Lion of Macedon

'When I was in Thebes,' said Parmenion, 'there was a man who tried to teach me to catch fish with my bare hands. Talking to you reminds me of those days. I hear your words, but they slip by me, the meanings obscure. How can you help me?'

'At this moment you do not need me, Spartan,' said the man, his smile fading. Reaching out, he gripped Par-menion's arm. 'But there will come a time. You will be given a task, and my name will come into your mind. It is then that you must seek me out. You will find me where first we met. Do not forget that, Parmenion — much will depend on it.'

Parmenion stood. 'I will remember, and once more I thank you for your hospitality. If we go back the way we came, will we see again the river and the mountains?'

'No. This time you will emerge in the hills above Pella.'

The grey-haired man stood and offered his hand. Parmenion took it, feeling the strength in the grip. 'You are not as old as you look,' said the Spartan with a smile.

There is great truth in that,' the man answered. 'Seek me out when you have need. And by the way, even as we speak the Thracian King is dying, poisoned by one of Philip's friends. Such is the fate of greedy Kings, is it not?'

'Sometimes,' agreed Parmenion, vaulting to the stallion's back. 'Do you have a name, scholar?'

'I have many. But you may call me Aristotle.'

'I have heard of you — though never as a magus. It is said you are a philosopher.'

'I am what I am. Ride on, Parmenion — the Song awaits.'

* * *

The trench was more than 200 feet long, the fifty men digging with picks and shovels through layers of clay and rock, the sun beating down on their bare backs as they laboured. Other soldiers worked to clear the debris, which they threw on to the banks of the trench.

Philip drove his pick into the ground before him, feeling his shoulders jar as the metal edge struck rock once more. Laying the tool aside he dropped to his knees and dug into the clay, hooking his fingers around the stone and dragging it clear. It was larger than he had first thought, its weight as great as that of a small man. He was about to call for help when he saw several of the men looking at him and grinning. He smiled back, placed his arms alongside the rock and heaved it to his chest. With a powerful surge he rose and rolled the offending stone to the bank. Then he climbed out and walked the line of the trench, stopping to speak to the workers, gauging their progress.

At each end the trench turned at right-angles, the workers following the lines of ropes pegged to the ground. Philip walked back from the site and pictured the new barracks. It would be two storeys high, with a long dining-hall and seven dormitories housing more than 500 men. The architect was a Persian who had been trained in Athens, and Philip had demanded that the building should be completed by next spring.

The workers were all soldiers from the Pelagonia and Lynkos districts to the north-west, land currently occupied by Bardylis and his Illyrians. The men worked cheerfully enough, especially when the King struggled alongside them, but he knew they remembered his promise that they could return to their homes within three months of the victory against the Paionians.

That was five weeks ago — and still there was no treaty with Bardylis. Yet, looking on the positive side, Philip thought that was promising, for the Illyrians had not marched further into Macedonian territory and Bardylis was considering Philip's offer to marry his daughter. As a gesture of good faith and 'continuing brotherhood' Bardylis had requested that the Macedonian King hand over to Illyria all the lands between the Bora mountains and the Pindos range; six districts in all including Pelagonia, rich in timber, with good grazing and fine pastures.

'Ugly brides do not come cheaply, it seems,' Philip had told Nicanor.

Now the King was ridding himself of tension by sheer physical labour. The trench would be finished by tomorrow, then the footings could be completed and he could watch, with pleasure, the growth of the barracks.

No simple structure of wood and mud-brick, the frontage would be carved stone, the roof clay-tiled, the rooms airy and full of light.

'But you are talking of a palace, sire,' the architect had objected.

'And I want three wells and a fountain in the central courtyard. Also a special section for the commanding officer, with an andron to accommodate twenty — no, thirty men.'

'As you wish, sire. . but it will not be cheap.'

'If I wanted cheap, I would have hired a Spartan,' Philip replied, patting the man's thin shoulder.

The King wandered to a pile of rocks and sat down. A workman brought him a goblet of water from a cool stone jar; it tasted like nectar. He thanked the man, recognizing him as the burly, bearded warrior who had led the cheering after the first battle.

'What is your name, friend?'

'Theoparlis, sire. Most call me Theo.'

'It should be a fine building, Theo. Fit for the troops of the King.'

'Indeed it will, sire. I am sorry I shall not enjoy the pleasure of living in it, but in two months I shall be returning to my wife in Pelagonia — is that not true?'

'It is true,' agreed Philip. 'And before another year is out I will come to you there — and offer you a place in this fine barracks and a house for your wife in Pella.'

'I will look forward to your visit,' said Theo, bowing and returning to his work. Philip watched him go and then swung his gaze to the east, where two riders were making their way from the city centre. He drained his water and watched them. The lead rider wore a bronze breastplate and an iron helm, but Philip was more intent on the horse, a chestnut stallion of some sixteen hands. All Macedonian nobles were raised as horsemen, and Philip's love of the beasts was second to none. The stallion had a fine head, eyes set well apart — a good indication of sound character. Its neck was long, but not overly so, the mane cropped like a helmet plume. Philip strolled towards the riders, angling so that he could see the stallion's back and flanks. Its shoulder-blades were sloping and powerful, which would give the beast long sweeping strides, making it fast and yet comfortable to ride. Straight shoulders, Philip knew, led to jarring steps and discomfort for the rider.

'You there!' came a voice and Philip glanced up. The second rider, a short stout man riding a sway-backed grey gelding, was pointing at him. 'We are looking for the King. Take us to him.'

Philip studied the man. He was bald, but red and silver hair grew over his ears like a laurel crown. 'Who wants him?' he asked.

'That is none of your concern, peasant,' snapped the rider.

'Gently, gently, Mothac,' said the other man, lifting his leg and jumping to the ground. He was tall and slim, though his arms were well muscled, showing the scars of many fights. Philip looked up into the man's eyes; they were pale blue, but the face was tanned to the colour of leather, making them as grey as storm-clouds. Philip's heart leapt as he recognized Parmenion, but quelling the urge to run forward and embrace the Spartan he kept his face free of emotion and wandered forward.

'You are a mercenary?' Philip asked.

'Yes,' replied Parmenion. 'And you are a builder?'

Philip nodded. 'It is to be a barracks, I am told. Perhaps one day you will be quartered here.'

'The footings are deep,' observed the warrior, walking to the trench and watching the workmen.

'There are occasional earthquakes,' Philip told him, 'and it is essential for the foundations to be sound. It does not matter how pretty the building — without good foundations it will fall.'

'The same is true of armies,' said the warrior softly. 'Did you fight against the Paionians?'

'I did. It was a good victory.'

'Did the King fight?'

'Like a lion. Like ten lions,' said Philip, smiling broadly.