As Parmenion stretched the muscles of his thighs and groin, prior to his training run, he gazed at Hector's tomb. It was of marble, decorated with raised reliefs, carvings which showed his valiant battle with the Greek hero. Parmenion had always felt a great admiration for Hector.
Most Spartans spoke of Achilles, for he was the victor, and yet it seemed to Parmenion that Hector had shown the greater courage. An oracle had warned Hector that to fight Achilles would mean death, for his opponent was invincible. During the ten-year Trojan war both men had studiously avoided single combat. And then, one bright morning, Hector had seen Achilles riding towards him in a bronze chariot, his armour — caught in the sunlight — seeming to blaze with white fire. The two men had met on the field of combat — and Hector won. He struck down Achilles with a terrible blow to the neck, and watched his nemesis writhe in his death throes.
What a glory for Hector, what a weight lifted from his heart! Now he would see his baby son grow to manhood, now he would know again the peace which the oracle had stolen. He knelt by the body and tore the white plumed helmet from the head — only to find himself gazing down on the dead face of Patroclus, Achilles' lover. Hector staggered back, shocked, confused. He ran to a Greek prisoner. 'What is the meaning of this?' he demanded. 'Why was Patroclus wearing Achilles'
armour?'
The man could not meet Hector's fierce eyes, but looked down. 'Achilles has decided to return home. He will fight no more,' he said.
Oh, but he would. Hector knew that. In killing Patroclus he had hastened his own doom. Leaping into his chariot, he galloped his horses back into the city of Troy and waited for the challenge he knew must come.
Within the hour Achilles was at the gates. .
Parmenion finished his exercises and walked to the tomb, laying his hand upon it. 'You went out to meet him, Hector,' he said. 'That was bravely done. And you died as a man should, facing his enemy.'
The bones of Hector had been brought from the ruins of Troy and buried in Thebes because of another oracle which said, 'Thebans in the city of Cadmos, your country shall have innocent wealth if you bring out of Asia the bones of Hector. Carry them home and worship the hero by the decree of Zeus.'
The Thebans had obeyed. Every year, according to Epaminondas, they declared a holy day for Hector and a great celebration was held at the training ground, where men and women danced and drank in honour of the Trojan. And wealth had followed, in trade with Athens in the south and the exporting of goods north to Thessaly and Macedonia, to the Illyrians and the Thracians. Thebes was awash with coin.
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.