‘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