David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

Parmenion continued his run for almost an hour, increasing his speed in short, lung-bursting sprints before dropping back to an even pace. Finally he jogged to where Epaminondas lay in the shade of a spreading oak.

'You run well,' said the Theban, 'but I saw no evidence of great speed. Meleager is faster.'

Parmenion smiled. 'I don't doubt that he is. But speed comes from strength, and the middle distance is a fine race for robbing a man of that. Will you wager on me?'

'Of course, you are my guest. It would be impolite not to do so. However, do not put all your money on yourself, Parmenion.' The Spartan laughed.

'When can I race him?'

'There will be Games in three weeks. I will put your name forward. What shall we call you?'

'I was known as Savra in Sparta.'

'Lizard?' queried Epaminondas. 'No, I don't think so. We need something Macedonian.' He looked up and there, through the trees, was the stone lion dedicated by Heracles. 'There,' said the Theban.

'We will keep it simple and call you Leon. You run like a lion, with your short bursts of speed.'

'Why not keep to Parmenion? This smacks of trickery.'

'Smacks of? It is trickery, my friend. Or perhaps it would soothe our consciences if we called it strategy. You almost won a place in the Spartan team for the coming Olympics. If we let that be known, no one will bet against you. . and then you will earn no money. As it is — if you win -

the gold you gather will be mostly Spartan.'

'I need money,' Parmenion agreed, grinning.

'And there you have it,' replied Epaminondas. 'The victory of expediency over principles. And long may it remain so.'

'You are very cynical,' Parmenion observed.

The Theban nodded. 'Indeed I am. But then that is the lesson life teaches to those with eyes to see. No one is above price, be it money, or fame, or power.'

'You think you have a price?'

'Of course. To free Thebes, I would sacrifice anything.'

'There is no dishonour in that,' argued Parmenion.

'If you truly believe that, then you have a lot to learn,' the Theban answered.

During the weeks leading up to the race, Parmenion had run hard for two hours every day, building strength and stamina. Now, with only a day left, he had eased up on his training, merely loping around the track, gently stretching his muscles. He had no wish to start the race feeling tired.

As Lepidus used to say, 'Never leave your strength on the training ground, gentlemen.' Finishing his run, he bathed in the fountain by the shrine to Artemis. As usual he wandered through the city during the afternoon. Thebes continued to fascinate him with her complexity and colour, and he was dazzled by the skills shown in her construction — she made Sparta seem like a collection of peasant houses thrown together during a storm.

The public buildings here were awesome, colossal pillars and beautiful statues, but even the private homes were well built, not of sun-dried brick but of stone, shaped into polygons for close fitting. The windows were large, allowing greater light, and the inner walls were decorated with paintings, or hangings of brightly coloured wool. Even the poorer homes in the northern quarter were handsomely roofed with terracotta tiles and had skilfully carved shutters, while many courtyards boasted their own fountains.

His own home in Sparta had been modest, but not more so than many other dwellings: the floors of hard-packed earth, the walls of clay and rushes covered with lime mortar. But even Xenophon's home, which Parmenion had seen as splendid, had nothing to rival the house of Epaminondas. Every floor of the eight-roomed building was stone-studded, decorated with mosaics of white and black stone set in circles or squares. The main room, the andron, was split-levelled with seven couches for the guests. And there was a bathroom, with a water cistern inside the house!

Thebes was quite simply the most exciting place Parmenion had ever seen.

Towards dusk he would find a table at one of the many dining areas near the square, and order a meal. Servants would carry food to him on flat wooden trays — a fresh loaf, a dish of soured cream, herbs and olive oil, followed by spiced fish. He would sit out under the starlight, ending his meal with sweet honeycakes and feeling as if the gods themselves had invited him to Olympus.

It was only later, when alone in his upper room, that memories of Derae would steal upon him, bringing pain and clutching at his heart. Then he would rise from his bed and stare balefully out over the sleeping city, his thoughts bitter. Dreams of revenge grew inside his soul, building slowly like a temple of hate within him.

They would pay.

Who will pay? asked a still small voice.

Parmenion pondered the thought. It was Leonidas who was his enemy, yet the whole of Parmenion's life had been scarred by rejection, by the hated use of 'mix-blood'. He had been welcomed nowhere save at the home of Xenophon. No one in Sparta had made him feel he belonged — not even Hermias.

They will all pay, he told himself: the whole city. There will come a day when the very name Parmenion will bring a wail of anguish from 10,000 throats.

And in this way Parmenion cloaked the hurt of Derae's death.

Epaminondas spent little time with Parmenion in the days before the race. Every evening he would visit friends in distant parts of the city, going out early and arriving home late. He was cool during this time though not unfriendly, but Parmenion took to wandering the city, learning its roads and streets, orienting himself.

On most days he saw Spartan soldiers walking through the market-places or sitting at the dining areas. Their voices were loud and pompous, he felt, and the manner of the soldiers was arrogant.

In his calmer moments Parmenion knew this was untrue — they were merely unwelcome strangers in a foreign city. But his hatred was growing now, and he could rarely look upon the soldiers without feeling its dread power.

On the night before the race Epaminondas invited him to the andron and the two men reclined on couches and discussed the contest.

'Meleager likes to wait at the shoulder of the leader, then strike for home from a hundred paces,'

said the Theban.

'That suits me well,' responded Parmenion.

'He has a friend who runs with him, dark-bearded, short. In three races, when it looked as if Meleager could be beaten, this man tripped and fell in front of the leader, bringing him down.'

'Meleager should have been disqualified.'

'Perhaps,' Epaminondas agreed. 'On the second occasion at least. But he is a Spartan, and Theban objections count for little. I have managed only odds of three to one. How much money will you wager?'

Parmenion had given great thought to the race. At four to one he could have afforded to hold back some coin. But now? He lifted the pouch from his belt and handed it to the Theban.

'I have 168 drachms. Wager it all.'

'Is that wise?'

Parmenion shrugged. 'It would be nice to have choices. If I lose, I will sell the bay mare and seek employment in a mercenary company. If not? Then I will be able to hire rooms.'

'You know you are welcome to stay with me.'

'That is kind, but I will be a burden to no man.'

The training ground was packed with people when the two men arrived early the following morning, and tiered seats had been set at the centre of the field. Parmenion was restless as he waited for the races to begin. There was a boxing tourney first, but it was a sport which did not interest him and he wandered to the Grave of Hector and sat in the shade of an oak tree.

The middle race was new to the Greeks, and pride of place still went to the stadia, a sprint of 200 paces. In many cities, Xenophon had told him, training groups did not have oval tracks and runners were forced to move up and down the stadia distance, turning around poles set in the earth. But the Persians loved the longer distance races, and gradually they had caught the interest of spectators in Greece. Part of the appeal, Parmenion knew, was born of the wagers. If a man was to bet on a runner, then he liked to watch a longer race where his excitement could be extended.