Lion of Macedon

by David Gemmell

  Parmenion sucked in a deep breath and began to run. The track was hard-baked clay, formed in a great oval that skirted the training ground. Five circuits represented a mile. He loped easily round the circuit, examining the ground. The races all began and ended at the Shrine to Artemis, so he stopped on the last curve before the finish and knelt to examine the track. Here it was more concave, the clay powdery on the surface. This was no surprise, for the runners would kick for home and over the years the track had taken more punishment here. A man could slip and fall at this point, were he not wary. He would need to come wide on this last bend... but then so would Meleager.

  Parmenion continued his run for almost an hour, increasing his speed in short, lung-bursting sprints before dropping back to an even pace. Finally he jogged to where Epaminondas lay in the shade of a spreading oak.

  ‘You run well,’ said the Theban, ‘but I saw no evidence of great speed. Meleager is faster.’

  Parmenion smiled. ‘I don’t doubt that he is. But speed comes from strength, and the middle distance is a fine race for robbing a man of that. Will you wager on me?’

  ‘Of course, you are my guest. It would be impolite not to do so. However, do not put all your money on yourself, Parmenion.’ The Spartan laughed.

  ‘When can I race him?’

  ‘There will be Games in three weeks. I will put your name forward. What shall we call you?’

  ‘I was known as Savra in Sparta.’

  ‘Lizard?’ queried Epaminondas. ‘No, I don’t think so. We need something Macedonian.’ He looked up and there, through the trees, was the stone lion dedicated by Heracles. ‘There,’ said the Theban. ‘We will keep it simple and call you Leon. You run like a lion, with your short bursts of speed.’

  ‘Why not keep to Parmenion? This smacks of trickery.’

  ‘Smacks of? It is trickery, my friend. Or perhaps it would soothe our consciences if we called it strategy. You almost won a place in the Spartan team for the coming Olympics. If we let that be known, no one will bet against you... and then you will earn no money. As it is - if you win - the gold you gather will be mostly Spartan.’

  ‘I need money,’ Parmenion agreed, grinning.

  ‘And there you have it,’ replied Epaminondas. ‘The victory of expediency over principles. And long may it remain so.’

  ‘You are very cynical,’ Parmenion observed.

  The Theban nodded. ‘Indeed I am. But then that is the lesson life teaches to those with eyes to see. No one is above price, be it money, or fame, or power.’

  ‘You think you have a price?’

  ‘Of course. To free Thebes, I would sacrifice anything.’

  ‘There is no dishonour in that,’ argued Parmenion.

  ‘If you truly believe that, then you have a lot to learn,’ the Theban answered.

  During the weeks leading up to the race, Parmenion had run hard for two hours every day, building strength and stamina. Now, with only a day left, he had eased up on his training, merely loping around the track, gently stretching his muscles. He had no wish to start the race feeling tired. As Lepidus used to say, ‘Never leave your strength on the training ground, gentlemen.’ Finishing his run, he bathed in the fountain by the shrine to Artemis. As usual he wandered through the city during the afternoon. Thebes continued to fascinate him with her complexity and colour, and he was dazzled by the skills shown in her construction -she made Sparta seem like a collection of peasant houses thrown together during a storm.

  The public buildings here were awesome, colossal pillars and beautiful statues, but even the private homes were well built, not of sun-dried brick but of stone, shaped into polygons for close fitting. The windows were large, allowing greater light, and the inner walls were decorated with paintings, or hangings of brightly coloured wool. Even the poorer homes in the northern quarter were handsomely roofed with terracotta tiles and had skilfully carved shutters, while many courtyards boasted their own fountains.

  His own home in Sparta had been modest, but not more so than many other dwellings: the floors of hard-packed earth, the walls of clay and rushes covered with lime mortar. But even Xenophon’s home, which Parmenion had seen as splendid, had nothing to rival the house of Epaminondas. Every floor of the eight-roomed building was stone-studded, decorated with mosaics of white and black stone set in circles or squares. The main room, the andron, was split-levelled with seven couches for the guests. And there was a bathroom, with a water cistern inside the house!

  Thebes was quite simply the most exciting place Parmenion had ever seen.

  Towards dusk he would find a table at one of the many dining areas near the square, and order a meal. Servants would carry food to him on flat wooden trays - a fresh loaf, a dish of soured cream, herbs and olive oil, followed by spiced fish. He would sit out under the starlight, ending his meal with sweet honeycakes and feeling as if the gods themselves had invited him to Olympus.

  It was only later, when alone in his upper room, that memories of Derae would steal upon him, bringing pain and clutching at his heart. Then he would rise from his bed and stare balefully out over the sleeping city, his thoughts bitter. Dreams of revenge grew inside his soul, building slowly like a temple of hate within him.

  They would pay.

  Who will pay? asked a still small voice.

  Parmenion pondered the thought. It was Leonidas who was his enemy, yet the whole of Parmenion’s life had been scarred by rejection, by the hated use of ‘mix-blood’. He had been welcomed nowhere save at the home of Xenophon. No one in Sparta had made him feel he belonged - not even Hermias.

  They will all pay, he told himself: the whole city. There will come a day when the very name Parmenion will bring a wail of anguish from 10,000 throats.

  And in this way Parmenion cloaked the hurt of Derae’s death.

  Epaminondas spent little time with Parmenion in the days before the race. Every evening he would visit friends in distant parts of the city, going out early and arriving home late. He was cool during this time though not unfriendly, but Parmenion took to wandering the city, learning its roads and streets, orienting himself.

  On most days he saw Spartan soldiers walking through the market-places or sitting at the dining areas. Their voices were loud and pompous, he felt, and the manner of the soldiers was arrogant. In his calmer moments Parmenion knew this was untrue - they were merely unwelcome strangers in a foreign city. But his hatred was growing now, and he could rarely look upon the soldiers without feeling its dread power.

  On the night before the race Epaminondas invited him to the andron and the two men reclined on couches and discussed the contest.

  ‘Meleager likes to wait at the shoulder of the leader, then strike for home from a hundred paces,’ said the Theban.

  ‘That suits me well,’ responded Parmenion.

  ‘He has a friend who runs with him, dark-bearded, short. In three races, when it looked as if Meleager could be beaten, this man tripped and fell in front of the leader, bringing him down.’

  ‘Meleager should have been disqualified.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Epaminondas agreed. ‘On the second occasion at least. But he is a Spartan, and Theban objections count for little. I have managed only odds of three to one. How much money will you wager?’

  Parmenion had given great thought to the race. At four to one he could have afforded to hold back some coin. But now? He lifted the pouch from his belt and handed it to the Theban.

  ‘I have 168 drachms. Wager it all.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  Parmenion shrugged. ‘It would be nice to have choices. If I lose, I will sell the bay mare and seek employment in a mercenary company. If not? Then I will be able to hire rooms.’

  ‘You know you are welcome to stay with me.’

  ‘That is kind, but I will be a burden to no man.’

  The training ground was packed with people when the two men arrived early the following morning, and tiered seats had been set at the centre of the field. Parmenion wa
s restless as he waited for the races to begin. There was a boxing tourney first, but it was a sport which did not interest him and he wandered to the Grave of Hector and sat in the shade of an oak tree.

  The middle race was new to the Greeks, and pride of place still went to the stadia, a sprint of 200 paces. In many cities, Xenophon had told him, training groups did not have oval tracks and runners were forced to move up and down the stadia distance, turning around poles set in the earth. But the Persians loved the longer distance races, and gradually they had caught the interest of spectators in Greece. Part of the appeal, Parmenion knew, was born of the wagers. If a man was to bet on a runner, then he liked to watch a longer race where his excitement could be extended.

  For a while he dozed, then was woken by a roar from the crowd as the final boxing match ended with an ear-splitting knockout. Parmenion rose and went in search of Epami-nondas, finding the Theban at the northern end of the ground watching the javelin throwers.

  ‘It is a good day for running,’ said Epaminondas, pointing up at the sky. ‘The clouds will make it cooler. How do you feel?’

  ‘There’s some tightness in the neck,’ admitted Par-menion, ‘but I am ready.’ Epaminondas pointed to a spot some thirty paces away, where a tall, clean-shaven man was Umbering up. ‘That is Meleager,’ he said, ‘and beyond him is his friend - I believe he is called Cletus.’

  Parmenion watched them closely. Meleager was stretching his hamstring by lifting his leg to a bench and bending forward. Then he eased the muscles on both sides of the groin. Cletus was loping up and down, swinging his arms over his head. Meleager, Parmenion saw, was tall and lean, ideally built for distance running. He watched the man for some time; his preparation was careful and exact, his concentration total.

  ‘I think it is time you began your own preparations,’ said Epaminondas softly and Parmenion came to with a jerk. He had been so engrossed with Meleager that he had almost forgotten he was to race him. He smiled guiltily and ran down to the start. Stripping off his chiton and sandals, he put himself through a short stretching routine, then ran gently for several minutes until he felt the stiffness leave his muscles.

  The runners were called to the start by an elderly man with a short-cropped white beard. Then, one by one, the twelve racers were introduced to the crowd. There were seven Thebans running, and they received the loudest cheers. Meleager and Cletus were given shouts of encouragement by a small Spartan contingent. But Leon, the Macedonian, was greeted only by polite applause.

  Once more in line, the runners watched the starter. He raised his hand.

  ‘Go!’ he yelled. The Thebans were the first to sprint to the front, the line of runners drawing out behind them. Meleager settled down alongside Cletus in fourth place, Parmenion easing up behind them. The first five of the twenty laps saw no change in the leadership. Then Parmenion made his move. Coming smoothly on the outside, he ran to the front and increased the pace with a short punishing burst of half a lap, opening a gap of some fifteen paces between himself and the second man. At a bend he risked a glance behind him, and saw Meleager closing on him. Parmenion held to a steady pace, then put in a second burst. His lungs were hot now, and his bare feet felt scorched by the baked clay. The clouds parted, brilliant sunshine bathing the runners. Sweat coursed down Parmenion’s body. By lap eleven Meleager was still with him, despite four bursts of speed which had carried Parmenion clear. Slowly, inexorably, the Spartan had reeled him back. Parmenion did not panic. Twice more he pushed ahead, twice more Meleager came back at him.

  Parmenion was beginning to suffer - but, he reasoned, so too was Meleager. On lap sixteen Parmenion produced another effort, holding the increased pace for almost three-quarters of a lap, and this time Meleager was left some twenty paces adrift. He had misread the surge and expected Parmenion to falter. Now he began to close the gap. By the nineteenth - and last - circuit, Meleager was only six paces behind.

  Parmenion dared not look back, for it would break his stride pattern, and late in the race that could cost him. He was coming up now to the back markers, ready to lap them. Two were Thebans, but ahead he saw Cletus. The man kept glancing back, and Parmenion sensed what was coming. The Spartan would fall in front of him, dragging him down, or would block him as Meleager swept past.

  He could hear panting breath just behind him and, as Parmenion closed on Cletus, he guessed Meleager’s plan. The Spartan racer was trying to move alongside him, boxing him in and forcing him into the back of the man ahead. Anger swept through Parmenion, feeding strength to his limbs.

  He injected more speed until he was just behind Cletus.

  ‘Make way on the outside!’ he yelled, and at the same moment he cut inside to his left. The Spartan tripped and fell to his right, crashing into Meleager. Both men tumbled to the ground and Parmenion was clear, racing into the final lap. The crowd were on their feet now as he ran to the finishing line.

  It didn’t matter to them that he was Leon, an unknown Macedonian. What mattered was that two Spartans had rolled in the dust by his feet.

  Epaminondas rushed to his side. ‘The first victory for the Lion of Macedon,’ he said.

  And it seemed to Parmenion that a dark cloud obscured the sun.

  Parmenion set out his winnings on the stone courtyard table, building columns of coin and staring at them with undisguised pleasure. There were 512 drachms, a king’s ransom to a Spartan who had never before seen such an amount in one place, let alone owned it.

  There were five gold coins, each worth twenty-four drachms. He hefted them, closing his fist around them, feeling the weight and the warmth that spread through the metal. The four hundred silver drachms he had built into twenty columns like a miniature temple.

  He was rich! Spreading the gold coins on the table he stared down at the handsome, bearded head adorning each of them. They were Persian coins, showing the ruler Artaxerxes with a bow in his hand. On the reverse was a woman holding a sheaf of corn and a sword.

  ‘Will you stare at them all day?’ Epaminondas asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Parmenion gleefully. ‘And tomorrow!’

  The Theban chuckled. ‘You ran well, and I took great pleasure over the way you tricked Cletus. How they must be suffering now. Meleager will have beggared himself to settle his debts.’

  ‘I don’t care about him,’ said Parmenion. ‘Now I can afford to rent a home, and perhaps even hire a servant. And today I shall go to the market-place and buy myself a cloak, and several tunics - and a pair of fine sandals. And a bow. I must have a bow. And a hat! Perhaps one of Thracian felt.’

  ‘I have rarely seen a man so happy with his fortune,’ Epaminondas told him.

  ‘But then have you ever been poor?’ Parmenion countered.

  ‘Happily that is a state I know little of.’

  The two men spent the afternoon in the main marketplace, where Parmenion bought a cloak of sky-blue wool, two tunics of fine linen and a pair of calf-length sandals. He also allowed himself one extravagance - a head-band of black leather, finely woven with gold wire.

  Towards dusk, as they were making their way back to Epaminondas’ house, the Theban suddenly cut off to the left down an alley. Parmenion touched his friend’s sleeve. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Home!’ answered Epaminondas.

  ‘Why this way?’

  ‘I think we are being followed. Do not look back!’ he snapped, as Parmenion started to turn. ‘I do not want them to know we have spotted them.’

  ‘Why would we be followed?’

  ‘I do not know. But when we turn the next corner - run!’

  The alley twisted to the right and as soon as they were out of sight the two men ran along the path, cutting left and right through the narrow streets until they reached an alley at the back of Epaminondas’ home. The Theban halted at the mouth of the alley and glanced out. Four men were sitting on a low wall at the rear of the house. They were armed with daggers and swords, whereas Parmenion and the Theban were without weapons. Swift
ly the Theban ducked back out of sight.

  Epaminondas took another circuitous route to the front of the house. Here, too, a group of armed men waited.

  ‘What do we do?’ queried Parmenion.

  ‘We have two choices; either we brazen it out, or we go elsewhere.’

  ‘Who are they?’ the Spartan asked.

  ‘Scum, by the look of them. If I had my sword, I would not hesitate to confront them. But who do they want? You or me?’ Epaminondas leaned against a wall. There were only two reasons why the men could be waiting. One, the authorities had found out about the small group of rebels who met at the home of Polysperchon; or two, Meleager had learned of Parmenion’s true identity and had paid these rogues to exact revenge. Neither thought was comforting, but on the whole Epaminondas hoped it was the latter.

  ‘Show me more routes to the house,’ said Parmenion softly.

  ‘For what reason?’

  The Spartan grinned. ‘So that I can lead them on a chase. Trust me, Epaminondas. Much of my early life was spent in this way, being hunted, chased, beaten. But not this time, my friend. Now show me the alleys and back roads.’

  For almost an hour the two men wandered through the twisting alleys between the houses until Parmenion had memorized various landmarks. Then they returned to the opening at the rear of the house.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Parmenion, ‘until they have left. Then you can get your sword. And mine too.’

  The Spartan ran back into the maze of buildings, emerging from an alley some forty paces to the left of the waiting group. One of them looked up and nudged the man beside him. The group stood.

  ‘Are you the man Parmenion?’ asked a stocky, redheaded warrior.

  ‘Indeed I am.’

  ‘Take him!’ the man yelled, drawing a sword and rushing forward.

  Parmenion turned on his heel and sprinted for the alley, the four attackers in pursuit. Epaminondas darted across the open ground to the rear of the house and hammered on the door. A servant opened it and the Theban moved through to the andron, gathering up his sword. He sent the servant to Parmenion’s room to fetch the Sword of Leonidas and, armed with two blades, ran back towards the street.