Lion of Macedon by David Gemmell
Illyrian cavalry charging across a wide field, their lances bright in the sunlight. Then the infantry marched forward in phalanx formation. Each man was armed with a spear and a short sword and carried a square shield of bronze-reinforced wood; they wore crested helms, breastplates and greaves, though their thighs were bare. At an order from their general the phalanx smoothly changed formation, moving out in a long line three men deep, spears levelled. Philip and his Macedonians were standing at the edge of the field when the King noticed the Illyrians on either side edging back.
‘Stand firm, no matter what,’ whispered Philip.
With a thunderous roar the infantry charged. Philip watched the spearmen closing on him and, for a moment, wondered if this was the end of his life. It seemed that nothing could stop the charging mass, and that within seconds an iron point would plunge into his unprotected breast. But he stood still with hands on hips, facing the charging men.
At the last possible second the phalanx halted. Philip gazed down at a spear-point hovering a ringer’s breadth from his chest. Slowly he lifted his hand to it, rubbing his thumb on the metal. He looked into the spearman’s eyes.
‘There is rust on this,’ he said softly. ‘You should take better care.’ Then he turned away.
Not one of his company had moved a muscle during the charge, and this filled Philip with pride. Bardylis waved and Philip joined the old King on a wide seat at the head of a table laden with food.
Parmenion was about to take his seat at the table when he noticed Grigery and Theo some twenty paces away. Once more the Illyrian was making some sneering comment, and even from this distance Parmenion could see Theo’s face redden, his hand moving towards his sword-hilt.
‘Theo!’ he roared, and the soldier froze. Parmenion walked over to the two men. ‘What is happening here?’ he asked.
‘This louse-ridden dog has challenged me,’ said Grigery.
‘I forbid it,’ stated Parmenion.
‘It is not for you to forbid anything in Illyria,’ retorted Grigery, his dark eyes gleaming.
Parmenion took a deep breath. ‘Did Theoparlis strike you?’ he asked softly.
‘No.’
‘I see. So, there was nothing like this,’ said Parmenion, lashing Grigery’s face with a backhanded blow that spun the man from his feet. A great roar went up from the officers who were preparing to dine. Parmenion ignored the warrior, who was scrambling to his feet, and walked to Bardylis. He bowed low.
‘Your majesty, I must apologize for this unseemly scene. But your man, Grigery, has challenged me to battle with him, and I seek your permission to accept.’
‘It was not with you!’ Grigery shouted.
‘Then you do not wish to fight the man who struck you?’ asked Parmenion.
‘Yes... I mean...’ His eyes turned to the King.
‘All men have seen the beginning of this quarrel,’ said Bardylis. ‘Now we must see the end. I give you permission to fight.’
‘Thank you, lord,’ said Parmenion. ‘Might I - as a guest -ask one favour? It seems only right, since we have interrupted a fine meal, to give you a spectacle not just of skill, but of courage. Would you therefore have any objection if we fought in the manner of Mesopotamia!! nobles before their King?’
Bardylis stared hard at Parmenion. He had no idea of how Mesopotamia!! warriors fought, but equally had no intention of disclosing this fact.
‘As you will.’
‘Let a brazier be prepared,’ said Parmenion, ‘with hot coals to the depth of a man’s forearm.’
Bardylis ordered two servants to fetch the brazier. Parmenion walked some distance from the table, and Philip and the others joined him there.
‘What in Hades is happening here?’ Philip asked.
‘I had no choice, sire. I promised you no Macedonian and Illyrian would fight. Whatever happens here will be seen to be between a Spartan and a warrior of Bardylis.’ He swung to Theo. ‘There is honey on the table. Fetch it - and some red wine. Find bandages and soak them in the wine.’
‘What is this manner of fighting?’ asked Antipater.
‘It is something new,’ Parmenion told him.
‘You lied to Bardylis?’ the King whispered.
‘Yes. You need not worry, sire; he cannot read minds.’
Four servants, using crossbars of thick wood, carried a burning brazier out into the field. Parmenion removed his breastplate and helm, tunic and greaves and, drawing his sword, walked out to stand before the brazier. Nonplussed, Grigery also stripped himself and moved to stand opposite him. The King and his officers formed a circle around the warriors and waited for the battle to begin.
‘You need a fire to keep you warm, old man?’ asked Grigery.
‘Do as I do,’ Parmenion told him. The Spartan turned to the brazier and thrust his sword-blade deep into it; leaving it there, he stood back with arms folded across his chest. Grigery plunged his blade alongside Parmenion’s.
‘Now what?’ the Illyrian asked.
‘Now we wait,’ the Spartan told him, locking his gaze to Grigery’s eyes.
Slowly the minutes passed. The spectators’ eyes flicked from the naked men to the blades, which had begun to glow a deep red.
The leather binding on the grip of Grigery’s blade twisted and cracked, then smouldered, black smoke rising from it. Slowly it peeled away. Parmenion’s sword had a metal grip, bound with fine gold wire over snakeskin. The skin burst into flame, the wire falling loose.
‘When you are ready,’ said Parmenion, ‘take your sword and begin.’
Grigery licked his lips and stared at the smouldering swords.
‘You first,’ he hissed.
‘Perhaps we should do it together. Are you ready?’
Grigery reached out, but the heat close to the hilt was unbearable and his hand flinched back. Gazing around the crowd, seeing their fascination with the contest, his eyes rested on the King whose features were cold. Grigery knew what was expected of him and he looked back at the red-hot sword.
The longer you wait, the hotter it will become,’ said Parmenion mildly.
‘You miserable whoreson!’ screamed Grigery, his hand grabbing for his sword and wrenching it clear. The agony hit him as his flesh blistered and peeled away, sticking to the sword-hilt. With a terrible cry he hurled the weapon from him. Parmenion reached out his left hand, drew his sword from the flames and walked to Grigery.
The Spartan’s face was without expression, but his breathing was quick and shallow, his teeth clenched and bared. Lifting the sword he wiped the gleaming blade across Grigery’s chest. The sizzling of burning hair and flesh carried to all the listeners and Grigery leapt back, falling to the grass.
Parmenion turned to Philip and bowed, then he raised the red-hot blade and saluted Bardylis. Parmenion’s arm flashed down and the sword plunged into the earth by his feet. The Spartan walked through the crowd to where Theo waited with the honey, which he smeared on the blistered, weeping flesh. ‘The bandages,’ he croaked. Theo lifted them from the shallow wine dish, squeezed the excess liquid from them and carefully wrapped the general’s hand.
‘How did you do that?’ asked Theo.
‘Can’t talk... at... the moment,’ said Parmenion, closing his eyes as the cool bandages drew the heat from his palm. He felt sick and weak and his legs were trembling. Gathering his strength, he looked at Theo. ‘Take the honey and the rest of the bandages to Grigery. Do it now!’
As Theo moved away, Parmenion heard footsteps approaching. He turned to see Bardylis and Philip, followed by a score of officers.
‘You are an interesting man, Parmenion,’ said the old King, ‘and I should have known better than to allow a test of endurance against a Spartan. How is your hand?’
‘It will heal, your majesty.’
‘But you were not sure, were you? That is why you used your left.’
‘Exactly so.’
‘Are you strong enough to dine with us?’
‘Indeed I am, sire
The pain was indescribable, but Parmenion willed himself to sit through the meal, even to eat, contenting himself with the knowledge that Grigery was nowhere to be seen.
The Temple, Autumn, 359 BC
Life was increasingly difficult for Derae as Tamis’ mental condition deteriorated. The old woman now spent her days sitting in the temple gardens, often talking to herself, and at times it was impossible to communicate with her. Her sense of despair had grown and the duties of the Temple rested on Derae alone. Every day supplicants would arrive - long lines of sick or crippled folk, rich and poor, waiting for the hands of the Healer.
The work exhausted Derae, especially now that the old helper Naza had died, and there was no one to do the work around the garden or to gather the vegetables planted in the spring.
Only occasionally did Derae find the time - and more rarely, the energy - to observe Parmenion.
Day by day she laboured on.
Then she herself fell sick, a fever coming upon her swiftly, leaving her legs weak and her mind hazy. Despite her powers she could not heal herself, nor tend to the sick who waited in vain outside the closed gates. Tamis was no help, for when Derae called out to her the old woman seemed not to hear.
For eleven days Derae lay sick and exhausted, floating between strange dreams and confused awakenings. Once she awoke to see, with her spirit eyes, a man beside her bed.
He had part lifted her and was spooning a broth into her mouth. Then she slept again.
Finally she awoke and felt the sunlight coming through the open window. With no sense of the passing of time, she knew only that she was tired but no longer sick. Her bedroom door opened and a man entered. Tall and grey-bearded, dressed in a runic of faded red, he carried a dish of water to her bedside and helped her to drink.
‘You are feeling better, priestess?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Thank you. I know your voice, don’t I? But I don’t remember...’
‘My name is Leucion. I came here a long time ago and you advised me to go to Tyre. I took that advice. There I found love and a good wife, and we reared fine sons and two daughters.’
Derae lay back and spirit-gazed upon the man, remembering the look in his eyes as he had tried to rape her. ‘I remember. Why did you come back?’
‘My wife died, priestess, and my eldest son now sits at the head of the table. But I never forgot you. I wanted... I wanted to see you again. To apologize. But when I came here you were ill, and there was no help. So I stayed.’
‘How long have I been in bed?’
‘Twelve days,’ said Leucion. ‘At first I thought you would die, but I managed to get you to eat. I fed the old woman too, but I do not think she even knows I am here.’
‘Eleven days? How is it that my bedclothes are so clean?’
‘I changed them for you, and washed the others. When you are well again I shall leave.’
Derae took the man’s hand. ‘I thank you for your help, and I am glad you came back. I am glad also that your life has been happy. And if you are seeking forgiveness -I gave that a long time ago, Leucion.’
‘There are many people waiting for you. What shall I tell them?’
‘Tell them I shall be with them tomorrow.’ Derae pushed back the covers and stood; her legs were unsteady, but she could feel her strength returning. Leucion brought her clothes and offered to help her dress. ‘It is all right, Leucion, I may be blind, but I can dress myself.’ She chose a simple white gown and walked to the gardens, where Tamis was sitting by the fountain.
‘Please don’t hate me!’ whimpered the old woman.
Derae cuddled her, stroking her hair. ‘You look tired, Tamis. Why don’t you rest?’
‘It’s all wrong. All of it. I haven’t served the Light at all. It’s my fault, Derae.’ The younger woman took Tamis by the arm and led her to her own quarters. Tamis sank on to the bed and fell asleep instantly.
‘Is she still taunting you?’ whispered Derae, sitting beside the old priestess. ‘Let us see.’ She soared and looked around but there was no one close, and no sign or feel of the hooded woman. What then, Derae wondered, was the source of Tamis’ despair? With the priestess asleep, she decided to find out. Never before had she entered Tamis’ mind unbidden, but it was useless now to try to elicit information. Her decision made, Derae’s spirit flowed into Tamis, becoming one with the sleeping woman. She saw many years flow by, felt Tamis’ hopes, dreams, despairs; saw a child of unique talent become a woman of power and influence; watched her grow, observed - and shared - her lovers and her bereavements. Finally she saw the first vision Tamis had seen of the birth of the Dark God - and watched in horror as Tamis orchestrated the death of the Persian girl who was to bear the babe.
‘We cannot use the weapons of the enemy,’ Tamis had said. And yet, fifty years ago, the seeress had entered the mind of the pregnant Persian, taking control of her limbs. Then she had walked her to the top of the tower, forcing her to climb the parapet and leap to her death. Derae shook herself clear of the shared memory and, with growing unease, continued her journey. As the years moved on, her mood darkened. Tamis had begun to manipulate events. She it was who asked Xenophon to teach the boy strategy; she also used her powers to keep Parmenion separated from the other boys of his barracks, instilling in them a dislike for the young mix-blood.
But worst of all, Derae found the answer to a lifelong mystery.
Though she had loved Parmenion desperately, she had never understood why they had been so reckless in their love-making, so stupid and so open.
Now she saw....
Now she knew....
For, as with the hooded woman in Tamis’ dream, so Tamis herself had floated above the lovers, using her power to blind them to peril, urging them on, driving them to their destruction.
Worse, it was Tamis who had spirit-led the raiders to her, Tamis who had caused her horse to bolt, leaving her with no escape. It was Tamis who had filled Nestus with the craving for vengeance, who had planted in him the desire to see Derae killed.
Tamis had engineered it all.
Parmenion had been manipulated, steered like a horse with invisible reins - led to Thebes, led to Persia, led to Macedonia.
But the last lie was the worst of all. Derae saw herself battling against her bonds in the sea after being thrown from the ship. The leather at her wrists had stretched in the water and she had torn her hands free and swum for her life, the thunder of the breakers coming ever closer. She was strong and young, and she had battled the force of the deep almost to the beach when a huge wave picked her up and dashed her head against a rock. Seconds later, Naza had waded out and dragged her in to the shore.
‘She is alive!’ said the old man.
‘Carry her to the temple,’ Tamis ordered. Alive! Not chained by the bonds of death at all. Lies, lies, lies! She could have left at any time and gone to Parmenion; she could have saved him from his life of emptiness and torment.
‘Please don’t hate me!’
Derae fled to her body and rose, staring down at the old woman as she slept. She wanted to strike her, to wake her and scream the truth at her.
A servant of the Light? A woman who professed to believe in the power of love?
Derae staggered back from the force of her own hatred and ran from the room, colliding with Leucion in the corridor beyond. She almost fell, but his arms went around her.
‘What is wrong, lady?’
‘Everything,’ whispered Derae.
And the tears followed.
Pella, Spring, 358 BC
Philip watched the 1,000-strong Foot Companions form into a fighting square and charge across the field. At a shouted order from Parmenion they halted, still in formation, and wheeled to the left. Another order saw the rear five ranks pull clear and stream out to widen the front line.
The discipline was good and the King was well pleased. He saw the men gather up their sarissas - spears three times the length of a tall man - that Philip had personall
Parmenion was not so sure. ‘They are formidable, sire, at the front, but an enemy could sweep to flanks, making them useless.’
‘True, strategos, but to do that an enemy would have to change the tactics of his entire army - tactics used for a century or more.’
‘Even so, we need a secondary tactic of our own,’ said Parmenion.
And he had supplied it.
No longer would Philip’s cavalry adopt a frontal charge on the enemy; this would be left to the new infantry, the cavalry taking position on both flanks of the phalanx, forcing the enemy army in upon itself.
Day by day through the autumn and winter the army grew. Villagers and peasants flocked to Pella to undergo rigorous training in order to win the new Phrygian armour, the black breastplate and red-crested helm. By midwinter Parmenion had selected the men for the King’s Guard, each of whom had black cloaks of the finest wool and a bronze-edged shield bearing the Star of Macedon at the centre. These had been purchased with gold from the Crousia mines. Under Attalus the mines had once more produced a plentiful supply of the precious metal, and Philip spent the proceeds even as they arrived in Pella: armour from Boeotia and Phrygia, horses from Thrace, marble from the south, cloaks from Thebes, builders from Athens and Corinth.
The barracks was finished now and the Guards lived there, eating the finest food, drinking only the best wine, but earning their privileges with extraordinary displays of endurance and stamina under the eagle eye of Parmenion.
Theoparlis and Achillas had remained with the King after his return from Illyria. Having seen their families in Pelagonia and supplied them with enough coin to last the winter, the two men now commanded phalanxes of infantry each 2,000 strong.