David Gemmell: Lion of Macedon

'You think too much, Athenian,' said the King, taking Xenophon's arm. 'What was it this morning?

Athens? Persia? The lack of campaigns? Or are you longing to return to your estates at Olympia, and deny us the pleasure of your company?'

'Athens,' Xenophon admitted. Agisaleus nodded, his shrewd eyes locking to the other's face.

'It is not a simple matter to be called a traitor by your own people, to be banished from your homeland. But perspectives change, my friend. Had you held a senior position in Athens, perhaps the war would not have been so terrible — perhaps there would have been no war. Then you would have been a hero. I, for one, am delighted you did not command an army against us. Our losses would have been much higher.'

'But you would not have lost?' queried Xenophon.

'Perhaps the odd skirmish,' Agisaleus conceded, chuckling. 'For a battle is not just about the skill of generals, but also the quality of the warriors.'

The two men walked to the crest of a low hill and sat on the first row of stone seats overlooking the Planes.

The Manhood line, numbering 240 men, was being incorporated into the Eight formation, and Xenophon watched with interest as the new recruits practised — alongside 3,000 regulars — the charge and the wheel, the surge and the flanking hook.

There was a marked difference in their enthusiasm as the sweating men saw the King on the hill above them. But AgisaJeus was not watching them; he turned to Xenophon.

'We have been too insular,' said the King, removing his own red-plumed helm and setting it on the seat beside him.

'Insular?' responded Xenophon. 'Is that not Sparta's greatest strength?'

'Strength and weakness, my friend, often seem as close as husband and wife. We are strong because we are proud. We are weak because our pride never allowed us to grow.' He flung out his arm, encompassing the land. 'Where are we? Deep in the south, far from the trade routes, a small city state. Our pride does not allow for intermarriage, though it is not against any law, and the number of true Spartans is therefore held down. On that field are 3,000 men, one-third of all our armies — which is why we can win battles, but never build an empire. You feel the pain of Athens?

She will survive and prosper long after we Spartans are dust. She has the sea; she is the centre, the heart of Greece. We will beat her in a thousand battles yet lose the war.'

Agisaleus shook his head and shivered. 'The Ice Beast walked across my soul,' he said. 'Forgive my gloom.'

Xenophon swung his eyes back to the fighting men on the Planes. There was a great truth in the King's sorrowful words. For all her military might, Sparta was a small city state with a population diminished by the terrible wars which had raged through the Peleponnese. He glanced at his friend and changed the subject.

'Will you present the prize at the General's Games?'

Agisaleus smiled and the melancholy passed from him. 'I have a special gift today for the winner -

one of the seven swords of Leonidas the King.'

Xenophon's eyes widened. 'A princely gift, my lord,' he whispered.

Agisaleus shrugged. 'My nephew is of the bloodline and carries the King's name; it is fitting he should have the blade. I would have given it to him anyway on his birthday in three weeks' time.

But it will make a nice occasion, and will give the boy a fine memory of the day he won the Games.

I won them myself thirty years ago.'

'It will be a fine gesture, my lord, but. . what if he does not win?'

'Be serious, Xenophon. He is pitted against a half-breed Macedonian, one step from being a helot.

How can he not win? He is a Spartan, of the Blood Royal. And anyway, since you are the chief judge I am sure we can rely on a just result.'

'Just?' countered Xenophon, turning away to mask his anger. 'Let us at least be honest.'

'Oh, do not be stiff with me,' said Agisaleus, throwing his arm around his friend's shoulder. 'It is only a child's game. Where is the harm?"

'Where indeed?' replied Xenophon.

Parmenion slowed in his run as he approached the white-walled home of Xenophon. Already the visitors were gathering and he could see Hermias at the edge of the crowd, talking to Gryllus.

Anger flared as he remembered the short, powerful, hooked punches, and he felt the desire to stalk across the crowded street, take Gryllus by the hair and ram his foul head into the wall until the stones were stained with blood.

Calm yourself! He knew Gryllus would be present — as Xenophon's son this was his home; secondly he would carry the Black Cloak for Leonidas. But it galled Parmenion that Gryllus was accepted — even liked — by other youths in the barracks. How is it, he wondered, that an Athenian can win them over but I can't? He has no Spartan blood, yet my father was a hero. Pushing the thought from his mind Parmenion eased himself through the crowds, closing in on the two youngsters. Gryllus saw him first and his smile froze into place, his eyes darkening.

'Welcome to the day of your humiliation,' said the Athenian.

'Get back from me, Gryllus,' warned Parmenion, his voice shaking. 'The sight of you makes me want to vomit. And know this: if you come at me again I will kill you. No blows. No bruises. Just worms and death!'

Xenophon's son staggered back as if struck, dropping the black cloak he carried. Swiftly he gathered it and vanished into the doorway of the house.

Turning to Hermias Parmenion tried to smile, but the muscles of his face were tight and drawn.

Instead he reached out to embrace his friend, but Hermias drew back. 'Be careful,' said Hermias.

'It is a bad omen to touch the cloak!'

Parmenion gazed down at the dark wool draped across Hermias' arm. 'It is only a cloak,' he whispered, stroking his fingers across it. The loser of the Game would be led from the battlefield, cloaked and hooded to hide his shame. No Spartan could be expected to look upon such a humiliation with anything but loathing. But Parmenion did not care. If Leonidas won, that would be shame enough. Wearing the cloak would worry him not at all.

'Come,' said Hermias, taking Parmenion's arm. 'Let us walk awhile — we do not want to be early.

How is your mother?'

'Getting stronger,' answered Parmenion, aware of the lie yet needing it to be true. As they walked away he heard a cheer and glanced back to see the arrival of the golden-haired Leonidas. He watched with envy as men gathered round to wish him luck.

The two youths walked up the stony path to the Sanctuary of Ammon, a small, circular building of white stone fronted by marble hoplites. From here Parmenion could see the Sacred Lake and, beyond the city, the tree-shrouded Temple of Aphrodite, Goddess of Love.

'Are you nervous?' asked Hermias, as they sat beneath the marble statues.

'My stomach is knotted, but my mind is calm,' Parmenion told him.

'What formation will you use?'

'A new one.' Swiftly Parmenion outlined his plan.

Hennias listened in silence, then shook his head. 'You must not do this, Savra! Please listen to me! It is unthinkable!'

Surprised by his friend's reaction, Parmenion chuckled. 'It is just a mock battle, Hennias. Wooden soldiers and knuckle-bones. Is not the object to win?'

'Yes, yes, but. . they will never allow it. Gods, Savra, can you not see it?'

'No,' answered Parmenion. 'Anyway, what does it matter? No one will have to sit through a two-hour ordeal. Win or lose, it will be over in minutes.'

'I do not think so,' whispered Hermias. 'Let us go back.'

Xenophon's courtyard was crowded, the guests climbing to the banked seats against the western wall where they could sit in the shade. Parmenion was uncomfortably aware of the poverty he showed in his ill-fitting chiton; but then his mother had only the one small landholding, and from that meagre income she had to find enough money for food and clothing and to pay for Parmenion's training. All Spartan youths were charged for their food and lodging, and inability to pay meant loss of status. When poverty struck a family they lost not only the right to vote but the right to call themselves Spartan. It was the greatest shame a man could suffer. Ejected from his barracks, he would have to take employment and become little better than a helot.