Lion of Macedon

Spring, 389 BC

It had begun with a morbid fascination to know the day of her death. She had tracked the limitless paths of the future, tracing the myriad lines of possible tomorrows. In some futures she had died of illness or plague, in others of seizures or murder. In one she had even fallen from a horse, though riding was distasteful to her and she could not imagine ever being persuaded to mount such a beast.

But as she idly traced the possibilities, she became aware of a dark shadow at the edge of her last tomorrow. No matter when she died, the shadow was constant. It began to gnaw at her. With all the thousands of futures, how could this shadow remain? Tentatively she moved beyond the days of her death and saw the futures expand and grow. The shadow was stronger now, its evil palpable. And in a moment which touched her beyond terror she realized that, even as she knew of the shadow, so it was becoming aware of her.

Yet Tamis was not without courage. Steeling herself, she chose a path and flew to the heart of the shadow, feeling the power of the Dark God eating into her soul like acid. She could not hold her presence here for long, and fled back to the transient security of a solid present.

The knowledge she had gained became a terrible weight which burdened the old priestess. She could share it with no one and knew that at the most critical moment, when the evil needed to be challenged, she would be dead.

She prayed then, harder than she ever had, her thoughts spinning out into the cosmos. A darkness grew inside her mind, then a single light shone and she saw a face, lined but strong, hawklike with piercing blue eyes beneath a helm of iron. The face blurred and faded, to be replaced by that of a boy. Yet still the eyes were piercing blue, the mouth set in a determined line. A name came to her. But was it that of a saviour or a destroyer? She could not know, she could only hope. But the name echoed in her mind like distant thunder.

Parmenion!

Sparta, Summer, 385 BC

They came at him silently from the shadows, faces hooded and masked, wooden clubs raised.

Parmenion darted to the left — but two more attackers ran into his path and a club slashed past his head, grazing his shoulder. His fist hammered into the masked face, then he cut to the right and sprinted towards Leaving Street. The cold, marble eyes of the statue of Athena gazed down on the boy as he ran, drawing him on towards her. Parmenion leapt to the base of the statue, clambering up to stand against the stone legs.

'Come down! Come down!' chanted his tormentors. 'We have something for you, mix-blood!'

'Then come up and give it to me,' he told them. The five attackers ran forward. Parmenion's foot lashed into the face of the first, hurling him back, but a club cracked against his leg to knock him from his feet. He rolled, kicking out and sending an assailant sprawling, then he was up again and leaping high over them to land heavily on the street. A hurled club took him between the shoulder-blades and he staggered. Instantly they were upon him, pinning his arms.

'Now we have you,' said a voice, muffled by the woollen scarf masking the mouth.

'You don't need the mask, Gryllus,' hissed Parmenion. 'I'd know you by the smell.'

'You will not contest the Final tomorrow,' said another voice. 'You understand? You should never have been allowed to take part. The General's Games are for Spartans — not half-breeds.'

Parmenion relaxed — his manner becoming subdued, his head dropping. The hold on his arms eased.

suddenly he wrenched free, his fist thundering into Gryllus' face. They swarmed in on him then, punching and kicking, driving him to his knees. Gryllus hauled him up by his hair as the others pinned his arms once more.

'You asked for this,' said Gryllus, drawing back his fist. Pain exploded in Parmenion's jaw and he sagged against his captors. The blows continued; short, powerful hooks to the belly and face.

Parmenion did not cry out. There is no pain, he told himself. There is no. . pain.

'What's going on there?'

'It's the night-watch!' whispered one of his captors. Loosing their hold on Parmenion, the youths sprinted off into an alleyway. Parmenion fell to the street and rolled. Above him loomed the silent statue of Athena of the Road. As he groaned and lurched to his feet, two soldiers ran to him.

'What happened to you?' asked the first, gripping Parmenion's shoulder.

'I fell.' Parmenion shook loose the helping hand and spat blood.

'And your friends were assisting you to rise, I suppose?' grunted the man. 'Why don't you walk with us for a while?'

'I need no escort,' Parmenion told them.

The soldier looked into the youth's pale blue eyes. 'They are still in the alley,' he said, keeping his voice low.

'I did not doubt it,' answered Parmenion, 'but they'll not take me unawares again.' As the soldiers moved away Parmenion sucked in a deep breath and began to run, ducking into alleys and cutting left and right towards the market-place. For a while he heard his pursuers, but then there was only the silence of the city night.

They would expect him to make either for the barracks or for the home of his mother. He would do neither. Instead he ran through the deserted market-place and on to the sanctuary hill above the city.

Back at the statue of Athena an old woman stepped out into the moonlight, leaning on a long staff.

She sighed and sat down on a marble seat — her body weary, her mind touched with sorrow.

'I am sorry, Parmenion,' she said. 'Strong though you are, I must make you iron. You are a man of destiny.' She thought then of the other boys in the barracks. How easy it was to make them hate the half-breed, such a simple enchantment. To heal a boil took more psychic energy than to encourage hatred. It was a disturbing thought and Tamis shivered.

Glancing up at the statue she saw the blind, marble eyes staring down at her. 'Do not be so haughty,' she whispered. 'I know your true name, woman of stone. I know your weaknesses and your desires, and I have more power than you.'

Tamis pushed herself to her feet.

A face came to her mind and she smiled. Despite the enchantment Parmenion had one friend, a boy impervious to the fuel of hatred. Although it went against her plans, yet still she found the thought comforting.

'Sweet Hermias,' she said. 'If all men were as you, then my work would not be necessary.'

Parmenion sat on a rock waiting for the dawn, his belly hungry but his jaw too bruised to chew on the stale bread he had saved from the previous day's breakfast. The sun rose slowly over the red hills of the Parnon range, and the water of the Eurotas River sparkled into life. The sun's warmth touched Parmenion's wiry body, causing him to shiver involuntarily. Spartan training taught a man to ignore pain, to close his mind to cold or heat. To a great degree he had mastered this, but the new warmth served only to remind him how cold he had been on this long night, hidden upon the sanctuary hill above the city.

The statue of Zeus, Father of Heaven — twelve feet tall, majestic and bearded — stared out over the lands to the west of the city, seeming to study the towering Mount Ilias. Parmenion shivered once more and took a tentative bite from the dark bread, stifling a groan as pain flamed from his jaw. The punch from Gryllus had been powerful and, held as he was, Parmenion could not roll with the blow. He lifted a finger to his mouth. A tooth was loose. Tearing the bread, he pushed a small piece to the right of his jaw, chewing gently. Having finished his meagre breakfast, he stood. His left side was tender. Lifting the chiton tunic, he examined the area; it was an angry purple, and there was blood above the hip.

He stretched — then froze as he heard movement on the Climbing Path. Swiftly he ran behind the marble Sanctuary to the Muses, crouching to wait for the newcomers, his heart pounding. He picked up a sharp shard of broken marble; it had an edge like an axe-blade. If they came at him again, someone would die!

A slender boy in a blue tunic walked into view. He had dark curly hair and thick brows. Parmenion recognized his friend, Hermias, and relief washed over him. Dropping the stone, he pushed himself wearily to his feet. Hermias saw him and ran forward, gripping him by the shoulders. 'Oh, Savra, my friend, how much more must you suffer?'

Parmenion forced a smile. 'Today will see the end of it. Maybe.'

'Only if you lose, Savra. And you must lose. They could kill you. I fear they will!' Hermias looked into his friend's pale blue eyes and saw no compromise there. 'You are not going to lose, though, are you?' he said sadly.

Parmenion shrugged. 'Perhaps — if Leonidas is more skilful, if the judges favour him.'

'Of course they will favour him. Gryllus says that Agisaleus is coming to watch — you think the judges will allow a nephew of the King to be humiliated?'

Parmenion laid a hand on Hermias' shoulder. 'Since that is the case, why are you worried? I will lose. So be it. But I will not play to lose.'

Hermias sat down at the foot of the statue of Zeus and took two apples from his hip-pouch. He passed one to Parmenion, who bit carefully into it. 'Why are you so stubborn?' Hermias asked. 'Is it your Macedonian blood?'

'Why not the Spartan blood, Hermias? Neither peoples are renowned for giving ground.'

'It was not meant as an insult, Savra. You know that.'

'Not from you, no,' said the taller youth, taking his friend's hand. 'But think on it, you all call me Savra — lizard — and you think of me as a half-breed barbarian.'

Hermias pulled away, his expression showing his hurt. 'You are my friend,' he protested.

'That is not at issue, Hermias, nor is it an answer. You cannot help what you are — you are a Spartan, pure-blooded, with a line of heroes that goes back far beyond Thermopylae. Your own father marched with Lysander and never knew defeat. Probably you have friends among the helots and the other slave classes. But you still see them as slaves.'

'You also had a Spartan father who came back on his shield, with all his wounds in front,'

insisted Hermias. 'You are Spartan too.'

'And I have a Macedonian mother.' Parmenion removed his tunic, wincing as his arms stretched over his head. His lean body was marked by bruises and cuts, and his right knee was swollen. His angular face was also bruised, the right eye almost closed. 'These are the marks I bear for my blood. When they took me from my mother's house, I was seven years old. From that day to this I have never known the sun to shine on a body that did not carry wounds.'

'I too have suffered bruises,' said Hermias. 'All Spartan boys must suffer — else there would be no Spartan men, and we would no longer be pre-eminent. But I hear what you say, Sav. .

Parmenion. It seems Leonidas hates you, and he is a powerful enemy. Yet you could go to him and ask to serve him. Then it would stop.'

'Never! He would laugh at me and throw me out into the street.'

'Yes he might. But, even so, the beatings would end.'

'Would you do that if you were me?'

'No.'

'Then why should I?' hissed Parmenion, his pale eyes locking to his friend's face.

Hermias sighed. 'You are hard on me, Parmenion. But you are right. I love you as a brother, and yet I do not see you as Spartan. I do inside my head — but my heart. .'

'Then why should the others — who are not my friends — accept me?'

'Give us time — give us all time. But know this: whatever you choose, I will stand beside you,'

said Hermias softly.

'That is something I never doubted. Now call me Savra — from you it has a good sound.'

'I shall be at your side for the contest, and I will pray to Athena of the Road for your victory,'

said Hermias, smiling. 'Now, would you like me to stay with you?'

'No — but thank you. I will remain here a while with Father Zeus, and I will think, and I will pray. I will see you at Xenophon's house three hours after noon for the contest.'

Hermias nodded and wandered away. Parmenion watched him go, then swung his attention to the awakening city.

Sparta. The home of heroes, birth-place of the finest warriors ever to walk the green earth. From here, less than a century before, the legendary Sword King had set off for the Pass of Thermopylae with 300 warriors and 700 helots. There the tiny force had faced an army of Persians numbering more than a quarter of a million.

And yet the Spartans had held, hurling back the foe, until at last the Persian King Xerxes sent in his Immortals. Ten thousand of the finest warriors Persia could muster from her great empire, highly trained, the elite corps. And the Spartans humbled them. Parmenion felt his heart swell as he pictured those grim-eyed men in their full-faced helms of bronze, their blood-red cloaks and their shining swords. The might of Persia — the might of the world! — broken upon the swords of 300 Spartans. He turned to the south-east. There, out of sight now, was the monument to the King who died there. Betrayed by a Greek, the Spartans had been surrounded and massacred. They had known of the betrayal and the King had been urged by his allies to flee the field. His words were engraved on the hearts of all Spartans: 'A Spartan leaves the battle carrying his shield — or upon it. There will be no retreat.' It seemed ironic to Parmenion that his greatest hero and his worst enemy should share, the same name and bloodline — Leonidas. And at times he wondered if the King of legend had been as cruel as his namesake. He hoped not.

Parmenion climbed to the highest point of the acropolis, gazing down at the city that circled the hill. Fewer than 30,000 people dwelt here, yet they were held in awe from Arcadia to Asia Minor, from Athens to Illyria. No Spartan army had ever been beaten in a pitched battle by a foe of equal numbers. The Spartan foot-soldier — the hoplite — was worth three Athenians, five Thebans, ten Corinthians and twenty Persians. These scales were drummed into Sparta's children, and remembered with pride.

Macedonians did not rate a mention in Spartan scales. Scarcely considered to be Greek, they were barbaric and undisciplined, hill tribes of little culture save that which they stole from their betters. 'I am a Spartan,' said Parmenion. 'I am not a Macedonian.'

The statue of Zeus continued to gaze at the distant Mount Ilias, and Parmenion's words seemed hollow. The boy sighed, remembering the conversation minutes before with Hermias. 'You are hard on me, Parmenion. But you are correct. I love you as a brother, and yet I do not see you as Spartan.

I do inside my head — but my heart…"

' Then why should the others — who are not my friends — accept mer As a young child Parmenion had experienced few problems with other youngsters. But at seven, when all Spartan boys were taken from their parents and moved to barracks for training as warriors, he had first suffered the torment of his tainted blood. It was there that Leonidas — named for the King of glory — had taunted him, demanding that he kneel to him as befitted a man from a race of slaves.

Smaller and younger, Parmenion had flown at him, fists lashing at the older boy's face. Leonidas had thrashed him then — and many times since. Worse, Leonidas was of a noble Spartiate family and many of the other boys in the Barracks of Lycurgus had sought his favours. Parmenion became an outcast, hunted, hated by all save Hermias — even Leonidas could not turn on Aim, for he was the son of Parnas, the King's friend.

For eight years Parmenion had borne the blows and the insults, convinced that one day he would see their eyes look upon him as a brother Spartan. Today should have seen the hour of triumph. He had succeeded beyond his dreams in the General's Games, battling his way to the final. But who should be his opponent — among all the youths in Sparta? None other than Leonidas.

As Hermias had warned, victory would bring only more pain, yet he could not. . would not. .

consider playing to lose. Every year the General's Games were the high point of the calendar for the apprentice warriors in Sparta's many barracks. The winner would wear the laurel crown and hold the Victory Rod. He was the strategos — the master!

The Game pitched two armies against one another, the competitors acting as generals, issuing orders, choosing formations. The soldiers were carved from wood: there was no blood, no death.

Losses were decided by two judges, who threw numbered knuckle-bones.

Picking up a stick, Parmenion traced a rectangle in the dust, picturing the Spartan phalanx, more than 1,000 warriors with shields locked, spears steady. This was the main force in the game, the cavalry coming second. To the right he sketched a second block: the Sciritai, Spartan vassals who always fought alongside their masters. Doughty men, hard and ungiving, yet never were they allowed into the front rank of the battle. For they were not Spartan — and were therefore almost sub-human.

This was his army, 3,000 men, Spartan foot, horse and the Sciritai reserve. Leonidas would command an identical force.

Closing his eyes he recalled last year's final, which had been played in Menelaus Barracks. The battle had taken two hours. Long before the conclusion, Parmenion had grown bored and had wandered away into the marketplace. It had been a battle of attrition, both phalanxes locked together, the judges throwing knuckle-bones and removing the dead until at last the White army overwhelmed the Red.

A pointless exercise, Parmenion had decided. What good was such a victory? The winner had fewer than 100 men at the close. In real life he would have been overwhelmed by any second enemy force.

A battle should not be fought in such a way.

Today would be different, he decided. Win or lose, they would remember it. Slowly he began to sketch formations, to think and to plan. But his mind wandered, and he saw again the Great Race three weeks ago. He had planned for it, trained for it, dreamed of the laurel wreath of victory upon his brow.

Twenty miles under the gruelling summer sun, out over the foothills, up the scree-covered slopes of the Parnon mountains, legs aching, lungs heaving. All the young men of Sparta in one great race, the ultimate test of juvenile strength and courage.

He had outdistanced them all: Leonidas, Nestus, Hermias, Learchus and the best of the other barracks. They ate his dust and struggled behind him. Leonidas had lasted better than the rest, hanging grimly to his shadow, but twelve miles from home even he had been broken by Parmenion's final burst.

And then Parmenion had run for home, saving the last of his energy for the sprint to the agora where the King waited with the laurel of victory.

With the city in sight, white and beckoning, he had seen the old man pulling his hand-cart along Soldiers' Walk at the foot of the olive grove, had watched in dismay as the right wheel came loose, tipping the cart's contents to the dust. Parmenion slowed in his run. The old man was struggling to loosen a looped thong from the stump at the end of his right arm. He was crippled.

Tearing his eyes from the scene, Parmenion ran on.

'Help me, boy!' called the man. Parmenion slowed, and turned. Leonidas was far behind him and out of sight. . he tried to gauge how much time he had. With a curse he ran down the slope and knelt by the wheel. It was cracked through, yet still the Spartan boy tried to lift it into place, forcing it back over the axle. It held for a moment only — then broke into several shards. The old man slumped to the ground beside the ruined cart. Parmenion glanced down into his eyes; there was pain there, defeat and dejection. The man's tunic was threadbare, the colours long since washed away by the winter rains, bleached by the summer sun. His sandals were as thin as parchment.

'Where are you going?' Parmenion asked.

'My son lives in a settlement an hour from here,' replied the old man, pointing south. Parmenion glanced at the wrinkled skin of his arm; it showed the cuts of many sword-blades, old wounds.

'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!

Xenophon shivered and walked to the window, staring out over the roof-tops. . but he did not see them. What he saw was sunlight on lance points, what he heard was the screams of the dying and the cacophonous clash of sword on shield at Cunaxa as the Greeks, in four-deep formation, routed the barbarians.

Victory was theirs. Justice had prevailed, as all men of good heart knew that it would. And then?

Xenophon sighed. And then a common Persian soldier-a peasant by all accounts, unable to afford armour or sword — had thrown a rock which struck Cyrus on the temple, toppling him from the saddle. The enemy, in the process of flight, saw him fall. They regrouped and charged, coming upon the valiant Cyrus as he struggled to rise. He was stabbed a score of times, then his head and right hand were cut from his body.

Victory, like a fickle wife, flew from the Greeks.

The gods died that day in Xenophon's heart, though his intellect battled on to sustain a tenuous belief. Without gods the world was nothing, a place of torment and disillusion lacking order and reason. Yet, after Cunaxa, he had rarely known peace of mind.

The general took a deep breath and struggled to suppress the bitter memories. A discreet knock came at his door. 'Enter,' he said, and his senior servant, Tinus, came in, bringing him a goblet of heavily watered wine. Xenophon smiled and thanked him.

Two other male servants fetched spring water for his bath, then towelled him dry. His armour had been polished until the bronze gleamed gold and his iron helm shone like purest silver. One servant helped him into his white linen tunic, while the second lifted the breastplate over his head, fastening the straps at Xenophon's side. A bronze-reinforced leather kilt was slung around his waist and tied at the hip. Bronze greaves were fastened to his shins. Xenophon waved the servants away and took up his sword-belt. The leather was pitted, the bronze scabbard showing many dents, but the sword within was iron and keen-edged. He drew it, enjoying the exquisite balance of its short blade and leather-bound grip. Sighing, he slammed the blade home in the scabbard before buckling the sword-belt at his waist. He lifted his helm and brushed the white horsehair crest.

Holding the helm under his arm, he turned towards the door. Tinus opened it and Xenophon walked out into the courtyard. Three female servants bowed as he passed; he acknowledged them with a smile and lifted his face to the sunlight. It was a fine day.

Three helots were preparing the sand-pit to the judges' instructions, shaping hills, valleys and streams. Xenophon stopped to examine their work. 'Make that hill higher and more steep,' he told one of the men, 'and widen the valley floor. That is where the battle will be fought, and there must be room to swing the line.'

He walked on, through the open courtyard gates and out towards the hillside and the Shrine to Athena of the Eyes. It was not a large shrine, three pillars supporting a low roof, but within was the sacred altar. Xenophon entered the building, removing his sword and standing it in the doorway. Then he knelt beneath the altar upon which stood the silver statue of a woman, tall and slender, wearing a Doric helm pushed back upon her head and carrying a sharp sword.

'Praise be to thee, Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and War,' said Xenophon. 'A soldier greets thee.' He closed his eyes in prayer, repeating the familiar words he had first used five years before when leaving the lands of the Persians.

'I am a soldier, Athena. Do not let this be an end to my glories. I have achieved so little. Let me live long enough to carry your statue into the heartlands of the barbarian.'

He glanced up at the statue, hoping for a response, yet knowing that only silence would follow.

Xenophon rose and backed from the shrine. He saw movement on the acropolis and watched two boys embracing. Narrowing his eyes, he recognized one of them as Hermias. The other, then, must be the half-breed, the one they called Savra: a strange boy often seen running across roof-tops and high walls. Xenophon had only seen him twice at close quarters. With his curved, hawk-like nose he was neither handsome like Leonidas nor beautiful as Hermias, yet there was something about him. His blue eyes had a piercing look, both guarded and challenging, and he bore himself with a pride his poverty did not warrant. Once Xenophon had seen him running along Leaving Street, pursued by four other boys. On the second occasion Savra had been sitting with Hermias by the Temple to Aphrodite.

He had smiled then at some light comment from Hermias and his face was transformed, the brooding glare disappearing. The change had shocked Xenophon and he stopped to stare at the boy. Savra had looked up then, seeing that he was observed. Swiftly his expression changed, like a mask falling into place, and the Athenian felt a sudden chill as those pale eyes focused on him.

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 Athenian.

'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 himself 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.

'Begin!' ordered Xenophon.

Clearchus stepped forward. 'The general Parmenion has ordered the troops into Lysander's Fifth formation, with the Sciritai on the left, sixteen deep, the Spartans at the centre, sixteen deep, and mercenary javelin throwers behind the cavalry on the right. The general positions himself behind the centre.' Parmenion saw several warriors in the crowd shaking their heads in disapproval and could guess their thoughts. No general could expect his men to fight for him if he did not have the courage to stand with them in the front lines.

Three helots moved forward, lifting the ranks of wooden soldiers into place on the sand.

The second judge addressed the crowd. 'The general Leonidas has ordered the Third Agisalean formation, the Spartans on the right, ten deep, the cavalry in the centre, Sciritai and javeliners on the left. He positions himself in the second line of the centre.' Applause went up and Leonidas bowed. As a Spartan general should, he had chosen to place himself close to the front rank.

The crowd leaned forward, staring intently at the formations. It was obvious that Parmenion was planning a defensive battle, ready to repel a frontal assault. Leonidas had stretched his line and was planning the traditional angled attack from the left, while moving to encircle the enemy. Much would now depend on the rolling of the knuckle-bones to decide casualties.

Clearchus cleared his throat and all in the crowd knew the words that would follow — the formations made it obvious. No move. The Spartan Gold would wait until Leonidas attacked, relying on the knuckle-bones to decide the outcome. But conversation ceased as Clearchus spoke.

'The general Parmenion orders the cavalry forward at the charge, veering towards enemy centre.'

All eyes swung to the judge by Leonidas. The first three moves could not be changed, and much would depend on Leonidas' use of cavalry. It was unusual — though not unheard of — for a cavalry charge to be signalled at the onset.

The general Leonidas orders the javeliners and Sciritai to advance on the right.'

Now the whispers began, for Leonidas had not anticipated a cavalry attack and had issued no orders to his own horsemen.

A helot with a measuring rod moved the yellow wood horsemen forward. The judges conferred and Xenophon addressed the crowd.

'It is agreed unanimously that the speed of the charge has routed the opposing cavalry, forcing them back into the hoplite ranks. Casualties are sixty suffered by Leonidas and nine by Parmenion.'

The voice of Clearchus then rose among the clamour. 'The general Parmenion instructs the Spartans and Sciritai to merge lines and advance at a run, thirty-two deep, at the enemy's right.'

Parmenion stood stock-still, eyes locked to Leonidas who was staring horror-struck at the massed advance. Parmenion could understand how he was feeling; he was facing not one improbable plan of action — but two. No Spartan force would ever consider merging with the Sciritai, and no Greek army would ever attack the enemy's right — its strongest point. To do so meant exposing a vulnerable flank, for the shield was borne on the left arm and therefore the advancing phalanx would be open to javelins, rocks, arrows and stones.

But not here, thought Parmenion. Not today. For Leonidas' centre was wrecked by his own cavalry, and there were no peltasts or archers close enough to wreak havoc on his advancing line with missiles. He looked up, wanting to see, to remember, every change of expression on the face of his enemy; longing to see and memorize the moment when defeat first registered.

'The general Leonidas orders the rear six lines to move out and encircle the enemy.'

Parmenion was exultant but he hid his feelings, making a mask of his features, only the flaring nostrils and the quickening of his breathing betraying his excitement. Leonidas was beaten. A massed charge was bearing on his right — and he had thinned his line to only four ranks.

The helots lifted the wedges and carried them forward. There was no need for the judges to confer; every soldier in the crowd knew what must happen when a phalanx thirty-two deep struck a line of four ranks. The strength and courage of the few could not stop the weight of the charge. Leonidas was not merely beaten — he was crushed. The golden-haired Spartan stared at the soldiers, then stepped back and spoke swiftly to his judge. The man's words stunned Parmenion.

'The general Leonidas is asking the judges to countermand the second order of the general Parmenion on the grounds that it has no credibility. If such an order were given in battle, the Spartans would no doubt refuse to obey it.'

Parmenion reddened and looked to the King. Agisaleus sat back and began a conversation with the young man on his right. Xenophon called the judges to him, away from the crowd, but all could see that the argument which followed was heated.

Parmenion's heart sank as he stared down at the tiny battlefield and the wooden soldiers locked in frozen battle. Could they disqualify him? Of course they could. He gazed up at the rows of spectators. Who are you, Parmenion? he asked himself. You are a poverty-stricken half-breed. What do they care for you? This is a day for Leonidas and you have spoilt it for them.

Xenophon walked back to the sand-pit. The crowd waited for the verdict and even the King sat forward, his eyes on the Athenian.

'The challenge is an interesting one, which has split the judges. It is true that the merging of lines with the Sciritai would not be considered honourable, nor even likely.' He paused and Parmenion saw heads nod in agreement, felt the eyes of Leonidas on him. His opponent allowed himself a smile. Parmenion swallowed hard. 'However,' Xenophon continued, 'it seems to me that the question is not one of honour but of tactics and discipline. The general Parmenion, knowing the strength of his enemy and that his enemy had used this formation in his last five battles, chose an unusual course of action. I am an Athenian, but I speak with the authority of one who admires beyond all men the qualities of the Spartan army. And the question here is of discipline. The challenge stands or falls on one point: would the Spartans refuse to obey such an order? The answer is a simple one. When, in all of their glorious history, have Spartan soldiers ever failed to obey an order?' Xenophon paused once more, his eyes sweeping the ranks of the spectators and resting at last on the King. 'The move stands,' said Xenophon. 'The general Leonidas is defeated -

and, since he placed himself at the second line, is also slain. The Spartan Gold have the day. The general Parmenion is the supreme strategos.'

There was no applause, but Parmenion did not care. He swung to Hermias, who threw aside the dark cloak and rushed forward to hug his friend.

The crowd was stunned. King Agisaleus fixed Xenophon with an angry look, but the Athenian merely shrugged and turned away. Then the whispers began as old soldiers discussed the strategy. Leonidas rose and stumbled back. Gryllus moved forward behind him, offering the Cloak of Shame, but Leonidas waved it away and strode from the courtyard.

An elderly helot moved from the shadows, touching Parmenion's shoulder. 'Sir, there is a woman at the gates. She says you must come quickly.'

'A woman? What woman?' asked Parmenion.

'It is something to do with your mother, sir.'

All sense of triumph and joy fled from Parmenion. He staggered as if struck. . then ran from the courtyard.

The crowd fell silent as the young Spartan sped from the gates. Agisaleus pushed himself to his feet and moved towards Xenophon, his dark eyes angry.

'This was not supposed to happen!' hissed the King.

Xenophon nodded. 'I know, sire,' he replied, keeping his voice low, 'but then none of us expected Leonidas to perform so badly. He showed no strategic skill and treated his enemy with contempt.

But you are the King, sire. You are the foremost judge in Sparta. It is your right — should you desire it — to set aside my judgement.'

Agisaleus turned to look at the wooden soldiers lying forgotten in the sand-pit. 'No,' he said at last, 'you were correct, Xenophon. But I'll be damned if I'll present the Sword to the half-breed.

Here! You give it to him.'

Xenophon took the weapon and bowed. The King shook his head and walked away, the crowd dispersing after him. As the Athenian moved into the shade of the andron porch and sat quietly, his thoughts turning to Parmenion, his son Gryllus approached him.

'That was disgraceful, Father,' said the boy.

'Indeed it was,' agreed the general. 'Leonidas did not wear the Cloak of Shame. It was not seemly.'

'That is not what I meant — and you know it. The Spartan army would never allow mongrels like the Sciritai to merge lines. No one could have expected it. The Game should have been re-started.'

'Go away, boy,' said Xenophon, 'and try not to speak of matters of which you have little understanding.'

Gryllus stood his ground, his face reddening. 'Why do you hate me, Father?' he asked.

The words shook the Athenian. 'I do not hate you, Gryllus. I am sorry that you believe it.'

Xenophon stood and approached the boy with arms spread, ready to embrace him.

'No, don't touch me!' cried Gryllus, backing away. 'I want nothing from you.' Turning, he ran across the courtyard and out on to the main street. Xenophon sighed. He had tried so hard with the child, painstakingly teaching him, trying to fill Gryllus with thoughts of honour, loyalty, duty and courage. But to no avail. And Xenophon had watched him grow, had seen the birth of arrogance and cruelty, vanity and deceit. 'I do not hate you,' he whispered, 'but I cannot love you.'

He was about to enter the house when he saw an old man standing by the sand-pit, staring down at the soldiers. As the host, Xenophon was compelled by good manners to speak to him and he strolled across the courtyard.

'May I offer you refreshment?' he enquired.

The old man looked up into the general's face. 'You do not remember me?' he asked, lifting the stump of his right arm.

Tasian? Sweet Hera! I thought you dead!'

'I should be — sometimes I wish I was. They cut my right hand away, general, leaving me to bleed to death. But I made it home. Sixteen years it took me.' Pasian smiled, showing broken, rotted teeth. 'Home,' he said again, his voice wistful. 'We fought our way clear of the Persians and forted up in a circle of boulders. We could see Agisaleus and the mam force and thought they would come to our aid. But they did not. We were only Sciritai, after all. One by one we died. I killed eleven men that day. The Persians were not best pleased with me, Xenophon; they took my hand. I managed to stop the bleeding, and I found a farmer who covered the wound with boiling pitch.'

'Come inside, my friend. Let me fetch you wine — food.'

'No, though I thank you. I came only to see the boy — to watch him win.'

'Leonidas?'

'No. The other boy — Savra. He's no Spartan, Xenophon, and may the gods be praised for that!'

'How do you know him? He was not born when you marched into Persia.'

'I met him on the road, general. . when I was almost home. You know, I had not realized how old I had become until I saw the hills of my childhood. All these years I have struggled to come home -

and there I was, a decrepit cripple with a broken cart. I called out to him for help, and he came.

He took me to my son's house. And not once did he tell me I had lost him the Great Race. Can you imagine that?'

'He finished last, I believe,' said Xenophon.

'He was first — in sight of the city. And I have nothing to give him. No possessions. No coin. But I will pay my debt, Xenophon, by claiming another. Twice I saved your life. Will you honour my debt?'

'You know I will — as I hope you know that, had I been in Persia with Agisaleus, I would have come for you.'

Pasian nodded. 'I do not doubt it, general. I understand the boy is a mix-blood, with little money and less influence. Help him, Xenophon.'

'I shall, I promise you.'

Pasian smiled and walked away, stopping for one last look at the sand-pit. 'I enjoyed the battle,'

he said, over his shoulder. 'Nice to see the Spartans humbled.'

Parmenion raced out through the gates and into the noon- deserted streets. He did not feel the intensity of the sun on his skin, nor the pain of his bruises. He did not see the houses as he passed them, nor hear the yapping dogs that snapped at his heels.

His head was full of the roaring of anguish, and all he could see was his mother's face floating before his mind's eye — soft and smiling, calm and understanding.

She was dying.

Dying. .

The word hammered at him over and over, and his vision blurred, yet still he ran. He knew then that he had always known. When the weight fell away from her once beautiful face, when her limbs had become skeletal and her eyes had grown dull. And all the other signs of blood and pain. Yet he could not face what he knew, and had turned his eyes and his mind away.

He came to Leaving Street and cut off through the poorer quarter, cannoning into a fat trader and knocking him from his feet. The man's curses followed him.

The doorway of his house was blocked by neighbours, standing silently. He pushed his way through them and found Rhea sitting by the bedside. The doctor, Astion, was standing in the small courtyard with his back to the room. Parmenion stood in the doorway, his heart pounding as Rhea turned to him.

'She has gone,' said the woman, rising and moving to Parmenion, her plump arms circling him.

'There is no more pain.'

Tears flowed to Parmenion's cheeks as he stared at the slender body on the bed. 'She did not wait for me,' he whispered.

Rhea hugged hurt for a moment and then moved to the door, gently pushing back the neighbours and friends, closing the door on them. Then she returned to the bed and sat, taking Artema's small hand in hers. 'Come,' she told Parmenion. 'Sit by her on the other side. Say farewell.' Parmenion stumbled forward and took his mother's right hand, and together they sat in silence for a while.

Astion entered, but they did not see him and he left quietly.

'She talked of you at the end,' said Rhea. 'She spoke of her pride. She wanted to wait, to see you, to know how you fared.'

'I won, Mother,' said Parmenion, gripping the lifeless fingers. 'I won before them all.' He gazed down at Artema's face. The eyes were closed, the features still.

'She looks peaceful,' Rhea whispered.

Parmenion shook his head. He could not see the peace, only the terrible finality of death, the total stillness, the separation. Yet her hand was warm and the fingers supple. How many times had she stroked away his pains, or patted his face with these hands? He felt a terrible knotting in his stomach and a swelling in his throat. Tears fell more freely, coursing down his face and splashing against his mother's hand.

'She talked of a white horse,' said Rhea. 'She could see it on a hillside. It was coming for her and she said she was going to ride it all the way back to Macedonia. I do not know if that is a comfort. She also said she could see your father, waiting for her.'

Parmenion could not speak but, reaching out, he touched the skin of his mother's face.

'Say goodbye,' whispered Rhea. 'Tell her goodbye.'

'I can't,' sobbed Parmenion. 'Not yet. Leave me for a while. Please, Rhea!'

'I need to prepare the… I'll come back in a while.' She walked to the door and stopped. 'I loved her, she was a fine woman and a good friend. I will miss her, Parmenion. There was not an evil thought in her; she deserved better.'

When he heard the door close Parmenion felt the floodgates of his grief give way and he sobbed uncontrollably, his mind awash with images. He could remember his father only dimly as an enormous dark giant moving about the house, but his mother had been with him always. When, as was the Spartan custom, he had been taken at seven to live in a barracks with other boys, she had wept and held him to her as if his life was in danger. He had sneaked out often, climbing over walls and roof-tops to see her.

Now he would see her no more.

'If you loved me you'd come back,' he said. 'You would never have left me.' He knew the senselessness of the words, but they were torn from him.

He sat with the corpse until the light began to fade. Hearing a door open, he expected Rhea's hand upon his shoulder.

'I bring your trophy, general,' said Xenophon softly. 'Cover her face and we will talk in the courtyard.'

'I can't cover her face!' protested Parmenion.

Xenophon moved to the other side of the bed. 'She is not here, boy; she is gone. What you see is the cloak that she wore. It is no terrible thing to cover her.' His voice was gentle and Parmenion blinked away his tears and stared up at the Athenian.

Tenderly Parmenion lifted the white sheet over the still face.

'Let us talk for a while,' said Xenophon, leading the boy into the courtyard and sitting on the stone seat. The Athenian now wore a long cloak of blue-dyed wool over a white linen tunic, and calf-length sandals of the finest leather. Yet still he looked every inch the soldier. He was carrying the sword of Leonidas, which he placed in Parmenion's hands.

The youth put it to one side without even looking at it. Xenophon nodded.

'It will mean more to you in days to come. But let it pass. You are young, Parmenion, and life holds many griefs in store. Yet none will ever touch you like this one. But you are a sensible lad, and you know that all people die. I have spoken to your neighbour about your mother; she was in great pain.'

'I know of her pains. I know of her struggles. I wanted… I wanted to build something for her. A house… I don't know. But I wanted to make her happy, to give her things she desired. There was a cloth in the market she wanted, edged with gold; a shining cloth to make a dress for a queen, she said. But we could not buy that cloth. I stole it. But she took it back. She had nothing.'

Xenophon shook his head. 'You see too little: she had a husband she loved and a son she adored.

You think she wanted more? Well, yes she may have. But this is a cruel world, Parmenion. All any man — or woman — can expect is a little happiness. According to your neighbour, your mother was happy. She knew nothing of your. . troubles. . with the other youths. She sang, she laughed; she danced at festivals. And yes, she is dead — she will sing no more. But then neither will she feel pain. Nor did she grow old and withered and outlive her son.'

'Why did you come here?' asked the boy. 'You could have sent the sword.'

Xenophon smiled. 'Indeed I could. Come home with me, Parmenion. We will dine and you will tell me of your mother. It is important that we speak of her, and send our praises after her. Then the gods will know what a fine woman she was, and will greet her with fine wine — and a dress of shining cloth, edged with gold.'

'I don't want to leave her,' said Parmenion.

'It is too late, she has already gone. Now they must prepare her for burial, and it is not fitting that a man sees a woman's mysteries. Come.'

Parmenion followed the general out of the house, and they walked in silence along Leaving Street and on beyond the market to the larger houses of the nobility.

Xenophon's house looked different without the crowds and with the sand-pit removed. The scent from the purple flowers on the walls was everywhere, and a servant brought several lamps to light the courtyard. The night was warm, the air heavy, and Xenophon listened as Parmenion told the story of his mother's life.

Servants brought watered wine and sweetmeats and the two men sat together long into the night. At last Xenophon led Parmenion to a small room at the rear of the house.

'Sleep well, my friend,' said the general. 'Tomorrow we will see to your affairs.' Xenophon paused in the doorway. Tell me, young man,' he asked suddenly, 'why did you finish last in the Great Race?'

'I made a mistake,' answered Parmenion.

'Is it one you regret?'

Parmenion saw again the old man's face, the despair in his eyes. 'No,' he said. 'Some things are more important than winning.'

'Try to remember that,' the Athenian told him.

Tamis sat by the dying fire, watching the fading shadows dance upon the white, rough-hewn walls of the small room. The night was silent, save for the dry rustling of leaves as the night wind whispered through the trees.

The old woman waited, listening.

I was not wrong, she told herself, defiantly. A branch clattered against her window as the breeze grew stronger, the fire flickering into a brief blaze, then dying down. She added dry sticks to the flames and pulled her thin shawl around her shoulders.

Her eyelids drooped, fatigue washing over her, yet still she sat, her breathing shallow, her heartbeat ragged.

As the night deepened she heard the sounds of a walking horse, the slow, rhythmic thudding of hooves on hard-baked earth. With a sigh Tamis pushed herself to her feet, gathering up her staff and moving to the open doorway, where she stood watching the shadow-haunted trees.

The sound was closer now, yet no horse was in sight. Closing the eyes of her body, she opened the eyes of her spirit and saw the tall, white stallion cross the clearing to stand before her. It was a huge beast of almost eighteen hands, with eyes the colour of opals.

Tamis sighed and put aside her shawl, taking up instead a cloak of grey wool, which she fastened to her shoulders with a brooch of turquoise. Leaving the door open, she walked out into the night towards the city, the ghostly horse following behind.

Her thoughts were sombre as she made her slow way through the near-deserted market square, her staff tapping against the flagstones. Parmenion's mother had been a good woman, kind and thoughtful. And you killed her, whispered a voice in her mind.

'No, I did not,' she said, aloud.

You let her die. Is that not the same?

'Many people die. Am I responsible for all deaths?'

You wanted her dead. You wanted the child to suffer alone.

'To make him strong. He is the hope of the world. He is the one destined to defy the Dark God. He must be a man of power.'

The voice was stilled, but Tamis knew she was unconvinced. You are getting old, she told herself.

There is no voice. You are talking to yourself, and such debates are meaningless. 'I speak with the voice of reason,' said Tamis. 'She speaks with the voice of the heart.'

Is there no place now within you for such a voice?

'Leave me be! I do what must be done!'

A group of men were sitting close by in the moonlight, dicing with knuckle-bones. Several of them looked up as she passed, one surreptitiously making the sign of the Circle to ward off evil. Tamis smiled at that, then put the men from her mind.

Arriving at the house of Parmenion, she closed her eyes, her spirit moving inside, hovering within the death room where Artema lay swathed in burial linen. But what Tamis sought was not here, and the sorceress returned to her body. Wearily she walked along the moonlit streets, the stallion following, until she stood before the gates to Xenophon's home. Once more her spirit soared, moving through the house and up the stairs to a small room, in which Parmenion lay, lost in dreams.

There by the bed stood a pale figure, white and ethereal, like sculptured mist, featureless and glowing. Tamis felt the overpowering emotions within the room, love and loss, and harrowing heartbreak. Parmenion's dreams made him groan aloud, and the figure shimmered. Now Tamis sensed confusion and pain. A pale arm reached towards the boy, but could not touch him. 'It is time,'

whispered Tamis.

'No.' The single word hung in the air, not a denial, but an entreaty.

'He could not see you, even were he awake. Come away. I shall lead you.'

'Where?'

'To a place of rest.'

The figure turned back to the bed. 'My son.'

'He will be a great man. He will save the world from darkness.'

'My son,' said the wraith, as if she had not heard.

'You are no longer of his world,' said Tamis. 'Say your farewells swiftly, for soon it will be the dawn.'

'He seems so lost,' whispered the wraith. 'I must stay to comfort him.' The mist hardened, the features of Artema shining through. She turned to Tamis. 'I know you. You are the seeress.'

'I am.'

'Why do you want to take me from my son?'

'You are no longer of his world,' repeated Tamis. 'You. . died.'

'Died? Oh yes, I remember.' Tamis steeled herself against the grief born of knowledge that emanated from the ghost. 'And now I will never hold him again. I cannot bear it!' Tamis swung away from the anguish in Artema's eyes.

'Follow me,' she commanded, and returned to her body. For a while she stood in silence beyond the gates until, at last, the ghostly figure moved out into the courtyard.

'You say he will be a great man,' said Artema. 'But will he be happy?'

'Yes,' lied Tamis.

Then I must be content. Will I be reunited with his father?'

'I cannot say. For where you will ride I cannot go. But I pray it will be as you desire it. Mount the horse, for he alone knows the Paths of the Dead, and he will carry you safely.'

The figure of mist flowed to the stallion's back. 'Will you look after my son?' asked Artema.

'Will you be his friend?'

'I will look after him,' promised Tamis. 'I will see that he has all he needs to meet his destiny.

Now go!'

The stallion lifted its head and began to walk towards the burial hill. Tamis watched until it was out of sight, then sank back to sit on a marble bench.

But will he be happy?

The question gnawed at her, changing her mood from sorrow to anger.

'The strong do not need happiness. He will have glory and fame, and his name will be whispered in awe by men of all nations. Generations will know happiness because of him. Surely that is enough?'

She glanced up at the window of Parmenion's room. 'It will have to be enough, strategos, because it is all I can give you.'

Parmenion awoke in the night, his mind hazy and uncertain. He sat up, unsure of where he was.

Moonlight was streaming through the open window. He looked up at the moon and saw again his mother's face, cold in death. Reality struck him worse than any blow he had received from Gryllus or the others, hammering home into his heart. He rolled from the bed and moved to the window which opened out on to the courtyard. He stared down at the empty square and saw that the sand-pit had been removed, the scene of his triumph once more merely cobbled stone. He thought of his victory, but it was as nothing against the enormity of his loss. A child's game — how could it have meant so much? He glanced back at the bed, wondering what had awoken him. Then he remembered.

He had been dreaming of a white horse, galloping over green hills.

He looked up at the moon and the stars. So far away. Unreachable, untouchable.

Like his mother…

The sense of separation was unbearable. He sat down on a high-backed chair and felt the cool night breeze bathing his skin. What did it matter now that he was despised? The one person who loved him was gone.

What will you do, Parmenion? Where will you go? he asked himself.

He sat by the window until the dawn, watching the sun rise over the peaks of the Parnon mountains.

The door opened behind him and he turned to see the man Clearchus, his judge from the Games.

Parmenion stood, and bowed.

'No need to accord me your respect,' said the man. 'I am little more than a servant here. The master of the house invites you to break your fast with him.'

Parmenion nodded and the man made as if to leave, then turned. His hard face softened. 'It probably means nothing, boy, but I am sorry about your mother. Aline died when I was eleven; it is not a loss that you forget.'

'Thank you,' said Parmenion. Tears welled, but he forced his face to remain set, and followed Clearchus to the courtyard where Xenophon sat waiting. The general rose and smiled. 'I trust you slept well, young xtrategox?'

'Yes, sir. Thank you.'

'Be seated and take some food. There is bread and honey. I found the benefits of it when campaigning in Persia; it makes a good start to the day.'

Parmenion cut several slices from the fresh loaf and smeared them with honey.

'I have sent a message to the barracks,' said Xenophon. 'You do not have to attend muster today.

So I thought we would ride out towards Ilias.'

'I am not a good rider, sir,' Parmenion admitted. 'We cannot afford a horse.'

'Then how can you know if you are a good rider or not? Enjoy your meal — and then we will see how good you are.'

They finished their breakfast and moved back through the house to the long stables at the rear, where there were six stalls and five horses.

'Choose,' said Xenophon. 'Examine them all and select a mount.'

Parmenion entered each stall, making a show of examining the horses. Not knowing what to look for, he stroked each mount, running his hand over their broad backs. There was a grey, with a fine curved neck and strong back, but he looked at Parmenion with a jaundiced eye which seemed to promise pain. Finally the youngster chose a chestnut mare of fifteen hands.

'Explain the choice,' said Xenophon, slipping a bridle over the mare's head and leading her out into the yard.

'When I stroked her she nuzzled me. The others merely stood — except for the grey. I think he wanted to bite off my hand.'

'He would have,' Xenophon admitted, 'but you made a fine choice. The mare is sweet-natured and swift to obey. Nothing shakes her.' The general laid a goatskin chabraque on the mare's back. 'It will not slip,' he told Parmenion, 'but remember to grip her with your thighs, not your calves.'

On the back of the grey he placed a magnificent leopard-skin shabraque. 'In Persia,' he said,

'many of the barbarians use hardened leather seats, strapped to the horse's back. But that is for barbarians, Parmenion. A gentleman uses only a blanket, or at best an animal skin.'

The air was fresh, the early morning sun lacking the strength-sapping power it would show within a few hours. They walked the horses across the Planes and out to the rolling hills north of the city. Here Xenophon cupped his hands and helped Parmenion to mount; then the general took hold of the grey's mane and vaulted to the gelding's back. The move was smooth, sure and graceful, and Parmenion found himself envying the older man's style.

'We will start by walking the horses,' said Xenophon, 'allowing them to adjust to the weight.' He leaned forward, patting his mount's long neck.

'You care for them,' said Parmenion. 'You treat them like friends.'

'They are friends. There are so many fools abroad, who believe that a whip will subdue a horse and make it obey. They will subdue it — no doubt of that. But a horse without spirit is a worthless beast. Answer me this, strategos — who would you rather depend on in battle, a man who loves you or one you have tormented and beaten?'

'The answer is obvious, sir. I would rather have a friend beside me.'

'Exactly. Why is it different with a horse, or a hound?'

They rode across the hills until they came to a level plain covered with dry grass. 'Let them have their heads,' said

Xenophon, slapping the rump of the gelding. The beast took off at a run, the mare following.

Parmenion gripped the mare's belly with his knees and leaned forward. The thunder of hoofbeats filled his ears and the exhilaration of the rider swept over him. He felt alive, truly, wondrously alive.

After several minutes Xenophon swung his horse to the right, heading for a cypress grove to the east. There he slowed the gelding to a walk and Parmenion cantered alongside. The Athenian leapt to the ground and smiled up at Parmenion. 'You handled her well.'

The youngster dismounted. 'She is fine. Very fine,' he said.

'Then pat her, and tell her.'

'Can she understand me?'

'Of course not, but she can hear your tone and know from your touch that you are pleased with her.'

'Does she have a name?' Parmenion asked, running his fingers through the dark mane.

'She is Bella, Thracian stock with the heart of a lion.'

They tethered the horses and sat beneath the cypress trees. Parmenion suddenly felt uncomfortable.

Why was he here? What interest did this legendary Athenian have in him? He did not want to be seduced by Xenophon, nor did he wish to be put in the position of having to reject such a powerful suitor.

'What are you thinking?' asked the general suddenly.

'I was thinking of the horses,' lied Parmenion.

Xenophon nodded. 'Do not fear me, youngster. I am your friend — no more than that.'

'Are you a god to know my thoughts?'

'No, I am a general, and your thoughts are easy to read for you are young and naive. In your battle against Leonidas you fought to keep the elation of triumph from your face. That was a mistake, for you made of your features a mask and yet your eyes gleamed with the purest malice. If you wish to disguise your feelings, you must first fool yourself and when you look upon a hated enemy, pretend in your mind that he is your friend. Then your face will soften and you will smile more naturally. Do not try to be expressionless, for that only tells your enemy you are hiding something. And where you can, try to use a little honesty; it is the greatest disguise of all. But these are thoughts for another day. You wonder why Xenophon has taken an interest in you? The answer is not complex. I watched you play Leonidas, and your breadth of vision touched me. War is an art, not a science, and that is something you understand instinctively. You studied Leonidas and you learned his weakness. You took a risk — and it paid off handsomely. Also you used your cavalry well — and that is rare in a Spartan.'

'It did not impress the audience,' said Parmenion.

'There is a lesson there, strategos. You won, but you allowed a greater share of the glory to go to the Sciritai. That was not sensible. If the slave races ever believed they were the equal of the Spartans, there would be another revolt. And then city states like Athens or Thebes would once more combine their forces to invade Spartan lands. It is a question of balance- that is what the warriors in the crowd understood.'

'Then I was wrong?' Parmenion asked.

'In a game? No. In life? Yes.'

'Why then did you give me the victory?' asked the youth.

'You won the battle,' answered Xenophon. 'It matters nothing — in a game — that you would have gone on to lose the war.' The general stood and walked to his mount, and Parmenion followed him.

'Will you teach me?' asked the younger man, before he could stop the words.

'Perhaps,' said Xenophon. 'Now let us ride.'

Leonidas took three running steps and hurled the javelin high into the air, watching its curving arc as the sunlight caught the iron tip. The weapon dropped gracefully to thud home in the sun-baked earth a dozen paces further than the longest throw of his peers. Leonidas swung and raised his arms, and a score of youths applauded.

At this stage their barracks officer, Lepidus, would normally complete a throw, and Leonidas turned his eyes on the man.

Lepidus shook his head and took up his javelin. He strode back seven paces, tested the weapon for weight, then ran forward and, with a grunt of effort, launched it. Even as it left the officer's hand Leonidas allowed himself a smile of triumph.

Lepidus saw the javelin fall less than three paces short of Leonidas' mark. He swung and bowed to the younger man. 'You have a good arm,' he said, smiling warmly, 'but you are not dipping your body back far enough on the launch. There is at least another eight paces in you. Work on it.'

'I will, sir,' promised Leonidas.

'Now I'd like to see you Spartan gentlemen run,' Lepidus told them. 'Twenty laps of the racecourse, if it please you.'

'And if it does not?' shouted a boy at the back.

'Twenty-five laps,' said Lepidus. A groan went up, but the youngsters ran off to the start.

Lepidus wandered to a wooden bench seat in the shade and watched the young men. Gryllus took the lead, followed by Learchus. But Leonidas had eased himself into fourth place behind Hermias.

Lepidus rubbed at his shoulder, where a Persian lance-point was still buried under the bone. The joint ached murderously in winter, and even in summer any effort, like throwing a javelin, caused a dull ache.

Lepidus looked up as the sweating youngsters passed him. He envied them their youth and their energy, remembering his days in the barracks, his longing to march with the phalanx into battle.

He saw a boy at the back of the pack. 'More effort, young Pausias!' he yelled, and the boy sprinted into the group, trying to hide from his critical eye.

Lepidus' mind wandered and he saw again his own youth. Sparta was different then, he told himself, more true to the principles laid down by the divine Lycurgus. The boys in the barracks were allowed two tunics, one for summer and one for winter. There were no minstrels performing in the Theatre of Marble, no plays, no parties at the homes of the rich. One bowl of black soup a day for the youngsters, and iron discipline maintained by the birch. A race bred for battles. He looked at the runners. Good boys, strong and proud, but Leonidas had many tunics and a warm cloak against the winter wind. And Hermias spent most of his evenings at home with his parents, eating good food and drinking watered wine. Young Learchus had a gold-embossed dagger, made by a craftsman in Thebes, while lazy Pausias filled his belly with honeycakes and ran with all the speed of a sick pig. These boys did not survive on a bowl of soup a day.

Transferring his gaze to Leonidas, he saw that the youth had moved up into second place and was loping along behind Gryllus. The Athenian was a fine runner, but Lepidus knew that Leonidas would accelerate into the last bend and leave him gasping. Only the boy Parmenion could live with the pace Leonidas could set, but never over twenty-five laps, when Leonidas' greater strength would count.

Using Sciritai alongside real men! Lepidus shook his head. That morning he had been summoned to the Senior over the move.

'It was none of my doing, sir,' he said to the grim-eyed old man.

'Then it should have been,' snapped the ageing general. 'The King was displeased, and one of our finest young men was shamed. Are you saying the boy had never attempted such a move in practice?'

'Never, sir,' answered Lepidus, his unease growing. This man had been his commanding officer in seven campaigns, and although both were now past forty years from Manhood the general still inspired awe in Lepidus.

'Put him right, Lepidus. Where will we be if we allow Spartan men to develop such appalling methods?'

'He is a half-blood, sir. He will never be Spartiate.'

'His father was a fine warrior," answered the general, 'and the mother bore herself well. But I hear what you say. Blood will out. Send the boy to me.'

'He is with Xenophon, sir. His mother's burial is today and the Athenian has him as a house-guest.'

The general's fist slammed down on the table. 'I don't want one of my boys as that man's catamite!'

'I will see he is back tomorrow.'

'Do so,' grunted the old man. 'And, Lepidus, there will be no presentation of the Victory Rod.'

'Sir?'

'No presentation this year.'

Lepidus looked into the old man's eyes and swallowed hard. 'I do not much like the boy, sir, but he won. How can we refuse him the Rod?'

'An example must be set. Do you know that my helots are talking of his win, that it is common knowledge among the Sciritai?'

Lepidus had said no more. Now he sat, grateful for the shade from the tall cypress tree, and watched the boys run. He had little time for Parmenion, whom he saw as a sly, cunning youth; but he had earned the Rod, and it was unfair to deprive him. He wondered how the other boys would take the decision. Parmenion was not popular, but the award night was usually a riotous affair and much looked forward to.

The race was entering its final stages: Lepidus stood and walked to the centre of the field.

Gryllus still held the lead, but Hermias was now alongside Leonidas and vying for second place, blocking the taller youth's chances of an outside run at Gryllus. Leonidas cut to his right, barging Hermias aside. The slender youth staggered and lost ground, but Leonidas surged forward, catching Gryllus just before the line and breasting home ahead. Hermias came in fifth.

Lepidus waited while the youngsters regained their breath, then called them to him.

'A fine run — save for you, Pausias. Five more laps, if you please.' The boys jeered at the fat youth as he set off on his lonely run. 'Now, gentlemen, the notices. First, the Olympiad trials.

Leonidas and Parmenion will represent this barracks in the middle and long races. Leonidas will also compete in the javelin with Nestus. Hermias and Asiron will represent us in the short race. I will speak to the athletes when you are dismissed. Second, four boys were late for muster yesterday. This is not showing a good example to the younger members of the barracks. We are Spartans, gentlemen, and that means we understand discipline. It will not happen again. Third, the presentation of the Victory Rod. .' His eyes moved to Leonidas and a fleeting smile touched the boy's face. He knows then, thought Lepidus, and anger flared in him like a candle-flame. 'The presentation will not take place this year, and there will be no celebration.' To Lepidus'

amazement a great cheer went up, and his face darkened. 'Gentlemen!' he yelled, raising his arms.

Silence fell. 'I do not understand the cause of this joy. Would someone explain it to me? You, sir,' he said, pointing to Learchus.

'Savra cheated,' Learchus answered, and Lepidus saw several heads nod in agreement.

'He did not cheat!' roared Lepidus. 'He won! And that is what Spartans are supposed to do. And let me make something very clear to you all. Had Leonidas ordered his own cavalry forward, they would have intercepted the charge. Then, as Parmenion advanced, his right would have been exposed to javelins and arrows. Parmenion would have been annihilated. I do not excuse his use of the Sciritai, but when I see Spartans whining about defeat I despair. You are dismissed!'

Spinning on his heels he stalked from the training ground, leaving a stunned audience behind him.

'I didn't think he liked Savra,' whispered Learchus.

'What he said was right,' Leonidas said.

'No, Savra cheated,' put in Gryllus.

Leonidas stood and turned to the others. 'He was right! I took Savra lightly and he humbled me. I should have worn the Cloak of Shame. There were a dozen ways I could have crushed him, had I guessed at his plan, and three which could have won me the battle even though I failed to read his intent. I did not use them. Now let that be an end to it.'

Leonidas walked away and Gryllus turned to Learchus, leaning in close. 'The mix-blood is staying at my father's house today,' he whispered. 'But tonight he will go home for the burial night.'

'So?'

'So he cannot run in the Olympiad trials if his legs are injured.'

'I don't know

'He humbled our friend!' hissed Gryllus.

'What if your father finds out?'

'It will be dark. And Savra will not name us.'

'Tonight then,' Learchus agreed.

The body, wrapped in white linen, was lifted from the bed and laid on a length of stout canvas hung between two poles. Parmenion watched as the women carried his mother from the House of Death towards the burial hill. There were four bearers, dressed in white, and plump Rhea followed behind as the Mother of Mourning. Behind her came Parmenion, and beside him the Athenian general Xenophon.

The burial ground was beyond the Theatre of Marble in the east of the city, and the small procession made its way through the teeming market-place and on past the Monument to Pausanius and Leonidas.

They reached the cavemouth, where an old woman sat waiting, her white hair fluttering in the slight breeze.

'Who seeks to walk with the dead?' she asked.

Rhea stepped forward. 'My friend Artema,' she answered.

'Who carries the river price?'

'I, Parmenion.' He dropped a silver tetradrachma into her outstretched palm. She cocked her head to one side, her pale eyes turned towards him. For a moment she sat as still as death, then her eyes swung to where Xenophon stood silently.

'The One Who Is and the One Who Is To Be,' whispered the old woman. 'Invite me to your home, general.'

The departure from ritual shocked Xenophon. He took a deep breath. 'As you wish, old mother.'

'Bring the dead to rest,' she said. Rhea ordered the bearers forward and the darkness of the cave mouth swallowed them. The two men stood at the entrance.

'I could not afford mourners,' said Parmenion. 'Will the gods look unkindly on her for that?'

'An interesting debating point,' answered Xenophon. 'Are the gods swayed because of faked tears and wailing? I would doubt it. Good men have died unmourned and unnoticed, while some of consummate evil have had thousands of mourners at their funerals. It is pleasant to believe that the gods are a little more discerning than men.'

'Do you believe that?'

'I believe there are powers that govern our lives. We give them many names.'

'She will live again then, you think?'

'I like to believe so. Come, we will walk awhile. The day is not too hot.'

Together they strolled back to the Monument to Pausanius and Leonidas. It was a huge marble cube, topped with a statue of a Spartan hoplite, the base engraved with the story of the mighty battle at Plataea, where the invading Persian army had been crushed by the power of the Spartan phalanx.

Xenophon removed his white cloak and sat in the shade. An elderly widow approached them, offering fresh pomegranates. Xenophon dropped a coin in her palm and bought three. He tossed one to Parmenion.

'What was the lesson of Plataea?' asked Xenophon, taking a dagger from his belt and quartering his fruit.

'The lesson?' queried Parmenion. He shrugged. 'They advanced on the Persian centre, which broke and ran. What should we learn?'

'Why did they run?'

Parmenion sat beside the general. Peeling the skin from his fruit he ate swiftly, spitting the pips to the ground. 'I don't know. They were frightened?'

'Of course they were frightened,' snapped Xenophon. Think!'

Parmenion felt embarrassed, his face reddening. 'I do not know enough of the battle,' he admitted.

'I can't answer you.'

Xenophon seemed to relax. He finished the pomegranate and leaned back against the cool marble.

'Examine the evidence, Parmenion.'

'I don't know what you want!'

'If you can answer me this question, then I will do what you asked of me — I will teach you. If not. . there would be no point. Think about it, and come to me this evening.' Xenophon rose and walked away.

Parmenion sat for a long time, puzzling at the question, but the answer eluded him. He wandered down to the market-place, crept behind a stall and stole two pies. He was spotted by the stallholder, but he ducked into an alley and sped along Leaving Street before the man could catch him. Spartan youths were encouraged to supplement their meagre meals by theft. If caught they were punished severely — not for the theft itself, but for the crime of being caught.

In Leaving Street he saw two elderly men sitting close to the palace of Agisaleus. He walked over to them and bowed. One of the men looked up after a while, acknowledging his presence. 'Well?' he asked.

'Sir,' said Parmenion, 'what was the lesson of Plataea?'

'Lesson?' answered the man. 'What lesson? The only lesson handed out was to the Persians and the world. You don't take on a Spartan army and expect to win. What a foolish question to ask!'

'Thank you, sir,' said Parmenion, bowing and moving away.

What kind of a riddle had Xenophon set him? Was the answer so obvious? If so, why did the Athenian put it in the first place? Parmenion ran to the acropolis, where he ate his pies and stared out over the Taygetus mountains.

'Examine the evidence,' Xenophon had said. What evidence? Five thousand Spartan warriors had met with Xerxes' great army on the field of Plataea. The Persians were crushed, the war won. Pausanius had been the Spartan general.

What lesson?

Parmenion rose and loped down the hill to the monument. There he read the description of the battle engraved on the marble, but it told him nothing he did not know. Where then was the evidence?

He began to get angry. The Athenian did not want to train him and had found this clever excuse.

Set him a problem that had no answer, then turn him away. But even through his rage Parmenion dismissed the thought. Xenophon needed no excuses. A simple 'No' would have been sufficient.

The monument to Pausanius and Leonidas. .

It loomed above him, its secret hidden in stone. He stared up at the hoplite statue. The warrior's long spear was broken, yet still he looked mighty.

Was he Leonidas or Pausanius, Parmenion wondered, or just a soldier?

Leonidas? Why did the King slain at Thermopylae appear on the monument to Plataea? He was killed months before. The Greeks had asked the Spartans to spearhead their army against.the coming Persian invasion, but the Spartans were celebrating a religious festival and the priests refused to sanction such a move. However the Spartan King, Leonidas, was allowed to take his personal bodyguard of 300 men to the Pass of Thermopylae. There they had fought the Persian horde to a standstill, and even when betrayed and surrounded the Spartan line still held. The Persians, too frightened to attack, finished off the defenders with arrows and javelins.

Like the sun coming through cloud, the answer to Xenophon's question shone in Parmenion's mind.

What was the lesson of Plataea? Even in defeat there is victory. The Persians, too frightened to tackle even the remnants of the 300, had finally come face to face with 5,000 Spartan warriors.

They had watched the line advance, spears levelled — and they had run. That was why the Monument was shared. Plataea was also a victory for Leonidas the King, a victory won by courage and defiance and a hero's death.

He gazed up at the marble hoplite. 'I salute you, Leonidas,' he said.

Xenophon's servants moved back as the old woman entered the gates of his home. None dared to approach her. She could see their fear and smiled mirthlessly as she stood leaning on her staff, waiting for the lord of the house.

She felt the pressure of many eyes upon her. Once, those eyes would have glowed with lust — once, the mere sight of Tamis would have inflamed passions and had men willing to kill their brothers merely for the right to hold her hand. The old woman hawked and spat. Once upon a time. . Who cared any longer about once upon a time? Her first husband had died in a war against Athens, her second in a battle in Thrace. The third had contracted a fever during a hot summer when the water went bad, and died in agony while Tamis was visiting Delphi. The last she could have saved — had she known of his illness. Could have? Might have? What did it matter now? The past was dead.

She heard a door open and the confident steps of the Athenian general approaching her. She watched him with the eyes of her body and her Talent, seeing both the handsome general and the glow of his soul-fire.

'Welcome to my home, lady,' he said.

'Lead me to the shade and allow me a drink,' she told him. His hand touched her arm, and she felt his power. It disconcerted her, reminding Tamis of days of youth. The strength of the sunlight faded as he led her to an alcove to the right. Here she could smell the perfume of many flowers and feel the cool stone of the wall. She sat and waited in silence until a servant brought her a goblet of cold water from the well.

'You have a message for me from the goddess?' enquired Xenophon.

Tamis sipped the water. It touched a raw nerve in a rotting tooth and she placed the goblet on the stone table. 'You will not find what you desire, Athenian. No more distant wars for you. No more glory on the battlefield.' She felt his disappointment, sharp and raw. 'No man achieves all his dreams,' she said, more softly. 'Yet you will be remembered by men for a thousand years.'

'How so, if my glories are ended?'

'I do not know, Xenophon. But you can trust my words. However, I did not come here to speak of you. I came to talk of the cub.'

'Cub? What cub?'

'The boy who buried his mother. The One Who Is To Be. He will know glory, and pain, and tragedy, and triumph. He is the important one.'

'He is just a child. He is not a King, nor even a gentleman. What can he do?'

Tamis drained the water. She was comfortable here and yet unwelcome. It would have been pleasant to pass the day in the shade, thinking back to happier days in her long, long life. She sighed.

'His destiny is of glory, but his name will not be remembered like yours, even though he will lead armies across the world. It is your duty to teach him, to give him that which you hold.'

'I hold nothing!' snapped Xenophon. 'I am not rich, nor do I have a command.'

'You have everything he needs, Athenian, stored in your mind. You know the hearts of men and the ways of battle. Give him these gifts. And watch him grow.'

'He will take Sparta to glory?'

'Sparta?' she laughed grimly. 'Sparta's days are done, Xenophon. We have the crippled King. They did not listen to the oracle. Lysander thought he knew best — as men are wont to do. But there will be no new glory for Sparta. No, the boy will go elsewhere. You will send him when the time comes.' Tamis stood.

'Is that all?' asked Xenophon, rising. 'You feed me riddles. Why can you tell me no more?'

'Because that is all I know, Athenian. You think the gods allow their servants to share all their knowledge? I have done what I had to do. I know nothing more.'

With that lie upon her lips, Tamis walked back into the sunlight and out into the street.

Tamis made her slow way through the streets of Sparta and on past the lake and the small Temple to Aphrodite. She followed a narrow track to the door of her house — a low, mean dwelling, one-roomed with a central fire-pit and an open roof to allow the smoke to drift clear.

There was a thin pallet bed in one corner, but no other furniture. Tamis squatted down in front of the dead fire. Lifting her hand, she spoke three words and flames leapt from the cold ashes, burning brightly. For a while she stared into the dancing fire, until at last the weight of her loneliness bore her down. Her shoulders sagged.

'Where are you, Cassandra?' she whispered. 'Come to me.'

The flames licked higher, curling as if seeking to encircle an invisible sphere. Slowly a face formed within the flames, a regal face, fine-boned with a long, aquiline nose. Not a beauty, to be sure, but a handsome strong-featured face, framed with tightly-curled blonde hair.

'Why do you call me from my sleep?' asked the fire woman.

'I am lonely.'

'You use your powers too recklessly, Tamis. And unwisely.'

'Why should I not call upon you?' the old woman asked. 'I too have need of friends — of company.'

'The world teems with the living,' the fire woman told her. 'That is where your friends should be.

But if you must talk, then I must listen.'

Tamis nodded and told Cassandra of the shadow in the future, of the coming of the Dark God.

'What has this to do with you?' Cassandra asked. 'It is part of the perennial battle between the Source and the Chaos Spirit.'

'I can stop the birth, I know that I can.'

'Stop the. . what are you saying? You have seen what is to be. How can you change it?'

'How can you ask that question?' countered Tamis. 'You know as well as I that there are a thousand thousand possible futures, all dependent on limitless decisions made by men and women and, aye, even children and beasts.'

'That is precisely what I am saying, Tamis. You were not given your powers in order to manipulate events; that has never been the way of the Source.'

'Then perhaps it should have been," snapped Tamis. 'I have studied hundreds of possible futures.

In four, at least, the Dark God can be thwarted. All I needed to do was trace the lines back to the one element that can change the course of history. And I have done that!'

'You speak of the child Parmenion,' said the fire woman sadly. 'You are wrong, Tamis. You should cease your meddling. This matter is beyond you; it is greater than worlds; it is a part of the cosmic struggle between Chaos and Harmony. You have no conception of the harm you can do.'

'Harm?' queried Tamis. 'I know the harm that will be caused should the Dark God live to walk the lands in human form. The mountains will be bathed in blood, the rivers will spout smoke. The earth will be desolate.'

'I see,' said Cassandra. 'And, of course, you alone have the power to stand against this evil?'

'Do not patronize me! You think I should live as you did, giving prophecies that no one believed?

What use were they? What use were you? Begone!'

The fire died down, the face disappearing.

Tamis sighed. Right or wrong the course was set, the lines laid down. Parmenion would be the Warrior of the Light, holding back the darkness.

Do not meddle! Who do they think destroyed the plans of the last Coming more than twenty years ago, when the child was due to be fathered by the Persian King? Who was it that entered the concubine's mind on the night of conception and made her walk to the top of the tower to fling herself to the stones below?

'It was I!' hissed Tamis. 'I!'

And you were wrong! said a small voice deep in her mind. You are wrong now. Parmenion has his own life to live. It is not for you to alter his destiny.

'I am not altering it,' she said aloud. 'I am helping him to fulfil it.'

He must be allowed choices.

'I will give him choices. At the cusp moments of his life, I will go to him. I will offer him choices.'

And what if you are wrong, Tamis?

'I am not wrong. The Dark God must be stopped. He will be stopped. Leave me be!'

In the silence that followed Tamis glared around the squalid room, heavy of heart. With her powers she could have ensured a palace of riches, a life of splendour. Instead she had chosen this.

'I have made my gifts to the Source,' she told the room, 'and the Light is with me in all that I do.'

There was no one to argue, but Tamis was still unsure. She pointed to the blaze and called out a name. A man's face appeared.

'Play for me, Orpheus. Let the music ease my heart.'

As the sweet notes of the lyre sounded in the room Tamis moved to her bed, lying back and thinking of the futures she had seen. In three of them the Dark God had been born in Sparta, the ruling city of Greece.

Three possible fathers. Learchus, who could rise to greatness. Nestus, related to the royal family. And Cleombrotus, who would be King.

Tamis closed her eyes. 'Now we will see your destiny, Parmenion,' she whispered. 'Now we will see.'

Parmenion lay on a hillside to the east of the city, watching the young girls run and play. His interest in their activities surprised him, for this was not a pastime he would have considered before last summer. He recalled the day when a new kind of joy entered his life. He had been running up and down the hillside when a voice as sweet as the birth of morning spoke to him.

'What are you doing?'

Parmenion turned to see a young girl, perhaps fourteen years of age. She was wearing a simple white tunic, through which he could see not just the exquisite shape of her small breasts but also the nipples, pressing against the linen. Her legs were tanned and smooth, her waist narrow, her hips rounded. He glanced up guiltily, aware that he was reddening — and found himself gazing into wide, grey eyes set in a face of surpassing beauty.

'I was. . running,' he answered.

'I saw that,' she said, lifting a hand and pushing her fingers through her red-gold hair. It seemed to Parmenion that sunlight became trapped in her curls, glinting like jewels. 'But tell me why?' she went on. 'You run up the hill. Then you run down the hill. Then up again. There is no sense to it.'

'Lepidus — my barrack master — says that it will strengthen my legs. I am fast.'

'And I am Derae,' she told him.

'No, my name is not Fast.'

'I know that. I was joking with you.'

'I see. I… I must be going.' He turned and fled up the hill. Surprisingly, considering his previous exertions, he moved at a pace he had not considered possible.

For almost a year since this meeting he had come to the hills and the fields beyond the lake to watch the girls run. Lepidus had told him that only in Sparta were women allowed to develop their bodies. Other city states considered such exercise indecent, claiming that it incited men to commit grave crimes. Parmenion felt this could well be true, as he lay on his belly in acutely pleasurable discomfort, his eyes following Derae.

He saw the girls line up for the short race. Derae was on the outside. She won easily, her long legs stretching out, her feet scarcely seeming to make contact with the grass.

Only twice in the year had he found the courage to speak to her as she approached the field. But always she greeted him with a cheerful smile and a wave, then was away and running before a conversation could develop. Parmenion did not mind. It was enough that he could gaze on her every week. Besides, there would be little point in getting to know her, since no Spartan man was allowed to marry before he reached Manhood at twenty.

Four years. An eternity.

After an hour the girls finished their exercise and prepared to return to their homes. Parmenion rolled on to his back, closing his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun.

He thought of many things as he rested there, his hands behind his neck. He thought of the battle with Leonidas, k and the endless torment of the barracks, and of Xenophon, I and of Hermias, and of Derae. He tried not to think too much about his mother, for the wound was too fresh, and when her face floated before his mind he felt himself unmanned, out of control.

A shadow fell across him.

'Why do you watch me?' asked Derae. Parmenion jerked up to a sitting position. She was kneeling on the grass beside him.

'I did not hear you approach.'

'That does not answer my question, young Fast.'

'I like to watch you,' he answered, grinning. 'You run well, but I think you pump your arms too much.'

'So, you watch me because you like to criticize my running?'

'No, that is not what I meant.' Parmenion took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. 'I think you know that. I believe you are joking with me again.'

She nodded. 'Only a little, Parmenion.'

He was exultant. She knew his name. It could only mean that she had asked about him, that she was interested in him.

'How is it you know me?'

'I saw your battle with Leonidas.'

'Oh,' he said, disappointed. 'How so, since no women were allowed to spectate?'

'My father is a close friend of Xenophon's and the general allowed the three girls to watch from an upstairs window. We had to take turns, because we were not to be seen. You played an interesting game.'

'I won,' said Parmenion defensively.

'I know. I have just told you I was there.'

'I'm sorry. I thought you were criticizing me. Everyone else has.'

She nodded solemnly. 'You didn't even need the Sciritai. Had you advanced in Sixteen formation you would still have broken through Leonidas' lines, since he reduced his strength to four.'

'I know that too.' He shrugged. 'But I cannot take back the move.'

'Do you still have the sword?'

'Of course. Why would I not?'

'It is very valuable. You might have sold it.'

'Never! It is one of the seven swords. I will treasure it all my life.'

'That is a pity,' she said, moving smoothly to her feet. 'For I would like to have bought it.'

'What need would you have of a sword?' he asked, rising to stand before her.

'I would give it to my brother,' she answered.

'It would be a handsome gift. Do you object to my watching you run?'

'Should I?" she countered, smiling.

'Are you betrothed?'

'Not yet, though my father talks of it. Is this a proposal, Parmenion?'

Before he could answer a hand grabbed his shoulder, dragging him back. Instantly he spun, his fist cracking into Leonidas' jaw and staggering him. The golden-haired Spartan rubbed his chin, then advanced.

'Stop it!' shouted Derae but the youths ignored her, their eyes locked together, their concentration total. Leonidas leapt forward, feinting a hook before thundering a straight right to Parmenion's face. The smaller man rolled with the blow, grabbing Leonidas' tunic and hammering his knee into his opponent's groin. Leonidas grunted with pain and doubled over. Parmenion's forehead crashed against Leonidas' face and he sagged and half-fell. Parmenion pushed him away, then saw a large jagged stone jutting from the grass. Tearing it clear he advanced on the dazed Leonidas, wanting nothing more than to smash open his skull.

Derae leapt into his path, her open hand connecting with his cheek like a thunderclap. His fingers circled her throat and the stone came up… he froze as he saw the terror in her eyes.

Dropping the stone, he backed away. 'I… I am sorry… He… he is my enemy.'

'He is my brother,' she said, her expression as cold as the stone he had dropped.

Leonidas, recovered now, stepped alongside her. 'You come near my sister again — and you will answer to me with a blade in your hand.'

Suddenly Parmenion laughed, but there was no humour in the sound. 'That would be a pleasure,' he hissed, 'for we both know what blade I would carry. One that you will never own — though your soul yearns for it. But fear not, Leonidas, I want nothing from you — or your family.'

'You think I fear you, peasant?'

'If you don't — you should. Come against me whenever you will, you arrogant pig. But know this — I will destroy you!'

Turning on his heel Parmenion stalked from the scene.

Hermias left the training ground and loped through the streets, across the market-place, arriving at the lake sanctuary as the girls were leaving. There was no sign of Parmenion, and he was about to duck away behind the trees when Derae saw him and waved. Smiling shyly, he stepped forward.

Derae ran to him, kissing his cheek. 'It is not often we see you here, cousin. Are you developing an interest in girls?'

Two of Derae's friends moved alongside him, touching his tunic and pretending to examine the weave.

Hermias blushed. 'I am looking for my friend, Parmenion.'

Her face darkened. 'He was here. Now he is not,' she snapped.

'Has he offended you?' asked Hermias fearfully.

Derae did not answer for a moment. Leonidas would be furious if he learned she had spoken of his defeat, yet she felt driven to talk of the incident. Linking arms with Hermias she walked away from the other girls, and they sat down in the shade by the Sanctuary Lake. There she told Hermias all that had occurred.

'You cannot know what he has suffered, Derae,' he explained. 'For some reason — and I cannot fathom it — he is hated by all. He can do nothing right. When he wins a race there are no cheers, even when he runs against boys from other barracks. And yet he is kind, thoughtful. They set on him in gangs, beating him with sticks. Few there are who would attempt to tackle him singly."

'But my brother would have no part in such wickedness,' said Derae. 'He is noble and strong, he would never run with a pack.'

'I agree with you. I have always. . respected Leonidas. But the beatings are done in his name and he makes no attempt to stop them. The last was the evening before the Game, and Parmenion was forced to hide all night upon the acropolis. You saw his bruises.'

Derae picked up a flat stone and hurled it out over the lake, watching it skim across the sparkling blue water. 'No one is ever hated without reason,' she said. 'He is obviously arrogant and low-born. Leonidas says he is a half-breed, a mix-blood, yet he struts among true Spartans looking down on them.'

Hermias nodded. 'There is truth to that. But when all men are against you, all that is left is pride. He will not let them humble bin. I advised him to play to lose in the Game, but he would not. And look what happened! Everyone hates him even more now. What future is there for him, Derae? He is running out of money; he has no status.'

'Has he no friends at all — save you?'

'None. There is a girl, I think. He watches her every week. When he talks of her he is a different man. But I do not know her name, and I doubt he has even spoken to her.'

'He has spoken to her,' said Derae. 'He even grabbed her throat and threatened her with a rock.'

Hermias closed his eyes and leaned back, resting his head on the grass. 'It was you, then. I do not understand. Was he cursed at birth by some malevolent spirit? I must find him.'

'I think you should avoid him, Hermias. I looked into his eyes and there is something deadly there. My blood turned cold.'

'He is my friend,' answered Hermias, rising smoothly to his feet, 'and I have news for him. But first I must see Leonidas. Where will I find him?'

'He said he was going to practise with spear and sword — he should still be at the training field.

But do not tell him it was I who told you.'

'Please, Derae, he will think Parmenion has sent me.'

Derae shook her head and rose. 'Very well, Hermias. Tell him you spoke to me. But, be warned, he now regards Parmenion as a sworn enemy. You will find no comfort there.'

Leonidas — in breastplate, kilt and greaves — was battling against a youth called Nestus, and the training field rang with the sound of sword on shield as the two attacked one another. No wooden practice blades here, both were using the short iron stabbing swords of the hoplite. There was tension in the spectators as the combatants circled, seeking openings. The powerfully-built Nestus was the barracks champion with the short sword, but Leonidas was cool, strong and fast. Both youths were breathing heavily and Nestus was cut on his upper arm, a thin trickle of blood dripping to the dust. Leonidas leapt in but Nestus darted forward, his shield crashing against Leonidas to send him sprawling to the ground. Instantly Nestus was upon him, his blade resting against Leonidas' throat. A muted cheer went up. Leonidas grinned and rolled to his feet, discarding his shield. Embracing the other man, he congratulated him and then walked away to the shade where water-skins were hanging.

Hermias ran to him, helping him remove his breastplate.

'Thank you, cousin,' said Leonidas, wiping sweat from his face. 'Damn, but he is good. I am getting closer to him, though, don't you think?'

'Yes,' agreed Hermias. 'You had a chance at a groin thrust. In a real battle you would have used it — and won.'

'You saw that? Yes. He has a habit of raising his shield too high. What brings you here? Not to fight, surely?'

'No,' said Hermias, taking a deep breath. 'I came to talk of Savra.' He looked away from Leonidas'

face, bracing himself for the anger he felt sure would follow.

'Has he spoken to you?' asked Leonidas softly.

'No. Derae told me.' He glanced at Leonidas, finding the absence of anger disconcerting.

'What do you require of me?'

'An end to the beatings and the violence.'

'They are nothing to do with me. I do not sanction them; I learn of them only after they have taken place. He is not popular.' Leonidas shrugged. 'What would you have me do?'

'Tell Gryllus and Learchus that such. . beatings. . displease you.'

'Why should I do this?'

'Because you are a noble man. You are not a coward and you need no one to fight battles for you.'

Leonidas chuckled. 'Flattery, Hermias?'

'Yes. But I believe it is true nonetheless. They cannot beat him into submission. One day they will kill him — and for what? Because they think it would please you. Would it please you, cousin?'

'Yes, it would,' admitted Leonidas. 'But you are right, it is base and I will have no part in it.

I will see that it stops, Hermias; I should have done so long ago. It shamed me that he arrived at the Game carrying such wounds.'

'I am in your debt, cousin.'

'No,' said Leonidas, 'I am in yours. But know this, Parmenion is my enemy and one day I will kill him.'

For two hours Hennias searched for Parmenion, finally finding him sitting on a granite block below the statue of Athena of the Road. Hermias sat alongside him. 'Why so glum, strategos? he asked.

'Don't call me that! One day perhaps — but not now.'

'Your face is like thunder, Savra. Are you thinking of the fight with Leonidas?'

'How did you learn of that?'

'I spoke to Derae. I did not know she was the one you watched.'

Parmenion hurled a stone into a nearby field, scattering a flock of large black and grey birds. 'I hate crows. When I was a child I was frightened of them; I thought they would fly through my window and eat my soul. I had overheard one of my neighbours saying that crows had eaten my father's eyes on the battlefield. I used to cry at night, and I could hear their wings in my mind.'

'Would you rather be alone, Savra? I don't mind.'

Parmenion forced a smile and put his arm around his friend's shoulder. 'I don't want to be alone, Hermias — but that is what I am.' Standing, he scooped up another stone, hurling it high over the field. 'What is there for me here, Hermias? What can I hope to become?'

'What would you wish to be?'

Parmenion shook his head. 'I do not know. Truly. Once I desired only to be a Spartan hoplite, bearing shield, sword and spear. I wanted to march with the King into foreign lands, to become rich on plunder. But lately I have been dreaming strange dreams. .'He lapsed into silence.

'Go on!' urged Hermias. 'Sometimes dreams are messages from the gods. Do you dream of eagles? They are good omens. So are lions.'

'There are no animals,' said Parmenion, 'only men, armed for war. There are two armies on a level plain — and I am a general. The phalanxes surge forward and the dust rises, muffling the war-cries. One army is Spartan, for they are wearing blood-red cloaks. The slaughter is terrible, and I see a King lying slain. Then I awake.'

Hermias was silent for a moment, then he grinned. 'You are a general, you say. That is a good omen, surely? And, I would guess, a true one, for there is no one to out-think you, Savra. And with you leading them, how could Sparta lose?'

'That is the point, my friend. I am not a general in the Spartan army — and it is Sparta's King who dies.'

'Hush!' whispered Hermias. 'You should not say such a thing. Put it from your mind. It is not an omen at all — you were dreaming of the General's Games, that is all. It has been on your mind for so long, and has caused you such grief. Forget it, Savra. Do not speak of it again. Anyway, I have some news that will cheer you… I promise.'

'Then tell it, my friend. I do need cheering.'

'Leonidas spoke up for you today on the training ground, so did Lepidus. Leonidas admitted he had played badly and that you deserved to win. Others were saying you cheated — but he spoke up for you. Isn't that wonderful?'

'I can almost hear the gods singing with joy,' remarked Parmenion.

'But don't you see? It means that the beatings will end. You are free of it.'

'We'll see. I'll judge it by how many attend my victory celebration.'

'I do have other news that is less cheering,' said Hermias sadly. 'There is no easy way to say this, Savra, but there will be no victory ceremony.'

Parmenion laughed grimly. 'Now there is a surprise!' His face set, he jumped down from the block and turned to look up at the stone goddess.

'What have I done, Athena, that the gods should hate me? Am I evil? Perhaps I am. . But one day I will repay them for their cruelties. I swear it!'

Hermias said nothing, but he felt a sudden stab of fear as he gazed at Parmenion's face and saw the icy hatred in his eyes. He clambered down and moved to Parmenion's side.

'Do not hate me too!'

Parmenion blinked and shook his head. 'Hate you, my friend? How could I ever hate you? You have been a brother to me, and I will never forget that. Never! Brothers we have been, brothers we shall be, all the days of our lives. I promise you. Now I have to go to Xenophon's house. I will see you later. Come to my house this evening.'

'I will. Take care.'

'Why should I take care?' responded Parmenion. 'Did you not say the war was over?'

Xenophon led Parmenion to a wide room in the eastern part of the house, where it was cool and bright. 'Well?' asked the general, lounging on a divan. 'Do you have the answer to Plataea?'

Parmenion nodded. 'Thermopylae put thoughts of defeat into the hearts of the Persians.'

'Good! Good! I am well pleased with you. I have told you that war is an art — and so it is. But the art is to win the battle before the sword is drawn, before the spears are levelled. If your opponent believes he will lose — then he will lose. That is what happened at Plataea. The Persians

— who could not face a mere 300 Spartans- panicked when faced with 5,000. A general must work on the hearts of men, not just his own but the enemy's.'

'Does this mean that you will teach me?' Parmenion asked.

'It does. Do you read?'

'Only poorly, sir. My mother taught me — but it is not a skill that is cared about in the barracks.'

'Then you must learn. I have books that must be studied, strategies you must memorize. A general is not unlike a blacksmith, Parmenion. He has many tools and must know the value and the purpose of each.'

Parmenion took a deep breath. 'There is a question I must ask, sir. I hope it will not offend you.'

'We will not know until you ask it,' replied the general, smiling.

'I am neither wealthy nor well liked. It is likely that when I come of age no Senior's Mess will admit me. So, sir, much as I would like to be taught by you, what is the point?'

Xenophon nodded gravely. 'There is much in what you say, young strategos. At best you will be a First Ranker, at worst a line warrior. But you have it in you to become great, to be a leader of men. I know; there is no better judge of this than I. But your future may not be in Sparta — which will be Sparta's loss. What do you desire?'

Parmenion shrugged. 'Only acceptance, sir. I wish to be able to walk with my head high, having men say, "There is Parmenion, the Spartan." '

That is all you wish? Come, be honest with me, strategos.'

Parmenion swallowed hard, then his eyes came up to meet the general's piercing gaze. 'No, sir, that is not all. I wish to grind my enemies into the dust, to bring them to despair. I want to be a general, like you. I want to lead men into battle.' Suddenly he smiled. 'I had a dream that I wish to make come true.'

'You may not obtain all that you desire,' said Xenophon, 'but I will teach you all that I know. I will give you knowledge, but you must decide how to use it.'

A servant brought them food and watered wine, and Parmenion sat and listened as Xenophon told of the March to the Sea and the evils that beset the Greeks. He outlined his strategies and his successes, but also talked of his failures and the reasons for them. The hours passed swiftly and Parmenion felt like a man dying of thirst who has found the Well of All Life.

He could see it all so clearly — the Greeks demoralized after the battle at Cunaxa, yet still holding their formation. The Persian King, Artaxerxes, promising them safe passage through his realm and then treacherously murdering their generals, believing that without leaders the Greek hoplites would be easy prey to his cavalry. But the soldiers had remained steadfast. They elected new generals, and one of these was Xenophon. During the months that followed the Greeks marched through Persia, routing armies sent against them, crossing uncharted lands. The perils they faced were legion — countless enemies, the threat of starvation, ice-covered plains and flood-ruined valleys. Yet Xenophon held them together until at last they reached the sea, and safety.

'There is no warrior on earth,' said Xenophon, 'to match the Greek. For we alone understand the nature of discipline. There is not one civilized King who does not hire Greek mercenaries as a backbone for his forces. Not one. And the greatest of the Greeks are the Spartans. Do you understand why?'

'Yes,' answered Parmenion. 'Our enemies know — in their hearts — that we are the victors. And we know it in our hearts.'

'Sparta will never be conquered, Parmenion.'

'Unless there comes a foe with similar resolve — and greater numbers.'

'But that will not happen. We have a country split up into city states, each fearing its neighbour. If Athens and Thebes again joined forces against Sparta, many city states would fear such an alliance — and join with Sparta against it. Our land has a history of such disputes.

Alliances made and broken, scores of disparate groups betraying one another endlessly. Never has any city achieved a complete victory. We should have conquered the world, Parmenion, but we never will. We are too busy fighting amongst ourselves.' Xenophon rose. 'It is getting late, you must return to your home. Come to me in three days. We will have supper — and I will show you the books of the future.'

'Do you teach your son?' asked Parmenion as he rose to leave.

Xenophon's face darkened. 'I will be your teacher, and you will ask me questions concerning strategy. You will not ask questions concerning my family!'

'I apologize, sir. I did not mean to offend.'

Xenophon shook his head. 'And I should not be so short-tempered. Gryllus is a troubled boy; he does not have a city. Like you he wants to be accepted, he wants to be admired. But he has no mind. His mother was a beautiful woman, Parmenion, but she also was cursed with limited intellect.

It was as if the gods, having lavished beauty on her, decided that brains would be a luxury she would not need. My son takes after her. Now, we will speak no more of it.'

The silence of the night covered the city as Parmenion strolled along the moonlit streets. High on the acropolis he could just make out the tall statue of Zeus, and the pillars of the Bronze House.

He came to the wide avenue of Leaving

Street and stopped before the palace, gazing out at the guards patrolling the entrance. The Cattle Price Palace, home of Agisaleus. An odd name for an abode of Kings, he thought. One of Sparta's past Kings had run short of money and had married the daughter of a Corinthian merchant in order to obtain a dowry of 4,000 cattle. From the sale of these he had built his palace. Parmenion stared at the building, at its colossal columns and its long, sloping roof. At first he had thought that the ancient King must have had a fine sense of humour to name it so, but now he realized it was more a sense of guilt. Forced to marry a foreigner, he had left his shame for future generations to share.

A strange people were the Spartans.

The only race in Greece to take their boy children as infants and train them for war; the only race to allow their women to exercise and grow strong, in order to bear warriors to continue Sparta's glory.

Parmenion moved on until he came to the street parallel to his own house. Here he stopped and scaled a high wall, his nimble fingers seeking out cracks in the mortar. Easing himself on to a tiled roof, he slid across to look down on the gate of his own small home. Hermias had said the campaign of hate was over, but Parmenion did not believe it. Keeping low to the shadows, he inched his way to the overhang of the roof and scanned the alleys below for several minutes, listening and watching.

Just as he was sure that all were clear, he saw a movement from the west and recognized Hermias running up the cobbled street. He was about to shout a greeting when five figures detached themselves from the shadows and pounced on the running youth. Parmenion saw sticks and clubs in their hands. Hermias went down to a blow that cracked against his skull. Parmenion stood and launched himself, feet first, from the roof. He landed with gruesome force on the back of a cloaked figure and heard the sickening crack of splintering bone; his victim gave a terrible scream and fell to the cobbles. Parmenion fell with him, then rolled to his feet. A stick lashed towards his head, but he ducked inside and hammered his fist into a hooded face. The hood fell back and Parmenion recognized Gryllus. The Athenian, blood pouring from crushed lips, leapt to the attack. Parmenion stepped in close and whipped two blows to the other boy's belly before sending a hooking left to his ear. Gryllus went down hard. A club crashed against Par-menion's back, hurling him forward, but he spun on his heel and blocked the next blow with his forearms. Grabbing his opponent's cloak, he dragged him forward. Their heads cracked together, but Parmenion had dipped so that his brow crushed his opponent's nose. His attacker tore himself clear and staggered away.

Parmenion scooped up a fallen club and swung it viciously as they closed in on him, smashing it into the arm of his nearest attacker. The boy he had leapt upon was lying unconscious on the ground and Gryllus had run. Only three youths faced him now, but one of these had stumbled back with one arm hanging uselessly at his side.

Parmenion charged the other two, ramming his club forward into the belly of the first and then hurling himself at the second. He fell to the ground, his opponent beneath him, and rolled. The other youth came up with a knife in his hand, the blade shining wickedly in the moonlight.

'Now you die, mix-blood!' came the voice of Learchus. The remaining two attackers sprinted away as Parmenion rose smoothly, his club held two-handed. Learchus sprang forward but Parmenion sidestepped, cracking the club down on the other's wrist. The dagger fell from his fingers.

Parmenion gathered it and advanced.

Learchus backed away, Parmenion following, until he reached the wall.

Parmenion flicked a glance at the still form of Hermias, saw the blood oozing from a wound in the temple.

'You went too far,' he told Learchus, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes gleaming. 'Too far,' he repeated, reaching up and pushing back the hood.

The knife plunged into Learchus' belly, ripping up into the lungs. Parmenion stepped inside, his face inches from the astonished, wide-eyed features of Learchus. 'This is what death feels like, you Spartan whoreson.'

'Oh, Gods. .' cried Learchus, sagging back into the wall. Parmenion grabbed him by the hair and hauled him back to his feet.

'Prayers will not help you now.'

The breath rattled from Learchus' throat and his eyes closed. Parmenion let the body fall, his anger disappearing. He gazed down at the corpse, then let slip the bloody dagger. Hearing Hermias groan, he ran to his side. 'Are you all right?' he asked.

'My head. . hurts…"

'Let me help you.'

'Your hand is injured,' said Hermias, touching the blood.

'It is not mine,' muttered Parmenion, pointing to the dead Learchus.

'You killed him? I don't believe it. Oh, Parmenion!'

'Let me get you inside — then I'll find the officer of the watch.'

Within the hour the body had been removed and Parmenion was escorted by Lepidus to the barracks where the elderly general stood waiting in the dormitory doorway. Without a word the general turned and stalked up the stairs to a room overlooking the central courtyard. He sat down at a bench table and gestured to Lepidus to seat himself. Parmenion was left standing before the men.

He stared at their faces in the flickering lamp-light. Lepidus he knew well; the man was tough, but not unfair. The general he knew only by sight as an iron-haired disciplinarian, a veteran of a score of battles. The old man glared at him.

'What do you have to say?' he asked, his voice rasping like a sword dragged from its sheath.

'Five hooded men attacked a friend of mine,' said Parmenion. 'What would you have me do? I went to his aid.'

'You killed a fellow Spartan — a youth of good family.'

'I killed a cowardly attacker who with a group of friends, armed with clubs, set about an unarmed youth.'

'Do not be insolent with me, boy!'

'Then do not patronize me, sir!'

The general blinked. His powerful fists clenched and Parmenion felt he was about to rise and strike him down, but the old man took a deep breath and calmed himself. 'Describe to me all that happened.' Parmenion did so, without including his final conversation with Learchus.

'Is it true,' asked the general, 'that you are unpopular with the other boys?'

'Yes.'

'Is it also true that you have been a victim of their. . sport before now?'

'Yes.'

'Then you knew when you attacked them that they were probably hunting you — that your friend was struck by mistake?'

'Of course. Hermias is very well liked.'

'So, then, had you waited until they recognized their error there would have been no battle. They would have left. You agree?'

'I did not think of that then — though I can see you are correct, general. But I saw my friend struck and I went to his aid.'

'You leapt upon one boy, breaking his shoulder, hit another with a club, breaking his arm, and stabbed the last, killing him. It is your fault, half-breed. You understand that? A fine boy lies dead because you did not think. Only a savage can use the excuse of lack of thought. Left to me I would see you die for this. Now get out of my sight.'

Lepidus waited until they could hear the boy padding down the stairs. Then he rose and walked to the door, pushing it closed.

'He is a disgrace,' said the old man.

'No, general,' said Lepidus sadly. 'What happened in this room tonight was a disgrace.'

'You dare to criticize me?'

Lepidus stared at the man. 'As a Spartan it is my right. He went to the aid of a friend, risking himself. But he did not hesitate. You, of all men, should see that. There will be no judgement against him tomorrow. If there is, I shall speak out.'

Lepidus turned and left the room. He walked out into the night and found himself drawn back to the scene of the fight. A lamp was burning in the window of Parmenion's house and Lepidus tapped at the gatepost.

Parmenion opened the grilled gate and stepped aside for the officer. Lepidus walked into the small building and sat on the narrow bed. Parmenion offered him a goblet of water, but he waved it away.

'I want you to put from your mind what happened tonight at the barracks,' said Lepidus. 'And I would like you to forgive the general. Learchus was his nephew and he loved the boy. What you did was admirable. Do you understand me?'

'Yes, sir, admirable.'

'Sit down, Parmenion. Here, beside me." The boy did so. 'Now give me your hand and look me in the eyes.' Parmenion did as he was bid. He felt the strength in the older man's grip and saw the concern in his face. 'Listen to me, boy. There are few left, it seems, who understand what being a Spartan is about. When we fight, we fight to win. We stand by our friends, we kill our enemies.

The attack on Hermias was cowardly. You did well. I am proud of you.'

'I did not have to kill Learchus,' said Parmenion.

'Do not admit that to anyone. You understand me?'

'Yes,' answered Parmenion wearily, all the events of the last few days rearing up in his mind and threatening to overwhelm him; the death of his mother, the victory at the Games, the loss of Derae and now the murder of Learchus. 'I understand you.'

'Listen to me, you were worried about your friend and you took on a gang. That was courageous.

And, yes, you killed someone. The important — the vital — issue is, did you enjoy killing him?'

'No,' said Parmenion.

'Then do not worry about it.'

Parmenion looked into Lepidus' face and nodded.

But I did enjoy it, he thought, may the gods forgive me. I wish I could have killed them all.

Tamis leaned on her staff, staring at the servant kneeling before her.

'My master urges you to come to the house of Parnas,' said the man, avoiding her eyes.

'Urges? When his son lies dying? Surely you mean begs?'

The noble Parnas would never do that but I beg you, Honoured One. Save Hermias,' pleaded the servant, tears in his eyes.

'Perhaps I can save him — perhaps not,' she answered. 'But tell your master that I will ask the gods for guidance. Go now!'

Tamis turned on her heel and vanished into the dark interior of her dwelling-place. The fire was burning low but, as she sat before it, the flames flickered and rose to form the face of Cassandra.

'I did not summon you,' said Tamis. 'Begone!'

'You must heal the boy, Tamis. It is your duty.'

'Don't talk to me of duty. Learchus is dead, and I have denied the Dark One a possible father of the flesh. That was my duty. Hermias is holding back the development of Parmenion. Because of their friendship he still retains, in part, a gentle soul. I did not cause Hermias to be hurt. No blame attaches to me; it was the Will of the Source. And now he will die, for a blood clot is in his brain. As it moves, it will kill him.'

'But you can heal him,' said the fire woman.

'No. When he is dead, Parmenion will become the man of iron I need.'

'Can you honestly believe, Tamis, that this is the will of the Source? That a boy with no evil in his heart should die?'

'Children with no evil in their hearts die all the time, Cassandra. Do not preach to me. They die in fires, in droughts, in plagues and in wars. Does the Source stop them? No. And I no longer complain about it. This is His world. If He chooses for innocents to die, then that is His right.

I caused Hermias no harm — even though he stood in my way. Now he is dying. I interpret that as a prayer answered.'

Tamis closed her eyes and floated free of her body, rising through the low roof and drifting high above the city.

The house of Parnas stood in the east of the city and she flew towards it, hovering in the flower-garlanded courtyard where a group of Hermias' friends had gathered. Par-menion stood alone by the far wall, ignored.

'They say he was vomiting in the night,' said fat Pausias. 'Then he passed out. His colour is terrible. The surgeon has bled him, but to no avail.'

'He is strong,' said Nestus. 'I am sure he will be all right.' The sword champion glanced at Parmenion, then walked across to where he waited.

'What happened last night?' Nestus asked. 'All I have heard is rumour.'

'Hermias was attacked,' answered Parmenion. 'He was struck on the head by a club. He was dazed and groggy when I brought him home.'

'It is said you killed Learchus. Is it true?'

'I did not know it was Learchus,' lied Parmenion. 'He was merely one of a group attacking Hermias.'

Nestus sighed. 'This is bad, Savra. Very bad. I cannot say I have ever liked you, but you know that I have never had any part in the attacks on you.'

'I know that.'

'If Hermias dies, the others will be arraigned for his murder.'

'He will not die!' Parmenion snapped.

A movement by the gates caught Parmenion's eye and he turned to see Derae and two of her friends enter the courtyard. She saw him but made no sign of recognition as she walked slowly to the open doors of the andron.

Tamis entered the main building, drawn by the girl's soul-fire which blazed like concentrated starlight.

The father of Hermias was sitting in the andron talking to the surgeon, Astion. He looked up as Derae entered, then stood, his face drawn and haggard. He kissed her cheek, offering her watered wine.

'Can I see him?' she asked.

'He is dying, my dear,' said Parnas, his voice breaking.

'He is my friend — my dearest friend,' Derae told him. 'Let me go to him.'

Parnas shrugged and led her to the bedroom where Hermias lay, his face as pale as the linen sheet which covered his body. Derae sat beside him, her hand moving to stroke his brow.

'No!' shouted Tamis, though none could hear her. Derae's soul-fire flared, bathing Hermias in blinding light. Tamis could not believe what she was seeing: at the boy's temple the light turned gold, then red, the blood clot beneath the bone dispersing. Hermias groaned and opened his eyes.

'Derae?' he whispered. 'What are you doing here? It is most unseemly.'

'They told me you were dying,' she answered, smiling. 'But I can see that is not the case.'

'I had the most terrible dreams,' he told her. 'I was in a place of darkness where nothing grew and no birds sang. But even now the memory fades. .'

'So it should, for the sun is shining outside and all your friends are gathered here.'

'Parmenion?'

'He also,' she said, her smile fading. 'Now I will leave you to your rest.'

Standing, she returned to the andron. 'He is awake,' she told Parnas, 'and his colour is good.'

Parnas ran to the bedroom, embracing his bewildered son.

The surgeon seized Derae's arm. 'What did you do?' he asked.

'I did nothing. As soon as I sat down, he awoke.'

Tamis listened to the words, her anger rising. You do not know, you stupid child! You have the Gift and you do not realize it!

Furious, the seer returned to her body. The fire was dead, the room in darkness. Derae's power was a new element, and Tamis gathered her strength to walk the paths of this new future.

It was dusk when Leonidas was summoned to the rooms of the Barrack Senior. He had been riding along the banks of the Eurotas River for most of the day, and had learned of the previous night's tragedy only upon his return when he found Lepidus waiting for him at the stables.

The soldier had said little as they walked to the barracks, mounting the stairs to the general's rooms. Inside, seated with the Senior, were two of the city's ephors — councillors responsible for the day-to-day organization of Sparta's rigid social, legal and economic structure. Leonidas bowed to them both. One he recognized as Memnas, a friend of his father's. Memnas was the chief magistrate, and he headed the night-watch and the militia.

The Senior stood. 'Your friend Learchus lies murdered," he said.

Leonidas felt the shock of the words. 'Murdered? I was told he was killed in a fight,' he replied.

'That is what we are to determine,' put in Memnas. He was a short, slender man, with a trident beard and dark hawk-like features. In the blue robes of the ephor he seemed a frail figure, yet he had marched with Agisaleus into Persia and had fought, so it was said, like a lion. 'Be seated, young man. We have asked you here so that you may corroborate the claims of the killer.'

'I was not there, sir. How can I help you?'

'Two boys — friends of yours — lie injured, one with a broken shoulder and another with a broken arm. They will say nothing of the incident, save that it was a brawl. They did not see the killing blow struck. They also say that Parmenion attacked them without warning, and they deny harming Hermias.'

'What would you have me do?' asked Leonidas. 'I am not a militiaman, nor yet a member of the night-watch.'

'You are from a noble family and highly regarded in the barracks. Find out the truth and come back to us within two hours. Otherwise there will be a full — and public — inquiry that will, whatever the outcome, harm the reputation of Lycurgus Barracks.'

'I will do what I can — but I promise nothing,' Leonidas told them.

He found Gryllus at the gymnasium; the Athenian youth's nose was swollen, his eyes bruised.

Leonidas walked him to the square, finding a quiet spot lit by the torches of the Oracle Shrine.

There Gryllus told him all he could recall of the fight.

'He murdered him, Leon!' he said, at last. 'I still can't believe it!'

'You went after him at night, hooded and masked. And not for the first time, Gryllus. What did you expect? That he would greet you with flowers?'

'He killed him with his own dagger. I saw it. He backed him to a wall and then stabbed him.'

'You saw it and did nothing?'

'What could I do? He is a demon — possessed. He leapt from the sky. We didn't know it was Hermias; we were just going to stop Savra from running in the trials. We did it for you — to avenge your shame!'

Leonidas' hand snaked out, his fingers circling Gryllus' throat. 'You did nothing for me!' he hissed. 'I have seen it in you for a long time, Athenian. You like inflicting pain, but you are not man enough to stand alone. You run with a pack, like the cowardly dog you are. Now hear this: tomorrow you will be gone from Sparta. I care not where. If you are here, I will come after you myself and rip out your bowels with a blunt knife.'

'Oh, please, Leonidas. .'

'Be silent! You will tell no one else of your. . infamy. Learchus' death is on your head and one day you will suffer for it.'

Leonidas returned to the ephors at the appointed time.

'You have discovered the truth?' Memnas asked.

'I have, sir. A group of youths attacked Hermias, believing him to be Parmenion. The half-breed is innocent of blame; he acted to save his friend.'

'And the names of the other youths?'

'That was not part of your instruction to me, sir. The ringleader — an Athenian — will be leaving the city tonight. He will not return."

'Perhaps it is better that way,' said Memnas.

Two hours after dawn the 500 youngsters of Lycurgus Barracks were marched to the training ground, where file leaders ordered them into line to await the Barrack Senior. First- and second-year children were allowed to sit at the front, while those aged from nine to nineteen stood silently to attention. All the older youths now knew of the tragedy, and not one person had spoken to Parmenion since muster.

He glanced to his left and right. The boys on either side of him had edged away, creating distance. Parmenion did not respond but stared stonily ahead, longing for the day to pass swiftly.

The children at the front stood up as the Barrack Senior strode into view flanked by two of the city councillors in their blue ceremonial robes. Parmenion felt panic flare within him. The blue-clad ephors looked grim, and he pictured them marching to him and escorting him to the execution ground. Tearing his eyes from them, he gazed at the general. In full armour the Barrack Senior looked even more ferocious than when Parmenion had seen him last night.

The old man's eyes scanned the ranks. 'Many of you already know,' he roared, 'of the death of our comrade, Learchus. The ephors here,' he added, gesturing at the councillors, 'have investigated fully and have, in their wisdom, declared the incident closed. So be it. Today the body of our departed friend is being laid out. Tomorrow we will all attend the cremation. The lament will be sung by Leonidas. That is all!' He stepped back, spun on his heel and stalked away.

Lepidus ordered the boys to stand down and then spoke for a moment or two with the ephors before making his way to Parmenion and leading him to one side. 'That was hard on you, and you did well to be here. But there is something else. . after today you will no longer be part of Lycurgus Barracks. Next week you will join the Menelaus group.'

'What about my mess bill here? I have just paid for the year ahead — I have no more money.'

'I will loan you the sum,' said Lepidus. 'I wish I could give it to you, but I am not a rich man.'

'No! I will not leave,' argued Parmenion, fighting to control his temper. 'There are no grounds. I will refuse to go-'

'Life will be unbearable for you here, boy! Surely you can see that? Your presence would wreck morale. And the barracks system depends on morale — you understand that, don't you?'

'Yes, I do,' answered Parmenion softly. 'I would like to see the Barrack Senior to discuss the move.'

'He does not want to talk to you,' said Lepidus, aware of a change in Parmenion but unable to pin down the exact nature of it.

'His wants are immaterial. If he does not see me, then I stay. Tell him that, Lepidus!' And Parmenion walked away without a word.

That afternoon he was summoned to the Senior's rooms. The old man did not look up from his desk as Parmenion entered. 'Make this swift,' he snapped. Then he heard the rasp of a chair-leg against the floor, and looked up shocked to see Parmenion seated before him. 'What do you think you are doing?' he asked.

'I am negotiating, general,' answered Parmenion, meeting the other man's eyes and holding his gaze. 'You want me gone? I wish to go. But there is the matter of my mess fees. Three days ago I paid over 140 drachms to this barracks. My mother sold a one-third share in our landholding to raise that money.'

'That is not a problem of mine,' said the old man.

'But it is,' Parmenion told him. 'Since I have paid, then I will stay. You have no right to request me to leave. I have broken no rule.'

'Broken. .? You murdered a boy!' snarled the old man, pushing himself to his feet.

'Not according to the ephors,' answered Parmenion calmly. 'Now if you wish me to leave you will supply me with 200 drachms. Is that clear enough for you. . sir?'

For almost a minute the general stared at Parmenion, his face deep crimson. Then he smiled and relaxed. 'So, the Macedonian blood finally rises to the surface. There's not a man in that whole country who wouldn't sell his wife to buy a sheep. Very well, peasant, I will give you your two hundred — much good will it do you. You may stay on in any barracks, but when you reach Manhood you will find no one willing to endure you in any Soldiers' Hall. You will never be a Spartan, Parmenion. Never!'

The youngster chuckled. 'You mean that as an insult? I do not take it so. I know what I am, general, as I know what you are. I would be obliged if the money could be sent to my home before sunset.'

Parmenion stood and bowed.

Within the hour he was standing before another old man, fierce-eyed and grim-lipped. Leaning back in his chair, Agenor linked his arms behind his bald head and observed the young man. 'I want no deaths here,' stated the officer.

'Nor I, sir.'

'But I want fighters — and I want thinkers. I understand you run well?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. Find yourself a bed in the western dormitory, and then report to Solon at the training field.' As Parmenion prepared to leave, the man rose and waved him back. 'Lepidus spoke well of you, boy. He says you have had a tough time and that you bore it well. Know this, that here you will be judged only by what we see — not by what we have heard.'

'That is all I ask, sir. Thank you.'

Parmenion hoisted his blanket roll to his shoulder and walked to the western wing. All the rush beds bar two had blankets upon them. Parmenion chose the empty bed farthest from the door and lay down. For a while he watched dust-motes dancing in shafts of sunlight coming through a broken shutter. Then he closed his eyes.

A hand touched his shoulder and he was instantly awake. There were stars in the sky and the room was filling up with young men. He looked up at the boy who had touched him.

It was Hermias.

'What are you doing here?' asked Parmenion, rolling to his feet and embracing his friend.

'I transferred here this morning,' Hermias answered. 'I wouldn't want you to feel lonely.'

Parmenion was truly moved. Lycurgus Barracks was where the rich sent their youngsters; it was for the elite Spartiates. Parmenion had been the only poor boy enrolled there — as the son of a hero, part of the cost of his education was being paid by his father's battalion. For Hermias to leave the elite to join Menelaus, the smallest of barracks, was something Parmenion could hardly believe. 'You should not have done this, Hermias, my friend. But I am glad you did. I cannot tell you how glad.'

'It is a new beginning, Savra. A chance to forget the past.'

Parmenion nodded. 'You are right,' he said.

But he would not forget. He would make them pay. He would live for the day when his enemies lay in the dust at his feet, staring up at him, begging forgiveness.

'That's better, Savra! I like to see you smile,' said Hermias.

Sparta, Summer, 382 BC

Parmenion settled swiftly into life at Menelaus and during the next three years, though never popular, found few of the problems which had beset him at Lycurgus. Every year he and Hermias represented their barracks in the short- and middle-distance races, but in other spheres they remained merely good students, neither excelling nor falling short of the required standard in throwing the javelin or the discus, in sword work or wrestling. Parmenion enjoyed working with the short sword, for he was fast and strong, but only when angry did his skill become lethal.

Understanding this instinctively, it did not concern him that some youths could best him in practice. Deep in his heart he knew the outcome would be different if the battles were to the death.

But as a runner Parmenion was the finest athlete in Sparta. Twice, in inter-barracks competitions, he bested Leonidas in the four-mile race, but was himself narrowly beaten in the third year when Leonidas was chosen to represent Sparta in the coming Olympics.

It was a bitter disappointment to Parmenion, who had trained hard during his time at Menelaus.

'I understand your anger,' said Xenophon, as they sat in his courtyard one evening, 'but you did the best you could. No man can ask more of himself than that.'

Parmenion nodded. 'But I made a tactical mistake. I tried to beat him with 200 paces left. He was waiting for my move and hung on to me. He beat me with three strides to go.'

'You beat him in the Games three years ago and he endured his shame well. Allow him his moment of glory.' In his fiftieth year, the Athenian was still a handsome man, though his hair was now totally silver and thinning at the crown. He poured a goblet of wine, added water and sipped the drink. Parmenion lived for the hours they spent together, discussing tactics and strategy, formations and battles. The youth learned when to wheel a phalanx, when to fight with a thinned line, when to extend, when to draw back, how to choose the anchor warriors who held the line together. Xenophon loved to talk and Parmenion was happy to listen. At times he would disagree with an analysis and the two men would argue long into the night. Parmenion always had the good sense — ultimately — to allow Xenophon to convince him, and their relationship grew. Gryllus had been sent to friends in Athens and often Parmenion would stay with the Athenian general for days at a time, taking Gryllus' place on summer journeys to Xenophon's second home in Olympia, near the sea.

As the years passed Xenophon took to discussing modern strategy and politics with his student, and Parmenion detected a growing cynicism in the Athenian.

'Have you heard the news from Thebes?' Xenophon asked him one day.

'Yes,' answered Parmenion. 'At first I could not believe it. We have made a bad mistake and I think we will rue it.'

'I tend to agree,' said Xenophon. Three months earlier the Macedonian King, Amyntas, had appealed to the Spartans for aid against Chalkidian warriors who had invaded Macedonia and sacked the capital of Pella. Agisaleus sent three Spartan battalions to Macedonia's aid, crushing the Chalkidians. But on their journey north one Spartan division, under the command of a general named Phoebidas, seized the Cadmea — the fortress at the centre of Thebes. Since there was no war declared against Thebes and they were unconnected with the Chalkidian invaders, the action was seen by many Greeks as underhand.

'Agisaleus should return the city to the Thebans,' said Parmenion.

'He cannot,' answered Xenophon. 'Spartan pride would not allow it. But I fear the result. Athens has spoken out against Sparta, and I think it will not be long before we suffer another war.'

'You are disappointed, my friend,' said Parmenion. 'Sparta has not proved a good leader for Greece.'

'Hush!' said Xenophon swiftly. He lowered his voice. 'You should not speak this way in public. My servants are loyal — but they are loyal to me, not to you. If one should speak against you there would be a trial for treason. You would not survive.'

'Have I spoken anything but the truth?" countered Parmenion, keeping his voice low.

'What has that to do with anything? If Sparta could govern with half the skill she displays in battle, then all of Greece would rejoice. But she cannot. That is the truth of the matter — and saying it will get you killed.'

'Other people are saying it,' Parmenion told him. 'The talk at the barracks is of little else.

There have been some bitter herbs for Spartans to swallow. They cling to power now only because the Persians support them. The descendants of the Sword King playing lick-spittles to the sons of Xerxes!'

'The politics of expediency,' Xenophon whispered. 'But let us leave this conversation for another few days. Then, when we are back in Olympia, we can ride and talk with only the land to listen to our idle treasons.' The two men rose and walked to the gate. 'How are your finances?' asked Xenophon.

'Not good. I sold the last share in the landholding — it will pay my mess bills until the spring.'

'And then?'

Parmenion shrugged. 'And then I will leave Sparta. No Soldiers' Hall would have me anyway, I know that. I will probably join a mercenary regiment and see the world.'

'You could sell the Sword of Leonidas,' Xenophon pointed out.

'Maybe I will,' replied Parmenion. 'I will see you in two days.'

The two men shook hands and Parmenion walked out into the night. Despite the closeness of midnight he felt no fatigue, and he walked to the acropolis and sat by the bronze statue of Zeus, staring at the sky and the diamond stars. The wind was chill now and his light woollen chiton offered little protection. Closing his mind to the cold, he cast his, eyes over the mountains.

The last three years had been good to him. He had grown tall and, though slender, was lean and powerful. His face had slimmed down, losing its boyish qualities, and his deep-set blue eyes now had a brooding look. Yet it was not, he knew, a friendly face, nor even a handsome one. The nose was too prominent and the lips too thin, making him appear older than his nineteen years.

At last, as the cold grew too much even for Parmenion, he rose to leave. Just then he saw a cloaked and hooded figure move from the Bronze House and walk towards him.

'Good evening,' he said. Moonlight glanced from the dagger-blade which leapt into the figure's hand.

'Who is there?' came a woman's voice.

'It is Parmenion and I am no danger to you, lady,' he answered, holding out his hands and showing empty palms.

'What are you doing here? Are you spying on me?'

'Not at all. I was enjoying the stars. Why should I spy on you?'

Derae pushed back the hood, the moonlight turning her hair to silver. 'It is a long time since we spoke, young Fast.'

'Indeed it is,' he replied. 'And what brings you to the Bronze House at midnight?'

'My own business,' she answered, smiling to rob the words of sharpness. 'Perhaps I too like to look at the stars.'

A movement at the edge of his vision caused Parmenion to swing his head and he saw a young man dart away behind the Sanctuary to the Muses. He said nothing.

'Good night to you,' said Derae, and Parmenion bowed and watched as the girl moved away to the path. It was a dangerous game she was playing. Unmarried Spartans were not allowed to mix freely with members of the opposite sex, and any liaison could end in execution or banishment. That was one reason why the young men were encouraged to take lovers among their male comrades. He found himself envying the young man who had fled, and realized that he too would risk a great deal for the chance to spend time alone with Derae. He still remembered the lithe young body, the small, firm breasts, the narrow waist. .

Enough! he chided himself.

Returning home, he sat in the tiny courtyard and ate a late supper of dried fish and wine; it had cost two obols. The thought of his dwindling finances depressed him. The sale of the last share in the landholding had realized 170 drachms, but eighty of these had gone to pay his mess bill.

Thirty more had been set aside to buy the armour he would need when he reached Manhood next spring. The rest must keep him in food and clothing. He shook his head. The price of a new cloak was twenty drachms, new shoes just under ten. It would be a long hard winter, he realized.

Entering the house, he shut the windows and lit a small lantern. By its light he took the Sword of Leonidas from the cupboard by the far wall and drew it from its bronze scabbard. It was an iron blade no longer than a man's forearm, the hilt decorated with gold wire which encircled a pommel globe of purest silver.

Xenophon had urged him many tunes to sell it. There were families in Sparta who would pay as much as 1,000 drachms for a blade with such an illustrious history. Parmenion slid the sword back into its scabbard; he would sooner starve than part with the only trophy of his life.

He had a dream and the sword was part of it. He would march away to war as a mercenary, gather a great fortune and an army and return to Sparta, humbling the city and visiting his vengeance on all the enemies of his youth. It was a foolish dream, and he knew it, but it sustained him.

More likely, he realized, he would be forced to sign as a koplite in a mercenary company, and spend his days marching across the endless wastes of Persia at the whim of whatever prince had the money to hire them. And what would he earn? Seven obols a day — just over a drachm. Which could mean that, if he survived twenty years with such a company, he might — just might — be able to buy a part share in a farm or landholding. And even then it would not be as large as the property his mother — and now he — had been forced to sell.

Parmenion pushed thoughts of his poverty from his mind. For at least the next eight weeks he could enjoy the comforts of Xenophon's estate at Olympia. Soft beds and good food, fine riding and hunting and, with luck, a tilt at one of the Arcadian girls who tended the sheep in the low hills.

He had found such a one last year; she was plump and willing, and an expert teacher for an inept city youth. He removed his chiton and climbed into bed, picturing her body. But he could no longer recall her face… In his mind's eye the woman moaning beneath him was Derae.

One day out from the city, the small party saw a group of horsemen cantering towards them.

Xenophon hoisted his spear and kicked the gelding into a run to meet them. Parmenion rode after him, while Tinus, Clearchus and three other servants remained with the wagon.

Parmenion guided his mount alongside Xenophon. 'I think it is Leonidas,' he shouted. The Athenian drew rein and waited, and Parmenion could see his concern. Spartan cavalry had been sent out into the Sciritis hills after two villages were hit by raiders — renegade mercenaries who had been dismissed by the authorities in Corinth. There were said to be more than thirty men in the raiding party.

Shading his eyes, Parmenion could see Leonidas riding at the head of a large group of warriors.

Behind him was his father, Patroclian. Xenophon held up a hand in greeting and Leonidas dragged on his reins while Patroclian rode forward.

'An ill day, Xenophon,' said the red-bearded Spartiate. 'My daughter, Derae, has been taken.'

'Taken? How?' Xenophon asked.

'She was riding alone to the east of our column; I think she must have stopped by a stream and dismounted. I have a Thracian servant who reads tracks and he said her horse must have run clear when they surprised her. They are heading north, into the hills.'

'We will join with you, of course,' said Xenophon.

Parmenion swung his horse's head and cantered back to the wagon. 'Hand me the bow,' he ordered Tinus.

The man reached into the back of the wagon and lifted out a bow of horn and a goatskin quiver containing twenty arrows. Parmenion hooked the quiver over his shoulder and scanned the countryside. The men were heading north, Patroclian had said, but by now they would know that Derae was part of a larger group and it would make little sense to hold to their course. To the north-east was a heavily wooded line of hills, beyond which Parmenion could see a high pass that swept northward. Without waiting for the others, he heeled the mare into a run and rode for the wooded slopes.

'Where in Hades is he going?' asked Leonidas.

'I don't know, and I don't care,' snapped Patroclian. 'Let's ride!'

The warriors set off for the north.

Parmenion rode high into the hills, angling his mount towards the pass. The footing was treacherous here, scree and loose shale. He slowed the mare, dismounted, then led her up into the trees. On reaching safe ground, he tethered her to a bush and climbed a tall cypress tree. From its uppermost branches he scanned the surrounding hills, seeing no sign of movement save for the dust of the hunting party as it galloped north. He stayed in the tree for some time, and was just beginning to face the possibility of being wrong when several black and grey crows took off from the trees some 200 paces to his right. They seemed panicked and he focused on the area, straining to see through the undergrowth. After a moment or two he caught the glint of sunlight on metal and heard a horse whinny. Swiftly he climbed down the tree, mounted the mare and set off at a run for the pass.

He reached it ahead of the raiders and dragged on the reins; the mare whinnied and reared.

Parmenion leapt from her back and swiftly hobbled her. Climbing to the peak of a tall, rocky outcrop overlooking the narrow pass, he slid an arrow from the quiver and notched it to the string.

His heart was beating wildly and there was a pounding pain behind his eyes. The headaches had been worse of late, waking him in the night and leaving him nauseous and shaken. But now he had no time to be concerned with petty pain.

His reaction to the news of Derae's abduction had surprised him. She had been in his thoughts often, but he had never allowed himself to believe he could win her. Now, with the thought of her being taken from him for good, he felt a rising sense of panic and a realization that she was part of his dreams. A foolish dream! his mind screamed at him, as he crouched, waiting for the raiders.

Leonidas would never allow such a marriage. Marriage? He pictured Derae standing beside him at the Sacred Stone to Hera, her hand on his, the priestess binding their arms together with laurel leaves. .

Wiping his sweating palms on his tunic, he forced such thoughts from his mind and stared at the tree-line. Several minutes later the first of the scouts came into view. The man was sun-bronzed and dark-bearded, wearing a Phrygian helm with a metal crest and a red eye painted upon the brow.

He was carrying a lance. Beside him rode a warrior wearing a wide Boeotian helm of beaten iron; he was carrying a bow in his left hand, with an arrow ready notched.

Parmenion crouched down behind a rock and waited, listening to the steady, rhythmic sound of hooves on stone. Then, risking a glance, he saw the main group, numbering more than thirty, riding out behind the scouts. He could see Derae, her hands tied behind her. There was a rope around her neck, being held by a warrior on a tall grey stallion. The man was wearing silver armour and a white cloak. To Parmenion, he looked like a prince from legend.

Laris rode his stallion clear of the trees and tugged on the rope. The girl almost stumbled. He glanced back at her and smiled. What a beauty! There had been no chance yet to hear her screams, to enjoy her writhing beneath him, but that would come once they had thrown off their pursuers.

Spartans! The weak-livered councillors of Corinth had all but wet themselves when he talked of invading Spartan lands. Could they not see that the Spartans could be taken? If Thebes, Corinth and Athens joined forces, they could destroy Sparta once and for all. But no. Ancient fears held sway. Remember Thermopylae, they said. Remember the defeat of Athens twenty years ago. Who cared about events a lifetime in the past? At best the Spartans could put 15,000 men in the field.

Corinth alone could match half that number, and Athens make up the rest. Thebes and the Boeotian League could double the force.

Dismissed! The shame of it burned at Laris. But now he had shown them: with a mere forty men he had raided deep into Spartan lands. True, they had found little gold and the men were unhappy, but he had proved a point. If forty could ride into the home of warriors and emerge unscathed, what would be the result when 40,000 marched in?

He looked up to see the scouts riding into the pass.

Suddenly an arrow Sashed through the air to strike Xanthias in the throat, and with a terrible cry he pitched from his mount. Instantly all was chaos. Men leapt from their horses, taking shelter behind the rocks. Laris slid to the ground, dragging Derae down beside him.

A young Spartan stood in full view of the men.

'Release the woman!' he called, 'and there will be no further killing.'

'Who speaks?' yelled Laris.

'A man with a bow,' answered the warrior.

'And why should we trust your word, man-with-a-bow?'

'Look behind you,' shouted the archer. 'Can you see the dust-cloud? You are trapped. If you wait, you will die. If you advance, you will die. List your choices, if you will.'

'I see no one up there with you,' said Laris, rising and drawing his sword.

'Do you not? Then it must be that I am alone. Attack me and find out!'

'Show us your men!'

'Your time is running out, along with my patience. If you do not have the wit to save your comrades, perhaps another man among them will make the choice for you.'

The warrior's words stung Laris. Already his men were far from happy, and now this lone archer was questioning his leadership.

A man rose from behind a rock. 'For Athena's sake, Laris! Let the woman go, and let us get away from here!'

The leader turned to Derae. His knife slashed the thongs binding her hands, then he lifted the noose from around her neck. He turned to see the Spartan riding towards him, his bow looped over his shoulder. Laris scanned the rocks but could see no one. He licked his lips, convinced the bowman was alone; longing to plunge his blade into the Spartan, to see his life-blood draining from him.

The warrior smiled at him. 'I have told the others to let you pass and you can trust my word. But I should ride fast. I do not speak for those who follow.'

The men ran for their horses. Laris suppressed the urge to strike out; he could hear the hoofbeats of the Spartan force. Grabbing his stallion's mane, he leapt to the beast's back and galloped through the pass. As he had expected there was no one there — no archers, no hoplites, no slingers. Just rock and shale. He could feel the eyes of his men upon him. He had been tricked by one Spartan. One man had made him surrender his prize.

What now would they say in Corinth?

Parmenion leaned out, taking Derae's hand and swinging her up behind him. Then he touched heels to the mare and walked the beast back into the trees.

Within minutes Patroclian came galloping towards them, followed by Leonidas and the others.

Parmenion raised his hand and the red-bearded Spartiate drew rein as Derae eased herself to the ground.

'What happened here?' Leonidas demanded, pushing his way to the front.

'Parmenion and the others blocked the pass,' said Derae. 'He killed one of their scouts, then negotiated to allow them through if they gave me up.'

'What others?' asked Patroclian.

'Archers, I suppose,' said Derae. 'He threatened to kill all the raiders unless they released me.'

'Where are these other men?' Patroclian enquired of Parmenion. 'I would like to thank them.'

'There are no others,' Parmenion told him. Edging his mount forward, he rode through the group and back down the scree slope to where the wagon was waiting. Tossing the quiver and bow to Tinus, he lifted a waterskin from the seat beside the servant and drank deeply.

Xenophon rode alongside. 'You did well, strategos. We found where the trail swung east, but we would have been too late had you not blocked the pass. I am proud of you.' He tossed a blood-covered arrow to Tinus. 'It was a fine strike at the base of the throat, severing the windpipe and lodging in the spine. A fine strike!'

'I was aiming for the chest or belly, but I over-compensated for the gradient.'

Xenophon was about to speak when he noticed Par-menion's hands begin to tremble. He glanced at the young man's face, which showed no expression, though the blood had drained from it.

'Are you well?' asked the Athenian.

'My head is pounding, and there are lights flashing in my eyes.'

'We will camp here,' said Xenophon. Parmenion dismounted and staggered several paces before falling to his knees and vomiting. Then he stood and sucked in great gulps of air. Xenophon brought him the waterskin and he rinsed his mouth. 'You feel better?'

'I am shaking like a leaf in a storm — I can't believe it. Back there I was so calm, but now I am acting like a frightened child.'

'Back there was the work of a man, a cool man. A man of iron nerve,' Xenophon assured him. 'This takes nothing from it.'

'I feel as if there are hot lances inside my head. I have never known pain like it.' Parmenion sat down, resting his back against the wagon wheel. 'And the light is burning my eyes.' Tinus climbed down from the wagon, holding a wide hat of straw over Parmenion's head to shade him. The pain grew

— and Parmenion slipped into darkness.

Parmenion awoke several times in the night, but his head seemed filled with searing light, bringing agony and nausea. With an effort of will he slipped back into the sanctuary of sleep.

When finally he opened his eyes, the absence of pain was almost blissful. He was lying in a cool room with the shutters closed, and he could hear the low hum of conversation beyond the whitewashed walls. He sat up and saw that his left forearm was bandaged, but he could not remember being wounded.

Someone stirred in a chair across the room, and a man rose and walked over to him. He was short and slender, with wispy grey hair. He smiled.

'The pain is gone, yes?' enquired the man, his voice deep and faintly comical coming from so frail a body.

'Yes,' agreed Parmenion. 'What happened to me?'

'The world,' said the man, sitting on the bed beside him, 'is made up of four elements: earth, air, fire and water. But it is held in harmony by the will of the gods. As I understand it, you displayed an act of rare courage. You put yourself under severe stress. This caused an excess of fire in your system, heating your blood and destroying your harmony. Hot blood coursed in your brain, causing intense pain and nausea.'

'You bled me then,' said Parmenion, touching the bandage on his arm.

'I did. It is well known that this relieves the pressure. If you feel faint, I will repeat the process.'

'No, I feel fine.'

'Good. I will tell the general you are well. But you ought to be purged, young man; it would be safer.'

'Truly, I am well. The pain has gone. I commend your skill.'

The little man smiled. 'In truth I am better with wounds, but I study,' he confided.

'Will this happen to me whenever I face danger?'

'It is unlikely. I have known many men to suffer such head pain, but the attacks are usually rare and only accompany times of undue stress. It is common also among clerics who complain of blurred vision and dancing lights before their eyes. Opium is the best cure for this, processed to the Egyptian formula. I will leave some with Xenophon, in case your pain returns.'

Parmenion lay back. He fell asleep once more, and when he awoke Xenophon was sitting beside him.

'You gave us a scare, strategos. The good doctor wanted to drill a hole in your skull to release the bad humours, but I dissuaded him.'

'Where are we?'

'Olympia.'

'You mean I have slept for a full day?'

'More than that,' replied Xenophon. 'It is now almost noon on the second day. I had hoped to take you hunting, but as it is the doctor says you should rest for today.'

'I am well enough to ride,' Parmenion argued.

'I am sure you are,' agreed Xenophon soothingly, 'but I will not allow it. The doctor has spoken and we will follow his advice. Anyway, there is a guest to see you and I am sure you will not object to spending time with her while I ride out to hunt with her father.'

'Derae? Here?'

'Waiting in the gardens. Now remember, my boy, to appear feeble and wan. Elicit her sympathy.'

'I need to bathe — and shave.'

'And to dress, let us not forget that,' said Xenophon as the naked Parmenion threw back his sheet and rose from the bed.

The gardens were constructed around a shallow stream flowing from the eastern hills. White boulders had been carefully polished and placed in circles, half-buried in the soil. Around them, brightly coloured flowers had been planted after the fashion of the Persians. Stone pathways had been designed to meander through groves of oak trees, and stone benches were placed in shaded hollows. There were statues from Corinth and Thebes, mostly showing the goddess Athena in full armour, and one of Artemis carrying a bow. By a small man-made lake there was a series of statues portraying the twelve labours of Heracles. Usually Parmenion would sit by them, enjoying the cool breeze across the water, but not today. He found Derae sitting by the stream under the shade of a willow. She was dressed in an ankle-length chiton of white, edged with green and gold. Around her waist and looped over her shoulders was a sea-green chlamys — a long, rectangular strip of fine linen, delicately embroidered. As she saw him, she stood and smiled. 'Are you now well, hero?' she asked.

'Indeed I am. You are looking beautiful; your clothes are very fine.'

'Thank you. But you are pale — perhaps you should rest for a while.' They sat together in uncomfortable silence for several minutes until Derae laid her hand on his arm. 'I wanted to thank you. I was terrified. You have no idea how I felt when you stood upon that rock and demanded my release. It was as if you were sent by the gods.'

'Perhaps I was,' he whispered, covering her hand with his own.

'My father was very impressed by your courage — and your initiative. I was really convinced there were men with you.'

Parmenion grinned. 'Xenophon taught me that victory is achieved by putting the thought of defeat into the heart of your enemy. To him goes the honour.'

'But to you the glory. I like to see you smile, Savra; it makes you handsome. You do not smile enough.'

Her hand was warm beneath his, and he could feel her closeness and smell the heavy scent of the perfumed oil on her hair. Her head was tilted towards him, and he could not read her eyes; the pupils were wide, her face flushed, her lips slightly parted. He found himself leaning closer towards her. She did not draw back, and his lips touched hers. Her arms encircled his neck, her body pressed in to him and he could feel her breasts against his chest. He felt dizzy, yet exhilarated. His hand slid along her shoulder and down her arm. Her hand came up to close over his fingers. For a moment only he felt disappointment, then she drew his hand down to her breast.

Then, as swiftly as it began, Derae ended the embrace, pulling back sharply.

'Not here! Not now,' she pleaded.

'When?' asked Parmenion, battling to control his surging emotions.

'When they have gone. We will hear the horses.'

'Yes… the horses.'

They sat in unnatural silence, waiting, listening as the grooms beyond the garden wall brought out the mounts, hearing the laughter of the hunters, men boasting of their skills and others mocking with gentle humour. Then came the thunder of hooves and quiet descended on the garden. Parmenion stood, reached out and took Derae's hand, drawing her up to him. He kissed her again and they walked back through the garden gate and on to the house. Back in his room Parmenion gently untied the thongs at Derae's shoulder, the white and green chiton falling to the floor.

Stepping back, he gazed at her upper body. Her arms and face were bronzed, but her breasts and waist were white as marble. Tentatively he reached out to touch her breast, his palm stroking gently across the raised nipple. She unfastened the brooch that held his chiton and, naked now, they moved to the bed.

For a while they kissed and touched, but then Derae lay back drawing Parmenion on to her. He groaned as he entered her and felt her legs slide up over his hips. In all his life he had never known such pleasure, nor dreamt of scaling such a peak of joy. It was madness, he knew, but he had no control — wished for none. Even the thought of death could not stop him now.

His passion made him want to power into her, yet he did not wish the moment to end and forced himself to move slowly, rhythmically, his eyes open, watching her face. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed. He brushed his lips against hers and her mouth opened, her tongue darting against his own. He felt himself building to a climax and slid from her.

'No,' she said, pulling at him. He knelt by the side of the bed, running his tongue across her flat belly, then lifted her thigh across his shoulder. 'What are you doing?' she asked, struggling to sit. He pushed her back and lowered his head between her legs. Her hair was soft, pelt-like, and his tongue caressed her. She began to moan, softly at first and then louder. She shuddered against him, her hands tugging at his hair. Climbing to the bed, he entered her once more. Derae's arms circled his neck, and she clung to him with fierce strength until he too reached a climax.

Bathed in sweat they lay together with arms entwined. Now it was over, the passion spent, all Parmenion's fear came rushing back. What they had done was against the law. What if the servants had seen them walking hand in hand from the garden? And could they have failed to hear her cries, or the creaking of the bed? Raising himself on his elbow, he looked down at the girl. Her eyes were closed, her face wondrous in its beauty.

He knew then that she was worth the risk, worth any risk.

'I love you,' he whispered.

Her eyes opened. 'I had a dream,' she said. 'Three days ago. I went to a seeress with it. She told me that it meant I would love only one man in my life, and that he would stand and defy an army for me.'

'What was your dream?'

'I dreamt I was in a temple, and all was darkness. And I said, "Where is the Lion of Macedon?" The sun shone then and I saw a general in a white plumed helmet. He was tall and proud, and walking with the light at his back. He saw me, and opened his arms. He called me his love. That's all I remember.'

'Why was there darkness? You said the sun was shining.'

'I don't know. But the dream disturbed me. I should have thought of you, for you are half Macedonian. You are the Lion of Macedon from my dream.'

He chuckled. 'I am told Macedon has few lions,' he said. 'And it is not a country renowned for producing generals.'

'You don't believe in my dream?'

'I believe we are destined to be together,' he told her. 'And I would defy an army for you.'

'You already have.'

'That wasn't an army, that was a rabble. But I could bless them now for bringing us together.'

Leaning down, he kissed her — and his passion returned.

For five days the lovers met in secret, riding out into the hills high above the land. They saw only a few shepherd girls and spent their days wandering through the woods and making love in sheltered hollows.

For Parmenion it was a time of bliss beyond imagining. His bitterness fled from him and he revelled in the glory of the summer sun, the clear blue skies and the beauty of the land. The cruelties of his life seemed distant now, like the memory of winter snow. He could picture them, but could not feel the icy cold of their reality.

On the morning of the sixth day his world changed. He led the chestnut mare from her stall at the rear of the white-walled house and bridled her.

Xenophon walked to him, laying a hand on his arm. 'Do not ride today,' he said softly.

'I need to feel the wind in my face. I will be back soon.'

'I said no!' Xenophon snapped. 'And if you need reminding, the mare belongs to me.'

'Then I shall walk!' responded Parmenion, his face flushed with anger.

'You fool! When will you start using your mind?'

'What do you mean?'

'You know exactly what I am saying. My servants know where you are going. I know where you are going. Patroclian knows where you are going. You have conducted this affair with all the subtlety of a rutting bull.'

'How dare you?' stormed Parmenion. 'You have spied on me.'

'What need was there for spies? You took her to your room on the first day, and her cries echoed around the house. You meet her on hillsides and walk hand in hand, where you can be observed for miles. Patroclian would be within his rights to have you arrested and executed, but he is a man of honour and feels he owes you for your courage.'

'I intend to marry her,' declared Parmenion. 'It is not as you think."

'As I said, Parmenion, you are a fool! Now return the mare to her stall.'

'Allow me to ride out to Derae. I need to talk to her,' begged Parmenion.

'She will not be there; she has been sent back to Sparta.'

Parmenion's throat was dry, his belly knotted. 'Sent back? I will go to see Patroclian.'

Xenophon swung and lashed his open palm across Parmenion's face. The blow stung him and he staggered. 'Maybe the doctor purged you of brains,' hissed Xenophon. 'Will you think, man? You have violated a virgin. What will you say to her father? "I want to marry her"? What do you have to offer? What dowry do you bring? You are a penniless student without a landholding, or a farm.

You have no income. All you have done is ruin the girl for anyone else.'

'You make it sound vile,' said Parmenion, 'but it isn't.'

'You don't understand, do you?' said the general sadly. 'You cannot see it. Derae is pledged to Nestus and they were to have been wed in the spring. When he hears of the shame to himself and his family — as he will, since you chose to act so openly — he will demand repayment of the dowry and, if he condemns Derae publicly, she will die.'

'I will save her. She loves me, Xenophon. She is a gift from the gods to me; I know it. They will not let any harm come to her. Do not hate me for this!'

The Athenian laid his hands on Paimenion's shoulders. 'I do not hate you for it, my young friend.

Your life has not been particularly blessed. But listen to me, and try to use that part of your mind which we have trained. Do not think of Derae. Pull your thoughts away from what you call love and think of life as it has to be lived. You have brought great shame to Patroclian and to his whole family. You have shamed me and you have shamed yourself. Love? Love is born of caring, of compassion, of understanding. Do not talk of love but speak openly and honestly of desire. You put Derae in a position of great danger — that is not the act of a lover. You have destroyed her reputation and blighted the name of a noble line. Tell me where love appears in this scene?'

Parmenion could not reply but he led the mare back into her stall and removed the bridle. The events of the last five days seemed suddenly dreamlike and unreal. He saw now that Xenophon was right: he had shamed his friend and tarnished Derae.

He walked back out into the sunlight, but Xenophon had gone.

Parmenion wandered out into the garden, stopping by the bench where Derae had first kissed him.

There had to be a way to resolve the dilemma, a way in which he and Derae could live together. He had decided months before to leave Sparta when he reached Manhood, but Derae had changed all that.

Now he just wanted to have enough money to marry and to raise a family, to pay for his own boys to attend barracks.

For most of the day he wrestled with the problem, seeing only one solution. At last, with the sun setting, he made his way back to the house. Xenophon was sitting in the courtyard, eating a supper of figs and cheese, as Parmenion stood before him.

'I am sorry, sir. Deeply sorry for the shame I have brought you. It is a terrible way to repay the friendship you have shown me.'

Xenophon shrugged. 'That is life, Parmenion. Sit down and eat. Tomorrow we will ride to the sea, feel the fresh winds upon our faces.'

'When we return to Sparta,' said Parmenion, 'I will sell the Sword of Leonidas. With that money, I will be able to marry Derae.'

'We have almost two months here,' said Xenophon sadly, looking away. 'It will give you time to think out your plans, and PatrocUan time to lose his anger. Much can happen in that interval.

Perhaps the servants will not talk. Perhaps Nestus will forgive her. Who knows? But if you are to grow, Parmenion — if you are to become the man you ought to be — then you must learn from this experience.'

'What can I learn? Not to fall in love?'

'No, no man can do that. But you must realize that love is perilous; it affects the mind, blinding us to obvious realities. Think of Helen and Paris. They brought about the downfall of Troy. You think that is what they intended? No, they were merely lovers. You are one of the most intelligent and intuitive men I have ever met, and yet you have acted like a complete dullard. If that is what love brings, then I am thankful it has eluded me.'

'It will end well,' whispered Parmenion. 'I promise you.'

'That is still love talking. No man of intellect makes a promise he cannot keep. Now eat, and let us talk of this no more tonight.'

As the weeks passed Parmenion found Xenophon's wisdom once more to be true. The longing and the love he had for Derae did not pass, but his mind cleared and he felt a deep sense of shame for the foolish way he had conducted his affair.

Had Patroclian been so minded he could have taken the matter to the Council, who would have recommended Parmenion's death to the ephors. There was no question of a defence, the law was specific. Any Spartan who violated a virgin was subject to death by poison, or by the blade. Derae herself could be sacrificed to the death goddess, Hecate.

Now Parmenion could look back on his passion with cool logic. In truth, he could not regret their love-making; it had been the high point of his life and had freed him from the miseries of his childhood, exorcizing bitterness and hatred. He no longer desired vengeance against Leonidas, no longer dreamed of leading an army against the Spartans. All he wanted now was to live with Derae and sire children of their love.

During the days he rode with Xenophon out into the countryside of the Peleponnese, and when the sun had fallen he ran on the hillsides, building his strength and exhausting his passions with physical effort.

At night he would sit with the Athenian general discussing military tactics, or political strategies. Xenophon was deeply distressed by Sparta's failure to provide sound leadership for Greece, and gloomily predicted future disasters.

'Agisaleus cannot abide the Thebans and makes public his disdain. It is unwise. I love the man, but he is blind to the dangers. He cannot forget that it was Thebes' actions which brought him back from military successes in Persia. He cannot forgive.'

'And yet,' said Parmenion, 'his return from Persia brought him great credit. He crushed the Thebans and restored Sparta's position.'

'That is a popular Spartan view,' Xenophon agreed, 'but in reality the only victor was Persia.'

'But they had no part in the revolt, did they?'

Xenophon laughed aloud. 'Politics, Parmenion. Do not think merely of swords and campaigns.

Agisaleus had invaded Persia and he was winning. Persian gold — of which there is an unlimited supply — was sent to Thebes and Athens. With that gold they raised their armies; that is why Agisaleus was forced to come home. There was only one way he could win — he sent ambassadors to Persia, agreeing to be her vassal. Persia then abandoned Thebes and Athens and supervised the peace negotiations.'

'Good strategy,' said Parmenion. 'No wonder the empire has ruled for so long. With a little gold, they halted an invasion.'

'Better than that: the Greek cities of Asia were all given over to the Persians.'

'I did not know that,' Parmenion said.

'It is not taught to Spartan youngsters, it would be bad for morale. But it is a canker within Agisaleus. He knows he can never march on Persia again, for Thebes and Athens would rise against Sparta in his absence.'

'Surely he could meet with their leaders? Then he could lead a joint expedition into Persia.'

Xenophon nodded. 'Exactly. But he never will. His hatred has blinded him. Do not misunderstand me, Parmenion. Agisaleus is a good King and a fine man, cultured and wise."

'I find it hard to understand,' said Parmenion.

'Do you now? Love and hate are very similar. Think of your own madness with Derae — did you take time to consider the perils? No. Agisaleus is the same — mention Thebes and his face changes, and you can see his hand reaching for a sword-hilt.'

Servants brought them their evening meal of fish and cheese. They ate in silence for a while, but Xenophon's appetite was not good and he pushed away his plate, pouring a goblet of wine and adding a little water. He drank it swiftly and poured another.

'Perhaps Cleombrotus will make a difference,' Parmenion suggested. The Spartans had always boasted two Kings on the principle that one could lead the warriors into battle while the other stayed home and guided the fortunes of the city. Agisaleus had shared the kingship with his cousin, Agesopolis, but he was simple-minded and rarely appeared in public. Agesopolis' death, four months before, had seen the rise to power of Cleombrotus, a fine warrior and athlete.

'I doubt he will change the mind of Agisaleus,' said Xenophon. 'Cleombrotus is sound enough, but he lacks intellect. I fear for Sparta. Those whom the gods would destroy, they first make proud,'

he quoted.

'Surely pride is Sparta's great strength?' said Parmenion, watching with concern as Xenophon refilled his goblet without bothering to add water.

'Indeed it is, but do you know how many true Spartiates are left in the city? Fewer than 2,000.

For the mess bills have risen and the poorer Spartans can no longer afford to send their children.

Think of yourself. Your mother had a good holding but it has gone to pay for your education. It is nonsense. In ten years the number of Spartiates will halve again — how then will Sparta remain preeminent? And how long will it be before we see your strategy from the Games used in reality?'

'Do not let it sadden you, Xenophon. None of it is within your power to change.'

'That is what saddens me,' the general admitted.

Not for the first time Tamis found her doubts growing. Events were moving swiftly now, and she sensed the power of the Dark God's acolytes seeking her, searching for a way to attack and destroy the one who could disrupt their plans.

But Tamis was not without power of her own and she cloaked her soul, avoiding the spirit eyes of those who hunted, slipping by them like the unseen breeze that whispers through moonlit branches.

Learchus had died — killed by Parmenion. Tamis had not actively sought his death, though she knew part of the blame rested on her increasingly frail shoulders. All men die, she told herself. And was it not Learchus who had hidden in the alleyway ready to attack an unarmed boy? He had brought his doom upon himself.

Still the doubts nagged at her. Her prayers now were largely unanswered and she felt alone against the servants of Chaos. She could no longer summon Cassandra, nor any spirit of the past. The Ways were no longer open to her. It is just a test, she assured herself. The Source is still with me. I know it!

Surely it is better for a few to die out of their time, than for many — for multitudes — to suffer?

How many times had she told herself this, repeating it like a spell against her fears? Too many, she realized. But I have gone too far to falter now.

When Learchus died the Dark God's servants had turned their eyes on Sparta, weaving their spells around the survivors Nestus and Cleombrotus, watching over them. It was harder now for Tamis to manipulate their emotions secretly, encouraging them to be reckless, to risk their lives.

Yet the Watchers could not oversee everything and Tamis had waited patiently, ready to exploit even a momentary lapse. Now it had come. The girl Derae had been publicly denounced, her nance Nestus filled with righteous anger and a truly Spartan lust for revenge. Only the death of the man who had shamed him would satisfy his warrior's heart.

The Watchers were furious, Tamis knew. She could feel their anger and frustration like flames in the night. Tamis opened the shutters of her single window and stared out over the distant acropolis.

The first of many perils faced Parmenion now, and she was unable to help him, just as the Watchers were unable to protect Nestus. Now would be a time of swords, of strength and of skill. And the Watchers were closing in. Soon they would locate her, and then would come the onslaught, demons in the night tearing at her soul, or assassins in the daylight with sharp blades to rip into frail flesh.

Turning, she gazed around the squalid room that had been her home for so many, lonely years. She would not miss it, nor Sparta, nor even Greece, the home of her spirit.

Opening the door, she stepped out into the sunlight. 'For the moment, Parmenion,' she said, 'you are alone. Only your own strength and courage can aid you now.'

Leaning on a staff, a tattered grey cloak around her shoulders, Tamis walked slowly from Sparta.

Not once did she look back, nor allow a single moment of regret to touch her heart.

Back at the dwelling the temperature plummeted as a dark shadow formed on the wall opposite the window, growing, spreading, forming into the semi-translucent shape of a tall woman, hooded and veiled in black.

For several moments she moved around the room, her spirit eyes searching. Then the dark woman vanished. .

. . opening the eyes of her body in a palace across the sea. 'I will find you, Tamis,' she whispered, her voice low and cold. 'I will bring you to despair.'

Three days before the end of his stay in Olympia, Parmenion was surprised to see Hermias riding across the long meadow to the house. His friend usually journeyed south to the sea with his family for the hottest part of the summer, and their summer home was several hundred leagues from Olympia.

During the last year Parmenion had seen little of Hermias, for his friend had become close with the young King, Cleombrotus, and the two were often seen together in the city or riding in the Taygetus mountains.

Parmenion strode out to meet Hermias. He too had changed during their time at Menelaus and at nineteen he was strikingly beautiful, with no trace yet of a beard. Once a fine runner, he no longer had the inclination to exercise hard and was rarely seen at the training ground. Hermias had grown his hair long, and Parmenion could smell the perfumed Persian oil which adorned it even before his friend jumped to the ground.

'Well met, brother,' shouted Parmenion, running forward to embrace him.

Hermias pulled back from the hug. 'I have bad news, Savra. Nestus, believing the lies about you, is on his way here now. He means to kill you.'

Parmenion sighed, turning to stare at the distant hills. 'You must ride away,' urged Hermias. 'Do not be here when he comes. Tell me the truth of it and I will try to convince him.'

'The truth of it?' responded Parmenion. 'What would you have me say? I love Derae. I want. .

need. . her for my wife.'

'I accept that,' said Hermias, 'but he believes that you ravished her. I know you would never consider such a vile act, but Nestus is blinded by rage. If you go to the hills for a while, I will speak to him.'

'We made love,' said Parmenion softly, 'and we were foolish. He has every right to be angry.'

Hermias stood open-mouthed. 'You. . it is true, then?'

'I did not ravish her! We are lovers, Hermias. Try to understand, my friend.'

'What is there to understand? You behaved like. . like the Macedonian you are.' Parmenion stepped forward, reaching for his friend's arm. 'Don't touch me! Nestus is a friend of mine, and has been since we were children. Now he carries a shame he does not warrant. I know why you did it, Savra: it was to revenge yourself on Leonidas. I despise you for it. Take a horse and ride from here. Go anywhere. But do not be here when Nestus arrives.'

Hermias strode to the gelding and vaulted to the beast's back. 'I gave up much for you, Parmenion.

Now I rue the day I met you. What you have done is evil and much suffering will come of it. I loved you — as a friend and a brother. But your hate was. . and is… too strong.'

'It is not hate,' protested Parmenion, but Hermias swung the gelding's head and galloped away. 'It is not hate!' shouted the Spartan. Standing thunderstruck as Hermias rode back across the meadow, Parmenion heard footsteps behind him but did not turn. Instead he watched his friend riding into the distance.

'That was sound advice,' said Xenophon sadly. 'Take the bay mare and ride for Corinth. I will give you enough money for the journey and a letter to a friend who resides there. He will be glad to make you a guest until you decide where you want to go.'

'I cannot. It would mean giving up Derae."

'She is lost to you anyway."

'I will not accept that!" He swung on Xenophon. 'How can I accept it?'

'Are you willing to die for your love?'

'Of course. What would you expect me to say?'

'And are you willing, also, to kill an innocent man for it?'

Parmenion took a deep breath, struggling for a calm that would not come. He did not know Nestus well, but the man had never been one of his enemies, had never tormented him. Now he was seeking -

as any Spartan would — to exorcize his shame with the blood of the man who had dishonoured him. He met Xenophon's eyes. 'I cannot run, Xenophon. My life would be nothing without Derae. I know that now.'

The general masked his disappointment. 'How good are you with the sword?'

'Capable.'

'And Nestus?'

'He was — and is — the sword champion of Lycurgus. He is powerful.'

'Can you master him?'

Parmenion did not answer. 'Am I evil?' he asked.

'No,' answered Xenophon. 'Action and reaction, my boy. I knew a man once in Persia who was asked to bring water to a dry area. He built a small dam which diverted a river, irrigating fields and saving a community. They were grateful for he had given them life, and there were feasts and banquets in his honour. He stayed with them for several months. When he left he came, after five days, to a deserted town, where there were corpses and a dry stream. He had saved one community and destroyed another. Was he evil? Intention is everything. You did not set out to shame either Nestus or Derae, but now you must suffer the consequences. One of you must die.'

'I do not want to kill him. I swear that, by all the gods of Olympus,' said Parmenion. 'But, if I run, I can never claim Derae. You understand?'

'You may borrow my breastplate and helm — assuming that Nestus is geared for war. Oh, Parmenion, what has your folly brought upon you?'

Parmenion forced a smile. 'It brought me Derae and I cannot regret that — though I have lost Hermias, and he has been my friend since childhood.'

'Come and eat. The body does not fight well on an empty stomach, believe me. Take honey, it will give you strength.'

It was late afternoon before Nestus and his companions rode up to the house where Parmenion was sitting with Xenophon in the shadow cast by the sloping, tiled roof. The Athenian rose, gestured for Parmenion to remain where he was and walked out to meet the riders.

There were six men with Nestus but Xenophon knew only two of them: Leonidas and Hermias.

'Welcome to my home,' said Xenophon.

'We seek the man Parmenion,' stated Nestus, lifting his leg and jumping to the ground. He was a tall young man, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped — not unhandsome, though his beauty was marred by a hook of a nose.

Xenophon approached him. 'Have the ephors granted permission for this duel?'

'They have,' said Nestus. Reaching into his tunic, he produced a scroll and handed it to Xenophon.

The Athenian opened it and read swiftly.

'Will honour be satisfied with anything but blood?' he asked, handing back the warrant.

'No. You know what he did. What choice do I have?'

'As a gentleman, none at all,' said Xenophon softly. 'But — and I speak not in his defence, nor even with his permission — he did not know of your involvement with the lady.'

'She is no lady, she is a whore — made a whore by your half-breed house guest.'

Xenophon nodded. 'Then blood it must be. However, let us act like gentlemen. You have ridden a long way and you, and your friends, must be thirsty. My home is your home; I will have servants fetch refreshments.'

'That will not be necessary, Athenian,' snapped Nestus. 'Just send Parmenion to me. I will kill him and we will be on our way.'

Xenophon moved closer to the young man. 'While I appreciate your anger,' he whispered, 'it ill becomes a gentleman to act with such rudeness.'

Nestus looked into the pale blue eyes and saw the fury there. 'You are correct, sir. My anger spoke — and it should not be directed at you. I thank you for your courtesy, and I am sure my friends would be glad of refreshment. For myself, with your permission, I will wait in your gardens until the time for the battle.'

Xenophon bowed. 'I will send cool water to you — unless you would prefer wine?'

'Water will suffice.' Nestus stalked off into the gardens. The other men dismounted and followed Xenophon into the house. No one looked at Parmenion, who sat silently with his eyes on Nestus seated alone on a bench by the stream.

After a few minutes Parmenion heard someone approaching from behind and looked up, expecting to see Xenophon.

'You nursed your hate well,' said Leonidas, 'and the arrow you sent found its mark.'

Parmenion stood and faced his old enemy. 'I do not hate you, Leonidas, nor your family. I love Derae. What I did was wrong and I am ashamed of my actions. But I mean to marry her.'

For a moment Leonidas said nothing, his expression unreadable. 'I love my sister,' he said, 'even though she is wilful. But you are my enemy, Parmenion, and will remain so until the day of your death — which I pray will be today. You cannot stand against Nestus.'

'Why must this go on?' Parmenion asked. 'How can you carry this hatred when I will be wed to your sister?'

Leonidas reddened, and Parmenion saw not just anger but anguish in his eyes. 'It would be unfair to speak of it now, before you fight. If you survive, then I will tell you.'

'Tell me, and to Hades with fairness!'

Leonidas took a step forward, seizing the front of Parmenion's tunic. 'Derae will soon be dead -

can you understand that? My father had her named as Cassandra's victim and even now she is on board a ship bound for Troy. When they get close to the shore, she will be hurled over the side.

That is what you brought her to, half-breed! You killed her!'

The words cut into Parmenion like knives, and he reeled back from the blazing anger in Leonidas'

eyes. Cassandra's victim! Every year a young, unmarried woman was sent from Sparta as a sacrifice to the gods, to drown off the coast of Troy. It was a penance for the murder of the priestess Cassandra after the Trojan War hundreds of years before. All major cities of Greece were obliged to send victims.

The girls were taken by ship to within a mile of the coastline of Asia, then their hands were tied behind their backs and they were thrown from the deck. There was no hope for Derae; even if she got her hands free and managed to swim to the shore, the local villagers would pursue and kill her. That was part of the ritual.

'Well, what have you to say?' hissed Leonidas, but Parmenion did not reply. He walked out into the sunshine and drew his sword, hefting it for weight. He could not answer his enemy: all feelings had vanished from him. He felt curiously light-headed and free of torment. They had taken from him the only light in his life, and he would not live in darkness again. Better for Nestus to kill him.

Xenophon approached him after a while and called Nestus to the flat ground before the house. 'I have sent for the surgeon. I think it advisable to wait until he arrives before this battle commences.'

'Doctors cannot help dead men,' Nestus observed.

'Very true, but it is likely that the victor will also receive wounds. I would not want a second man to bleed to death.'

'I do not wish to wait,' declared Nestus. 'Soon the sun will be down. Let us begin.'

'I agree,' said Parmenion. Xenophon looked at him closely.

'Very well, you both have swords, and the required number of witnesses are present. I suggest you salute one another, and then begin.'

Nestus drew his blade and glared at Parmenion. 'There will be no salute to you, mix-blood.'

'As you wish,' Parmenion answered calmly. 'But before we fight, I want you to know that I love Derae — even as you must.'

'Love? What would you know of it? I shall remember her with great fondness — and I shall especially remember the moment when I told her father, in her presence, the price he would have to pay for my shame. She did not look pretty then, half-breed, not as she fell to her knees begging her father not to let her die.'

'You asked for her death?'

'I demanded her death — as I demanded yours.'

'Well,' said Parmenion, feeling the heat of rising fury but holding it in check, 'you had your way with her. Now let us see if you can fight as well as you can hate.'

Nestus suddenly lunged. The Sword of Leonidas flashed up, iron clashing on iron as Parmenion parried the thrust. Nestus slashed a backhand cut, but Parmenion blocked it.

The watchers spread out around the fighters. Xenophon had walked back to the shade of the roof, where he sat hunched forward with his chin on his hands, watching every move. Nestus, he saw, had the strength, but Parmenion was more swift. Their swords rang together and for several minutes they circled, testing one another's skill, then Parmenion's blade slashed down to open a shallow cut at the top of Nestus' right shoulder. Blood sprayed out, staining the young man's blue tunic.

Xenophon rose and rejoined the watching group, who were cheering Nestus on and shouting advice.

Nestus launched an attack, sending a stabbing lunge towards Parmenion's throat, but Parmenion sidestepped and lanced his blade into his opponent's side, the sword ripping the skin and glancing from his ribs. Grunting with pain, Nestus backed away. Blood was now flowing from two wounds and the watching men fell silent. Parmenion feinted a cut to the head but dropped the blade down, hammering it into his opponent's left side. A rib snapped under the impact and Nestus screamed in pain, only partly parrying a second lunge which opened the wound further. Blood now drenched his blue tunic and was coursing down his leg.

'Enough!' yelled Xenophon. 'Stand back from each other!'

Both men ignored him. Stepping in close, Parmenion blocked a feeble thrust and plunged his sword into Nestus' belly. With a terrible cry Nestus dropped his blade and fell to his knees.

Parmenion wrenched his sword loose and looked down at his opponent. 'Tell me,' he hissed, 'is this how Derae looked when she was upon her knees, begging for her life?'

Nestus was trying to stem the blood gushing from his belly. He looked up and saw Parmenion's eyes.

'No. . more,' he pleaded.

'You came for death. You found it,' said Parmenion.

'No!' shouted Xenophon as the Sword of Leonidas rose-and hacked down into the kneeling man's throat, severing the jugular and smashing the bones of the neck. Nestus rolled to his side.

Parmenion turned away from the corpse and focused his gaze on Leonidas. 'Pick up his sword,' urged Parmenion. 'Come on! Take it — and die like he did.'

'You are a savage,' said Leonidas, seeing the light of madness in Parmenion's eyes. The young Spartan strode forward and knelt by Nestus, rolling the man to his back and closing his eyes.

Xenophon took Parmenion's arm. 'Come away now,' said the general, his voice low. 'Come away.'

'Does no one else want to fight me?' shouted Parmenion. His eyes raked the group, but no one would meet his stare.

'Come away,' urged Xenophon. 'This is not seemly.'

'Seemly?' Parmenion tore himself from Xenophon's grasp. 'Seemly? They've killed Derae and they've come to kill me. Where is seemly in all this?'

Xenophon turned to Leonidas. 'There is a small wagon at the rear of the house — you may use it to return Nestus to his family. I suggest you leave now.' He swung back to Parmenion. 'Sheathe your sword, there will be no more fighting here. The battle warrant was issued and it has been served.

Further bloodshed will accomplish nothing.'

'No,' said Parmenion. 'They came to kill me so let them try. Let them try now.'

'If you do not put away your sword and return to the house, the next person you fight will be me.

Do I make myself clear to you?'

Parmenion blinked and opened his mouth to speak, but there were no words. He dropped the sword and strode to the house. Clearchus and Tinus were standing in the doorway, but they moved aside to let him pass. He sat in his room, his mind reeling. Derae was gone. At this moment she was alive, somewhere out to sea; but in a matter of days she would be dead, and he would not know the hour of her passing.

The door opened and Clearchus came in, carrying a bowl of water and a towel. 'Better clean the blood off,' advised the servant, 'and change your tunic. What would you like for your supper?'

Parmenion shook his head. 'Supper? I just killed a man. How can you ask me about supper?'

'I've killed a lot of men,' said Clearchus. 'What has that to do with food? He was alive. Now he's not. He was a fool; he should have listened to Xenophon and rested first. But he didn't. So…

what would you like for supper?'

Parmenion rose, and felt the tension slide from him as he looked into the old man's face. 'You don't hate me, do you? Why is that? I know you did not like me when you were my judge at the Games. Why is it you now befriend me?'

Clearchus met his gaze and grinned. 'A man can change his mind, boy. Now, since you seem incapable of deciding what to eat I shall prepare some fish in soured milk; it sits well on a queasy belly.

Now bathe and change. You'll have a long ride tomorrow."

'Tomorrow? Where should I go tomorrow?'

'Corinth would be a good place to start, but I think Xenophon will send you to Thebes. He has a friend there, a man named Epaminondas. You'll like him.'

'We have such dreams,' said Xenophon as they walked together in the gardens under bright moonlight, 'and sometimes I think the gods mock us. I wanted to conquer Persia, to lead a united army into the richest kingdom the world has ever seen. Instead I live like a retired gentleman.

You wanted to find love and happiness; it has been taken from you. But you are young, Parmenion; you have time.' 'Time? Without Derae nothing is worthwhile,' answered Parmenion. 'I know it deep inside my soul. She was the one. We were so close during those five days.'

'I know this may sound callous, my friend, but perhaps your passion deceives you. You are not yet a worldly man and it may be that you were merely infatuated. And there are many women in Thebes to make a man happy.'

Parmenion gazed out over the man-made lake, watching the fragmented moon floating on the surface.

'I shall not love again,' he said. 'I will never open my heart to the risk of so much pain. When my mother died I felt lost and alone, but deep in my heart I had been expecting it — and, I suppose, preparing for it. But Derae? It is as if a beast with terrible talons had reached inside me and ripped away my heart. I feel nothing. I have no dreams, no hopes. For a moment back there I was willing for Nestus to kill me. But then he told me he had ordered Derae's death.'

'Not too clever of him, was it?' observed Xenophon drily. Parmenion did not smile.

'When I killed Learchus that night, I felt a surge of joy. I gloried in his death. But today I killed a man who did not deserve to die, watched the light of life fade from his eyes. Worse, he begged me not to strike the death blow."

'He would have died in agony from the stomach wound," said Xenophon. 'If anything, you ended his misery.'

'That is not the point, is it?' asked Parmenion quietly, turning to face the silver-haired Athenian.

'No, it is not. You destroyed him, and it was not good to see. Also you made enemies. No one who saw the duel will forget the way he died. But in Thebes you can make a new life. Epaminondas is a good man and he will find a place for you.'

Parmenion sank back on a marble seat. 'Derae had a dream about me, but it was a false one. She dreamt she was in a temple and I came to her dressed as a general; she called me the Lion of Macedon.'

'It has a good ring to it,' said Xenophon, suddenly feeling the chill of the evening and shivering. 'Let us go back to the house. I have some gifts for you.'

Clearchus had set out the presents on a long table and Parmenion moved first to the bronze breastplate. It was simply made and not, as in more expensive pieces, shaped to represent the male chest. Yet it was strong and would withstand any sword-thrust. At the centre of the breast was a lion's head, cast in iron. Parmenion glanced up at Xenophon. 'Perhaps she was not so wrong,' the Athenian whispered. Parmenion reached out and stroked his fingers across the lion's jaws. Beside the breastplate was a round helm, also of bronze and lined with leather. There were greaves, a bronze-studded leather kilt and a short dagger with a curved blade.

'I do not know what to say,' Parmenion told his friend.

'They were to have been a Manhood gift. But now, I think, is a better time. There is something else which I hope will prove useful.'

Xenophon lifted a leather-bound scroll and passed it to Parmenion, who opened the tiny buckles and spread the parchment. 'It details my journeys across Persia and the march to the sea. I do not claim to be a great writer, but there is much that a soldier can learn from my notes, and many of my friends have asked me for copies of it.'

'I will never be able to repay you for your kindness.'

'Friends never need repaying, it is what makes them friends. Now prepare yourself for the journey.

With luck the Spartans will forget about you as time passes.'

Parmenion shook his head. 'They will not forget, Xenophon. I will see to that.'

'You are a man alone, and such thoughts are foolish. Sparta is the power in Greece and will remain so long past our lifetimes. Forget about vengeance, Parmenion. Even the might of Persia could not bring down Sparta.'

'Of course you are correct,' said the young man, embracing his friend.

But as the dawn was breaking and he rode from the estate, he thought of Derae's dream and of Thebes, and the Spartan garrison there. A hostile force, hated and feared, dwelling at the centre of a city of 30,000 Thebans.

Drawing his sword, he gazed down at the gleaming blade. 'I pledge you to the destruction of Sparta,' he whispered. Raising the weapon high he pointed it to the south-east and, though the city was far beyond his range of vision, he pictured the sword poised above it with the sun's harsh light turning it to fire.

'I carry the seeds of your hatred,' he shouted, hurling his words to the winds, 'and I know where to plant them.'

Yes, he thought, Thebes is the right destination for the Lion of Macedon.

Thebes, Autumn, 382 BC

'I care nothing about omens,' said the warrior, his voice shaking. 'Let us gather an army and drive the cursed Spartans from the city.'

The tall man at the window turned to the speaker and smiled. Allowing the silence to grow, his dark eyes raked the room. 'We three,' he said at last, 'hold the hopes of our city in our hearts.

We must not be rash.' Ignoring the warrior, he locked his gaze to the sea-green eyes of the orator Calepios. 'The Spartans seized Thebes because they knew we had not the force to oppose them. What we must consider is what they want from us.'

'How do we do that?' Calepios asked.

'What they want is sharp swords in their bellies!' roared the warrior, surging to his feet.

The tall man moved swiftly to him, dropping his voice. 'Why not get closer to the window, Pelopidas? For then you could let the whole city hear you!'

'I'm sick of this constant talk,' Pelopidas replied, but he lowered his voice. 'It offends me that we allow the Spartans to strut around Thebes.'

'You think you are the only man who finds it so?' the tall man asked him.

Their eyes met. 'I am sorry, my friend,' said the warrior, 'but it knots my belly and clouds my mind. Speak on.'

'We must decide what the Spartans desire — and do the opposite. But we must use stealth and cunning, and we must learn patience.'

The tall man moved back to the window, staring out over the city and the hill upon which the Cadmea stood, its high walls patrolled by Spartan soldiers.

'It seems to me,' said Calepios, 'that the Spartans desire what they have always desired -

conquest. They want to rule. Agisaleus hates Thebes. Now he has us.'

'But does he have what he wants'}' queried the tall man. 'I think they are hoping we will rise against them and attack the Cadmea. If we do that, spilling Spartan blood, they will descend upon us with a full army. They will sack the city — maybe even destroy it. And we have no force with which to oppose them.'

'There are other cities,' said Pelopidas. 'We could ask for help.'

'Cities full of spies and loose mouths,' snapped the tall man. 'No, I suggest we organize ourselves. You, Pelopidas, should leave the city. Take to the open country. Gather to yourself warriors and move north, selling your services as mercenaries in Thessaly or Illyria or Macedonia -

it does not matter where. Build a force. Prepare for the day when you are summoned back to Thebes.'

'And what of me?' Calepios asked.

'The pro-Spartan councillors now lord it over the city — you must become part of their ruling elite.'

'I will be hated by the people,' the orator protested.

'No! You will never speak about the Spartans in public, neither to criticize nor praise. You will devote yourself to working among Thebans, helping and advising. You will invite no Spartans to your home. Trust me, Calepios; we need a strong man at the centre, and your abilities are respected by all. They will need you — even as we need you.'

'And what of you, Epaminondas?' asked the warrior.

'I will stay in the city, and slowly I will gather supporters for the cause. But remember this: it is vital that the Spartans find no excuse to send an army into our lands — not until we are ready.'

The door to the andron opened and Calepios leapt from his seat as a servant entered and bowed.

'Sir,' he said to the tall man, 'there is a Spartan to see you.'

'Do they know?' whispered Calepios, his face reddening.

'Is he alone?' Epaminondas asked.

'Yes, sir. He has a letter from the general Xenophon.'

'Show him to the Eastern room, I will see him there,' said the tall man. 'Wait here for a little,'

he told the others, 'then leave by the rear alleys.'

'Be careful, my friend,' warned the warrior. 'Without you we are nothing.'

Epaminondas leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes fixed to the young man's face. 'And how is the general?' he asked, his fingers drumming on the desk before him.

'He is well, sir. He sends you greetings and I have a letter for you.'

'Why did he send you to me, Parmenion? I am merely a private citizen in a city ruled by…

others. I can offer you little.'

The younger man nodded. 'I understand that, sir. But Xenophon said you were a soldier of great skill. I think he hoped you would find me a place in the army of Thebes.'

Epaminondas chuckled, but there was little humour in the sound. He stood and walked to the window, opening the shutters. 'Look up there,' he said, pointing to the citadel upon the hill. 'There is the Cadmea. It is garrisoned by Spartans like yourself; there are no Thebans there.'

'I am no Spartan,' replied Parmenion. 'I was despised as a mix-blood, part Macedonian, but were I a Theban I would be seeking a way to… persuade the Spartans to leave.'

'Would you now?' responded the Theban, a red flush spreading across his thin, pockmarked cheeks but his voice remaining cold. 'There are few men who would attempt such an action. For myself, as I said, I am a private citizen and have little interest now in matters martial.'

'Then I shall trouble you no further, sir,' said Par-menion. Leaving the letter from Xenophon on the desk, he bowed and walked to the door.

'Wait, man!' called Epaminondas, not wishing his unwelcome visitor to see his other guests as they left. 'You are a stranger in the city, and you can stay in my home until we can find suitable lodging for you. I will have a servant prepare you a room.'

That will not be necessary. I have no wish to remain where the welcome is so grudging.'

'I see you are a plain speaker, so let me be equally frank. I have no great love for Spartans, be they friends of Xenophon or no. But you are a stranger in a strange city. Finding good lodgings will take time. I urge you to reconsider — and,' he added, forcing a smile, 'I will even apologize for my crusty behaviour.'

At the smile Parmenion appeared to relax. 'I too must apologize. I am out of place here, and I feel awkward.'

'We shall start again, then, Parmenion. Come, sit and take some wine while I read this letter.'

Returning to his couch, the Theban unrolled the parchment and read of the duel with Nestus and the need for Parmenion to seek his fortune in another city. 'Why did you fight this man — or is it a private matter?' he asked at last.

'He was betrothed to a girl. I too was in love with her.'

'I see. What happened to her?'

'She was sacrificed as Cassandra's victim.'

'What a barbarous people we are,' said Epaminondas. 'It amazes me how easily we criticize the peoples of other races, calling them barbarians, while still we practise obscene blood sacrifices.'

'The gods require them,' Parmenion said.

'There are no gods,' responded the Theban. 'It is all a grand nonsense — yet they have their uses.'

'How can something that does not exist have a use?' asked the younger man.

The Theban smiled. 'There are two doors leading from this room, Parmenion. If I told you that one door was guarded by a lion and that the other leads to a paradise, which door would you open?'

'The paradise door.'

'Exactly. The lion does not exist — but it helps me to make sure you open the door I require. It is very simple. Soldiers tend to believe in gods and oracles, but in my experience any prophecy can be turned to advantage.'

Parmenion felt uneasy with this casual blasphemy and changed the subject. 'Xenophon told me you once fought alongside the Spartan army.'

'Three years ago. I was twenty-five then, and a lot more naive. Thebes and Sparta were allies against the Arcadians. I was given ten gold pieces by Agisaleus, who told me I fought well — for a Theban.'

'The line broke,' said Parmenion, 'but you and Pelopidas locked shields and stopped their advance.

When Pelopidas was struck down, wounded in seven places, you stood over his body and protected it until the Spartans came up to support you.'

'You know a great deal about me,' said Epaminondas, 'while I know little about you. Was Xenophon your lover?'

'No, friends only. Is it important?'

Epaminondas spread his hands. 'Only in so far as I must trust his judgement. He says you are a gifted strategos. Is he right?'

'Yes.'

'Excellent, no false modesty. I cannot abide a man who cloaks his talents.' The Theban rose. 'If you are not tired from your long ride, we will walk around the city and become acquainted with your new home.'

Epaminondas led Parmenion through to the front of the house and out on to the wide main street heading south to Electra's Gates. Parmenion had ridden through these gates only an hour before, but now he stopped to examine the reliefs carved in the stone gateway. The figure of a man, hugely muscled, was shown attacking a beast with many heads. 'Heracles' battle with the Hydra,' said the Theban. 'It was carved by Alcamenes. There is more of his work to the north-west.'

Together the two men walked around the walls of Thebes, through the market-places, passing houses built of white marble and other smaller dwellings of sun-dried clay bricks, painted white.

Everywhere there were people, and Parmenion was struck by the variety of colour in the clothing and in the decoration upon house walls. The streets also were paved and decorated with mosaics, unlike the hard-packed earth of Sparta's roads. Parmenion stopped and stared at a woman sitting on a low wall. She wore a dress of red, edged with gold, and silver pendants hung from her ears. Her lips were impossibly red, her hair a gold he had never seen.

She saw him and rose smoothly. 'A gift for the goddess?' she enquired.

'What gift?' asked Parmenion. She giggled and Epaminondas stepped in.

'He is a stranger to Thebes, doubtless he will give the gift on another day.' Taking Parmenion's arm, he steered the young man away from the girl.

'What gift did she desire?'

'She is a priestess of the Temple of Aphrodite and she wanted to bed you. It would have cost forty obols. One obol goes to the temple, the rest to the priestess."

'Incredible!' whispered Parmenion.

They walked on and made their way slowly through the crowds thronging the market stalls. 'I have never seen so much waiting to be sold — so many trinkets and items of little value,' remarked Parmenion.

'Little value?' replied Epaminondas. 'They are pleasing to look at, or to wear. There is value in that, surely? But then I am forgetting you are a Spartan; you like to live in rooms with one chair made of sharp sticks and a bed with a mattress of thorns.'

'Not quite,' responded Parmenion, smiling. 'We occasionally allow ourselves the treat of sleeping naked on a cold stone floor!'

'A Spartan with a sense of humour — no wonder you were unpopular with your fellows.'

At last they came to the twin statues of Heracles and Athena, standing at the southern base of the Cadmea. They were shaped from white marble, and were over twenty feet high. 'Alcamenes' greatest achievement,' said the Theban. 'When you and I are dust, and forgotten by history, men will marvel at his workmanship.'

'They are so real, like frozen giants,' said Parmenion, lowering his voice.

'If Athena did exist, I would think she would be pleased with his creation. It is said that the model was a priestess of Aphrodite, but then with a body like that it is hardly surprising.'

'I wish you wouldn't blaspheme,' said Parmenion. 'Have you ever considered the possibility that you might be wrong? The Spartans are very religious, and they have never lost a land battle where the foe had equal numbers.'

'I like you, Parmenion, and I ask you to consider this: Sparta is the only city to retain a regular army, magnificently trained, superbly disciplined. Could that be the reason they win battles?'

'Perhaps it is both.'

'Spoken like an ambassador,' said the Theban, with a broad smile. He led Parmenion to an open square where seats and tables had been placed beneath canvas awnings to block the sun. They sat at an empty table and a young boy wandered over and bowed.

'Bring us some water and a few honeycakes,' ordered Epaminondas. As they ate, he questioned Parmenion about his life in Sparta and the full story behind his departure. He listened in silence as the Spartan talked of his life and of his love for Derae.

'Falling in love is like gripping a sword by the blade,' said the Theban. 'You have it in your hand, but at great cost. We stopped sending victims for Cassandra more than thirty years ago.

Athens abandoned the vile practice ten years since. It makes no sense.'

'It placates the gods,' said Parmenion, with the ghost of a smile.

'I'll not worship any being who demands the blood of innocence,' responded the Theban. He gazed up at the citadel on the acropolis; it was surrounded by a high wall on which Parmenion could see sentries walking. 'So, young strategos, merely for the sake of debate, how would you retake the Cadmea — if you were a Theban?'

'I would not bother. I would take the city.'

'You would conquer Thebes in order to save it?'

'How many citizens live in or around this city? Twenty thousand? Thirty?' asked Parmenion.

'More, but I do not know the exact number,' replied the Theban, leaning forward and lowering his voice.

'And how many Spartans in the garrison?'

'Eight hundred.'

Parmenion lifted his goblet and drained his water. 'Is there a well there?'

'No.'

'Then I would encourage the citizens to rise up and besiege the Cadmea — starve the Spartans into submission.'

'And what would happen when the Spartans drew their swords and opened the gates? There would be panic, the crowd would flee.'

'If they could open the gates,' Parmenion agreed. 'But what if they were secured from the outside?

Then there would be no way out, unless the soldiers lowered themselves by ropes. I don't think I can recall a battle where a phalanx advanced by dropping down on the enemy.'

'Interesting,' said Epaminondas, 'merely as a theoretical strategy, of course. But I like you, young man, and I think it likely that we shall become friends. Now let us move on, there are many things to see.'

'It is a wonderful city,' said Parmenion later as the two men returned to Epaminondas' white-walled home. A servant brought them platters of cheese and bread and they sat on a first-floor balcony, enjoying the cool of the shade below the towering Cadmea.

'You have not seen one tenth of it,' Epaminondas told him. 'Originally the Cadmea was the city, and Thebes grew up around its base. Tomorrow we will see the Theatre, and I will show you the grave of Hector and the Great North Gate.'

'With respect, I would sooner see the training ground. My muscles ache from the ride and I would like to run.'

'Then it shall be as you say.'

That night Parmenion slept in a room at the top of the house, and a cool easterly wind blew in through the open window. He dreamt of an ancient temple with huge, broken columns. An old woman was there, lying on a pallet bed beside an altar; he took her hand and gazed down into her blind eyes. It was a curious dream, and he awoke in the depths of the night feeling calm and strangely refreshed.

Lying back, he thought of Nestus and the terrible fear in the man's eyes, and remembered with sorrow the look on Hermias' face as he had swung round with the bloody sword in his hands. Hermias was his friend no longer — worse, Parmenion had seen in him the beginnings of hate.

Through all the years of his childhood Hermias had been his one ally, loyal and steadfast. It hurt the young Spartan that such a gulf should have come between them. But that is yet another price I must pay, he thought, to achieve my revenge.

Revenge. The word stirred in him like a living thing — writhing, growing, dissolving the memories of the dream and the calm that followed it. Revenge will be neither simple nor swift, he told himself. I must bide my time, learn the ways of this new city, seek out the rebels who hate the Spartans as I do. But I must act with care. His thoughts turned to Epaminondas. Here was a man to cultivate — a great warrior, but also a thinker. Parmenion rose from the bed and drew the Sword of Leonidas from its scabbard, the moonlight reflecting on the blade and turning it to silver. A longing began in him then to plunge the blade again and again into the hearts of his enemies, to see it dripping with their blood. Do I have the patience? he asked himself. How long can I wait?

Xenophon's words echoed in his mind: 'The good general — if he has a choice — does not engage in battle until he is sure he can win, no more than a warrior will charge into the fight with a piece of iron ore. He will wait until the armourer has forged from it a blade with a killing edge.'

Parmenion drew in a deep, calming breath and sheathed the sword. 'You are right as always, Xenophon. And I miss you. I will bide my time.' Returning toJu's bed he dozed for a while, cascading images flowing through his mind. The General's Games, his mother's death, Derae running on the training ground, Derae lying beneath him in the oak grove, Nestus dying, drowning in his own blood.

And he dreamt he was walking on a dark hillside beneath a crimson sky. A white tree was growing there, its trunk made up of gaping skulls obscenely wedged together. Swords and spears, gripped by skeletal hands, were its branches, and the fruits of the tree were severed heads, dripping blood to the ground. Where the gore touched the earth dark flowers grew, the blooms in the shape of faces. A cold wind moaned across the flowers and Parmenion seemed to hear a thousand distant whispers sighing, 'Spare me! Spare me!'

A shadow moved upon the hillside and the Spartan swung to see a hooded figure rise up before the tree. 'What do you wish for, young warrior?' came a woman's voice from within the hood.

'Blood and vengeance,' he replied.

'You shall have it,' she told him.

Parmenion awoke to the dawn and joined Epaminondas on the lower terrace for breakfast. The Theban was wearing a simple tunic of grey-green which made his pale, pockmarked face seem sallow and unhealthy. But his dark eyes were bright and his smile open and friendly as Parmenion joined him.

'You mentioned a run, Parmenion. Are you an athlete?' 'I am fast, and should have represented Sparta in the Olympics. But I made a mistake in the final race and was edged out by Leonidas.'

'Interesting. There is a man in Thebes who runs with great speed. He is a Spartan from the citadel: his name is Meleager.'

'I have heard of him. Leonidas beat him by ten paces a year ago.'

'You think you could beat him?'

Parmenion broke bread and dipped it into a bowl of onions, soft cheese and oil. 'Unless he has grown wings.'

'How much money do you have?' Epaminondas asked.

'I signed over my house to Xenophon, in return for which he gave me a hundred and eighty drachms and the bay mare. It will not last long.'

'Indeed it will not. Does Meleager know of you?'

Parmenion shrugged. 'He will know of my name, but what has this to do with the money I hold?'

'Here in Thebes we wager on races. If you could beat Meleager — and no one else has — you could treble, perhaps quadruple your money.'

Parmenion leaned back in his chair. No one wagered in Sparta, it was considered vulgar. But it would be a fine way to extend his finances. At present he had barely enough money to see him through to the spring. If he did quadruple the amount, he would be able to eke out a careful existence for at least two years. But what if you lose? he asked himself. Races were tough, the runners using elbows and shoulders to barge their way through. Then there was the danger of being tripped, or falling. Nothing was certain in competition.

'I will think on it,' said Parmenion.

The lolaus training ground was bordered by oak trees to the north and west. To the east was the shrine to Artemis of the Glory, a high-columned temple dedicated to the goddess of the hunt, and to the south was the legendary Grave of Hector, the mighty Trojan warrior slain by Achilles during the war with Troy.

As Parmenion stretched the muscles of his thighs and groin, prior to his training run, he gazed at Hector's tomb. It was of marble, decorated with raised reliefs, carvings which showed his valiant battle with the Greek hero. Parmenion had always felt a great admiration for Hector.

Most Spartans spoke of Achilles, for he was the victor, and yet it seemed to Parmenion that Hector had shown the greater courage. An oracle had warned Hector that to fight Achilles would mean death, for his opponent was invincible. During the ten-year Trojan war both men had studiously avoided single combat. And then, one bright morning, Hector had seen Achilles riding towards him in a bronze chariot, his armour — caught in the sunlight — seeming to blaze with white fire. The two men had met on the field of combat — and Hector won. He struck down Achilles with a terrible blow to the neck, and watched his nemesis writhe in his death throes.

What a glory for Hector, what a weight lifted from his heart! Now he would see his baby son grow to manhood, now he would know again the peace which the oracle had stolen. He knelt by the body and tore the white plumed helmet from the head — only to find himself gazing down on the dead face of Patroclus, Achilles' lover. Hector staggered back, shocked, confused. He ran to a Greek prisoner. 'What is the meaning of this?' he demanded. 'Why was Patroclus wearing Achilles'

armour?'

The man could not meet Hector's fierce eyes, but looked down. 'Achilles has decided to return home. He will fight no more,' he said.

Oh, but he would. Hector knew that. In killing Patroclus he had hastened his own doom. Leaping into his chariot, he galloped his horses back into the city of Troy and waited for the challenge he knew must come.

Within the hour Achilles was at the gates. .

Parmenion finished his exercises and walked to the tomb, laying his hand upon it. 'You went out to meet him, Hector,' he said. 'That was bravely done. And you died as a man should, facing his enemy.'

The bones of Hector had been brought from the ruins of Troy and buried in Thebes because of another oracle which said, 'Thebans in the city of Cadmos, your country shall have innocent wealth if you bring out of Asia the bones of Hector. Carry them home and worship the hero by the decree of Zeus.'

The Thebans had obeyed. Every year, according to Epaminondas, they declared a holy day for Hector and a great celebration was held at the training ground, where men and women danced and drank in honour of the Trojan. And wealth had followed, in trade with Athens in the south and the exporting of goods north to Thessaly and Macedonia, to the Illyrians and the Thracians. Thebes was awash with coin.

Parmenion sucked in a deep breath and began to run. The track was hard-baked clay, formed in a great oval that skirted the training ground. Five circuits represented a mile. He loped easily round the circuit, examining the ground. The races all began and ended at the Shrine to Artemis, so he stopped on the last curve before the finish and knelt to examine the track. Here it was more concave, the clay powdery on the surface. This was no surprise, for the runners would kick for home and over the years the track had taken more punishment here. A man could slip and fall at this point, were he not wary. He would need to come wide on this last bend. . but then so would Meleager.

Parmenion continued his run for almost an hour, increasing his speed in short, lung-bursting sprints before dropping back to an even pace. Finally he jogged to where Epaminondas lay in the shade of a spreading oak.

'You run well,' said the Theban, 'but I saw no evidence of great speed. Meleager is faster.'

Parmenion smiled. 'I don't doubt that he is. But speed comes from strength, and the middle distance is a fine race for robbing a man of that. Will you wager on me?'

'Of course, you are my guest. It would be impolite not to do so. However, do not put all your money on yourself, Parmenion.' The Spartan laughed.

'When can I race him?'

'There will be Games in three weeks. I will put your name forward. What shall we call you?'

'I was known as Savra in Sparta.'

'Lizard?' queried Epaminondas. 'No, I don't think so. We need something Macedonian.' He looked up and there, through the trees, was the stone lion dedicated by Heracles. 'There,' said the Theban.

'We will keep it simple and call you Leon. You run like a lion, with your short bursts of speed.'

'Why not keep to Parmenion? This smacks of trickery.'

'Smacks of? It is trickery, my friend. Or perhaps it would soothe our consciences if we called it strategy. You almost won a place in the Spartan team for the coming Olympics. If we let that be known, no one will bet against you. . and then you will earn no money. As it is — if you win -

the gold you gather will be mostly Spartan.'

'I need money,' Parmenion agreed, grinning.

'And there you have it,' replied Epaminondas. 'The victory of expediency over principles. And long may it remain so.'

'You are very cynical,' Parmenion observed.

The Theban nodded. 'Indeed I am. But then that is the lesson life teaches to those with eyes to see. No one is above price, be it money, or fame, or power.'

'You think you have a price?'

'Of course. To free Thebes, I would sacrifice anything.'

'There is no dishonour in that,' argued Parmenion.

'If you truly believe that, then you have a lot to learn,' the Theban answered.

During the weeks leading up to the race, Parmenion had run hard for two hours every day, building strength and stamina. Now, with only a day left, he had eased up on his training, merely loping around the track, gently stretching his muscles. He had no wish to start the race feeling tired.

As Lepidus used to say, 'Never leave your strength on the training ground, gentlemen.' Finishing his run, he bathed in the fountain by the shrine to Artemis. As usual he wandered through the city during the afternoon. Thebes continued to fascinate him with her complexity and colour, and he was dazzled by the skills shown in her construction — she made Sparta seem like a collection of peasant houses thrown together during a storm.

The public buildings here were awesome, colossal pillars and beautiful statues, but even the private homes were well built, not of sun-dried brick but of stone, shaped into polygons for close fitting. The windows were large, allowing greater light, and the inner walls were decorated with paintings, or hangings of brightly coloured wool. Even the poorer homes in the northern quarter were handsomely roofed with terracotta tiles and had skilfully carved shutters, while many courtyards boasted their own fountains.

His own home in Sparta had been modest, but not more so than many other dwellings: the floors of hard-packed earth, the walls of clay and rushes covered with lime mortar. But even Xenophon's home, which Parmenion had seen as splendid, had nothing to rival the house of Epaminondas. Every floor of the eight-roomed building was stone-studded, decorated with mosaics of white and black stone set in circles or squares. The main room, the andron, was split-levelled with seven couches for the guests. And there was a bathroom, with a water cistern inside the house!

Thebes was quite simply the most exciting place Parmenion had ever seen.

Towards dusk he would find a table at one of the many dining areas near the square, and order a meal. Servants would carry food to him on flat wooden trays — a fresh loaf, a dish of soured cream, herbs and olive oil, followed by spiced fish. He would sit out under the starlight, ending his meal with sweet honeycakes and feeling as if the gods themselves had invited him to Olympus.

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.

'Make way on the outside!' he yelled, and at the same moment he cut inside to his left. The Spartan tripped and fell to his right, crashing into Meleager. Both men tumbled to the ground and Parmenion was clear, racing into the final lap. The crowd were on their feet now as he ran to the finishing line.

It didn't matter to them that he was Leon, an unknown Macedonian. What mattered was that two Spartans had rolled in the dust by his feet.

Epaminondas rushed to his side. 'The first victory for the Lion of Macedon,' he said.

And it seemed to Parmenion that a dark cloud obscured the sun.

Parmenion set out his winnings on the stone courtyard table, building columns of coin and staring at them with undisguised pleasure. There were 512 drachms, a king's ransom to a Spartan who had never before seen such an amount in one place, let alone owned it.

There were five gold coins, each worth twenty-four drachms. He hefted them, closing his fist around them, feeling the weight and the warmth that spread through the metal. The four hundred silver drachms he had built into twenty columns like a miniature temple.

He was rich! Spreading the gold coins on the table he stared down at the handsome, bearded head adorning each of them. They were Persian coins, showing the ruler Artaxerxes with a bow in his hand. On the reverse was a woman holding a sheaf of corn and a sword.

'Will you stare at them all day?' Epaminondas asked.

'Yes,' replied Parmenion gleefully. 'And tomorrow!'

The Theban chuckled. 'You ran well, and I took great pleasure over the way you tricked Cletus. How they must be suffering now. Meleager will have beggared himself to settle his debts.'

'I don't care about him,' said Parmenion. 'Now I can afford to rent a home, and perhaps even hire a servant. And today I shall go to the market-place and buy myself a cloak, and several tunics -

and a pair of fine sandals. And a bow. I must have a bow. And a hat! Perhaps one of Thracian felt.'

'I have rarely seen a man so happy with his fortune,' Epaminondas told him.

'But then have you ever been poor?' Parmenion countered.

'Happily that is a state I know little of.'

The two men spent the afternoon in the main marketplace, where Parmenion bought a cloak of sky-blue wool, two tunics of fine linen and a pah* of calf-length sandals. He also allowed himself one extravagance — a head-band of black leather, finely woven with gold wire.

Towards dusk, as they were making their way back to Epaminondas' house, the Theban suddenly cut off to the left down an alley. Parmenion touched his friend's sleeve. 'Where are we going?'

'Home!' answered Epaminondas.

'Why this way?'

'I think we are being followed. Do not look back!' he snapped, as Parmenion started to turn. 'I do not want them to know we have spotted them.'

'Why would we be followed?'

'I do not know. But when we turn the next corner — run!'

The alley twisted to the right and as soon as they were out of sight the two men ran along the path, cutting left and right through the narrow streets until they reached an alley at the back of Epaminondas' home. The Theban halted at the mouth of the alley and glanced out. Four men were sitting on a low wall at the rear of the house. They were armed with daggers and swords, whereas Parmenion and the Theban were without weapons. Swiftly the Theban ducked back out of sight.

Epaminondas took another circuitous route to the front of the house. Here, too, a group of armed men waited.

'What do we do?' queried Parmenion.

'We have two choices; either we brazen it out, or we go elsewhere.'

'Who are they?' the Spartan asked.

'Scum, by the look of them. If I had my sword, I would not hesitate to confront them. But who do they want? You or me?' Epaminondas leaned against a wall. There were only two reasons why the men could be waiting. One, the authorities had found out about the small group of rebels who met at the home of Polysperchon; or two, Meleager had learned of Parmenion's true identity and had paid these rogues to exact revenge. Neither thought was comforting, but on the whole Epaminondas hoped it was the latter.

'Show me more routes to the house,' said Parmenion softly.

'For what reason?'

The Spartan grinned. 'So that I can lead them on a chase. Trust me, Epaminondas. Much of my early life was spent in this way, being hunted, chased, beaten. But not this time, my friend. Now show me the alleys and back roads.'

For almost an hour the two men wandered through the twisting alleys between the houses until Parmenion had memorized various landmarks. Then they returned to the opening at the rear of the house.

'Wait here,' said Parmenion, 'until they have left. Then you can get your sword. And mine too.'

The Spartan ran back into the maze of buildings, emerging from an alley some forty paces to the left of the waiting group. One of them looked up and nudged the man beside him. The group stood.

'Are you the man Parmenion?' asked a stocky, redheaded warrior.

'Indeed I am.'

'Take him!' the man yelled, drawing a sword and rushing forward.

Parmenion turned on his heel and sprinted for the alley, the four attackers in pursuit.

Epaminondas darted across the open ground to the rear of the house and hammered on the door. A servant opened it and the Theban moved through to the andron, gathering up his sword. He sent the servant to Parmenion's room to fetch the Sword of Leonidas and, armed with two blades, ran back towards the street.

'Where are you going, master?' called the servant fearfully.

Epaminondas ignored him.

All was quiet at the rear of the house and Epaminondas waited, his mind calm, his body ready.

There would be little point in entering the maze of alleys — better to wait until Parmenion brought the pursuers to him. Finding his mouth to be dry, he allowed himself a wry smile. It was always this way before a battle: a dry mouth and a full bladder. Then he heard the pounding of feet and saw Parmenion race into view with the four men just behind him. The young Spartan sprinted forward, holding out his hand. Epaminondas tossed him his sword — Parmenion caught it deftly and swung to face the attackers.

The men halted their charge and stood back, uncertain.

'We have no quarrel with you,' the red-bearded leader told Epaminondas. The Theban cast his eyes over the man, taking in his grease-stained tunic and his matted beard. The man's forearms were criss-crossed with scars.

'You have been a soldier, I see,' said Epaminondas. 'You have fallen a long way since then.'

The man reddened. 'I fought for Thebes — precious good it did me. Now stand aside, Epaminondas, and let us deal with the trickster.'

'In what way have you been tricked?' Epaminondas asked.

'He ran under the name Leon — when in fact he is the Spartan racer, Parmenion.'

'Did you lose money?' asked the Theban.

'No, I had no money to bet. But now I have been paid, and I will honour the agreement. Stand aside!'

'I think not,' said the Theban. 'And it is an ill day when a Theban soldier takes blood-money from a Spartan.'

'Needs must,' shrugged the man and suddenly he ran forward with sword raised. Parmenion moved in to meet him, blocking the blow and hammering his left fist into his attacker's face. His opponent staggered back. Parmenion leapt into the air, his right foot cracking into the man's nose and hurling him from his feet. The other three men remained where they were as the red-bearded leader snatched up his fallen sword and rose unsteadily.

'There is no reason for you to die,' Parmenion told him.

'I took the money,' said the man wearily and moved in to attack once more, stabbing out his sword for a belly lunge. Parmenion blocked it with ease, his left fist lancing into the man's jaw and dropping him to the ground.

Epaminondas suddenly charged at the other three men, who broke and ran. Parmenion knelt by his unconscious opponent. 'Help me get him inside,' he told Epaminondas.

'Why?'

'I like him.'

'This is insane,' said Epaminondas, but together they hauled the body back into the house, laying him on one of the seven couches in the andron.

A servant brought wine and water and the two men waited for the red-bearded man to come round.

After several minutes he stirred.

'Why did you not kill me?' he asked, sitting up.

'I need a servant,' Parmenion answered.

The man's green eyes narrowed. 'Is this some jest?'

'Not at all,' the Spartan assured him. 'I will pay five obols a day, the payment to be made every month. You will also have a room and food.'

'This is madness,' said Epaminondas. 'The man came to kill you.'

'He took money and he tried to earn it. I like that,' said Parmenion. 'How much were you paid?'

'Ten drachms,' the man answered.

Parmenion opened the pouch at his side and counted out thirty-five silver drachms. 'Will you become my servant?' he asked. The man gazed down at the coins on the table; he swallowed, then nodded. 'And what is your name?'

'Mothac. And your friend is right — this is madness.'

Parmenion smiled and scooped up the coins, handing them to Mothac. 'You will return the ten drachms to the man who hired you; the rest is your first month's pay. Get a bath and buy a new tunic. Then gather what possessions you have and return here tonight.'

'You trust me to return? Why?'

'The answer is not difficult. Any man prepared to die for ten drachms ought to be prepared to live for twenty-five a month.'

Mothac said nothing. Turning on his heel, he left the room.

'You will never see him again,' said Epaminondas, shaking his head.

'Would you care to wager on that?'

'I take it the wager is thirty-five drachms. Correct?'

'Correct. Is it acceptable?'

'No,' conceded Epaminondas. 'I bow to your obviously superior understanding of the human species.

But he will make a terrible servant. Tell me, why did you do this?'

'He is not as those others. They were cowardly scum — he at least was prepared to fight. But more than that, when he knew he could not win he came forward to die rather than take money falsely.

That sort of man is rare.'

'We must agree to differ,' said Epaminondas. 'Men who would kill for ten drachms are not rare enough.'

The man called Mothac left the house. He felt dizzy and nauseous, but anger gave him the strength to keep going. He had not eaten in five days, and knew this was the reason the Spartan had defeated him so easily. Give back the ten drachms? He had paid that to the doctor, for the drugs that would nurse Elea back to strength. He wandered into an alley and leaned against a wall, trying to summon up the energy to return home. His legs started to give way, but he grabbed a jutting stone on the wall and hauled himself upright.

'Don't give in!' he told himself. Drawing in a great breath, he started to walk. It took almost half an hour to reach the market-place, where he purchased fruit and dried fish. He sat in the shade and ate, feeling strength soaking into his limbs.

The Spartan was a fool if he expected him to come back. 'I will be no man's servant. Not ever!'

He felt better for the food and pushed himself to his feet. The Spartan had shamed him, making him look weak and foolish. Three miserable blows and he had fallen. That was hard to take for a man who had stood against Arcadians and Thessalians, Chalcideans and Spartans. No man had ever laid him low. But lack of food and rest had conspired to see him humbled.

Still, now he had thirty-four drachms and three obols and with that he could buy food for two months. Surely in that time Elea would recover? Returning to the market-place, he bought provisions and began the long walk home, deep into the northern quarter where the houses were built of sun-dried brick, the floors of hard-packed earth. The stench of sewage flowing in the streets had long since ceased to cause him concern, nor the rats which ran across his path.

You've come down a long way, he told himself, not for the first time.

Mothac. The name had sprung to his lips with an ease he found surprising. It was an old word, from the grey dawn of time. Outcast. It is what you are. It is what you have become.

He turned into the last alley beneath the wall and entered his tiny house. Elea was in the bedroom asleep, her face calm. He glanced in and then unwrapped the food, preparing a platter with pomegranates and sweet honey-cakes.

As he worked he pictured her smile, remembering the first day he had seen her, during the Dance to Hector. She had been wearing a white chiton, ankle-length, her honey-coloured hair held by an ivory comb. He had been smitten in that moment, unable to drag his eyes from her.

Six weeks later they were wed.

But then the Spartans had taken the Cadmea, and pro-Spartan councillors controlled the city. Her family had been arrested and sentenced to death for treason, their estates confiscated. Mothac himself had been named as a wanted man, and had sought the refuge of anonymity in the poor quarter of the city. He had grown his beard thick and changed his name.

With no money and no hope of employment, Mothac had planned to leave Thebes and join a mercenary company. But then Elea had fallen sick. The doctor diagnosed lung fever and bled her regularly; but it seemed only to make her grow weaker.

He carried the platter into her room and laid it beside the bed. He touched her shoulder. . she did not move.

'Oh, blessed Hera, no!' he whispered, turning her on to her back. Elea was dead.

Mothac took her hand and sat with her until the sun set, then stood and left the house. He walked through the city until he reached the main square, his eyes unseeing, his thoughts random, unconnected. A man grabbed his arm. 'What happened, my friend? We thought they had killed you.'

Mothac pulled clear of his grip. 'Killed me? I wish they had. Leave me alone.'

" He walked on, down long avenues, through winding streets and alleyways, with no thought of a destination, until at last he stood before the house of Epaminondas.

With nowhere else to go, he strode up to the wide doors and rapped his fist on the wood.

A servant led him to the Spartan, who was sitting in the courtyard drinking watered wine. Mothac forced himself to bow to his new master. The man looked at him closely, his clear blue eyes seeming to gaze into Mothac's soul.

'What is wrong?' the Spartan asked.

'Nothing. . sir,' replied the Theban. 'I am here. What do you require of me?' His voice was dull and lifeless.

The Spartan poured a goblet of wine and passed it to Mothac. 'Sit down and drink this.'

Mothac dropped to the bench and drained the wine at a single swallow, feeling its warmth spreading through him.

'Talk to me,' said the Spartan.

But Mothac had no words. He dipped his head and the tears fell to his cheeks, running into his beard.

Mothac could not bring himself to speak of Elea, but he would long remember that the Spartan did not force questions upon him. He waited until Mothac's silent tears had passed, then called for food and more wine. They sat together, drinking in silence, until Mothac became drunk.

Then the Spartan had led his new servant to a bedroom at the rear of the building, and here he had left him.

With the dawn Mothac awoke. A new chiton of green linen was laid out on a chair; he rose, washed and dressed, then sought out Parmenion. The Spartan, he was told by another servant, had gone to the training ground to run. Mothac followed him there, and sat by the Grave of Hector watching his new master lope effortlessly round the long circuit. The man moved well, thought Mothac, his feet scarcely seeming to make contact with the earth.

For more than an hour Parmenion continued to run, until sweat bathed his body and his calf muscles burned with fatigue. Then he slowed and jogged to the Grave, waving to Mothac and smiling broadly.

'You slept well?' he asked.

Mothac nodded. 'It was a good bed, and there is nothing like wine for bringing a man sweet dreams.'

'Were they sweet?' asked Parmenion softly.

'No. You are a fine runner. I never saw a better.'

Parmenion smiled. 'There will be a better man somewhere, there always is.' He began to ease his way through more stretching exercises, pulling gently at the muscles of his calves by leaning forward against the stone of the Grave.

'Are you going to run again?' Mothac asked.

'No.'

'Then why are you exercising?'

'The muscles are tight from the run. If they are not stretched, they will cramp; then I would not be able to run tomorrow. I was pleased to see no assailants waiting this morning,' he added, changing the subject.

'They will be back,' said Mothac. 'There are people determined to see you dead.'

'I do not think I will ever be an easy man to kill,' answered Parmenion, stretching out on the grass. 'But that could be arrogance speaking.'

'You have not asked me who hired me to kill you,' said Mothac.

'Would you tell me?'

'No.'

'That is why I did not ask.'

'Also,' added the red-bearded servant, turning his head away, 'you had the good grace not to question my tears. For that I thank you.'

'We all carry grief, my friend. Someone once told me that all the seas are but the Tears of Time, shed for the loss of loved ones. It may not be true, but I like the sentiment. I am glad you came back.'

Mothac smiled ruefully. 'I am not sure why I did. I had not intended to.'

'The reason does not matter. Come, let's get back and enjoy breakfast.'

As they reached the last corner Parmenion held out his arm, stopping Mothac. Leaning out, the Spartan peered down the street. Once more there were armed men at the front of the house and Parmenion's lips thinned as anger swept over him, but he crushed the rising fury and took a deep breath. 'Go out to them,' he told Mothac, 'and explain that you have just seen me running at the training ground, and that no one else was around. It will not be a lie, after all.'

The red-bearded Theban nodded and then ran out to the waiting men. Parmenion ducked down behind a low wall and waited as they pounded past him; then he rose and walked to where Mothac waited.

'Let us eat,' said Parmenion.

Epaminondas had left the house the night before, but had not yet returned. His servants were unable or unwilling to say where he had gone, so Parmenion and Mothac sat down to breakfast without waiting for the master of the house.

'Should I not be with them?' asked Mothac, as the servants brought food from the kitchens.

'Not yet,' answered Parmenion. 'We should get to know one another. Have you ever been a servant?'

'No,' Mothac admitted.

'And I have never had one.'

Mothac chuckled suddenly and shook his head.

'What is amusing you?' asked Parmenion.

The Theban shrugged. 'I had servants once. I can probably instruct you in how to care for them.'

Parmenion smiled broadly. 'I could do with instruction. I have very few belongings, so caring for my clothes will not strain you. My diet is. . Spartan? My needs are few. But I do need someone I can trust, and someone I can talk to. So let us begin by giving you a better title — you will be my companion. How does that sound?'

'I have been in your service only one day and already I am promoted. I see the prospects are good with you. But will you allow me one more day before I join you? There is something I must finish.'

'Of course.' Parmenion looked at him closely. 'Is this. . business. . something I can help you with?'

'No. I will settle it.'

The two men finished their breakfast and Mothac left the house and walked back to the main square, and on to the Lane of the Dead. He paid twelve drachms to an elderly man and gave him directions to his home.

'I will be there at sunset,' he told the undertaker. 'Make sure the mourners wail loudly.'

'They are the best,' the man promised him.

Mothac returned home and changed into an old chiton: it had once been red, but had faded to the pink of a dawn sky. He waited for an hour before the women arrived. There were three of them, all dressed in mourning grey. He left them to prepare Elea, then strapped on his sword-belt and dagger and strolled back to the square.

Elea was gone. Nothing could bring her back now, but he hoped she would find happiness on the other side, reunited with her parents. But he would miss her — and would never forget her. Some men, he knew, married several times when their wives died. But not Mothac.

Never again, he decided, as he sat waiting for the night. When I travel to the other side it will be to find Elea, and to enjoy eternity beside her.

The sun sank in splendour and the stars illuminated the sky. Torches were lit and placed in brackets set on the walls. Lanterns were hung from ropes and servants began to carry tables out into the square, ready for the diners. Mothac stood and faded back into the shadows, waiting patiently. The hours passed and it was approaching midnight before the Spartan, Cletus, made his way to a table and sat down to eat. Mothac knew the cause of Cletus' hatred of Parmenion. The racer Meleager had been unable to settle all his debts, and had been sent home in disgrace.

Without Meleager to help him, Cletus would soon run short of money and be forced to give up the life of pleasure he now enjoyed.

All Cletus now wanted — desired above all else — was to revenge himself on the Spartan traitor who had tricked them.

Mothac could understand his desire for revenge.

He waited until the Spartan had finished his meal, then followed him on the long walk to the Cadmea steps. As the Spartan began to climb the winding path Mothac glanced around. There was no one in sight. Softly he called Cletus by name and then ran up alongside him.

'Have you good news for me, man?" the Spartan asked.

'No,' answered Mothac, ramming his dagger into the man's neck, driving it deep above the collar-bone. Cletus fell back, scrabbling for his sword. Mothac struck him viciously in the face, then wrenched his knife clear, severing the jugular. Blood spouted from the wound but still Cletus tried to attack, swinging his sword desperately. Mothac leapt back. The Spartan fell and began to writhe in his death throes.

Mothac ran from the pathway and back to his home, removing his bloodstained chiton and washing himself clean. Dressed once more in the new tunic bought for him by Parmenion, he returned to the house of Epaminondas.

It would not take long for the hired killers to find out that their paymaster was dead.

When he entered the house he found Parmenion lounging on a couch in the andron.

The Spartan looked up at him. 'You concluded your business?'

'I did… sir.'

'To your satisfaction?'

'I would not call it satisfaction, sir. Merely a necessary chore.'

When Epaminondas brought the news of Cletus' murder to Parmenion, the Theban seemed genuinely distressed by the killing.

'I thought you had no love for Spartans,' said Parmenion, as they strolled through the gardens at the base of the great statue to Heracles.

Epaminondas glanced around. There were few people in the gardens, and none within earshot. 'No, I have not; but that is not the issue. I trust you, Parmenion, but there are plans in progress which must not be thwarted. The Spartan officer commanding the Cadmea has called for an investigation.

He is also said to be requesting more troops from Sparta, for he fears the murder may be the opening move in a revolt.'

'Which it was not,' said Parmenion, 'for if it was you would know of it.'

Epaminondas looked at him sharply and a blush spread over his pockmarked features. Then he smiled.

'You have a keen mind — thankfully it is allied to a curbed tongue. Yes, I am one who seeks to free Thebes. But it will take time and when it is close I will seek your advice. I have not forgotten the plan you outlined.'

They halted by a fountain which spouted from the arms of a statue of Poseidon, the sea god.

Parmenion drank from the pool below it, then both men sat on a marble seat beneath a canvas awning.

'You must be more careful,' advised Parmenion. 'Even the servants know you are engaged in secret meetings.'

'My servants can be trusted, but I take your point. I have no choice, however. We must meet to plan.'

'Then meet in daylight,' Parmenion suggested.

The two friends walked back along the avenue by Electra's Gates but Epaminondas, instead of walking on to his house, turned left down a shaded alley, stopping by an iron gate. He pushed it open and beckoned Parmenion inside. There was a narrow courtyard with high walls festooned with purple blooms. Beyond this was a paved section, roofed by climbing plants growing between crisscrossed twine. Epaminondas led the Spartan into the house beyond. There was a small, split-level andron containing six couches and with two doors, one leading to a kitchen and bathroom, the other to a corridor with three bedrooms.

'Whose house is this?' asked Parmenion.

'Yours,' the Theban answered with a broad grin. 'I placed 3,000 drachms on your race. This house was a mere 900 — I felt it would suit you.'

'Indeed it does — but such a gift? I cannot accept it.'

'Of course you can — and you must. I won ten times what this building cost me. Also,' he added, his smile fading, 'these are dangerous times. If I am arrested, and you are still my house guest, then they will take you also.'

Parmenion lounged on a couch, enjoying the breeze from the main window and the scent of flowers growing in the courtyard. 'I accept,' he said, 'but only as a loan. You must allow me to pay for the house — as and when I can.'

'If that is what you desire, then I agree,' said Epaminondas.

Parmenion and Mothac moved in the following morning. The Theban bought provisions in the market and the two men sat in the courtyard, enjoying the early morning sunshine.

'Were you seen when you killed Cletus?' asked Parmenion suddenly.

Mothac looked into his master's blue eyes and considered lying. Then he shook his head. 'There was no one nearby.'

'Good — but you will never again take such an action without speaking to me first. Is that understood?'

'Yes. . sir.'

'And I do not require you to call me that. My name is Parmenion.'

'It was necessary, Parmenion. He ordered your death. As long as he lived you were in danger.'

'I accept that — and do not take my criticism as ingratitude. But I am the master of my own fate.

I neither want — nor expect — any man to act for me.'

'It will not happen again.'

During the next eight months Parmenion raced twice and won both times, once against the Corinthian champion, the second time against a runner from Athens. He still competed under the name Leon, and few wagered against him, which meant that his winnings were not huge. For his last race he had wagered 200 drachms to win SO.

That night, as usual after a tough race, Parmenion stretched his tired legs with a gentle midnight run on the moonlit race-track. As well as easing his muscles he found, in this quiet time, a sense of peace — almost contentment. His hatred of Sparta was no less powerful now but it was controlled, held in chains. The day of his vengeance was coming closer, and he had no wish to hurry it.

As he passed the Grave of Hector a shadow moved from the trees. Parmenion leapt back, his hand clawing for the dagger in the sheath by his side.

'It is I, Parmenion,' called Epaminondas. The Theban stepped back into the shadows of the trees.

Parmenion walked to the Grave and sat down on the marble seat.

'What is wrong, my friend?' he whispered.

'I am being followed again, though for now I have lost them. I know you come here after races, and I need your help.'

'What can I do?'

'It is only a matter of time before I am taken. I want you to prepare a strategy to retake the Cadmea. But also there are letters I need carried to friends in other Boeotian cities. You are Spartan, you can travel without scrutiny. You have business interests across Boeotia. No one will think it strange if you travel to Thespiae, or Megara. Will you help?'

'You know that I will. You must bring the letters here, wrapped in oilskin. You can leave them behind this seat, covered with stones. No one will see them. I run here almost every day. I will find them.'

'You are a good friend, Parmenion. I will not forget this.'

Epaminondas faded back into the shadows and was gone.

Eleven times during the next four months Parmenion rode across Boeotia, carrying letters to rebels in Tanagra, Plataea, Thespiae and Heraclea. During this time he saw little of Epaminondas but heard, through Mothac, of increasing unrest among Thebans. In late summer two Spartan soldiers were stoned by a mob, close to the marketplace, and were rescued only when a contingent of armoured warriors ran to their aid from the Cadmea.

The crowd backed away as the soldiers arrived, but the mood was still ugly. Drawing their swords the Spartans charged the mob, their blades slicing into those unfortunates at the front. Blind panic overtook the Thebans and they scattered in terror. Parmenion, at the market-place to purchase new sandals, saw women and children trampled as the crowd fled. One young woman tripped and fell directly in front of the advancing Spartan line. Sprinting from the shop doorway, Parmenion hauled the woman to her feet and carried her back to the relative safety of the shop.

Two Spartan soldiers ran after him.

'I am a Spartan,' said Parmenion as their swords came up. Blood was dripping from the blades and battle-lust shone in the eyes of the warriors, but Parmenion stood his ground, meeting their gaze.

'What statue overlooks Leaving Street?' asked one of the soldiers, touching his bloodied blade to Parmenion's chest.

'The statue of Athena,' he answered, pushing aside the sword. 'Now ask me how many bricks there are in the Cattle Price Palace.'

'You keep bad company,' the soldier said. 'Make sure you know where your loyalties lie.'

'I know where they lie, brother, have no fear of that.'

The soldiers ran back to the street and Parmenion turned to the woman. Her lips were stained blood-red, her eyelids painted in the three colours of Aphrodite, red, blue and gold. 'You are a priestess?' he asked.

'No, I am a shepherd boy,' she snapped.

'I am sorry. It was a foolish question.'

Stepping forward she pressed herself against him. 'Do not be sorry. For forty obols I can make you very happy.' Her hand slid under his tunic, but he pushed her away and left the shop. Bodies lay hi the street, but the troops had moved on.

That night he thought again of the priestess, of her warm hand on his thigh. As the moon rose high over the city he made his way to the temple, finally finding her in a small room on the second floor. She smiled wearily when she saw him, and was about to speak when his hand came up and gently touched her lips.

'Say nothing,' he said coldly. 'I require your body — not your voice.'

As the months passed he made many visits to the young priestess with the red hair. But his passions were soon spent, and usually he left feeling sad and ashamed. It seemed to him that sex with any woman was a betrayal of the love he had known with Derae. Yet he returned week after week to the red-head, whose name he never bothered to ask.

His money dwindled as the odds on his races shortened, but at the start of his third year in Thebes he won against a Thessalian named Coranus, the middle-race victor of the Olympic Games where he had narrowly beaten Leonidas of Sparta. The odds against Parmenion were five to one, and he wagered all he had. The race was close, Parmenion finishing a mere arm's length in front of the Thessalian — and then only because his opponent stumbled in the powdery dust at the last bend. It was a lesson well learned. Never again would he wager everything on a single gamble.

Two days later came the news Parmenion had feared for almost three years. Mothac ran into the courtyard. 'Epaminondas has been arrested, along with Polysperchon. They have been taken to the Cadmea for torture.'