‘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?’