Lion of Macedon Page 3

  Xenophon’s thoughts turned to the brilliant Leonidas. Now there was a true Spartan, tall and beautifully proportioned, proud of stance, with hair like spun gold. There was a greatness in Leonidas, Xenophon believed, a true gift from the heavens. It was not often that the Athenian looked forward to the General’s Games, but today he was relishing the battle of wills to come.

  The general approached the training ground, known as the Planes. Here, usually at dusk, the younger boys would fight mock battles, using sticks instead of swords. But every sixth morning the Spartan army would engage in manoeuvres. Today was special, Xenophon knew, as he crossed the low bridge to the south of the Planes; today saw the Manhood parade. His admiration for the Spartan military system was undiminished, despite causing his banishment from Athens. The Spartans had evolved the perfect army, using principles so simple that it was a source of wonder to Xenophon that no other city state had copied them. Men were ranked according to their years from Manhood at twenty. Children who had grown together, learned together and forged friendships in infancy would stand together in the phalanx. And as the years passed they would stay together, fighting alongside one another until they reached the perfection of twenty years from Manhood, when they would be eligible to retire.

  That was what made the Spartan army invincible. The phalanx formation was multi-layered, the first line made up of men of thirty, ten years from Manhood - tough, seasoned, yet still young and strong, men used to iron discipline, who had fought in, and won, many battles. Behind them were the warriors twenty years from Manhood, proud, battle-scarred and mighty. One row back were the new recruits, seeing at first-hand how Spartan warriors fought. And behind them the Manhood lines from two to nineteen. Was it any wonder that no Spartan army had ever been defeated in the field by a foe of equal numbers?

  ‘Why will you never understand?’ Xenophon wondered, picturing his native city of Athens. ‘You wanted to be supreme. You should have been supreme. But no, you would not learn from your enemies.’ Athens and Sparta had fought a long and costly war across the Peleponnese. It saw the worst period in Xenophon’s life, when the Spartan army had besieged Athens twenty years before. The City of Athena, blessed by the gods, had surrendered. Xenophon would never forget the shame of that day.

  Yet as a soldier, studying the art of war, how could he hate the Spartans? They had lifted the art to heights undreamt of.

  ‘As always you come equipped for battle,’ said Agisaleus, and Xenophon blinked. His mind had been far away, and he grinned almost sheepishly. The Spartan King was sitting on a narrow bench seat of stone under the shade of a cypress tree.

  ‘My apologies, my lord,’ said Xenophon, bowing, ‘I was lost in thought.’

  Agisaleus shook his head and stood; only then did his twisted left foot become apparent. A handsome, dark-bearded man with piercing blue eyes, Agisaleus was the first Spartan King in history to suffer a deformity, and it would have cost him the crown had not the general Lysander argued his case before gods and men.

  ‘You think too much, Athenian,’ said the King, taking Xenophon’s arm. ‘What was it this morning? Athens? Persia? The lack of campaigns? Or are you longing to return to your estates at Olympia, and deny us the pleasure of your company?’

  ‘Athens,’ Xenophon admitted. Agisaleus nodded, his shrewd eyes locking to the other’s face.

  ‘It is not a simple matter to be called a traitor by your own people, to be banished from your homeland. But perspectives change, my friend. Had you held a senior position in Athens, perhaps the war would not have been so terrible -perhaps there would have been no war. Then you would have been a hero. I, for one, am delighted you did not command an army against us. Our losses would have been much higher.’

  ‘But you would not have lost?’ queried Xenophon.

  ‘Perhaps the odd skirmish,’ Agisaleus conceded, chuckling. ‘For a battle is not just about the skill of generals, but also the quality of the warriors.’

  The two men walked to the crest of a low hill and sat on the first row of stone seats overlooking the Planes.

  The Manhood line, numbering 240 men, was being incorporated into the Eight formation, and Xenophon watched with interest as the new recruits practised - alongside 3,000 regulars - the charge and the wheel, the surge and the flanking hook.

  There was a marked difference in their enthusiasm as the sweating men saw the King on the hill above them. But AgisaJeus was not watching them; he turned to Xenophon.

  ‘We have been too insular,’ said the King, removing his own red-plumed helm and setting it on the seat beside him.

  ‘Insular?’ responded Xenophon. ‘Is that not Sparta’s greatest strength?’

  ‘Strength and weakness, my friend, often seem as close as husband and wife. We are strong because we are proud. We are weak because our pride never allowed us to grow.’ He flung out his arm, encompassing the land. ‘Where are we? Deep in the south, far from the trade routes, a small city state. Our pride does not allow for intermarriage, though it is not against any law, and the number of true Spartans is therefore held down. On that field are 3,000 men, one-third of all our armies - which is why we can win battles, but never build an empire. You feel the pain of Athens? She will survive and prosper long after we Spartans are dust. She has the sea; she is the centre, the heart of Greece. We will beat her in a thousand battles yet lose the war.’

  Agisaleus shook his head and shivered. ‘The Ice Beast walked across my soul,’ he said. ‘Forgive my gloom.’

  Xenophon swung his eyes back to the fighting men on the Planes. There was a great truth in the King’s sorrowful words. For all her military might, Sparta was a small city state with a population diminished by the terrible wars which had raged through the Peleponnese. He glanced at his friend and changed the subject.

  ‘Will you present the prize at the General’s Games?’

  Agisaleus smiled and the melancholy passed from him. ‘I have a special gift today for the winner - one of the seven swords of Leonidas the King.’

  Xenophon’s eyes widened. ‘A princely gift, my lord,’ he whispered.

  Agisaleus shrugged. ‘My nephew is of the bloodline and carries the King’s name; it is fitting he should have the blade. I would have given it to him anyway on his birthday in three weeks’ time. But it will make a nice occasion, and will give the boy a fine memory of the day he won the Games. I won them myself thirty years ago.’

  ‘It will be a fine gesture, my lord, but... what if he does not win?’

  ‘Be serious, Xenophon. He is pitted against a half-breed Macedonian, one step from being a helot. How can he not win? He is a Spartan, of the Blood Royal. And anyway, since you are the chief judge I am sure we can rely on a just result.’

  ‘Just?’ countered Xenophon, turning away to mask his anger. ‘Let us at least be honest.’

  ‘Oh, do not be stiff with me,’ said Agisaleus, throwing his arm around his friend’s shoulder. ‘It is only a child’s game. Where is the harm?’

  ‘Where indeed?’ replied Xenophon.

  Parmenion slowed in his run as he approached the white-walled home of Xenophon. Already the visitors were gathering and he could see Hermias at the edge of the crowd, talking to Gryllus. Anger flared as he remembered the short, powerful, hooked punches, and he felt the desire to stalk across the crowded street, take Gryllus by the hair and ram his foul head into the wall until the stones were stained with blood.

  Calm yourself! He knew Gryllus would be present - as Xenophon’s son this was his home; secondly he would carry the Black Cloak for Leonidas. But it galled Parmenion that Gryllus was accepted - even liked - by other youths in the barracks. How is it, he wondered, that an Athenian can win them over but I can’t? He has no Spartan blood, yet my father was a hero. Pushing the thought from his mind Parmenion eased himself through the crowds, closing in on the two youngsters. Gryllus saw him first and his smile froze into place, his eyes darkening.

  ‘Welcome to the day of your humiliation,’ said the Athenia
n.

  ‘Get back from me, Gryllus,’ warned Parmenion, his voice shaking. ‘The sight of you makes me want to vomit. And know this: if you come at me again I will kill you. No blows. No bruises. Just worms and death!’

  Xenophon’s son staggered back as if struck, dropping the black cloak he carried. Swiftly he gathered it and vanished into the doorway of the house.

  Turning to Hermias Parmenion tried to smile, but the muscles of his face were tight and drawn. Instead he reached out to embrace his friend, but Hermias drew back. ‘Be careful,’ said Hermias. ‘It is a bad omen to touch the cloak!’

  Parmenion gazed down at the dark wool draped across Hermias’ arm. ‘It is only a cloak,’ he whispered, stroking his fingers across it. The loser of the Game would be led from the battlefield, cloaked and hooded to hide his shame. No Spartan could be expected to look upon such a humiliation with anything but loathing. But Parmenion did not care. If Leonidas won, that would be shame enough. Wearing the cloak would worry him not at all.

  ‘Come,’ said Hermias, taking Parmenion’s arm. ‘Let us walk awhile - we do not want to be early. How is your mother?’

  ‘Getting stronger,’ answered Parmenion, aware of the lie yet needing it to be true. As they walked away he heard a cheer and glanced back to see the arrival of the golden-haired Leonidas. He watched with envy as men gathered round to wish him luck.

  The two youths walked up the stony path to the Sanctuary of Ammon, a small, circular building of white stone fronted by marble hoplites. From here Parmenion could see the Sacred Lake and, beyond the city, the tree-shrouded Temple of Aphrodite, Goddess of Love.

  ‘Are you nervous?’ asked Hermias, as they sat beneath the marble statues.

  ‘My stomach is knotted, but my mind is calm,’ Parmenion told him.

  ‘What formation will you use?’

  ‘A new one.’ Swiftly Parmenion outlined his plan.

  Hennias listened in silence, then shook his head. ‘You must not do this, Savra! Please listen to me! It is unthinkable!’

  Surprised by his friend’s reaction, Parmenion chuckled. ‘It is just a mock battle, Hennias. Wooden soldiers and knuckle-bones. Is not the object to win?’

  ‘Yes, yes, but... they will never allow it. Gods, Savra, can you not see it?’

  ‘No,’ answered Parmenion. ‘Anyway, what does it matter? No one will have to sit through a two-hour ordeal. Win or lose, it will be over in minutes.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ whispered Hermias. ‘Let us go back.’

  Xenophon’s courtyard was crowded, the guests climbing to the banked seats against the western wall where they could sit in the shade. Parmenion was uncomfortably aware of the poverty he showed in his ill-fitting chiton; but then his mother had only the one small landholding, and from that meagre income she had to find enough money for food and clothing and to pay for Parmenion’s training. All Spartan youths were charged for their food and lodging, and inability to pay meant loss of status. When poverty struck a family they lost not only the right to vote but the right to call themselves Spartan. It was the greatest shame a man could suffer. Ejected from his barracks, he would have to take employment and become little better than a helot.

  Parmenion shook himself clear of such sombre thoughts and stared at the ten-foot-square killing ground, shaped in sand. The carved wooden soldiers stood in ranks beside it. Gold on the left, Blood on the right.’ Unpainted and unadorned, yet still they were handsome. Reaching down, he picked up the first Gold hoplite line; it had been carved in white wood, but the years had stained it yellow. There were only ten figures pinned to the small support plank, but these represented 100 heavily armoured warriors bearing round shields, spears and short swords. They had been carved with care, even down to the leather kilts and bronze greaves. Only the helms were now outdated; full-faced and plumed, they had been discontinued thirty years before. But these carvings were old and almost sacred. The great

  Leonidas of legend had used them when he won the Eleventh Games.

  Parmenion replaced the Spartan file and moved to the Sciritai. These were less well carved and not as old. The men here carried no spears, and wore round leather caps.

  A shadow fell across Parmenion and he glanced up to see a tall man wearing a yellow tunic edged with gold. He had rarely seen a more fine-looking warrior: his hair was golden, streaked with silver, his eyes the blue of a summer sky.

  The man smiled at him. ‘You would be Parmenion. Welcome to my house, young general.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It is an honour to be here.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Xenophon agreed, ‘but you have earned that honour. Walk with me.’

  Parmenion followed Xenophon into a shaded alcove decorated with a magnificent display of purple flowers which draped the wall like the cloak of a king.

  ‘The straws have been drawn and you will make the first move. Now tell me the first three orders you will give,’ said Xenophon. Parmenion took a deep breath. For the first time his nerves seemed to fail him and he found himself staring back at the crowd in the courtyard. In a real battle, once the fighting started it was almost impossible to change the strategy swiftly, not when thousands of men were struggling together with swords and shields clashing. That was why, in the Game, the first three orders were given to the judges so that no competitor could suddenly change his mind if faced by a superior move from his opponent.

  ‘I am waiting, young man,’ whispered Xenophon. Parmenion turned his pale blue eyes on the handsome Athenian. Then he told him, watching the older man’s reaction.

  Xenophon listened without expression, then he sighed and shook his head. ‘It is not for the Senior Judge to offer advice, therefore I will say only that if Leonidas chooses any of four - perhaps five - options you will be routed catastrophically. You have considered this, of course?’

  ‘I have, sir.’

  ‘Have you also considered the question of tradition and of Spartan pride?’

  ‘I merely wish to win the battle.’

  Xenophon hesitated. Already he had exceeded his duties. Finally he nodded and returned to the ritual. ‘May the gods favour you, Sparta,’ he said, bowing. Parmenion returned the bow and watched the Athenian stride across to where Leonidas waited. He swallowed hard. If the general was a friend to Leonidas and should impart even a clue as to Parmenion’s battle plan...

  Do not even think it! Xenophon is a great general, Parmenion chided himself, and would never stoop to anything so base. This was the man who, after the defeat at Cunaxa, had seen his friends brutally assassinated, and had taken command of a demoralized Greek army and fought his way across Persia’s vast empire to the sea. Xenophon would not betray him.

  But he is also the father of Gryllus, thought Parmenion, and a friend to the family of Leonidas.

  The crowd rose and Parmenion watched as Agisaleus entered, flanked by his generals and two of his lovers. The King bowed as the crowd applauded him, then limped to his seat at the centre of the first row, directly beside the sand-pit. Parmenion’s mouth was dry as he walked to where Hermias stood, averting his eyes from the cloak.

  Xenophon called the other two judges to him. For some minutes he spoke to them, then took his seat beside the King. The first of the judges - an elderly man, with short-cropped white hair and a closely-trimmed beard -approached Parmenion.

  ‘I am Clearchus,’ he said. ‘I will place the army as you have commanded, general. You may ask my advice on matters of time delay, but nothing else.’ He opened a pouch at his hip and removed from it three knuckle-bones. In the six indentations on each bone were painted numbers, from three to eight. ‘To decide losses, I will roll these bones. The highest figure and the lowest figure will be removed and the remaining number will be regarded as the fallen. You understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ Parmenion replied.

  ‘A simple yes is required,’ Clearchus stated.

  ‘Yes,’ said Parmenion. Clearchus moved to stand alongside the yellow wood army as the second judge positioned h
imself on the other side of the pit by the red wood soldiers.

  For the first time Parmenion locked his gaze to Leonidas. The other youth grinned at him, his eyes mocking. Leonidas was considered beautiful, but despite the yellow-gold hair and the handsome mouth Parmenion saw only the ugliness of cruelty.

  As was the custom, the two combatants walked around the pit to face one another.

  ‘Will you give ground to the Spartan Gold?’ asked Parmenion, following the ritual.

  ‘The Spartan Red never gives ground,’ replied Leonidas. ‘Prepare to die.’

  The crowd applauded and the King rose, raising his hands for silence. ‘My friends, today I offer a special gift to the victor: one of the seven swords of Leonidas the King!’ He held the iron blade aloft, where the sunlight caught it, turning it to silver. A great roar went up.

  Leonidas leaned in close to Parmenion. ‘I will humble you, mix-blood.’

  ‘Your breath smells worse than a cow’s arse!’ replied Parmenion, enjoying the flush of colour which leapt to Leonidas’ cheeks. Both youths returned to their places.