David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

Leonidas was led to a tent where Parmenion waited.

'I knew it was your plan,' said Leonidas. 'How does it feel to have defeated the army of your homeland?'

'You are here to concede defeat,' Parmenion told him coldly, 'and to ask permission to remove your dead. I give you that permission.'

. 'You do not wish to gloat?' Leonidas asked. 'I am here, Parmenion. Mock me if you will. Tell me how you promised this. Tell me how fine it makes you feel.'

'I cannot. And if I could, I would not. You almost held us. With a mere twelve ranks you almost turned the battle.

Had Cleombrotus fallen back to link with you, you could have held. There has never been an army so disciplined, or so brave, as that of Sparta. I salute your dead, as I salute the memory of all that was great in Spartan history.' He poured two goblets of wine, passing one to the stunned Spartan. 'A long time ago,' he continued, 'your sister wanted to buy you a gift. I would not sell it. But now is the time for it to be returned.' Unbuckling his sword-belt he passed the legendary blade to Leonidas, who stared down at it disbelievingly.

Then Leonidas sat on the pallet bed and drained his wine at a single swallow. 'What is it that we do to one another?' asked the Spartan. 'You won the Games fairly. I said it then, and I will say it now. I never asked those boys to beat you. Indeed, I did not know it was happening. And I wish that you had married Derae. But events propel us, Par-menion. Our souls are but leaves in a storm, and only the gods know where we will come to rest. We are enemies, you and I; the Fates have decreed that. But you are a man of courage — and you fight like a Spartan. I salute your victory.'

He stood and returned the empty goblet. 'What will you do now?'

'I shall leaves Thebes and travel. I will see the world, Leonidas.'

'As a soldier?'

'It is all that I have — all that I know.'

'Farewell then, Parmenion. If we meet again, I will do my utmost to kill you.'

'I know. May the gods walk with you, Leonidas.'

'And with you. . strategos.'

Tamis was confused as her spirit eyes watched Parmenion return the legendary sword. That was not how it was meant to happen. The hatred between the two men should have been strengthened — all the futures showed it so. For a moment only her confusion threatened to become panic, but she brushed her doubts aside. What did it matter? Three of the Chosen were dead. Only one remained.

And with him there was time. All kinds of accidents could befall a fourteen-year-old hostage living in Thebes.

Surely he would prove less of a threat than Cleombrotus, the mighty Battle King of the Spartans?

The boy was not even from a civilized city, born and bred as he was in the forests and hills of Macedonia.

He would probably be murdered like his father. Such was the fate of those close to the throne in backward nations, the King eliminating all possible rivals.

No, Tamis decided, there was nothing to fear from Philip of Macedon.

Philip of Macedon watched the cheering crowds as the flower-garlanded heroes of Leuctra marched through the streets. It had been an unbelievable victory. Never before had the Spartan army been defeated in such a manner. It was both impossible and somehow wonderful — even to a Macedonian.

Philip could understand the irrepressible joy of the multitudes, for they were celebrating an event few of them had believed credible — the Spartans crushed by a smaller force.

There was music from the streets, and Philip longed to leave the silent house and join them, to dance and forget his own private torments.

But Pammenes had told him to wait for a visitor.

The Theban had been unable to meet his eyes, shifting nervously as he spoke. Fear and anger had flared in Philip at that moment, but he masked both emotions until Pammenes had left. Moving back from the window, Philip poured himself a goblet of water and considered the problem.

He had heard nothing from his brother Perdiccas for two months, so the present fear was hardly new. Perdiccas was three years older than Philip, and therefore closer to the throne. He would be the first to die. So Philip wrote to him constantly, and to his cousins and nieces — asking about the royal horse herds, enquiring after the health of relatives. When the letters from Perdiccas stopped Philip's sleepless nights had begun, as he waited for the day of the assassin. Now it was here. They would not kill him while he was in Thebes, he reassured himself, for that would be bad manners. Idly he touched the dagger at his belt. Little use this would be. Though strong, Philip was a mere 14 years old and no match for any but the clumsiest adult warrior. And they would send no one clumsy.

'What shall I do, Crosi?' he asked the ghost of the old man. There was no answer, but whispering the name aloud helped ease his tension. He remembered the night of the knives, the old man moving silently into his bedroom with a short sword in his hand. Philip had been ten then. Crosi had led him to a shadowed corner of the room, ordering him to hide behind a couch.

'What is happening?' Philip asked.

'Blood and death,' replied the old man. 'But I will protect you, boy. Have no fear.'

Philip had believed him. At ten a child has faith in the fully-grown. Crosi had sat on the couch, sword in hand, and they had waited until the dawn. No one came.

Philip had crouched in the cold, wrapped in a blanket, too frightened to ask the nature of the peril. As the sun cleared the distant Crousian mountains, Crosi had relaxed.

'Come out, boy,' he said, taking Philip's hand and drawing him forth. He put his arms around the prince and hugged him briefly. 'Last night,' he said, 'your father died. Ptolemaos now rules in Macedonia.'

'But. . Father is so strong! He can't be dead!'

'No man can withstand a dagger in the heart, Philip.'

'Who did it? And why?'

'These are questions I will not answer, boy. But, for now — I hope — your danger is past.'

. 'Uncle Ptolemaos will look after me,' said Philip, but even at ten he saw the angry look in Crosi's eyes just before the old man stood and turned away. He did not fully understand it then, but now he remembered it clearly. Now he knew the answers, though no one had ever voiced them.

Ptolemaos had killed King Amyntas. Uncle Ptolemaos, who within three months had married Philip's mother, Eurydice, and buried her a year later beside her murdered husband. Philip's parents had been cold towards their youngest son, but even so the boy had loved them, worshipping his father and doing all in his power to please him.

The following year had seen Philip's boyhood washed away in the acid of intrigue and sudden death.

Philip's eldest brother, Alexander, had been found murdered at his summer home in Aigai, killed by unknown assailants. Three adult cousins died mysteriously.

Then had come the Theban demand for hostages, following a short, bitter month of conflict between the Macedonian army and a force led by Pelopidas, the great Theban warrior. The Macedonians had been crushed. Ptolemaos sent twelve hostages — including Philip — to Thebes, and for the first time in months the young prince felt safe.

They had not let Crosi come with him, and the old man had died of a fever last spring. Philip still mourned him, and prayed that his ghost would be allowed to walk alongside him until his own assassination. Then, maybe, together they could journey into the Lands of the Dead.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs jerked Philip's thoughts to the present. He stood — and found his legs trembling.

A tall warrior, in full armour and white-plumed helm, entered the room. The man was not old, perhaps eighteen, but his eyes were pale and cold.