Lion of Macedon

The youth put it to one side without even looking at it. Xenophon nodded.

'It will mean more to you in days to come. But let it pass. You are young, Parmenion, and life holds many griefs in store. Yet none will ever touch you like this one. But you are a sensible lad, and you know that all people die. I have spoken to your neighbour about your mother; she was in great pain.'

'I know of her pains. I know of her struggles. I wanted… I wanted to build something for her. A house… I don't know. But I wanted to make her happy, to give her things she desired. There was a cloth in the market she wanted, edged with gold; a shining cloth to make a dress for a queen, she said. But we could not buy that cloth. I stole it. But she took it back. She had nothing.'

Xenophon shook his head. 'You see too little: she had a husband she loved and a son she adored.

You think she wanted more? Well, yes she may have. But this is a cruel world, Parmenion. All any man — or woman — can expect is a little happiness. According to your neighbour, your mother was happy. She knew nothing of your. . troubles. . with the other youths. She sang, she laughed; she danced at festivals. And yes, she is dead — she will sing no more. But then neither will she feel pain. Nor did she grow old and withered and outlive her son.'

'Why did you come here?' asked the boy. 'You could have sent the sword.'

Xenophon smiled. 'Indeed I could. Come home with me, Parmenion. We will dine and you will tell me of your mother. It is important that we speak of her, and send our praises after her. Then the gods will know what a fine woman she was, and will greet her with fine wine — and a dress of shining cloth, edged with gold.'

'I don't want to leave her,' said Parmenion.

'It is too late, she has already gone. Now they must prepare her for burial, and it is not fitting that a man sees a woman's mysteries. Come.'

Parmenion followed the general out of the house, and they walked in silence along Leaving Street and on beyond the market to the larger houses of the nobility.

Xenophon's house looked different without the crowds and with the sand-pit removed. The scent from the purple flowers on the walls was everywhere, and a servant brought several lamps to light the courtyard. The night was warm, the air heavy, and Xenophon listened as Parmenion told the story of his mother's life.

Servants brought watered wine and sweetmeats and the two men sat together long into the night. At last Xenophon led Parmenion to a small room at the rear of the house.

'Sleep well, my friend,' said the general. 'Tomorrow we will see to your affairs.' Xenophon paused in the doorway. Tell me, young man,' he asked suddenly, 'why did you finish last in the Great Race?'

'I made a mistake,' answered Parmenion.

'Is it one you regret?'

Parmenion saw again the old man's face, the despair in his eyes. 'No,' he said. 'Some things are more important than winning.'

'Try to remember that,' the Athenian told him.

* * *

Tamis sat by the dying fire, watching the fading shadows dance upon the white, rough-hewn walls of the small room. The night was silent, save for the dry rustling of leaves as the night wind whispered through the trees.

The old woman waited, listening.

I was not wrong, she told herself, defiantly. A branch clattered against her window as the breeze grew stronger, the fire flickering into a brief blaze, then dying down. She added dry sticks to the flames and pulled her thin shawl around her shoulders.

Her eyelids drooped, fatigue washing over her, yet still she sat, her breathing shallow, her heartbeat ragged.

As the night deepened she heard the sounds of a walking horse, the slow, rhythmic thudding of hooves on hard-baked earth. With a sigh Tamis pushed herself to her feet, gathering up her staff and moving to the open doorway, where she stood watching the shadow-haunted trees.

The sound was closer now, yet no horse was in sight. Closing the eyes of her body, she opened the eyes of her spirit and saw the tall, white stallion cross the clearing to stand before her. It was a huge beast of almost eighteen hands, with eyes the colour of opals.

Tamis sighed and put aside her shawl, taking up instead a cloak of grey wool, which she fastened to her shoulders with a brooch of turquoise. Leaving the door open, she walked out into the night towards the city, the ghostly horse following behind.

Her thoughts were sombre as she made her slow way through the near-deserted market square, her staff tapping against the flagstones. Parmenion's mother had been a good woman, kind and thoughtful. And you killed her, whispered a voice in her mind.

'No, I did not,' she said, aloud.

You let her die. Is that not the same?

'Many people die. Am I responsible for all deaths?'

You wanted her dead. You wanted the child to suffer alone.

'To make him strong. He is the hope of the world. He is the one destined to defy the Dark God. He must be a man of power.'

The voice was stilled, but Tamis knew she was unconvinced. You are getting old, she told herself.

There is no voice. You are talking to yourself, and such debates are meaningless. 'I speak with the voice of reason,' said Tamis. 'She speaks with the voice of the heart.'

Is there no place now within you for such a voice?

'Leave me be! I do what must be done!'

A group of men were sitting close by in the moonlight, dicing with knuckle-bones. Several of them looked up as she passed, one surreptitiously making the sign of the Circle to ward off evil. Tamis smiled at that, then put the men from her mind.

Arriving at the house of Parmenion, she closed her eyes, her spirit moving inside, hovering within the death room where Artema lay swathed in burial linen. But what Tamis sought was not here, and the sorceress returned to her body. Wearily she walked along the moonlit streets, the stallion following, until she stood before the gates to Xenophon's home. Once more her spirit soared, moving through the house and up the stairs to a small room, in which Parmenion lay, lost in dreams.

There by the bed stood a pale figure, white and ethereal, like sculptured mist, featureless and glowing. Tamis felt the overpowering emotions within the room, love and loss, and harrowing heartbreak. Parmenion's dreams made him groan aloud, and the figure shimmered. Now Tamis sensed confusion and pain. A pale arm reached towards the boy, but could not touch him. 'It is time,'

whispered Tamis.

'No.' The single word hung in the air, not a denial, but an entreaty.

'He could not see you, even were he awake. Come away. I shall lead you.'

'Where?'

'To a place of rest.'

The figure turned back to the bed. 'My son.'

'He will be a great man. He will save the world from darkness.'

'My son,' said the wraith, as if she had not heard.

'You are no longer of his world,' said Tamis. 'Say your farewells swiftly, for soon it will be the dawn.'

'He seems so lost,' whispered the wraith. 'I must stay to comfort him.' The mist hardened, the features of Artema shining through. She turned to Tamis. 'I know you. You are the seeress.'

'I am.'

'Why do you want to take me from my son?'

'You are no longer of his world,' repeated Tamis. 'You. . died.'

'Died? Oh yes, I remember.' Tamis steeled herself against the grief born of knowledge that emanated from the ghost. 'And now I will never hold him again. I cannot bear it!' Tamis swung away from the anguish in Artema's eyes.