Hermias nodded and wandered away. Parmenion watched him go, then swung his attention to the awakening city.
Sparta. The home of heroes, birth-place of the finest warriors ever to walk the green earth. From here, less than a century before, the legendary Sword King had set off for the Pass of Thermopylae with 300 warriors and 700 helots. There the tiny force had faced an army of Persians numbering more than a quarter of a million.
And yet the Spartans had held, hurling back the foe, until at last the Persian King Xerxes sent in his Immortals. Ten thousand of the finest warriors Persia could muster from her great empire, highly trained, the elite corps. And the Spartans humbled them. Parmenion felt his heart swell as he pictured those grim-eyed men in their full-faced helms of bronze, their blood-red cloaks and their shining swords. The might of Persia — the might of the world! — broken upon the swords of 300 Spartans. He turned to the south-east. There, out of sight now, was the monument to the King who died there. Betrayed by a Greek, the Spartans had been surrounded and massacred. They had known of the betrayal and the King had been urged by his allies to flee the field. His words were engraved on the hearts of all Spartans: 'A Spartan leaves the battle carrying his shield — or upon it. There will be no retreat.' It seemed ironic to Parmenion that his greatest hero and his worst enemy should share, the same name and bloodline — Leonidas. And at times he wondered if the King of legend had been as cruel as his namesake. He hoped not.
Parmenion climbed to the highest point of the acropolis, gazing down at the city that circled the hill. Fewer than 30,000 people dwelt here, yet they were held in awe from Arcadia to Asia Minor, from Athens to Illyria. No Spartan army had ever been beaten in a pitched battle by a foe of equal numbers. The Spartan foot-soldier — the hoplite — was worth three Athenians, five Thebans, ten Corinthians and twenty Persians. These scales were drummed into Sparta's children, and remembered with pride.
Macedonians did not rate a mention in Spartan scales. Scarcely considered to be Greek, they were barbaric and undisciplined, hill tribes of little culture save that which they stole from their betters. 'I am a Spartan,' said Parmenion. 'I am not a Macedonian.'
The statue of Zeus continued to gaze at the distant Mount Ilias, and Parmenion's words seemed hollow. The boy sighed, remembering the conversation minutes before with Hermias. 'You are hard on me, Parmenion. But you are correct. I love you as a brother, and yet I do not see you as Spartan.
I do inside my head — but my heart…"
' Then why should the others — who are not my friends — accept mer As a young child Parmenion had experienced few problems with other youngsters. But at seven, when all Spartan boys were taken from their parents and moved to barracks for training as warriors, he had first suffered the torment of his tainted blood. It was there that Leonidas — named for the King of glory — had taunted him, demanding that he kneel to him as befitted a man from a race of slaves.
Smaller and younger, Parmenion had flown at him, fists lashing at the older boy's face. Leonidas had thrashed him then — and many times since. Worse, Leonidas was of a noble Spartiate family and many of the other boys in the Barracks of Lycurgus had sought his favours. Parmenion became an outcast, hunted, hated by all save Hermias — even Leonidas could not turn on Aim, for he was the son of Parnas, the King's friend.
For eight years Parmenion had borne the blows and the insults, convinced that one day he would see their eyes look upon him as a brother Spartan. Today should have seen the hour of triumph. He had succeeded beyond his dreams in the General's Games, battling his way to the final. But who should be his opponent — among all the youths in Sparta? None other than Leonidas.
As Hermias had warned, victory would bring only more pain, yet he could not. . would not. .
consider playing to lose. Every year the General's Games were the high point of the calendar for the apprentice warriors in Sparta's many barracks. The winner would wear the laurel crown and hold the Victory Rod. He was the strategos — the master!
The Game pitched two armies against one another, the competitors acting as generals, issuing orders, choosing formations. The soldiers were carved from wood: there was no blood, no death.
Losses were decided by two judges, who threw numbered knuckle-bones.
Picking up a stick, Parmenion traced a rectangle in the dust, picturing the Spartan phalanx, more than 1,000 warriors with shields locked, spears steady. This was the main force in the game, the cavalry coming second. To the right he sketched a second block: the Sciritai, Spartan vassals who always fought alongside their masters. Doughty men, hard and ungiving, yet never were they allowed into the front rank of the battle. For they were not Spartan — and were therefore almost sub-human.
This was his army, 3,000 men, Spartan foot, horse and the Sciritai reserve. Leonidas would command an identical force.
Closing his eyes he recalled last year's final, which had been played in Menelaus Barracks. The battle had taken two hours. Long before the conclusion, Parmenion had grown bored and had wandered away into the marketplace. It had been a battle of attrition, both phalanxes locked together, the judges throwing knuckle-bones and removing the dead until at last the White army overwhelmed the Red.
A pointless exercise, Parmenion had decided. What good was such a victory? The winner had fewer than 100 men at the close. In real life he would have been overwhelmed by any second enemy force.
A battle should not be fought in such a way.
Today would be different, he decided. Win or lose, they would remember it. Slowly he began to sketch formations, to think and to plan. But his mind wandered, and he saw again the Great Race three weeks ago. He had planned for it, trained for it, dreamed of the laurel wreath of victory upon his brow.
Twenty miles under the gruelling summer sun, out over the foothills, up the scree-covered slopes of the Parnon mountains, legs aching, lungs heaving. All the young men of Sparta in one great race, the ultimate test of juvenile strength and courage.
He had outdistanced them alclass="underline" Leonidas, Nestus, Hermias, Learchus and the best of the other barracks. They ate his dust and struggled behind him. Leonidas had lasted better than the rest, hanging grimly to his shadow, but twelve miles from home even he had been broken by Parmenion's final burst.
And then Parmenion had run for home, saving the last of his energy for the sprint to the agora where the King waited with the laurel of victory.
With the city in sight, white and beckoning, he had seen the old man pulling his hand-cart along Soldiers' Walk at the foot of the olive grove, had watched in dismay as the right wheel came loose, tipping the cart's contents to the dust. Parmenion slowed in his run. The old man was struggling to loosen a looped thong from the stump at the end of his right arm. He was crippled.
Tearing his eyes from the scene, Parmenion ran on.
'Help me, boy!' called the man. Parmenion slowed, and turned. Leonidas was far behind him and out of sight. . he tried to gauge how much time he had. With a curse he ran down the slope and knelt by the wheel. It was cracked through, yet still the Spartan boy tried to lift it into place, forcing it back over the axle. It held for a moment only — then broke into several shards. The old man slumped to the ground beside the ruined cart. Parmenion glanced down into his eyes; there was pain there, defeat and dejection. The man's tunic was threadbare, the colours long since washed away by the winter rains, bleached by the summer sun. His sandals were as thin as parchment.
'Where are you going?' Parmenion asked.
'My son lives in a settlement an hour from here,' replied the old man, pointing south. Parmenion glanced at the wrinkled skin of his arm; it showed the cuts of many sword-blades, old wounds.