks is of little else.

There have been some bitter herbs for Spartans to swallow. They cling to power now only because the Persians support them. The descendants of the Sword King playing lick-spittles to the sons of Xerxes!'

'The politics of expediency,' Xenophon whispered. 'But let us leave this conversation for another few days. Then, when we are back in Olympia, we can ride and talk with only the land to listen to our idle treasons.' The two men rose and walked to the gate. 'How are your finances?' asked Xenophon.

'Not good. I sold the last share in the landholding — it will pay my mess bills until the spring.'

'And then?'

Parmenion shrugged. 'And then I will leave Sparta. No Soldiers' Hall would have me anyway, I know that. I will probably join a mercenary regiment and see the world.'

'You could sell the Sword of Leonidas,' Xenophon pointed out.

'Maybe I will,' replied Parmenion. 'I will see you in two days.'

The two men shook hands and Parmenion walked out into the night. Despite the closeness of midnight he felt no fatigue, and he walked to the acropolis and sat by the bronze statue of Zeus, staring at the sky and the diamond stars. The wind was chill now and his light woollen chiton offered little protection. Closing his mind to the cold, he cast his, eyes over the mountains.

The last three years had been good to him. He had grown tall and, though slender, was lean and powerful. His face had slimmed down, losing its boyish qualities, and his deep-set blue eyes now had a brooding look. Yet it was not, he knew, a friendly face, nor even a handsome one. The nose was too prominent and the lips too thin, making him appear older than his nineteen years.

At last, as the cold grew too much even for Parmenion, he rose to leave. Just then he saw a cloaked and hooded figure move from the Bronze House and walk towards him.

'Good evening,' he said. Moonlight glanced from the dagger-blade which leapt into the figure's hand.

'Who is there?' came a woman's voice.

'It is Parmenion and I am no danger to you, lady,' he answered, holding out his hands and showing empty palms.

'What are you doing here? Are you spying on me?'

'Not at all. I was enjoying the stars. Why should I spy on you?'

Derae pushed back the hood, the moonlight turning her hair to silver. 'It is a long time since we spoke, young Fast.'

'Indeed it is,' he replied. 'And what brings you to the Bronze House at midnight?'

'My own business,' she answered, smiling to rob the words of sharpness. 'Perhaps I too like to look at the stars.'

A movement at the edge of his vision caused Parmenion to swing his head and he saw a young man dart away behind the Sanctuary to the Muses. He said nothing.

'Good night to you,' said Derae, and Parmenion bowed and watched as the girl moved away to the path. It was a dangerous game she was playing. Unmarried Spartans were not allowed to mix freely with members of the opposite sex, and any liaison could end in execution or banishment. That was one reason why the young men were encouraged to take lovers among their male comrades. He found himself envying the young man who had fled, and realized that he too would risk a great deal for the chance to spend time alone with Derae. He still remembered the lithe young body, the small, firm breasts, the narrow waist. .

Enough! he chided himself.

Returning home, he sat in the tiny courtyard and ate a late supper of dried fish and wine; it had cost two obols. The thought of his dwindling finances depressed him. The sale of the last share in the landholding had realized 170 drachms, but eighty of these had gone to pay his mess bill.

Thirty more had been set aside to buy the armour he would need when he reached Manhood next spring. The rest must keep him in food and clothing. He shook his head. The price of a new cloak was twenty drachms, new shoes just under ten. It would be a long hard winter, he realized.

Entering the house, he shut the windows and lit a small lantern. By its light he took the Sword of Leonidas from the cupboard by the far wall and drew it from its bronze scabbard. It was an iron blade no longer than a man's forearm, the hilt decorated with gold wire which encircled a pommel globe of purest silver.

Xenophon had urged him many tunes to sell it. There were families in Sparta who would pay as much as 1,000 drachms for a blade with such an illustrious history. Parmenion slid the sword back into its scabbard; he would sooner starve than part with the only trophy of his life.

He had a dream and the sword was part of it. He would march away to war as a mercenary, gather a great fortune and an army and return to Sparta, humbling the city and visiting his vengeance on all the enemies of his youth. It was a foolish dream, and he knew it, but it sustained him.

More likely, he realized, he would be forced to sign as a koplite in a mercenary company, and spend his days marching across the endless wastes of Persia at the whim of whatever prince had the money to hire them. And what would he earn? Seven obols a day — just over a drachm. Which could mean that, if he survived twenty years with such a company, he might — just might — be able to buy a part share in a farm or landholding. And even then it would not be as large as the property his mother — and now he — had been forced to sell.

Parmenion pushed thoughts of his poverty from his mind. For at least the next eight weeks he could enjoy the comforts of Xenophon's estate at Olympia. Soft beds and good food, fine riding and hunting and, with luck, a tilt at one of the Arcadian girls who tended the sheep in the low hills.

He had found such a one last year; she was plump and willing, and an expert teacher for an inept city youth. He removed his chiton and climbed into bed, picturing her body. But he could no longer recall her face… In his mind's eye the woman moaning beneath him was Derae.

One day out from the city, the small party saw a group of horsemen cantering towards them.

Xenophon hoisted his spear and kicked the gelding into a run to meet them. Parmenion rode after him, while Tinus, Clearchus and three other servants remained with the wagon.

Parmenion guided his mount alongside Xenophon. 'I think it is Leonidas,' he shouted. The Athenian drew rein and waited, and Parmenion could see his concern. Spartan cavalry had been sent out into the Sciritis hills after two villages were hit by raiders — renegade mercenaries who had been dismissed by the authorities in Corinth. There were said to be more than thirty men in the raiding party.

Shading his eyes, Parmenion could see Leonidas riding at the head of a large group of warriors.

Behind him was his father, Patroclian. Xenophon held up a hand in greeting and Leonidas dragged on his reins while Patroclian rode forward.

'An ill day, Xenophon,' said the red-bearded Spartiate. 'My daughter, Derae, has been taken.'

'Taken? How?' Xenophon asked.

'She was riding alone to the east of our column; I think she must have stopped by a stream and dismounted. I have a Thracian servant who reads tracks and he said her horse must have run clear when they surprised her. They are heading north, into the hills.'

'We will join with you, of course,' said Xenophon.

Parmenion swung his horse's head and cantered back to the wagon. 'Hand me the bow,' he ordered Tinus.

The man reached into the back of the wagon and lifted out a bow of horn and a goatskin quiver containing twenty arrows. Parmenion hooked the quiver over his shoulder and scanned the countryside. The men were heading north, Patroclian had said, but by now they would know that Derae was part of a larger group and it would make little sense to hold to their course. To the north-east was a heavily wooded line of hills, beyond which Parmenion could see a high pass that swept northward. Without waiting for the others, he heeled the mare into a run and rode for the wooded slopes.