'You are Spartan?' enquired the boy.
'Sciritai,' the man answered. Parmenion stood and stared down at the cart. It was loaded with pots and jugs, several old blankets, and a breastplate and helm of a style the boy had only seen painted on vases and murals.
'I will help you home,' said Parmenion at last.
'Was a time, boy, I would have needed no help.'
'I know. Come. I will support the axle if you can steer and pull.'
Hearing the sound of running feet Parmenion glanced up. Leonidas sped by along the crest of the hill; he did not look down. Swallowing his disappointment Parmenion took hold of the axle, heaving the cart upright. The old man took his place at the handles and the two made their way slowly south.
It was dusk when Parmenion finally trotted through the gates. There to greet him were many of the youths from his barracks.
'What happened, mix-blood? Did you get lost?' they jeered.
'More likely lay down for a rest,' sneered another. 'There's no stamina in half-breeds.'
'Last! Last! Last!' they chanted as he ran on to the market-place where his barrack tutor, Lepidus, was waiting to count his charges home.
'What in the name of Hades happened to you?' asked the soldier. 'Lycurgus Barracks should have won the day. We finished sixth, thanks to you.'
Parmenion had said nothing. What was there to say?
But that was in the past — and the past was dead. Parmenion grew hungry and wandered down into the market-place, and on along Leaving Street to the barracks. In the mess hall he queued with the other boys of Lycurgus and sat alone with his bowl of dark soup and chunk of black bread. No one spoke to him. Leonidas was on the other side of the hall, sitting with Gryllus and a dozen others; they affected not to notice him. Parmenion ate his meal, enjoying the feeling of a full stomach, then he left and walked through the streets to the small home of his mother. He found her in the courtyard, sitting in the sunshine. She glanced up at him and smiled. She was painfully thin, her eyes sunken. He touched her shoulder and kissed her gently, his lips touching bone beneath the dry, taut skin.
'Are you eating well?' he asked her.
'I have no appetite,' she whispered. 'But the sun is good for me, it makes me feel alive.' He fetched her a goblet of water and sat beside her on the stone bench. 'Do you contest the final today?' she asked.
'Yes.'
She nodded and a strand of dark hair fell across her brow. Parmenion stroked it back into place.
'You are hot. You should come inside.'
'Later. Your face is bruised?'
'I fell during a race. Clumsy. How are you feeling?'
'Tired, my son. Very tired. Will the King be at Xenophon's house to see you win?'
'It is said that he will — but I might not win.'
'No. A mother's pride spoke. But you will do your best, and that is enough. Are you still popular with the other boys?'
'Yes.'
'That would have pleased your father. He, too, was popular. But he never reached the final of the General's Games. He would have been so proud.'
'Is there anything I can do for you? Can I get you some food?' Parmenion took her hand, holding to it tightly, willing his own strength to flow into her frail limbs.
'I need nothing. You know, I have been thinking these last few days about Macedonia, and the forests and the plains. I keep dreaming of a white horse on a hillside. I am sitting in a field and the horse is coming towards me. I so long to ride that horse, to feel the wind on my face, whispering through my hair. It is a tall horse, with a fine neck. But always I wake before he reaches me.'
'Horses are good omens,' said Parmenion. 'Let me help you inside. I will fetch Rhea — she will cook for you. You must eat, Mother, or you will never regain your strength.'
'No, no. I want to sit here for a while. I will doze. Come to me when you have played the Game.
Tell me all.'
For a while he sat with her, but she rested her head against a threadbare pillow and slept. Moving back into the house, he washed the dust from his body and combed his dark hair. Then he pulled on a clean chiton tunic and his second pair of sandals. The chiton was not embroidered and was too small for him, barely reaching midway to his thighs. He felt like a helot — a slave. Parmenion walked to the next house and rapped his knuckles on the door-frame. A short, red-haired woman came out; she smiled as she saw him.
'I will go in to her,' she said, before he spoke.
'I do not think she is eating,' said Parmenion. 'She is becoming thinner every day.'
'That is to be expected,' answered Rhea softly, sadness in her voice.
'No!' Parmenion snapped. 'Now the summer is here she will improve. I know it.'
Without waiting for her to speak, he ran back beyond the barracks and on to Leaving Street and the house of Xenophon.
On the day of the Game Xenophon awoke early. The sun was just clearing the eastern peaks, long thin shafts of light spearing through the warped shutters of his bedroom window. He rolled to his side and groaned. He always enjoyed dining with the King but, as life so often proved, all pleasures had to be paid for. His head was pounding, his stomach queasy. He took a deep breath and sat up, pushing back the thin sheet which covered him and gazing down at his torso. The muscles of his belly were ridged and tight, belying his forty-seven years, the skin of his face and body burnished gold from frequent naked exercise in the early morning sunshine.
The general rose and stretched before his bronze mirror. His eyesight no longer had the keenness of youth and he was forced to peer closely at his reflection, noting with distaste the slight sagging of skin beneath the blue eyes and the silver streaks appearing in the gold of his hair. He hated the process of ageing, and dreaded the day when lovers would come to him out of duty, or for money, rather than desire.
The youth last night had been charmed by him, but more than anything he had wished to be seen with Xenophon, hero of the March to the Sea, the rebel Athenian acknowledged as one of the greatest generals of the age. At this morale-boosting thought Xenophon chuckled and moved back from the mirror. He opened the shutters, felt the sun on his skin, then sat once more on the firm bed.
The March to the Sea: the year of glory. Was it the Fates, the will of Athena or blind luck? he wondered. How could a man ever know? Outside the sun was shining, the sky cloudless, just like that day at Cunaxa when all his dreams and beliefs were put to the test; when Cyrus had fought for his birthright. Xenophon's eyes lost their focus as the events of the day swarmed up from the dark corridors of memory. Cyrus, as handsome as Apollo and as brave as Heracles, had led his troops into Persia to fight for the crown that was rightfully his. Xenophon had known they could not lose, for the gods would always favour the brave and doubly favour the just. And the enemy, though superior in numbers, had neither the strategic skill nor the valour at arms to defeat the Greek mercenaries who loved Cyrus. When it came the battle was a foregone conclusion.
The two forces had met near the village of Cunaxa. Xenophon had been a junior officer under Proxenus then, and he remembered the sudden rush of fear as he first saw the enemy, stretched out in a vast battle-line. He had ordered his men into close formation and waited for orders. The Persians set up a great roar, clashing spear hafts to shields, while the Greeks stood silently.
Cyrus galloped his charger along the front line, shouting, 'For the gods and glory!' Outnumbered, the Greek phalanx charged into the Persian horde, which broke and ran. Cyrus, looking like a god upon his white stallion, then led a ferocious assault on the enemy centre, sending his treacherous brother — Artaxerxes the King — fleeing from the field. The glory of victory, the fulfilment of destiny!