Lion of Macedon

'What are you thinking?' asked the general suddenly.

'I was thinking of the horses,' lied Parmenion.

Xenophon nodded. 'Do not fear me, youngster. I am your friend — no more than that.'

'Are you a god to know my thoughts?'

'No, I am a general, and your thoughts are easy to read for you are young and naive. In your battle against Leonidas you fought to keep the elation of triumph from your face. That was a mistake, for you made of your features a mask and yet your eyes gleamed with the purest malice. If you wish to disguise your feelings, you must first fool yourself and when you look upon a hated enemy, pretend in your mind that he is your friend. Then your face will soften and you will smile more naturally. Do not try to be expressionless, for that only tells your enemy you are hiding something. And where you can, try to use a little honesty; it is the greatest disguise of all. But these are thoughts for another day. You wonder why Xenophon has taken an interest in you? The answer is not complex. I watched you play Leonidas, and your breadth of vision touched me. War is an art, not a science, and that is something you understand instinctively. You studied Leonidas and you learned his weakness. You took a risk — and it paid off handsomely. Also you used your cavalry well — and that is rare in a Spartan.'

'It did not impress the audience,' said Parmenion.

'There is a lesson there, strategos. You won, but you allowed a greater share of the glory to go to the Sciritai. That was not sensible. If the slave races ever believed they were the equal of the Spartans, there would be another revolt. And then city states like Athens or Thebes would once more combine their forces to invade Spartan lands. It is a question of balance- that is what the warriors in the crowd understood.'

'Then I was wrong?' Parmenion asked.

'In a game? No. In life? Yes.'

'Why then did you give me the victory?' asked the youth.

'You won the battle,' answered Xenophon. 'It matters nothing — in a game — that you would have gone on to lose the war.' The general stood and walked to his mount, and Parmenion followed him.

'Will you teach me?' asked the younger man, before he could stop the words.

'Perhaps,' said Xenophon. 'Now let us ride.'

* * *

Leonidas took three running steps and hurled the javelin high into the air, watching its curving arc as the sunlight caught the iron tip. The weapon dropped gracefully to thud home in the sun-baked earth a dozen paces further than the longest throw of his peers. Leonidas swung and raised his arms, and a score of youths applauded.

At this stage their barracks officer, Lepidus, would normally complete a throw, and Leonidas turned his eyes on the man.

Lepidus shook his head and took up his javelin. He strode back seven paces, tested the weapon for weight, then ran forward and, with a grunt of effort, launched it. Even as it left the officer's hand Leonidas allowed himself a smile of triumph.

Lepidus saw the javelin fall less than three paces short of Leonidas' mark. He swung and bowed to the younger man. 'You have a good arm,' he said, smiling warmly, 'but you are not dipping your body back far enough on the launch. There is at least another eight paces in you. Work on it.'

'I will, sir,' promised Leonidas.

'Now I'd like to see you Spartan gentlemen run,' Lepidus told them. 'Twenty laps of the racecourse, if it please you.'

'And if it does not?' shouted a boy at the back.

'Twenty-five laps,' said Lepidus. A groan went up, but the youngsters ran off to the start.

Lepidus wandered to a wooden bench seat in the shade and watched the young men. Gryllus took the lead, followed by Learchus. But Leonidas had eased himself into fourth place behind Hermias.

Lepidus rubbed at his shoulder, where a Persian lance-point was still buried under the bone. The joint ached murderously in winter, and even in summer any effort, like throwing a javelin, caused a dull ache.

Lepidus looked up as the sweating youngsters passed him. He envied them their youth and their energy, remembering his days in the barracks, his longing to march with the phalanx into battle.

He saw a boy at the back of the pack. 'More effort, young Pausias!' he yelled, and the boy sprinted into the group, trying to hide from his critical eye.

Lepidus' mind wandered and he saw again his own youth. Sparta was different then, he told himself, more true to the principles laid down by the divine Lycurgus. The boys in the barracks were allowed two tunics, one for summer and one for winter. There were no minstrels performing in the Theatre of Marble, no plays, no parties at the homes of the rich. One bowl of black soup a day for the youngsters, and iron discipline maintained by the birch. A race bred for battles. He looked at the runners. Good boys, strong and proud, but Leonidas had many tunics and a warm cloak against the winter wind. And Hermias spent most of his evenings at home with his parents, eating good food and drinking watered wine. Young Learchus had a gold-embossed dagger, made by a craftsman in Thebes, while lazy Pausias filled his belly with honeycakes and ran with all the speed of a sick pig. These boys did not survive on a bowl of soup a day.

Transferring his gaze to Leonidas, he saw that the youth had moved up into second place and was loping along behind Gryllus. The Athenian was a fine runner, but Lepidus knew that Leonidas would accelerate into the last bend and leave him gasping. Only the boy Parmenion could live with the pace Leonidas could set, but never over twenty-five laps, when Leonidas' greater strength would count.

Using Sciritai alongside real men! Lepidus shook his head. That morning he had been summoned to the Senior over the move.

'It was none of my doing, sir,' he said to the grim-eyed old man.

'Then it should have been,' snapped the ageing general. 'The King was displeased, and one of our finest young men was shamed. Are you saying the boy had never attempted such a move in practice?'

'Never, sir,' answered Lepidus, his unease growing. This man had been his commanding officer in seven campaigns, and although both were now past forty years from Manhood the general still inspired awe in Lepidus.

'Put him right, Lepidus. Where will we be if we allow Spartan men to develop such appalling methods?'

'He is a half-blood, sir. He will never be Spartiate.'

'His father was a fine warrior," answered the general, 'and the mother bore herself well. But I hear what you say. Blood will out. Send the boy to me.'

'He is with Xenophon, sir. His mother's burial is today and the Athenian has him as a house-guest.'

The general's fist slammed down on the table. 'I don't want one of my boys as that man's catamite!'

'I will see he is back tomorrow.'

'Do so,' grunted the old man. 'And, Lepidus, there will be no presentation of the Victory Rod.'

'Sir?'

'No presentation this year.'

Lepidus looked into the old man's eyes and swallowed hard. 'I do not much like the boy, sir, but he won. How can we refuse him the Rod?'

'An example must be set. Do you know that my helots are talking of his win, that it is common knowledge among the Sciritai?'

Lepidus had said no more. Now he sat, grateful for the shade from the tall cypress tree, and watched the boys run. He had little time for Parmenion, whom he saw as a sly, cunning youth; but he had earned the Rod, and it was unfair to deprive him. He wondered how the other boys would take the decision. Parmenion was not popular, but the award night was usually a riotous affair and much looked forward to.

The race was entering its final stages: Lepidus stood and walked to the centre of the field.

Gryllus still held the lead, but Hermias was now alongside Leonidas and vying for second place, blocking the taller youth's chances of an outside run at Gryllus. Leonidas cut to his right, barging Hermias aside. The slender youth staggered and lost ground, but Leonidas surged forward, catching Gryllus just before the line and breasting home ahead. Hermias came in fifth.