David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

'You seem sure the King will employ you?'

The warrior shrugged. 'Did you like my horse, sire?'

'Yes, he is a fine. . how did you know me?'

'You are much changed from the boy I saw in Thebes, and I might not have recognized you. However, you are also the only man not working — and such, I would guess, is the King's prerogative. I am hot, and my throat is dusty — and it would be pleasant if we could find a place out of the sun and discuss why you asked me here.'

'Indeed we shall,' said Philip, smiling broadly. 'But first let me say that you are a prayer answered. You have no idea how greatly you are needed.'

'I think I have,' answered Parmenion. 'I remember a young boy telling me of a country surrounded by enemies — Illyrians, Paionians, Thracians. A soldier remembers such things.'

'Well, it is worse now. I have no army to speak of and little but my wits to hold back our foes.

Gods, man, but I'm pleased to see you!"

'I may not stay,' warned Parmenion.

'Why?' Philip asked, a cold fear touching his heart.

'I do not yet know if you are a man I would wish to serve.'

'You speak frankly, but I cannot question the wisdom behind the words. Come with me to the palace; there you can bathe and shave and refresh yourself. Then we can talk.'

Parmenion nodded. 'Did you really fight like ten lions?' he asked, his face expressionless.

'More like twenty,' replied Philip, 'but I am modest by nature.'

Parmenion climbed out of the bath and strolled to the window, allowing the water to evaporate from his skin, cooling it. Running his fingers through his thinning hair, he turned to Mothac.

'What did you think of him?'

Mothac shook his head. 'I don't like to see a King in a loincloth, digging dirt like a peasant.'

'You've been among the Persians too long, my friend.'

'Will we stay?'

Parmenion did not answer. The journey had been long across Asia Minor and into Thrace, crossing mountains and rivers. And despite the saving of a week's travel after the meeting with Aristotle, he was tired and felt the dull ache of the old spear-wound under his right shoulder. He rubbed himself down with a towel, then lay on a couch while Mothac massaged oil into his back.

Macedonia. It was greener than he had imagined, more lush. But he experienced a slight disappointment, for he had hoped to feel that he had come home. Instead it was just another land, boasting tall mountains and fertile plains.

Dressing in a simple tunic and sandals, he wandered out to the courtyard to watch the setting sun.

He felt old and bone-weary. Epaminondas was dead — slain at Mantinea just as Tamis had foretold.

Parmenion shivered.

Mothac brought him a pitcher of wine and they sat in comfortable silence. As the sun set Mothac lit a lantern and the two men ate a frugal meal of bread and cheese.

'You liked him, didn't you?' asked Mothac at last.

'Yes. He reminds me of Pelopidas.'

'He'll probably end his life the same way,' remarked Mothac.

'By Heaven, you're in a sour mood,' snapped Parmenion. 'What's wrong with you?'

'With me? Nothing. But I want to know why we left Susa to come here. We had the life of princes; we were rich, Parmenion. What does this frontier land hold for us? The Macedonians will never amount to anything. And what do you have to gain here? You are known as the greatest general in the civilized world. But it is not enough, is it? You cannot resist the impossible challenge.'

'You are probably right. But I asked you if you wanted to stay in Persia. I put no bridle on you, Mothac.'

The Theban grunted. 'You think friendship has no chains? Well, it has. Even to following you — and your pride — into this wilderness with its half-Greek barbarians.'

Parmenion reached out and gripped his friend's arm.

'You shame me, Mothac. And I am sorry if this enterprise does not meet with your approval. I don't understand all the reasons that drew me here. Partly it was the call of blood. My ancestors lived on this land, fought for it, died for it; I had to see it. But there is truth in what you say. I know what men call me, but are they correct? I have always led well-trained armies, mostly outnumbering the enemy. Here, as you observe, there is a challenge. The Illyrians are disciplined and well-led, the Thracians ferocious and many, the Olynthians rich enough to hire the best mercenaries. What glory would there be in leading any of them? But Macedon?' He smiled. 'I cannot resist it, my friend.'

'I know,' said Mothac wearily. 'I have always known.'

'That we would come to Macedonia?"

'No. It is not easy to put into words.' He was silent for a while, his green eyes fixed to Parmenion's face. Finally he smiled, reaching forward to grip his friend's shoulder. 'I think -

deep inside — you are still the mix-blood boy in Sparta, striving to prove your worth. And, if you succeed here — which is doubtful — you will hunt the impossible challenge elsewhere. And the foolish Mothac will be with you. And now I'll say goodnight.' The Theban rose and walked away to his rooms.

For a while Parmenion sat alone, his thoughts sombre, then he strolled out into the gardens beyond the courtyard and up the steps of the high wall, where he leaned on the parapet looking south towards Thessaly.

Mothac was right, he knew. The boy Savra remained within the general Parmenion — sad and lonely, still seeking a home, a love, happiness. He had hoped to find it in Persia, in wealth and renown.

But fame was no answer, and fortune merely served to remind him of all the joys he could not buy.

All was darkness beyond the city, but somewhere out there to the south Pelopidas had fallen, fighting alongside the Thessalians against the Tyrant of Pherae. The enemy advancing on all fronts, Pelopidas had charged into their centre, cleaving his way towards the Tyrant. It had changed the course of the battle, but the Theban had died in the charge. The victorious Thessalians had cut the manes and tails from their horses in honour of the dead general.

Parmenion shivered. He had thought Pelopidas invulnerable. 'But no man is,' he whispered. 'May the gods bless your spirit, Pelopidas. May you know joy in the Hall of Heroes.'

'Do you believe that he does?' asked Philip, moving up the steps and sitting opposite Parmenion.

The older man sighed. 'It would be fitting. You should have seen him at Leuctra — like a god of War he clove the enemy, striking down the Battle King.'

Philip nodded. 'While you charged the enemy centre, sending their javeliners and archers running from the field. It was your victory, Parmenion, the forerunner of many more in Cappadocia, Phrygia, Egypt, Mesopotamia. You have never lost. Why is that?'

'Perhaps I fight like twenty lions, sire.'

'It was a serious question, strategos.'

'Your barracks supplies the answer. The footings must be right, the foundations solid, the walls resting on firm ground. An army needs many things, but above all it needs confidence, belief that it will win the day. Training gives confidence, those are the footings. Good officers are the foundations.'

'And the walls?' asked the King.

'Infantry, sire. No army can hope to conquer without good infantry.'

'Could you build me an army within a year?'

'I could — but what would you do with it?'

Philip chuckled. 'We are in a difficult position here, you and I. You are a mercenary — which means that at any time you could be standing alongside Cotys or Bardylis. I cannot tell you all my plans. And I would guess that, unless I do, you will not serve me. How do we resolve this problem?'

'Tell me all you have done so far, sire, leaving nothing out. And that includes the murder of your stepbrother.'

'Why not?' answered Philip. For almost an hour the King spoke of his efforts to stave off disaster, of his wooing of Athens, his offer to Bardylis and his assurances to Cotys in Thrace. At last he faded to silence and looked at Parmenion's face in the moonlight. The Spartan was expressionless, his eyes locked to Philip's.