Gemmell,David - Lion of Macedon

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Lion of Macedon

By David Gemmell v1.0

Dedication

The story of Lion ofMacedon 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.

Contents

Author's Foreword

BOOK ONE

Spring, 389 BC

Sparta, Summer, 385 BC

Sparta, Summer, 382 BC

Thebes, Autumn, 382 BC

BOOK TWO

Thebes, Autumn, 379 BC

The Temple, Asia Minor, 379 BC

Thebes, Summer, 371 BC

BOOK THREE

Thebes, Autumn, 371 BC

Pella, Macedonia, 371 BC

The Temple, Summer, 359 BC

Macedonia, Summer, 359 BC

The City of Susa, Persia, Autumn, 359 BC

The Thracian Border, Autumn, 359 BC

Illyria, Autumn, 359 BC

The Temple, Autumn, 359 BC

Pella, Spring, 358 BC

The Lyncestian Plain, Summer, 358 BC

The Temple, Summer, 357 BC

Samothrace, Summer, 357 BC

The Temple, Summer, 357 BC

Lake Prespa, Midwinter, 356 BC

The Temple, Asia Minor, Winter, 356 BC

The Temple, Spring, 356 BC

Pella, Macedonia,

Isle of Samothrace,

The Temple,

Pella, Spring, 356 BC

Bibliography

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Author's Foreword

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 ofMacedon (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

Book One

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

Spring, 389 BC

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

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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!

Sparta, Summer, 385 BC

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.

'What happened to you?' asked the first, gripping Parmenion's shoulder.

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'I fell.' Parmenion shook loose the helping hand and spat blood.

'And your friends were assisting you to rise, I suppose?' grunted the man. 'Why don't you walk

with us for a while?'

'I need no escort,' Parmenion told them.

The soldier looked into the youth's pale blue eyes. 'They are still in the alley,' he said,

keeping his voice low.

'I did not doubt it,' answered Parmenion, 'but they'll not take me unawares again.' As the

soldiers moved away Parmenion sucked in a deep breath and began to run, ducking into alleys and

cutting left and right towards the market-place. For a while he heard his pursuers, but then there

was only the silence of the city night.

They would expect him to make either for the barracks or for the home of his mother. He would do

neither. Instead he ran through the deserted market-place and on to the sanctuary hill above the

city.

Back at the statue of Athena an old woman stepped out into the moonlight, leaning on a long staff.

She sighed and sat down on a marble seat - her body weary, her mind touched with sorrow.

'I am sorry, Parmenion,' she said. 'Strong though you are, I must make you iron. You are a man of

destiny.' She thought then of the other boys in the barracks. How easy it was to make them hate

the half-breed, such a simple enchantment. To heal a boil took more psychic energy than to

encourage hatred. It was a disturbing thought and Tamis shivered.

Glancing up at the statue she saw the blind, marble eyes staring down at her. 'Do not be so

haughty,' she whispered. 'I know your true name, woman of stone. I know your weaknesses and your

desires, and I have more power than you.'

Tamis pushed herself to her feet.

A face came to her mind and she smiled. Despite the enchantment Parmenion had one friend, a boy

impervious to the fuel of hatred. Although it went against her plans, yet still she found the

thought comforting.

'Sweet Hermias,' she said. 'If all men were as you, then my work would not be necessary.'

*

Parmenion sat on a rock waiting for the dawn, his belly hungry but his jaw too bruised to chew on

the stale bread he had saved from the previous day's breakfast. The sun rose slowly over the red

hills of the Parnon range, and the water of the Eurotas River sparkled into life. The sun's warmth

touched Parmenion's wiry body, causing him to shiver involuntarily. Spartan training taught a man

to ignore pain, to close his mind to cold or heat. To a great degree he had mastered this, but the

new warmth served only to remind him how cold he had been on this long night, hidden upon the

sanctuary hill above the city.

The statue of Zeus, Father of Heaven - twelve feet tall, majestic and bearded - stared out over

the lands to the west of the city, seeming to study the towering Mount Ilias. Parmenion shivered

once more and took a tentative bite from the dark bread, stifling a groan as pain flamed from his

jaw. The punch from Gryllus had been powerful and, held as he was, Parmenion could not roll with

the blow. He lifted a finger to his mouth. A tooth was loose. Tearing the bread, he pushed a small

piece to the right of his jaw, chewing gently. Having finished his meagre breakfast, he stood. His

left side was tender. Lifting the chiton tunic, he examined the area; it was an angry purple, and

there was blood above the hip.

He stretched - then froze as he heard movement on the Climbing Path. Swiftly he ran behind the

marble Sanctuary to the Muses, crouching to wait for the newcomers, his heart pounding. He picked

up a sharp shard of broken marble; it had an edge like an axe-blade. If they came at him again,

someone would die!

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A slender boy in a blue tunic walked into view. He had dark curly hair and thick brows. Parmenion

recognized his friend, Hermias, and relief washed over him. Dropping the stone, he pushed himself

wearily to his feet. Hermias saw him and ran forward, gripping him by the shoulders. 'Oh, Savra,

my friend, how much more must you suffer?'

Parmenion forced a smile. 'Today will see the end of it. Maybe.'

'Only if you lose, Savra. And you must lose. They could kill you. I fear they will!' Hermias

looked into his friend's pale blue eyes and saw no compromise there. 'You are not going to lose,

though, are you?' he said sadly.

Parmenion shrugged. 'Perhaps - if Leonidas is more skilful, if the judges favour him.'

'Of course they will favour him. Gryllus says that Agisaleus is coming to watch - you think the

judges will allow a nephew of the King to be humiliated?'

Parmenion laid a hand on Hermias' shoulder. 'Since that is the case, why are you worried? I will

lose. So be it. But I will not play to lose.'

Hermias sat down at the foot of the statue of Zeus and took two apples from his hip-pouch. He

passed one to Parmenion, who bit carefully into it. 'Why are you so stubborn?' Hermias asked. 'Is

it your Macedonian blood?'

'Why not the Spartan blood, Hermias? Neither peoples are renowned for giving ground.'

'It was not meant as an insult, Savra. You know that.'

'Not from you, no,' said the taller youth, taking his friend's hand. 'But think on it, you all

call me Savra - lizard - and you think of me as a half-breed barbarian.'

Hermias pulled away, his expression showing his hurt. 'You are my friend,' he protested.

'That is not at issue, Hermias, nor is it an answer. You cannot help what you are - you are a

Spartan, pure-blooded, with a line of heroes that goes back far beyond Thermopylae. Your own

father marched with Lysander and never knew defeat. Probably you have friends among the helots and

the other slave classes. But you still see them as slaves.'

'You also had a Spartan father who came back on his shield, with all his wounds in front,'

insisted Hermias. 'You are Spartan too.'

'And I have a Macedonian mother.' Parmenion removed his tunic, wincing as his arms stretched over

his head. His lean body was marked by bruises and cuts, and his right knee was swollen. His

angular face was also bruised, the right eye almost closed. 'These are the marks I bear for my

blood. When they took me from my mother's house, I was seven years old. From that day to this I

have never known the sun to shine on a body that did not carry wounds.'

'I too have suffered bruises,' said Hermias. 'All Spartan boys must suffer - else there would be

no Spartan men, and we would no longer be pre-eminent. But I hear what you say, Sav . . .

Parmenion. It seems Leonidas hates you, and he is a powerful enemy. Yet you could go to him and

ask to serve him. Then it would stop.'

'Never! He would laugh at me and throw me out into the street.'

'Yes he might. But, even so, the beatings would end.'

'Would you do that if you were me?'

'No.'

'Then why should I?' hissed Parmenion, his pale eyes locking to his friend's face.

Hermias sighed. 'You are hard on me, Parmenion. But you are right. I love you as a brother, and

yet I do not see you as Spartan. I do inside my head - but my heart . . .'

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'Then why should the others - who are not my friends -accept me?'

'Give us time - give us all time. But know this: whatever you choose, I will stand beside you,'

said Hermias softly.

'That is something I never doubted. Now call me Savra -from you it has a good sound.'

'I shall be at your side for the contest, and I will pray to Athena of the Road for your victory,'

said Hermias, smiling. 'Now, would you like me to stay with you?'

'No - but thank you. I will remain here a while with Father Zeus, and I will think, and I will

pray. I will see you at Xenophon's house three hours after noon for the contest.'

Hermias nodded and wandered away. Parmenion watched him go, then swung his attention to the

awakening city.

Sparta. The home of heroes, birth-place of the finest warriors ever to walk the green earth. From

here, less than a century before, the legendary Sword King had set off for the Pass of Thermopylae

with 300 warriors and 700 helots. There the tiny force had faced an army of Persians numbering

more than a quarter of a million.

And yet the Spartans had held, hurling back the foe, until at last the Persian King Xerxes sent in

his Immortals. Ten thousand of the finest warriors Persia could muster from her great empire,

highly trained, the elite corps. And the Spartans humbled them. Parmenion felt his heart swell as

he pictured those grim-eyed men in their full-faced helms of bronze, their blood-red cloaks and

their shining swords. The might of Persia - the might of the world! - broken upon the swords of

300 Spartans. He turned to the south-east. There, out of sight now, was the monument to the King

who died there. Betrayed by a Greek, the Spartans had been surrounded and massacred. They had

known of the betrayal and the King had been urged by his allies to flee the field. His words were

engraved on the hearts of all Spartans: 'A Spartan leaves the battle carrying his shield - or upon

it. There will be no retreat.' It seemed ironic to Parmenion that his greatest hero and his worst

enemy should share, the same name and bloodline - Leonidas. And at times he wondered if the King

of legend had been as cruel as his namesake. He hoped not.

Parmenion climbed to the highest point of the acropolis, gazing down at the city that circled the

hill. Fewer than 30,000 people dwelt here, yet they were held in awe from Arcadia to Asia Minor,

from Athens to Illyria. No Spartan army had ever been beaten in a pitched battle by a foe of equal

numbers. The Spartan foot-soldier - the hoplite - was worth three Athenians, five Thebans, ten

Corinthians and twenty Persians. These scales were drummed into Sparta's children, and remembered

with pride.

Macedonians did not rate a mention in Spartan scales. Scarcely considered to be Greek, they were

barbaric and undisciplined, hill tribes of little culture save that which they stole from their

betters. 'I am a Spartan,' said Parmenion. 'I am not a Macedonian.'

The statue of Zeus continued to gaze at the distant Mount Ilias, and Parmenion's words seemed

hollow. The boy sighed, remembering the conversation minutes before with Hermias. 'You are hard on

me, Parmenion. But you are correct. I love you as a brother, and yet I do not see you as Spartan.

I do inside my head - but my heart ..."

' Then why should the others — who are not my friends—accept mer

As a young child Parmenion had experienced few problems with other youngsters. But at seven, when

all Spartan boys were taken from their parents and moved to barracks for training as warriors, he

had first suffered the torment of his tainted blood. It was there that Leonidas -named for the

King of glory - had taunted him, demanding that he kneel to him as befitted a man from a race of

slaves.

Smaller and younger, Parmenion had flown at him, fists lashing at the older boy's face. Leonidas

had thrashed him then - and many times since. Worse, Leonidas was of a noble Spartiate family and

many of the other boys in the Barracks of Lycurgus had sought his favours. Parmenion became an

outcast, hunted, hated by all save Hermias -even Leonidas could not turn on Aim, for he was the

son of Parnas, the King's friend.

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For eight years Parmenion had borne the blows and the insults, convinced that one day he would see

their eyes look upon him as a brother Spartan. Today should have seen the hour of triumph. He had

succeeded beyond his dreams in the General's Games, battling his way to the final. But who should

be his opponent - among all the youths in Sparta? None other than Leonidas.

As Hermias had warned, victory would bring only more pain, yet he could not. . . would not. . .

consider playing to lose. Every year the General's Games were the high point of the calendar for

the apprentice warriors in Sparta's many barracks. The winner would wear the laurel crown and hold

the Victory Rod. He was the strategos - the master!

The Game pitched two armies against one another, the competitors acting as generals, issuing

orders, choosing formations. The soldiers were carved from wood: there was no blood, no death.

Losses were decided by two judges, who threw numbered knuckle-bones.

Picking up a stick, Parmenion traced a rectangle in the dust, picturing the Spartan phalanx, more

than 1,000 warriors with shields locked, spears steady. This was the main force in the game, the

cavalry coming second. To the right he sketched a second block: the Sciritai, Spartan vassals who

always fought alongside their masters. Doughty men, hard and ungiving, yet never were they allowed

into the front rank of the battle. For they were not Spartan - and were therefore almost sub-

human.

This was his army, 3,000 men, Spartan foot, horse and the Sciritai reserve. Leonidas would command

an identical force.

Closing his eyes he recalled last year's final, which had been played in Menelaus Barracks. The

battle had taken two hours. Long before the conclusion, Parmenion had grown bored and had wandered

away into the marketplace. It had been a battle of attrition, both phalanxes locked together, the

judges throwing knuckle-bones and removing the dead until at last the White army overwhelmed the

Red.

A pointless exercise, Parmenion had decided. What good was such a victory? The winner had fewer

than 100 men at the close. In real life he would have been overwhelmed by any second enemy force.

A battle should not be fought in such a way.

Today would be different, he decided. Win or lose, they would remember it. Slowly he began to

sketch formations, to think and to plan. But his mind wandered, and he saw again the Great Race

three weeks ago. He had planned for it, trained for it, dreamed of the laurel wreath of victory

upon his brow.

Twenty miles under the gruelling summer sun, out over the foothills, up the scree-covered slopes

of the Parnon mountains, legs aching, lungs heaving. All the young men of Sparta in one great

race, the ultimate test of juvenile strength and courage.

He had outdistanced them all: Leonidas, Nestus, Hermias, Learchus and the best of the other

barracks. They ate his dust and struggled behind him. Leonidas had lasted better than the rest,

hanging grimly to his shadow, but twelve miles from home even he had been broken by Parmenion's

final burst.

And then Parmenion had run for home, saving the last of his energy for the sprint to the agora

where the King waited with the laurel of victory.

With the city in sight, white and beckoning, he had seen the old man pulling his hand-cart along

Soldiers' Walk at the foot of the olive grove, had watched in dismay as the right wheel came

loose, tipping the cart's contents to the dust. Parmenion slowed in his run. The old man was

struggling to loosen a looped thong from the stump at the end of his right arm. He was crippled.

Tearing his eyes from the scene, Parmenion ran on.

'Help me, boy!' called the man. Parmenion slowed, and turned. Leonidas was far behind him and out

of sight. . . he tried to gauge how much time he had. With a curse he ran down the slope and knelt

by the wheel. It was cracked through, yet still the Spartan boy tried to lift it into place,

forcing it back over the axle. It held for a moment only -then broke into several shards. The old

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man slumped to the ground beside the ruined cart. Parmenion glanced down into his eyes; there was

pain there, defeat and dejection. The man's tunic was threadbare, the colours long since washed

away by the winter rains, bleached by the summer sun. His sandals were as thin as parchment.

'Where are you going?' Parmenion asked.

'My son lives in a settlement an hour from here,' replied the old man, pointing south. Parmenion

glanced at the wrinkled skin of his arm; it showed the cuts of many sword-blades, old wounds.

'You are Spartan?' enquired the boy.

'Sciritai,' the man answered. Parmenion stood and stared down at the cart. It was loaded with pots

and jugs, several old blankets, and a breastplate and helm of a style the boy had only seen

painted on vases and murals.

'I will help you home,' said Parmenion at last.

'Was a time, boy, I would have needed no help.'

'I know. Come. I will support the axle if you can steer and pull.'

Hearing the sound of running feet Parmenion glanced up. Leonidas sped by along the crest of the

hill; he did not look down. Swallowing his disappointment Parmenion took hold of the axle, heaving

the cart upright. The old man took his place at the handles and the two made their way slowly

south.

It was dusk when Parmenion finally trotted through the gates. There to greet him were many of the

youths from his barracks.

'What happened, mix-blood? Did you get lost?' they jeered.

'More likely lay down for a rest,' sneered another. 'There's no stamina in half-breeds.'

'Last! Last! Last!' they chanted as he ran on to the market-place where his barrack tutor,

Lepidus, was waiting to count his charges home.

'What in the name of Hades happened to you?' asked the soldier. 'Lycurgus Barracks should have won

the day. We finished sixth, thanks to you.'

Parmenion had said nothing. What was there to say?

But that was in the past - and the past was dead. Parmenion grew hungry and wandered down into the

market-place, and on along Leaving Street to the barracks. In the mess hall he queued with the

other boys of Lycurgus and sat alone with his bowl of dark soup and chunk of black bread. No one

spoke to him. Leonidas was on the other side of the hall, sitting with Gryllus and a dozen others;

they affected not to notice him. Parmenion ate his meal, enjoying the feeling of a full stomach,

then he left and walked through the streets to the small home of his mother. He found her in the

courtyard, sitting in the sunshine. She glanced up at him and smiled. She was painfully thin, her

eyes sunken. He touched her shoulder and kissed her gently, his lips touching bone beneath the

dry, taut skin.

'Are you eating well?' he asked her.

'I have no appetite,' she whispered. 'But the sun is good for me, it makes me feel alive.' He

fetched her a goblet of water and sat beside her on the stone bench. 'Do you contest the final

today?' she asked.

'Yes.'

She nodded and a strand of dark hair fell across her brow. Parmenion stroked it back into place.

'You are hot. You should come inside.'

'Later. Your face is bruised?'

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'I fell during a race. Clumsy. How are you feeling?'

'Tired, my son. Very tired. Will the King be at Xenophon's house to see you win?'

'It is said that he will - but I might not win.'

'No. A mother's pride spoke. But you will do your best, and that is enough. Are you still popular

with the other boys?'

'Yes.'

'That would have pleased your father. He, too, was popular. But he never reached the final of the

General's Games. He would have been so proud.'

'Is there anything I can do for you? Can I get you some food?' Parmenion took her hand, holding to

it tightly, willing his own strength to flow into her frail limbs.

'I need nothing. You know, I have been thinking these last few days about Macedonia, and the

forests and the plains. I keep dreaming of a white horse on a hillside. I am sitting in a field

and the horse is coming towards me. I so long to ride that horse, to feel the wind on my face,

whispering through my hair. It is a tall horse, with a fine neck. But always I wake before he

reaches me.'

'Horses are good omens,' said Parmenion. 'Let me help you inside. I will fetch Rhea - she will

cook for you. You must eat, Mother, or you will never regain your strength.'

'No, no. I want to sit here for a while. I will doze. Come to me when you have played the Game.

Tell me all.'

For a while he sat with her, but she rested her head against a threadbare pillow and slept. Moving

back into the house, he washed the dust from his body and combed his dark hair. Then he pulled on

a clean chiton tunic and his second pair of sandals. The chiton was not embroidered and was too

small for him, barely reaching midway to his thighs. He felt like a helot - a slave. Parmenion

walked to the next house and rapped his knuckles on the door-frame. A short, red-haired woman came

out; she smiled as she saw him.

'I will go in to her,' she said, before he spoke.

'I do not think she is eating,' said Parmenion. 'She is becoming thinner every day.'

'That is to be expected,' answered Rhea softly, sadness in her voice.

'No!' Parmenion snapped. 'Now the summer is here she will improve. I know it.'

Without waiting for her to speak, he ran back beyond the barracks and on to Leaving Street and the

house of Xenophon.

*

On the day of the Game Xenophon awoke early. The sun was just clearing the eastern peaks, long

thin shafts of light spearing through the warped shutters of his bedroom window. He rolled to his

side and groaned. He always enjoyed dining with the King but, as life so often proved, all

pleasures had to be paid for. His head was pounding, his stomach queasy. He took a deep breath and

sat up, pushing back the thin sheet which covered him and gazing down at his torso. The muscles of

his belly were ridged and tight, belying his forty-seven years, the skin of his face and body

burnished gold from frequent naked exercise in the early morning sunshine.

The general rose and stretched before his bronze mirror. His eyesight no longer had the keenness

of youth and he was forced to peer closely at his reflection, noting with distaste the slight

sagging of skin beneath the blue eyes and the silver streaks appearing in the gold of his hair. He

hated the process of ageing, and dreaded the day when lovers would come to him out of duty, or for

money, rather than desire.

The youth last night had been charmed by him, but more than anything he had wished to be seen with

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Xenophon, hero of the March to the Sea, the rebel Athenian acknowledged as one of the greatest

generals of the age. At this morale-boosting thought Xenophon chuckled and moved back from the

mirror. He opened the shutters, felt the sun on his skin, then sat once more on the firm bed.

The March to the Sea: the year of glory. Was it the Fates, the will of Athena or blind luck? he

wondered. How could a man ever know? Outside the sun was shining, the sky cloudless, just like

that day at Cunaxa when all his dreams and beliefs were put to the test; when Cyrus had fought for

his birthright. Xenophon's eyes lost their focus as the events of the day swarmed up from the dark

corridors of memory. Cyrus, as handsome as Apollo and as brave as Heracles, had led his troops

into Persia to fight for the crown that was rightfully his. Xenophon had known they could not

lose, for the gods would always favour the brave and doubly favour the just. And the enemy, though

superior in numbers, had neither the strategic skill nor the valour at arms to defeat the Greek

mercenaries who loved Cyrus. When it came the battle was a foregone conclusion.

The two forces had met near the village of Cunaxa. Xenophon had been a junior officer under

Proxenus then, and he remembered the sudden rush of fear as he first saw the enemy, stretched out

in a vast battle-line. He had ordered his men into close formation and waited for orders. The

Persians set up a great roar, clashing spear hafts to shields, while the Greeks stood silently.

Cyrus galloped his charger along the front line, shouting, 'For the gods and glory!' Outnumbered,

the Greek phalanx charged into the Persian horde, which broke and ran. Cyrus, looking like a god

upon his white stallion, then led a ferocious assault on the enemy centre, sending his treacherous

brother -Artaxerxes the King - fleeing from the field. The glory of victory, the fulfilment of

destiny!

Xenophon shivered and walked to the window, staring out over the roof-tops. . . but he did not see

them. What he saw was sunlight on lance points, what he heard was the screams of the dying and the

cacophonous clash of sword on shield at Cunaxa as the Greeks, in four-deep formation, routed the

barbarians.

Victory was theirs. Justice had prevailed, as all men of good heart knew that it would. And then?

Xenophon sighed. And then a common Persian soldier-a peasant by all accounts, unable to afford

armour or sword - had thrown a rock which struck Cyrus on the temple, toppling him from the

saddle. The enemy, in the process of flight, saw him fall. They regrouped and charged, coming upon

the valiant Cyrus as he struggled to rise. He was stabbed a score of times, then his head and

right hand were cut from his body.

Victory, like a fickle wife, flew from the Greeks.

The gods died that day in Xenophon's heart, though his intellect battled on to sustain a tenuous

belief. Without gods the world was nothing, a place of torment and disillusion lacking order and

reason. Yet, after Cunaxa, he had rarely known peace of mind.

The general took a deep breath and struggled to suppress the bitter memories. A discreet knock

came at his door. 'Enter,' he said, and his senior servant, Tinus, came in, bringing him a goblet

of heavily watered wine. Xenophon smiled and thanked him.

Two other male servants fetched spring water for his bath, then towelled him dry. His armour had

been polished until the bronze gleamed gold and his iron helm shone like purest silver. One

servant helped him into his white linen tunic, while the second lifted the breastplate over his

head, fastening the straps at Xenophon's side. A bronze-reinforced leather kilt was slung around

his waist and tied at the hip. Bronze greaves were fastened to his shins. Xenophon waved the

servants away and took up his sword-belt. The leather was pitted, the bronze scabbard showing many

dents, but the sword within was iron and keen-edged. He drew it, enjoying the exquisite balance of

its short blade and leather-bound grip. Sighing, he slammed the blade home in the scabbard before

buckling the sword-belt at his waist. He lifted his helm and brushed the white horsehair crest.

Holding the helm under his arm, he turned towards the door. Tinus opened it and Xenophon walked

out into the courtyard. Three female servants bowed as he passed; he acknowledged them with a

smile and lifted his face to the sunlight. It was a fine day.

Three helots were preparing the sand-pit to the judges' instructions, shaping hills, valleys and

streams. Xenophon stopped to examine their work. 'Make that hill higher and more steep,' he told

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Gemmell, David - Lion of Macedon

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