David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

The story of Lion of Macedon was born on a Greek island, in the shadow of a ruined acropolis, beneath the walls of a fortress built by Crusader knights. The first ideas surfaced in a bay that was said to have sheltered St Paul on his voyage to Rome. Lindos, on the island of Rhodes, is a place of quiet beauty and great charm, and her people echo her qualities.

This novel is dedicated with great affection to those people who have made my journeys to Lindos full of enchantment; to Vasilis and Tsambika of Flora's Bar, to 'Crispy' and 'Jax', and Kate and Alex.

And to Brian Gorton and his lovely wife, Kath, for the gift of the 'Eyes'.

Acknowledgements

My thanks to my editor Liza Reeves, copy editor Jean Maund, and test readers Val Gemmell, Edith Graham, Tom Taylor, and 'young Jim of the Penguin' who forced me to rewrite from scratch. And special thanks to my researcher Stella Graham, who ploughed through scores of heavy tomes seeking inspiration, and to Paul Henderson, who checked the manuscript for historical accuracy.

The world of the ancient Greeks was one of turmoil and war, intrigue and treachery. There was no Greek nation; the divided land was ruled by scores of city states which fought continually for domination.

For centuries the great cities of Athens and Sparta battled across land and sea for the right to become the leaders of Greece. Thebes, Corinth, Orchomenus, Plataea — all changed sides time and again and Victory flew between the warring factions, always the harlot, moving on, sweet with a promise she would not keep.

The Greek wars were financed by Persia, fearful that a united Greece would seek to dominate the world. The Persians grew rich and their empire flourished across Asia and Egypt, their power felt in every city of the civilized world. But still their wary eyes watched events in Greece; for twice the Persians had invaded the Greek mainland, and twice had suffered terrible defeats.

The Athenians and their allies crushed the army of Darius on the field of Marathon. Darius' son, Xerxes, then led a massive army, numbering more than a quarter of a million men, to subdue Greece once and for all.

A small Spartan force blocked their way at the pass of Thermopylae and held them for days. The Persians won through at last, sacking the city of Athens and ravaging the countryside, until finally they were decisively beaten in two battles. On land 5,000 Spartans, led by the general Pausanius, inflicted a humiliating defeat on the Persian horde, while at sea the Athenian admiral Themistocles destroyed the Persian fleet at Salamis.

Persia would never again invade, seeking instead to rule by intrigue.

The events detailed in Lion of Macedon (i.e. the taking of the Cadmea, the battles at Thermopylae, Leuctra and Heraclea Lyncestis) are all historically based. The main characters (Parmenion, Xenophon, Epaminondas and Philip of Macedon) all walked those ancient mountains and plains, following their own paths of honour, loyalty and duty.

But the story of the Lion ofMacedon is my own. History has all but forgotten Parmenion. No one can know whether he was the king of the Pelagonians, a Macedonian adventurer or a Thessalian mercenary.

Yet, whatever the truth, I hope his shade will smile in the Hall of Heroes when this tale reaches him.

David A. Gemmell

Hastings 1990

A wonderful people are the Athenians. They elect ten new generals every year. In all my life I have known only one — and that is Parmenion.

Philip II of Macedon

It had begun with a morbid fascination to know the day of her death. She had tracked the limitless paths of the future, tracing the myriad lines of possible tomorrows. In some futures she had died of illness or plague, in others of seizures or murder. In one she had even fallen from a horse, though riding was distasteful to her and she could not imagine ever being persuaded to mount such a beast.

But as she idly traced the possibilities, she became aware of a dark shadow at the edge of her last tomorrow. No matter when she died, the shadow was constant. It began to gnaw at her. With all the thousands of futures, how could this shadow remain? Tentatively she moved beyond the days of her death and saw the futures expand and grow. The shadow was stronger now, its evil palpable. And in a moment which touched her beyond terror she realized that, even as she knew of the shadow, so it was becoming aware of her.

Yet Tamis was not without courage. Steeling herself, she chose a path and flew to the heart of the shadow, feeling the power of the Dark God eating into her soul like acid. She could not hold her presence here for long, and fled back to the transient security of a solid present.

The knowledge she had gained became a terrible weight which burdened the old priestess. She could share it with no one and knew that at the most critical moment, when the evil needed to be challenged, she would be dead.

She prayed then, harder than she ever had, her thoughts spinning out into the cosmos. A darkness grew inside her mind, then a single light shone and she saw a face, lined but strong, hawklike with piercing blue eyes beneath a helm of iron. The face blurred and faded, to be replaced by that of a boy. Yet still the eyes were piercing blue, the mouth set in a determined line. A name came to her. But was it that of a saviour or a destroyer? She could not know, she could only hope. But the name echoed in her mind like distant thunder.

Parmenion!

They came at him silently from the shadows, faces hooded and masked, wooden clubs raised.

Parmenion darted to the left — but two more attackers ran into his path and a club slashed past his head, grazing his shoulder. His fist hammered into the masked face, then he cut to the right and sprinted towards Leaving Street. The cold, marble eyes of the statue of Athena gazed down on the boy as he ran, drawing him on towards her. Parmenion leapt to the base of the statue, clambering up to stand against the stone legs.

'Come down! Come down!' chanted his tormentors. 'We have something for you, mix-blood!'

'Then come up and give it to me,' he told them. The five attackers ran forward. Parmenion's foot lashed into the face of the first, hurling him back, but a club cracked against his leg to knock him from his feet. He rolled, kicking out and sending an assailant sprawling, then he was up again and leaping high over them to land heavily on the street. A hurled club took him between the shoulder-blades and he staggered. Instantly they were upon him, pinning his arms.

'Now we have you,' said a voice, muffled by the woollen scarf masking the mouth.

'You don't need the mask, Gryllus,' hissed Parmenion. 'I'd know you by the smell.'

'You will not contest the Final tomorrow,' said another voice. 'You understand? You should never have been allowed to take part. The General's Games are for Spartans — not half-breeds.'

Parmenion relaxed — his manner becoming subdued, his head dropping. The hold on his arms eased.

suddenly he wrenched free, his fist thundering into Gryllus' face. They swarmed in on him then, punching and kicking, driving him to his knees. Gryllus hauled him up by his hair as the others pinned his arms once more.

'You asked for this,' said Gryllus, drawing back his fist. Pain exploded in Parmenion's jaw and he sagged against his captors. The blows continued; short, powerful hooks to the belly and face.

Parmenion did not cry out. There is no pain, he told himself. There is no. . pain.

'What's going on there?'

'It's the night-watch!' whispered one of his captors. Loosing their hold on Parmenion, the youths sprinted off into an alleyway. Parmenion fell to the street and rolled. Above him loomed the silent statue of Athena of the Road. As he groaned and lurched to his feet, two soldiers ran to him.