'Tell me all you have done so far, sire, leaving nothing out. And that includes the murder of your stepbrother.'
'Why not?' answered Philip. For almost an hour the King spoke of his efforts to stave off disaster, of his wooing of Athens, his offer to Bardylis and his assurances to Cotys in Thrace. At last he faded to silence and looked at Parmenion's face in the moonlight. The Spartan was expressionless, his eyes locked to Philip's.
'And that is all?' he asked finally.
Philip considered lying, but on impulse shook his head. 'No, that is not all. Cotys may already be dead.' He watched Parmenion relax.
'Indeed he is, sire. But that still leaves the pretender Pausanius.'
'Who also will soon be dead,' said Philip, his voice barely above a whisper. 'That is all I can tell you.'
'How many men would you require within the year?'
'Two thousand horsemen, and 10,000 infantry.'
'Too many,' said Parmenion. 'They would be inadequately trained. Content yourself with 6,000 foot-soldiers — that should give you enough men to tackle Bardylis. How does your treasury stand?'
'Almost empty,' admitted Philip.
'Then your first action must be to relieve the governor at Crousia and restore your fortunes. Then you must purchase armour and weapons. In Phrygia they make fine breastplates of baked leather, lined with thick cloth — not quite as effective as bronze, but lighter. The Phrygian helm is also highly regarded.'
'You are giving me good advice, strategos, but you do not say whether you will join with me.'
'I'll stay for the year, sire. I'll train your army. After that. . we'll see.'
Philip stood and gazed out over the lantern-lit city. 'Normally it is the King who is petitioned, but here you have reversed the position. What did I say that made you decide to stay?'
'It was nothing you said, sire. It was something you did.'
'But you will not tell me?'
'Exactly, sire. Now to the terms. Tomorrow I would like to meet those of your officers and friends who are presently in Pella. My position will be that of First General, answerable to no man but yourself. I will warrant no argument as to the methods I use in training the men, nobles or peasant. You will give me your full backing in everything connected with training. Do you agree?'
'I agree. But what will you be seeking to do first?' asked Philip.
'The formation of an elite force, the King's Infantry Companions, the Royal Guard — 500 men, the best you have.'
'Like the Sacred Band of Thebes?'
'Better,' said Parmenion. 'For they will be Macedonian!'
With the trench foundation complete, the soldier workers made way for the stone-masons, carpenters and wall-builders. Idle now, the men gathered in small groups to dice and gamble and talk of going home. Rumours spread through the ranks. The King was preparing to invade Illyria, to win back their homelands, the Thebans were marching on Pella, the Thracians were massing an army.
Theo took little notice of the stories. He was more interested in events closer to the capital, and listened intently to the gossip about the pale-eyed Spartan now seen with the King and his officers. Only yesterday those same officers had been seen running in the hills, sweat shining on their bodies, their legs trembling. It had been a source of much amusement for the men. Horsemen did not take well to running. The Spartan had run with them, long loping strides that carried him far ahead, drawing them behind him like tired hounds in pursuit of a stag.
But, despite the amusement it offered, it set Theo to thinking. Why should they run? What point was there?
Now 100 volunteers had been sought to attend the Spartan at the new training field. Theo was the first to step forward.
One hour after dawn he rose from his blankets and joined the straggling line of men who wandered to the field where the Spartan sat waiting. The man was wearing a woollen tunic and carried no weapons. Yet around him were stacked wooden shields and a pile of short clubs.
When the men had gathered he gestured for them to sit, then cast his eyes slowly over the group.
'What is the prime objective in a battle?' he asked suddenly, lifting his hand, finger pointed. He stabbed it out in the direction of a man to theleftofTheo.
'To win it,' answered the man.
'Wrong.' The finger moved again and Theo could feel the tension around him as men willed it to pass them by. The Spartan's hand dropped to his lap. 'Does any man have an answer?'
Theo cleared his throat. 'Not to lose it?' he said.
'Good,' said the Spartan. 'Think about that for a moment.' His pale eyes studied them. 'Victory in battle is a fickle spirit that floats in the air, never knowing where to settle. A cavalry charge smashes the enemy, forcing the opposing King to retreat. Has he lost? Not yet. If his flanks can close in around the cavalry, robbing them of mobility, he can yet draw Victory to him. But, if he does, has he won? No, not if the cavalry are tight-knit and continue to drive directly at him, killing his guards. Why did Bardylis destroy your army?' Once again the finger rose, pointing at a man at the rear of the group.
The gods favoured him,' answered the man, to a chorus of approval.
'Maybe they did,' said the Spartan. 'But, in my experience, the gods always favour the clever and the strong. You lost because your King — a brave and dynamic man — threw everything into a single charge. When it failed — he failed. You failed.'
'And the Spartans would have done better?' shouted a man behind Theo.
'Perhaps not,' snapped Parmenion, 'but you will. The King has asked me to find for him a special group of fighting men. They will be the King's Companions, and they will fight on foot.'
'We are horsemen,' said the same man. Theo glanced round, recognizing Achillas.
'Indeed you are,' agreed the Spartan, 'and as such you will earn your twenty-five drachms. But the men I select will be double-pay men. Each will have fifty drachms a month. Those men interested should remain, the others are free to return to their duties.'
Not a man moved: fifty drachms was a fortune. They were all small farmers, needing money for the purchase of horses, or bulls or goats, or cereal seed. It was not a sum to be dismissed lightly.
The Spartan stood. 'Be warned that from every hundred I may choose only five, maybe ten men. The King desires the best. Now stand.'
As they rose Parmenion opened a box by his side and took out a small brooch the size of a man's thumbnail. It was made of iron. 'On this brooch is the club of Heracles. When a man has five of these, he will have won his place in the King's Company. With every badge goes a prize of ten drachms. The first will be won by a man who can run. Ten circuits of the field. Prepare yourselves.' The men began to remove their breastplates. 'Stop,' said Parmenion. 'When you charge the enemy you will not discard your armour. You will run as you are. Go!'
They set off at a murderous pace that faltered within a lap. Theo settled in at the centre of the leading group, feeling his breastplate rubbing at the back of his neck. By five circuits the leaders had pulled half a lap clear of the following pack, and by seven had started to overtake the back markers. Theo finished fifth and slumped to the ground as Achillas stepped up to receive his badge.
The Spartan waited until all the men had finished.
'Take up shields and swords,' he ordered them. The swords were wooden, but of the same weight and length as the short stabbing blades used by most hoplites. 'Now we will see how you fight,' he said. 'Choose an opponent and form into two lines. You will fight only until a blow is struck which with a real sword would kill or disable. The loser will walk back to sit on the right, the victor to the left.'
The contest took more than an hour and by the end the men were cheering the finalists as they circled one another, blocking with shields, lunging, parrying. Theo had won his first two bouts, but had been beaten on the third. Achillas had reached the last four, but had lost to Damoras who now fought Petar, a man from Theo's area in the north of Pelagonia. Damoras was stronger but Petar, the shorter man, had greater speed and his wooden blade cracked against Damoras' skull, causing his opponent to stagger. 'Killing blow!' shouted Parmenion. Petar dropped shield and sword and punched the air with delight, taking his badge from Parmenion and holding it up for his friends to see.