It was only later, when alone in his upper room, that memories of Derae would steal upon him, bringing pain and clutching at his heart. Then he would rise from his bed and stare balefully out over the sleeping city, his thoughts bitter. Dreams of revenge grew inside his soul, building slowly like a temple of hate within him.
They would pay.
Who will pay? asked a still small voice.
Parmenion pondered the thought. It was Leonidas who was his enemy, yet the whole of Parmenion's life had been scarred by rejection, by the hated use of 'mix-blood'. He had been welcomed nowhere save at the home of Xenophon. No one in Sparta had made him feel he belonged — not even Hermias.
They will all pay, he told himself: the whole city. There will come a day when the very name Parmenion will bring a wail of anguish from 10,000 throats.
And in this way Parmenion cloaked the hurt of Derae's death.
Epaminondas spent little time with Parmenion in the days before the race. Every evening he would visit friends in distant parts of the city, going out early and arriving home late. He was cool during this time though not unfriendly, but Parmenion took to wandering the city, learning its roads and streets, orienting himself.
On most days he saw Spartan soldiers walking through the market-places or sitting at the dining areas. Their voices were loud and pompous, he felt, and the manner of the soldiers was arrogant.
In his calmer moments Parmenion knew this was untrue — they were merely unwelcome strangers in a foreign city. But his hatred was growing now, and he could rarely look upon the soldiers without feeling its dread power.
On the night before the race Epaminondas invited him to the andron and the two men reclined on couches and discussed the contest.
'Meleager likes to wait at the shoulder of the leader, then strike for home from a hundred paces,'
said the Theban.
'That suits me well,' responded Parmenion.
'He has a friend who runs with him, dark-bearded, short. In three races, when it looked as if Meleager could be beaten, this man tripped and fell in front of the leader, bringing him down.'
'Meleager should have been disqualified.'
'Perhaps,' Epaminondas agreed. 'On the second occasion at least. But he is a Spartan, and Theban objections count for little. I have managed only odds of three to one. How much money will you wager?'
Parmenion had given great thought to the race. At four to one he could have afforded to hold back some coin. But now? He lifted the pouch from his belt and handed it to the Theban.
'I have 168 drachms. Wager it all.'
'Is that wise?'
Parmenion shrugged. 'It would be nice to have choices. If I lose, I will sell the bay mare and seek employment in a mercenary company. If not? Then I will be able to hire rooms.'
'You know you are welcome to stay with me.'
'That is kind, but I will be a burden to no man.'
The training ground was packed with people when the two men arrived early the following morning, and tiered seats had been set at the centre of the field. Parmenion was restless as he waited for the races to begin. There was a boxing tourney first, but it was a sport which did not interest him and he wandered to the Grave of Hector and sat in the shade of an oak tree.
The middle race was new to the Greeks, and pride of place still went to the stadia, a sprint of 200 paces. In many cities, Xenophon had told him, training groups did not have oval tracks and runners were forced to move up and down the stadia distance, turning around poles set in the earth. But the Persians loved the longer distance races, and gradually they had caught the interest of spectators in Greece. Part of the appeal, Parmenion knew, was born of the wagers. If a man was to bet on a runner, then he liked to watch a longer race where his excitement could be extended.
For a while he dozed, then was woken by a roar from the crowd as the final boxing match ended with an ear-splitting knockout. Parmenion rose and went in search of Epami-nondas, finding the Theban at the northern end of the ground watching the javelin throwers.
'It is a good day for running,' said Epaminondas, pointing up at the sky. 'The clouds will make it cooler. How do you feel?'
'There's some tightness in the neck,' admitted Par-menion, 'but I am ready.' Epaminondas pointed to a spot some thirty paces away, where a tall, clean-shaven man was Umbering up. 'That is Meleager,' he said, 'and beyond him is his friend — I believe he is called Cletus.'
Parmenion watched them closely. Meleager was stretching his hamstring by lifting his leg to a bench and bending forward. Then he eased the muscles on both sides of the groin. Cletus was loping up and down, swinging his arms over his head. Meleager, Parmenion saw, was tall and lean, ideally built for distance running. He watched the man for some time; his preparation was careful and exact, his concentration total.
'I think it is time you began your own preparations,' said Epaminondas softly and Parmenion came to with a jerk. He had been so engrossed with Meleager that he had almost forgotten he was to race him. He smiled guiltily and ran down to the start. Stripping off his chiton and sandals, he put himself through a short stretching routine, then ran gently for several minutes until he felt the stiffness leave his muscles.
The runners were called to the start by an elderly man with a short-cropped white beard. Then, one by one, the twelve racers were introduced to the crowd. There were seven Thebans running, and they received the loudest cheers. Meleager and Cletus were given shouts of encouragement by a small Spartan contingent. But Leon, the Macedonian, was greeted only by polite applause.
Once more in line, the runners watched the starter. He raised his hand.
'Go!' he yelled. The Thebans were the first to sprint to the front, the line of runners drawing out behind them. Meleager settled down alongside Cletus in fourth place, Parmenion easing up behind them. The first five of the twenty laps saw no change in the leadership. Then Parmenion made his move. Coming smoothly on the outside, he ran to the front and increased the pace with a short punishing burst of half a lap, opening a gap of some fifteen paces between himself and the second man. At a bend he risked a glance behind him, and saw Meleager closing on him. Parmenion held to a steady pace, then put in a second burst. His lungs were hot now, and his bare feet felt scorched by the baked clay. The clouds parted, brilliant sunshine bathing the runners. Sweat coursed down Parmenion's body. By lap eleven Meleager was still with him, despite four bursts of speed which had carried Parmenion clear. Slowly, inexorably, the Spartan had reeled him back.
Parmenion did not panic. Twice more he pushed ahead, twice more Meleager came back at him.
Parmenion was beginning to suffer — but, he reasoned, so too was Meleager. On lap sixteen Parmenion produced another effort, holding the increased pace for almost three-quarters of a lap, and this time Meleager was left some twenty paces adrift. He had misread the surge and expected Parmenion to falter. Now he began to close the gap. By the nineteenth — and last — circuit, Meleager was only six paces behind.
Parmenion dared not look back, for it would break his stride pattern, and late in the race that could cost him. He was coming up now to the back markers, ready to lap them. Two were Thebans, but ahead he saw Cletus. The man kept glancing back, and Parmenion sensed what was coming. The Spartan would fall in front of him, dragging him down, or would block him as Meleager swept past.
He could hear panting breath just behind him and, as Parmenion closed on Cletus, he guessed Meleager's plan. The Spartan racer was trying to move alongside him, boxing him in and forcing him into the back of the man ahead. Anger swept through Parmenion, feeding strength to his limbs.
He injected more speed until he was just behind Cletus.