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.