Lion of Macedon

by David Gemmell

  The boy laughed. ‘You do not need to be coy, Parmenion. I am a hostage against the good behaviour of Macedonia. But life here is good and Pammenes takes fine care of me. It is better, I think, than being back in Macedonia. There I would probably be killed by an anxious relative.’

  ‘Harsh words, young prince.’

  ‘Harsh but true,’ said the boy. ‘I am one of many brothers and half-brothers, all of whom have some right to the throne. It is not our way to leave rivals alive. I can see the logic of it, I suppose.’

  ‘You seem to be taking your plight with great calmness, young prince.’

  ‘What else can I do?’

  Parmenion smiled. ‘That is not a question I can answer. I am not a prince.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Philip, ‘and I do not wish to be one. Nor would I want to be a King. Certainly not in Macedonia.’

  ‘What is wrong with Macedonia?’ queried Parmenion. ‘I have heard it is a beautiful land, full of rolling plains and fine forests, mountains and pure streams.’

  ‘So it is, Parmenion. But it is also a land surrounded by strong enemies. To the west there are the Illyrians of King Bardylis: tough, doughty warriors. To the north there are the Paionians: tribesmen who love nothing better than to ride south for plunder. To the east there are the Thracians: good horsemen, fine cavalry. And to the south there are the

  Thessalians and the Thebans. Who would want to be King of such a country?’

  Parmenion did not reply. The boy’s eyes were sorrowful, his mood dark, and there was nothing the Spartan could say. In all probability the lad was right. Once back in Macedonia his life would be worth little. The thought depressed Parmenion.

  An uncomfortable silence developed and Parmenion rose to leave. The Sacred Band was still toiling round the circuit and the Spartan turned to the young prince. ‘I learned a long time ago never to give in to despair. Fortune may be fickle, but she loves a man who tries and tries again. I think you have a strong mind, Philip. You are a thinker, a planner. Most men just react to circumstances, but thinkers create the circumstances. If there are relatives who wish to see you dead, then make them love you. Show them you are no threat. Show them you can be useful. But more than anything, boy, you must become a hard man to kill.’

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘By staying alive. By thinking of all the ways your enemies will come at you. By preparing for them. Despair is the brother of defeat, Philip. Never let it touch you.’

  The boy nodded, then pointed to the runners who were staggering to a halt on the tenth circuit. Parmenion strode out to meet them. ‘I think that will be all, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Be here tomorrow one hour after dawn.’

  ‘Have a heart, Parmenion,’ called one youngster. ‘Three days in a row?’

  ‘I have no heart,’ he said. ‘I am a man of stone. One hour after dawn, if you please.’

  Turning back to the trees, he saw that the boy had gone. Parmenion sighed. ‘May the gods favour you, Philip of Macedon,’ he whispered.

  For three weeks the peace conference at Sparta seemed likely to end all thoughts of war. Trade agreements were negotiated and signed, border disputes argued over but finally settled. Epaminondas was treated like an honoured guest, and twice dined with King Agisaleus.

  Pelopidas returned to Thebes in the fourth week, regaling Parmenion with stories of the geniality which surrounded the conference.

  ‘I think Agisaleus has resigned himself to losing his power over us,’ said Pelopidas. ‘There was a representative of the Great King there, a golden-haired Persian with a curled beard. You should have seen the clothes he wore: I swear to Zeus, he had more jewels sewn into his coat than stars in the sky! He positively shimmered whenever he entered the room.’

  ‘Did he speak?’ asked Parmenion.

  ‘He opened the conference, bringing us all the greetings and blessings of the Great King. He said the King was happy that his children were to become reconciled, one to the other.’

  ‘Speaking of Kings, what of Cleombrotus?’

  ‘He has not been present,’ Pelopidas answered. ‘It is said he is ill. But I’ll tell you this, Sparta is an appalling city. I don’t know how you could stand the smell. All the waste flows to the streets and the flies are thicker than smoke. An ugly place - fit for an ugly people.’

  ‘Ill?’ queried Parmenion. ‘With what?’

  ‘They did not say, but it could not have been very serious for they seemed unconcerned by his absence. You know, when you told me that Spartan women were allowed to walk in the open I really did not believe you. But you were right. They were everywhere. And some of them even stripped part naked and ran in the meadows. I’ll say this, I don’t know how such an ugly race of men could ever sire such beauties. There was one woman, with hips like...’

  ‘I know about the women,’ said Parmenion patiently. ‘I lived there. I am more concerned with Cleombrotus; he is strong as an ox, and would not have missed the conference willingly. What proof did you have that he was in Sparta at all?’

  ‘Where else would he be?’

  ‘What about the army? How many soldiers did you see?’

  ‘Agisaleus ordered the army south for manoeuvres. He said the conference would proceed more amiably without the constant clashing of Spartan shields, which some might take as a covert form of persuasion.’

  ‘So,’ said Parmenion. ‘We have both the Battle King and the army lost from sight. Does that not suggest something to you, Pelopidas?’

  The Theban warrior got up from the couch and walked to the window. Outside the sun was shining in a clear sky. He swung back towards Parmenion and smiled. ‘You think they plan some treachery? I doubt it. If they wanted to invade, they could do so without long-drawn-out jabbering and debate, and the endless signing of treaties.’

  ‘I agree,’ Parmenion concurred. ‘But there is a taste to this that does not sit well pn the tongue. How many men could we muster in, say, two days?’

  ‘Hypothetically? Three thousand from Thebes, maybe a thousand from the Federation.’

  ‘Not enough, if Cleombrotus and the army marched north instead of south. When is the conference now due to end?’

  ‘Ten... no, nine days from now. It will conclude with the signing of a full agreement between the Athenian Alliance, Sparta and Boeotia. Then there will be two days of celebration.’

  ‘And how many men can we bring to the field in nine days?’

  ‘Gods, Parmenion, are you obsessed with Sparta? We could not consider bringing together an army at this time. If we did, and word reached the conference, how would it be seen? We would be accused of aggressive behaviour and the treaty would come to nothing. Why must you look for treachery at every turn? Perhaps the Spartans have come to terms with the re-emergence of Thebes.’

  ‘How many men?’ pressed Parmenion. ‘Hypothetically.’

  Pelopidas filled his goblet with watered wine and returned to his couch. ‘Perhaps 7,000 - if we could get cavalry from Thessaly. But I’ll be honest with you, Jason of Pherae is as great a cause for fear as the Spartans - perhaps greater now. His Thessalian cavalry already numbers 20,000 men, and he has at least 12,000 hoplites. I think it is to the north that we must look with trepidation. The Spartans are out of it.’

  Parmenion said nothing but sat quietly staring at a point high on the wall, his right hand stroking his chin. After a time he turned his gaze on Pelopidas. ‘There are two points to consider here, my friend. If you are right, then we have nothing to fear. If my fears are confirmed, then all we have fought for will be taken away from us. So, let us assume for a moment that I am right and the Spartan army is closer to us than is thought. Where would they be? How would they be planning to enter Boeotia? We still have a force overlooking the passes of Mount Cithaeron. They would see the Spartans and raise the alarm, yet it is unlikely they would try crossing the Corinthian Gulf, since we now have the twelve battle triremes at Creusis. Where then, Pelopidas - you know the territory?’ Parmenion moved to a chest by the f
ar wall, pulling clear a map of central Greece etched on cowhide. He sat beside Pelopidas, dropping the hide into the Theban’s lap.

  Pelopidas drained his wine. ‘I’ll play the game with you, Parmenion, though you are wrong this time. But let me think. We hold the southern passes and all entries from the Peleponnese. We could pin down a Spartan army for months. And, as you say, they could not cross the gulf without a sea battle - unless, that is, they crossed much further north, say here at Agion,’ he said, stabbing the map. ‘Then they would head for Orchomenus and Lake Copais. They would be able to draw allies from the city, strike south-west through Coronea and Thespiae to Thebes herself and, coming from the north, would bar all help from reaching us from Thessaly.’

  ‘Exactly my point,’ said Parmenion. ‘Most of our troops are south, guarding the passes. But who do we have in the north?’

  ‘Chaireas with 1,000 hoplites, mostly from Megara and Tanagra. Good fighting men. Solid. They are based at Thespiae.’

  ‘Send riders to Chaireas, ordering him north to blockade the passes at Coronea. If I am wrong, we can say that Chaireas was merely taking his troops through manoeuvres.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Pelopidas, ‘I do not enjoy your company. My father used to tell stories about dark demons who stole the souls of little boys. Afterwards I would lie in my bed unable to sleep, even though I knew the bastard was only trying to frighten me. I never liked the man. But now you have made me nervous.’ He sighed. ‘I will do as you suggest, but - when you are proved to be wrong - you will give me your new black gelding. How does that sound?’

  Parmenion chuckled. ‘Agreed. And if I am proved to be right, you will give me your new shield?’

  ‘But I sent to Corinth for that shield. It cost me twice what any reasonable man would pay for a horse.’

  ‘You see,’ observed Parmenion, ‘already you are beginning to consider I may be right.’

  Pelopidas grunted. ‘What I will do,’ he said, ‘is ride your gelding up and down outside your gates every morning. Then you will see the cost of your obsession with Sparta.’

  A week later came disquieting news, though not from the north, where Chaireas had marched to Coronea and fortified a ridge. Calepios returned from Sparta and went straight to the home of Pelopidas. The Theban general heard him out and both men sought Parmenion. They found him on the race-track, pounding out the miles in an effortless lope. Pelopidas waved, beckoning the runner to them.

  Parmenion masked his irritation and joined them; he did not like his daily run to be disturbed or interrupted. Nevertheless he bowed politely to Calepios, the orator returned the bow and the three men sat at the new marble bench by the Grave of Hector.

  ‘There has been an unusual turn of events,’ said Calepios. ‘We were preparing to sign the Treaty of Peace when Epaminondas noticed that the word Boeotian had been changed to Theban. He asked why this was so, and Agisaleus told him that Thebes - and not the Boeotian

  League - was currently the power north of the Peleponnese. Epaminondas reminded him that he was the representative of the League, not merely of Thebes. But the Spartans remained firm. Either Epaminondas signed for Thebes - or he did not sign. All others have already signed, Parmenion. Epaminondas asked for a further three days to consider the matter and report back to the League. That is why I am here. What is Agisaleus planning? Why would he do such a thing?’

  ‘To separate us from Athens. If all cities sign - save Thebes - then we are outcasts. Sparta could march against us without fear of attack from Athens.’

  ‘The Athenians would never allow it,’ said Calepios. ‘They have been with us from the start.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Parmenion pointed out. ‘It needed a Spartan invasion to spur them on. But they must be starting to see the Boeotian League as a possible threat. The Athenians have long coveted the title of leaders of Greece. If they sit back and watch Thebes and Sparta rip each other to shreds, who prospers but them? They can gather the pieces.’

  ‘Therefore,’ said Pelopidas, ‘we should sign. What difference does it make?’

  Parmenion laughed and shook his head. ‘A great warrior you may be, Pelopidas, but avoid the area of politics. If Epaminondas signs, it will be a message to all democrats in Boeotia that Thebes has declared herself the ruler of all. It would sunder the League. It is a clever ploy. Agisaleus is as cunning as ever.’

  ‘What then is this all about?’ asked Pelopidas. ‘Will he sign, or will he not?’

  ‘He cannot,’ said Parmenion. ‘If he did, it would mean a slow, sure death for the League. Instead we must muster the army. Agisaleus will come now, for sure.’

  ‘We cannot just muster the army,’ put in Calepios. ‘We are a democracy. First the seven elected Boeotian generals must be summoned; that is part of the constitution. And one of those generals is Epaminondas.’

  ‘A rule devised by idiots,’ snapped Parmenion. ‘What will you do, Pelopidas? You are one of the Seven.’

  ‘I will order the Sacred Band to re-form, and gather what hoplites I can from Thebes and the surrounding areas. All we can do now is to alert the other cities and request troops. We cannot order them.’

  ‘A wondrous beast is democracy,’ said Parmenion.

  It was almost dawn when Parmenion left for home, walking the deserted streets and avenues, past the fountains and the moonlit statues. He moved with care, avoiding narrow alleys, his hand on his sword-hilt. As he crossed an open square he saw a dark, hooded figure sitting by a walled pool. Anxiously he cast his eyes around the square, but there was no one else in sight, nor any hiding-place behind which an assassin could lurk. Parmenion walked on.

  ‘No greetings for an old friend?’ came the dry voice of Tamis, as he sought to pass. He stopped and turned; the old woman raised her head and smiled.

  ‘Are you human or spirit?’ he asked, feeling the chill of the night breeze on his skin.

  ‘I am Tamis,’ she replied.

  ‘What is it you require of me? Why do you haunt me, woman?’

  ‘I require nothing, Parmenion. I am an observer. Are you content?’

  ‘Why should I not be? And give me no more of your false prophecies. Thebes still stands - despite your words.’

  ‘I did not say she would fall in a day,’ said Tamis wearily, ‘and my prophecies are never false. Sometimes I wish they were. Look at you, young and in your prime, feeling immortality in your veins. You look at me and you see a walking corpse seeking a suitable grave. You see wrinkled skin and ruined teeth. You think that is me? You think this is Tamis? Look again, Parmenion,’ she said, rising and pushing back the hood. For a moment she was bathed in moonlight so bright he could not bear to look upon her, then it cleared. Standing before him now was a young woman of breath-taking beauty, her hair gold, her lips full, her eyes a brilliant blue, yet warm and more than friendly. Then the image faded and he saw her skin dry out and sag, her shoulders bow and her waist thicken. His mouth was dry. ‘You are a sorceress!’ he whispered.

  Her laugh became a cackle and she sank back to her seat. ‘Of course I am a sorceress,’ she told him, her voice edged with sorrow. ‘But what you saw was once real. There is not one old woman in all the world who would not understand. One day, Parmenion, perhaps you too will be old, your skin dry and mottled, your teeth loose in your jaws. But inside you will be as you always were — except that you will find yourself trapped in a decaying shell.’

  ‘I have no time for this. What do you want of me?’

  ‘Is your hatred still strong?’ she asked. ‘Do you still require the death of Sparta?’

  ‘I desire to see Thebes free of Spartan influence, that is all.’

  ‘You told Asiron you were the Death of Nations.’

  ‘How could you know that?’ Suddenly he laughed. ‘A foolish question to ask of a sorceress. Or a Spartan spy. Yes, I told him. But that was years ago. Perhaps your prophecies worried me then. They do not now. Was it you who told Epaminondas he would die at Man tinea? Was that another falsehood?’
<
br />   ‘Yes, it was I. But that is between the great man and myself. Do you love Thetis?’

  ‘I don’t know why I am bothering to talk to you,’ he said. ‘I am weary. I need sleep.’ He swung away from her and began to walk across the square.

  ‘Do you love her?’ she called softly. He stopped, the question echoing in his mind, then slowly he turned.

  ‘Yes, I love her. Though not as I loved - and still love -Derae. Is there a reason for the question? Or are we playing another game?’

  ‘I asked you once to ride from the city, to seek a destiny at the shrine to Hera in Troy. You did not heed me. You will not heed me now. But yet, I say it to you: Do not go home. Ride from Thebes tonight.’

  ‘You know I will not.’

  ‘I know,’ she told him, and in her voice he heard a depth of sadness which struck him worse than a blow. He opened his mouth to speak, to find some gentle words of parting; but she moved away swiftly, pulling her hood over her head.

  The sky was brightening with the pre-dawn as he arrived at the gate of his house. He yawned and raised his fist to rap at the wood, knowing that Mothac would awaken instantly and raise the bar. Then he saw that the gate was ajar. Irritation flared. Ever since Clearchus had entered so easily, Parmenion had insisted that at night the gate should be both chained and barred; it was not like Mothac to forget such an order. Parmenion put his hand to the gate, then hesitated. The meeting with Tamis had unsettled him. In all probability Mothac had merely consumed too much wine and had fallen asleep waiting for him.

  His unease remained and with a whispered curse he moved to his right until he stood beneath the lowest part of the wall. Hooking his fingers over the edge he hauled himself up, carefully avoiding the pots and jars he had placed along the top for an unwary intruder to send crashing. Silently he moved two of them aside, making room to ease his body on to the wall. Scanning the courtyard below he saw two armed men waiting, one on either side of the gates. Lowering himself back to the alley, he drew his sword. His mouth was dry, his heart hammering, but taking several deep breaths he calmed himself and crept to the gates. He had one advantage, he knew: the assassins expected to surprise their victim. He crashed his shoulder into the left-hand gate, which flew open. The first assassin was smashed to the ground as Parmenion leapt to his right, his sword cleaving through the second man’s neck. The first man rose groggily; his sword had been knocked from his hand, but he scrabbled for a knife. Parmenion’s blade plunged into his chest.