David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

Lying back, he thought of Nestus and the terrible fear in the man's eyes, and remembered with sorrow the look on Hermias' face as he had swung round with the bloody sword in his hands. Hermias was his friend no longer — worse, Parmenion had seen in him the beginnings of hate.

Through all the years of his childhood Hermias had been his one ally, loyal and steadfast. It hurt the young Spartan that such a gulf should have come between them. But that is yet another price I must pay, he thought, to achieve my revenge.

Revenge. The word stirred in him like a living thing — writhing, growing, dissolving the memories of the dream and the calm that followed it. Revenge will be neither simple nor swift, he told himself. I must bide my time, learn the ways of this new city, seek out the rebels who hate the Spartans as I do. But I must act with care. His thoughts turned to Epaminondas. Here was a man to cultivate — a great warrior, but also a thinker. Parmenion rose from the bed and drew the Sword of Leonidas from its scabbard, the moonlight reflecting on the blade and turning it to silver. A longing began in him then to plunge the blade again and again into the hearts of his enemies, to see it dripping with their blood. Do I have the patience? he asked himself. How long can I wait?

Xenophon's words echoed in his mind: 'The good general — if he has a choice — does not engage in battle until he is sure he can win, no more than a warrior will charge into the fight with a piece of iron ore. He will wait until the armourer has forged from it a blade with a killing edge.'

Parmenion drew in a deep, calming breath and sheathed the sword. 'You are right as always, Xenophon. And I miss you. I will bide my time.' Returning toJu's bed he dozed for a while, cascading images flowing through his mind. The General's Games, his mother's death, Derae running on the training ground, Derae lying beneath him in the oak grove, Nestus dying, drowning in his own blood.

And he dreamt he was walking on a dark hillside beneath a crimson sky. A white tree was growing there, its trunk made up of gaping skulls obscenely wedged together. Swords and spears, gripped by skeletal hands, were its branches, and the fruits of the tree were severed heads, dripping blood to the ground. Where the gore touched the earth dark flowers grew, the blooms in the shape of faces. A cold wind moaned across the flowers and Parmenion seemed to hear a thousand distant whispers sighing, 'Spare me! Spare me!'

A shadow moved upon the hillside and the Spartan swung to see a hooded figure rise up before the tree. 'What do you wish for, young warrior?' came a woman's voice from within the hood.

'Blood and vengeance,' he replied.

'You shall have it,' she told him.

Parmenion awoke to the dawn and joined Epaminondas on the lower terrace for breakfast. The Theban was wearing a simple tunic of grey-green which made his pale, pockmarked face seem sallow and unhealthy. But his dark eyes were bright and his smile open and friendly as Parmenion joined him.

'You mentioned a run, Parmenion. Are you an athlete?' 'I am fast, and should have represented Sparta in the Olympics. But I made a mistake in the final race and was edged out by Leonidas.'

'Interesting. There is a man in Thebes who runs with great speed. He is a Spartan from the citadel: his name is Meleager.'

'I have heard of him. Leonidas beat him by ten paces a year ago.'

'You think you could beat him?'

Parmenion broke bread and dipped it into a bowl of onions, soft cheese and oil. 'Unless he has grown wings.'

'How much money do you have?' Epaminondas asked.

'I signed over my house to Xenophon, in return for which he gave me a hundred and eighty drachms and the bay mare. It will not last long.'

'Indeed it will not. Does Meleager know of you?'

Parmenion shrugged. 'He will know of my name, but what has this to do with the money I hold?'

'Here in Thebes we wager on races. If you could beat Meleager — and no one else has — you could treble, perhaps quadruple your money.'

Parmenion leaned back in his chair. No one wagered in Sparta, it was considered vulgar. But it would be a fine way to extend his finances. At present he had barely enough money to see him through to the spring. If he did quadruple the amount, he would be able to eke out a careful existence for at least two years. But what if you lose? he asked himself. Races were tough, the runners using elbows and shoulders to barge their way through. Then there was the danger of being tripped, or falling. Nothing was certain in competition.

'I will think on it,' said Parmenion.

The lolaus training ground was bordered by oak trees to the north and west. To the east was the shrine to Artemis of the Glory, a high-columned temple dedicated to the goddess of the hunt, and to the south was the legendary Grave of Hector, the mighty Trojan warrior slain by Achilles during the war with Troy.

As Parmenion stretched the muscles of his thighs and groin, prior to his training run, he gazed at Hector's tomb. It was of marble, decorated with raised reliefs, carvings which showed his valiant battle with the Greek hero. Parmenion had always felt a great admiration for Hector.

Most Spartans spoke of Achilles, for he was the victor, and yet it seemed to Parmenion that Hector had shown the greater courage. An oracle had warned Hector that to fight Achilles would mean death, for his opponent was invincible. During the ten-year Trojan war both men had studiously avoided single combat. And then, one bright morning, Hector had seen Achilles riding towards him in a bronze chariot, his armour — caught in the sunlight — seeming to blaze with white fire. The two men had met on the field of combat — and Hector won. He struck down Achilles with a terrible blow to the neck, and watched his nemesis writhe in his death throes.

What a glory for Hector, what a weight lifted from his heart! Now he would see his baby son grow to manhood, now he would know again the peace which the oracle had stolen. He knelt by the body and tore the white plumed helmet from the head — only to find himself gazing down on the dead face of Patroclus, Achilles' lover. Hector staggered back, shocked, confused. He ran to a Greek prisoner. 'What is the meaning of this?' he demanded. 'Why was Patroclus wearing Achilles'

armour?'

The man could not meet Hector's fierce eyes, but looked down. 'Achilles has decided to return home. He will fight no more,' he said.

Oh, but he would. Hector knew that. In killing Patroclus he had hastened his own doom. Leaping into his chariot, he galloped his horses back into the city of Troy and waited for the challenge he knew must come.

Within the hour Achilles was at the gates. .

Parmenion finished his exercises and walked to the tomb, laying his hand upon it. 'You went out to meet him, Hector,' he said. 'That was bravely done. And you died as a man should, facing his enemy.'

The bones of Hector had been brought from the ruins of Troy and buried in Thebes because of another oracle which said, 'Thebans in the city of Cadmos, your country shall have innocent wealth if you bring out of Asia the bones of Hector. Carry them home and worship the hero by the decree of Zeus.'

The Thebans had obeyed. Every year, according to Epaminondas, they declared a holy day for Hector and a great celebration was held at the training ground, where men and women danced and drank in honour of the Trojan. And wealth had followed, in trade with Athens in the south and the exporting of goods north to Thessaly and Macedonia, to the Illyrians and the Thracians. Thebes was awash with coin.

Parmenion sucked in a deep breath and began to run. The track was hard-baked clay, formed in a great oval that skirted the training ground. Five circuits represented a mile. He loped easily round the circuit, examining the ground. The races all began and ended at the Shrine to Artemis, so he stopped on the last curve before the finish and knelt to examine the track. Here it was more concave, the clay powdery on the surface. This was no surprise, for the runners would kick for home and over the years the track had taken more punishment here. A man could slip and fall at this point, were he not wary. He would need to come wide on this last bend. . but then so would Meleager.