Gemmell, David – Lion of Macedon 01

‘I know nothing of this, and your conversation is plagued with riddles. I must thank you for your food and your hospitality, but let us speak frankly: who are you?’

The man chuckled and leaned back against the trunk of the flowering tree. ‘Straight for the heart, eh? Ever the general. Well, there’s no harm in that, my Spartan friend. It has served you well over the years, has it not? Me? As I said, I am a scholar. I have never been a warrior, though I have known many. You remind me much of Leonidas the Sword King. He was a man of great prowess, and had a gift for making men great.’

‘The Sword King died more than a century ago,’ said Parmenion. ‘Are you telling me you knew him?’

‘I did not say I knew him, Parmenion. I said you reminded me of him. It was a shame he felt he had to die at Thermopylae; he could have made Sparta truly great. Still, he also was a strong echo of the Great Song, 300 men against an army of 200,000. Wondrously brave.’

‘When I was in Thebes,’ said Parmenion, ‘there was a man who tried to teach me to catch fish with my bare hands. Talking to you reminds me of those days. I hear your

words, but they slip by me, the meanings obscure. How can you help me?’

‘At this moment you do not need me, Spartan,’ said the man, his smile fading. Reaching out, he gripped Par-menion’s arm. ‘But there will come a time. You will be given a task, and my name will come into your mind. It is then that you must seek me out. You will find me where first we met. Do not forget that, Parmenion – much will depend on it.’

Parmenion stood. ‘I will remember, and once more I thank you for your hospitality. If we go back the way we came, will we see again the river and the mountains?’

‘No. This time you will emerge in the hills above Pella.’

The grey-haired man stood and offered his hand. Parmenion took it, feeling the strength in the grip. ‘You are not as old as you look,’ said the Spartan with a smile.

There is great truth in that,’ the man answered. ‘Seek me out when you have need. And by the way, even as we speak the Thracian King is dying, poisoned by one of Philip’s friends. Such is the fate of greedy Kings, is it not?’

‘Sometimes,’ agreed Parmenion, vaulting to the stallion’s back. ‘Do you have a name, scholar?’

‘I have many. But you may call me Aristotle.’

‘I have heard of you – though never as a magus. It is said you are a philosopher.’

‘I am what I am. Ride on, Parmenion – the Song awaits.’

*

The trench was more than 200 feet long, the fifty men digging with picks and shovels through layers of clay and rock, the sun beating down on their bare backs as they laboured. Other soldiers worked to clear the debris, which they threw on to the banks of the trench.

Philip drove his pick into the ground before him, feeling his shoulders jar as the metal edge struck rock once more. Laying the tool aside he dropped to his knees and dug into the clay, hooking his fingers around the stone and dragging it clear. It was larger than he had first thought, its weight as

great as that of a small man. He was about to call for help when he saw several of the men looking at him and grinning. He smiled back, placed his arms alongside the rock and heaved it to his chest. With a powerful surge he rose and rolled the offending stone to the bank. Then he climbed out and walked the line of the trench, stopping to speak to the workers, gauging their progress.

At each end the trench turned at right-angles, the workers following the lines of ropes pegged to the ground. Philip walked back from the site and pictured the new barracks. It would be two storeys high, with a long dining-hall and seven dormitories housing more than 500 men. The architect was a Persian who had been trained in Athens, and Philip had demanded that the building should be completed by next spring.