‘That’s better, Savra! I like to see you smile,’ said Hermias.
Sparta, Summer, 382 BC
Parmenion settled swiftly into life at Menelaus and during the next three years, though never popular, found few of the problems which had beset him at Lycurgus. Every year he and Hermias represented their barracks in the short- and middle-distance races, but in other spheres they remained merely good students, neither excelling nor falling short of the required standard in throwing the javelin or the discus, in sword work or wrestling. Parmenion enjoyed working with the short sword, for he was fast and strong, but only when angry did his skill become lethal. Understanding this instinctively, it did not concern him that some youths could best him in practice. Deep in his heart he knew the outcome would be different if the battles were to the death.
But as a runner Parmenion was the finest athlete in Sparta. Twice, in inter-barracks competitions, he bested Leonidas in the four-mile race, but was himself narrowly beaten in the third year when Leonidas was chosen to represent Sparta in the coming Olympics.
It was a bitter disappointment to Parmenion, who had trained hard during his time at Menelaus.
‘I understand your anger,’ said Xenophon, as they sat in his courtyard one evening, ‘but you did the best you could. No man can ask more of himself than that.’
Parmenion nodded. ‘But I made a tactical mistake. I tried to beat him with 200 paces left. He was waiting for my move and hung on to me. He beat me with three strides to go.’
‘You beat him in the Games three years ago and he endured his shame well. Allow him his moment of glory.’ In his fiftieth year, the Athenian was still a handsome man, though his hair was now totally silver and thinning at the crown. He poured a goblet of wine, added water and sipped the drink. Parmenion lived for the hours they spent together, discussing tactics and strategy, formations and battles. The youth learned when to wheel a phalanx, when to fight with a thinned line, when to extend, when to draw back, how to choose the anchor warriors who held the line together. Xenophon loved to talk and Parmenion was happy to listen. At times he would disagree with an analysis and the two men would argue long into the night. Parmenion always had the good sense - ultimately - to allow Xenophon to convince him, and their relationship grew. Gryllus had been sent to friends in Athens and often Parmenion would stay with the Athenian general for days at a time, taking Gryllus’ place on summer journeys to Xenophon’s second home in Olympia, near the sea.
As the years passed Xenophon took to discussing modern strategy and politics with his student, and Parmenion detected a growing cynicism in the Athenian.
‘Have you heard the news from Thebes?’ Xenophon asked him one day.
‘Yes,’ answered Parmenion. ‘At first I could not believe it. We have made a bad mistake and I think we will rue it.’
‘I tend to agree,’ said Xenophon. Three months earlier the Macedonian King, Amyntas, had appealed to the Spartans for aid against Chalkidian warriors who had invaded Macedonia and sacked the capital of Pella. Agisaleus sent three Spartan battalions to Macedonia’s aid, crushing the Chalkidians. But on their journey north one Spartan division, under the command of a general named Phoebidas, seized the Cadmea - the fortress at the centre of Thebes. Since there was no war declared against Thebes and they were unconnected with the Chalkidian invaders, the action was seen by many Greeks as underhand.
‘Agisaleus should return the city to the Thebans,’ said Parmenion.
‘He cannot,’ answered Xenophon. ‘Spartan pride would not allow it. But I fear the result. Athens has spoken out against Sparta, and I think it will not be long before we suffer another war.’
‘You are disappointed, my friend,’ said Parmenion. ‘Sparta has not proved a good leader for Greece.’
‘Hush!’ said Xenophon swiftly. He lowered his voice. ‘You should not speak this way in public. My servants are loyal - but they are loyal to me, not to you. If one should speak against you there would be a trial for treason. You would not survive.’
‘Have I spoken anything but the truth?’ countered Parmenion, keeping his voice low.
‘What has that to do with anything? If Sparta could govern with half the skill she displays in battle, then all of Greece would rejoice. But she cannot. That is the truth of the matter - and saying it will get you killed.’
‘Other people are saying it,’ Parmenion told him. ‘The talk at the barracks is of little else. There have been some bitter herbs for Spartans to swallow. They cling to power now only because the Persians support them. The descendants of the Sword King playing lick-spittles to the sons of Xerxes!’
‘The politics of expediency,’ Xenophon whispered. ‘But let us leave this conversation for another few days. Then, when we are back in Olympia, we can ride and talk with only the land to listen to our idle treasons.’ The two men rose and walked to the gate. ‘How are your finances?’ asked Xenophon.
‘Not good. I sold the last share in the landholding - it will pay my mess bills until the spring.’
‘And then?’
Parmenion shrugged. ‘And then I will leave Sparta. No Soldiers’ Hall would have me anyway, I know that. I will probably join a mercenary regiment and see the world.’
‘You could sell the Sword of Leonidas,’ Xenophon pointed out.
‘Maybe I will,’ replied Parmenion. ‘I will see you in two days.’
The two men shook hands and Parmenion walked out into the night. Despite the closeness of midnight he felt no fatigue, and he walked to the acropolis and sat by the bronze statue of Zeus, staring at the sky and the diamond stars. The wind was chill now and his light woollen chiton offered little protection. Closing his mind to the cold, he cast his, eyes over the mountains.
The last three years had been good to him. He had grown tall and, though slender, was lean and powerful. His face had slimmed down, losing its boyish qualities, and his deep-set blue eyes now had a brooding look. Yet it was not, he knew, a friendly face, nor even a handsome one. The nose was too prominent and the lips too thin, making him appear older than his nineteen years.
At last, as the cold grew too much even for Parmenion, he rose to leave. Just then he saw a cloaked and hooded figure move from the Bronze House and walk towards him.
‘Good evening,’ he said. Moonlight glanced from the dagger-blade which leapt into the figure’s hand.
‘Who is there?’ came a woman’s voice.
‘It is Parmenion and I am no danger to you, lady,’ he answered, holding out his hands and showing empty palms.
‘What are you doing here? Are you spying on me?’
‘Not at all. I was enjoying the stars. Why should I spy on you?’
Derae pushed back the hood, the moonlight turning her hair to silver. ‘It is a long time since we spoke, young Fast.’
‘Indeed it is,’ he replied. ‘And what brings you to the Bronze House at midnight?’
‘My own business,’ she answered, smiling to rob the words of sharpness. ‘Perhaps I too like to look at the stars.’
A movement at the edge of his vision caused Parmenion to swing his head and he saw a young man dart away behind the Sanctuary to the Muses. He said nothing.
‘Good night to you,’ said Derae, and Parmenion bowed and watched as the girl moved away to the path. It was a dangerous game she was playing. Unmarried Spartans were not allowed to mix freely with members of the opposite sex, and any liaison could end in execution or banishment. That was one reason why the young men were encouraged to take lovers among their male comrades. He found himself envying the young man who had fled, and realized that he too would risk a great deal for the chance to spend time alone with Derae. He still remembered the lithe young body, the small, firm breasts, the narrow waist...
Enough! he chided himself.
Returning home, he sat in the tiny courtyard and ate a late supper of dried fish and wine; it had cost two obols. The thought of his dwindling finances depressed him. The sale of the last share in the landholding had re
alized 170 drachms, but eighty of these had gone to pay his mess bill. Thirty more had been set aside to buy the armour he would need when he reached Manhood next spring. The rest must keep him in food and clothing. He shook his head. The price of a new cloak was twenty drachms, new shoes just under ten. It would be a long hard winter, he realized.
Entering the house, he shut the windows and lit a small lantern. By its light he took the Sword of Leonidas from the cupboard by the far wall and drew it from its bronze scabbard. It was an iron blade no longer than a man’s forearm, the hilt decorated with gold wire which encircled a pommel globe of purest silver.
Xenophon had urged him many tunes to sell it. There were families in Sparta who would pay as much as 1,000 drachms for a blade with such an illustrious history. Parmenion slid the sword back into its scabbard; he would sooner starve than part with the only trophy of his life.
He had a dream and the sword was part of it. He would march away to war as a mercenary, gather a great fortune and an army and return to Sparta, humbling the city and visiting his vengeance on all the enemies of his youth. It was a foolish dream, and he knew it, but it sustained him.
More likely, he realized, he would be forced to sign as a koplite in a mercenary company, and spend his days marching across the endless wastes of Persia at the whim of whatever prince had the money to hire them. And what would he earn? Seven obols a day - just over a drachm. Which could mean that, if he survived twenty years with such a company, he might - just might - be able to buy a part share in a farm or landholding. And even then it would not be as large as the property his mother — and now he — had been forced to sell.
Parmenion pushed thoughts of his poverty from his mind. For at least the next eight weeks he could enjoy the comforts of Xenophon’s estate at Olympia. Soft beds and good food, fine riding and hunting and, with luck, a tilt at one of the Arcadian girls who tended the sheep in the low hills. He had found such a one last year; she was plump and willing, and an expert teacher for an inept city youth. He removed his chiton and climbed into bed, picturing her body. But he could no longer recall her face.... In his mind’s eye the woman moaning beneath him was Derae.
One day out from the city, the small party saw a group of horsemen cantering towards them. Xenophon hoisted his spear and kicked the gelding into a run to meet them. Parmenion rode after him, while Tinus, Clearchus and three other servants remained with the wagon.
Parmenion guided his mount alongside Xenophon. ‘I think it is Leonidas,’ he shouted. The Athenian drew rein and waited, and Parmenion could see his concern. Spartan cavalry had been sent out into the Sciritis hills after two villages were hit by raiders - renegade mercenaries who had been dismissed by the authorities in Corinth. There were said to be more than thirty men in the raiding party.
Shading his eyes, Parmenion could see Leonidas riding at the head of a large group of warriors. Behind him was his father, Patroclian. Xenophon held up a hand in greeting and Leonidas dragged on his reins while Patroclian rode forward.
‘An ill day, Xenophon,’ said the red-bearded Spartiate. ‘My daughter, Derae, has been taken.’
‘Taken? How?’ Xenophon asked.
‘She was riding alone to the east of our column; I think she must have stopped by a stream and dismounted. I have a Thracian servant who reads tracks and he said her horse must have run clear when they surprised her. They are heading north, into the hills.’
‘We will join with you, of course,’ said Xenophon.
Parmenion swung his horse’s head and cantered back to the wagon. ‘Hand me the bow,’ he ordered Tinus.
The man reached into the back of the wagon and lifted out a bow of horn and a goatskin quiver containing twenty arrows. Parmenion hooked the quiver over his shoulder and scanned the countryside. The men were heading north, Patroclian had said, but by now they would know that Derae was part of a larger group and it would make little sense to hold to their course. To the north-east was a heavily wooded line of hills, beyond which Parmenion could see a high pass that swept northward. Without waiting for the others, he heeled the mare into a run and rode for the wooded slopes.
‘Where in Hades is he going?’ asked Leonidas.
‘I don’t know, and I don’t care,’ snapped Patroclian. ‘Let’s ride!’
The warriors set off for the north.
Parmenion rode high into the hills, angling his mount towards the pass. The footing was treacherous here, scree and loose shale. He slowed the mare, dismounted, then led her up into the trees. On reaching safe ground, he tethered her to a bush and climbed a tall cypress tree. From its uppermost branches he scanned the surrounding hills, seeing no sign of movement save for the dust of the hunting party as it galloped north. He stayed in the tree for some time, and was just beginning to face the possibility of being wrong when several black and grey crows took off from the trees some 200 paces to his right. They seemed panicked and he focused on the area, straining to see through the undergrowth. After a moment or two he caught the glint of sunlight on metal and heard a horse whinny. Swiftly he climbed down the tree, mounted the mare and set off at a run for the pass.
He reached it ahead of the raiders and dragged on the reins; the mare whinnied and reared. Parmenion leapt from her back and swiftly hobbled her. Climbing to the peak of a tall, rocky outcrop overlooking the narrow pass, he slid an arrow from the quiver and notched it to the string.
His heart was beating wildly and there was a pounding pain behind his eyes. The headaches had been worse of late, waking him in the night and leaving him nauseous and shaken. But now he had no time to be concerned with petty pain.
His reaction to the news of Derae’s abduction had surprised him. She had been in his thoughts often, but he had never allowed himself to believe he could win her. Now, with the thought of her being taken from him for good, he felt a rising sense of panic and a realization that she was part of his dreams. A foolish dream! his mind screamed at him, as he crouched, waiting for the raiders. Leonidas would never allow such a marriage. Marriage? He pictured Derae standing beside him at the Sacred Stone to Hera, her hand on his, the priestess binding their arms together with laurel leaves....
Wiping his sweating palms on his tunic, he forced such thoughts from his mind and stared at the tree-line. Several minutes later the first of the scouts came into view. The man was sun-bronzed and dark-bearded, wearing a Phrygian helm with a metal crest and a red eye painted upon the brow. He was carrying a lance. Beside him rode a warrior wearing a wide Boeotian helm of beaten iron; he was carrying a bow in his left hand, with an arrow ready notched.
Parmenion crouched down behind a rock and waited, listening to the steady, rhythmic sound of hooves on stone. Then, risking a glance, he saw the main group, numbering more than thirty, riding out behind the scouts. He could see Derae, her hands tied behind her. There was a rope around her neck, being held by a warrior on a tall grey stallion. The man was wearing silver armour and a white cloak. To Parmenion, he looked like a prince from legend.
Laris rode his stallion clear of the trees and tugged on the rope. The girl almost stumbled. He glanced back at her and smiled. What a beauty! There had been no chance yet to hear her screams, to enjoy her writhing beneath him, but that would come once they had thrown off their pursuers. Spartans! The weak-livered councillors of Corinth had all but wet themselves when he talked of invading Spartan lands. Could they not see that the Spartans could be taken? If Thebes, Corinth and Athens joined forces, they could destroy Sparta once and for all. But no. Ancient fears held sway. Remember Thermopylae, they said. Remember the defeat of Athens twenty years ago. Who cared about events a lifetime in the past? At best the Spartans could put 15,000 men in the field. Corinth alone could match half that number, and Athens make up the rest. Thebes and the Boeotian League could double the force.
Dismissed! The shame of it burned at Laris. But now he had shown them: with a mere forty men he had raided deep into Spartan lands. True, they had found little gold and the men were unhapp
y, but he had proved a point. If forty could ride into the home of warriors and emerge unscathed, what would be the result when 40,000 marched in?
He looked up to see the scouts riding into the pass.
Suddenly an arrow Sashed through the air to strike Xanthias in the throat, and with a terrible cry he pitched from his mount. Instantly all was chaos. Men leapt from their horses, taking shelter behind the rocks. Laris slid to the ground, dragging Derae down beside him.
A young Spartan stood in full view of the men.
‘Release the woman!’ he called, ‘and there will be no further killing.’
‘Who speaks?’ yelled Laris.
‘A man with a bow,’ answered the warrior.
‘And why should we trust your word, man-with-a-bow?’
‘Look behind you,’ shouted the archer. ‘Can you see the dust-cloud? You are trapped. If you wait, you will die. If you advance, you will die. List your choices, if you will.’
‘I see no one up there with you,’ said Laris, rising and drawing his sword.
‘Do you not? Then it must be that I am alone. Attack me and find out!’
‘Show us your men!’
‘Your time is running out, along with my patience. If you do not have the wit to save your comrades, perhaps another man among them will make the choice for you.’
The warrior’s words stung Laris. Already his men were far from happy, and now this lone archer was questioning his leadership.
A man rose from behind a rock. ‘For Athena’s sake, Laris! Let the woman go, and let us get away from here!’
The leader turned to Derae. His knife slashed the thongs binding her hands, then he lifted the noose from around her neck. He turned to see the Spartan riding towards him, his bow looped over his shoulder. Laris scanned the rocks but could see no one. He licked his lips, convinced the bowman was alone; longing to plunge his blade into the Spartan, to see his life-blood draining from him.
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