‘You are a mercenary?’ Philip asked.
‘Yes,’ replied Parmenion. ‘And you are a builder?’
Philip nodded. ‘It is to be a barracks, I am told. Perhaps one day you will be quartered here.’
‘The footings are deep,’ observed the warrior, walking to the trench and watching the workmen.
‘There are occasional earthquakes,’ Philip told him, ‘and it is essential for the foundations to be sound. It does not matter how pretty the building – without good foundations it will fall.’
‘The same is true of armies,’ said the warrior softly. ‘Did you fight against the Paionians?’
‘I did. It was a good victory.’
‘Did the King fight?’
‘Like a lion. Like ten lions,’ said Philip, smiling broadly.
The man nodded and was silent for a moment, then he turned to the King and he too smiled. ‘I am glad to hear it -I would not wish to serve a coward.’
‘You seem sure the King will employ you?’
The warrior shrugged. ‘Did you like my horse, sire?’
‘Yes, he is a fine . . . how did you know me?’
‘You are much changed from the boy I saw in Thebes, and I might not have recognized you. However, you are also the only man not working – and such, I would guess, is the King’s prerogative. I am hot, and my throat is dusty – and it would be pleasant if we could find a place out of the sun and discuss why you asked me here.’
‘Indeed we shall,’ said Philip, smiling broadly. ‘But first let me say that you are a prayer answered. You have no idea how greatly you are needed.’
‘I think I have,’ answered Parmenion. ‘I remember a young boy telling me of a country surrounded by enemies -Illyrians, Paionians, Thracians. A soldier remembers such things.’
‘Well, it is worse now. I have no army to speak of and little but my wits to hold back our foes. Gods, man, but I’m pleased to see you!
‘I may not stay,’ warned Parmenion.
‘Why?’ Philip asked, a cold fear touching his heart.
‘I do not yet know if you are a man I would wish to serve.’
‘You speak frankly, but I cannot question the wisdom behind the words. Come with me to the palace; there you can bathe and shave and refresh yourself. Then we can talk.’
Parmenion nodded. ‘Did you really fight like ten lions?’ he asked, his face expressionless.
‘More like twenty,’ replied Philip, ‘but I am modest by nature.’
Parmenion climbed out of the bath and strolled to the window, allowing the water to evaporate from his skin, cooling it. Running his fingers through his thinning hair, he turned to Mothac.
‘What did you think of him?’
Mothac shook his head. ‘I don’t like to see a King in a loincloth, digging dirt like a peasant.’
‘You’ve been among the Persians too long, my friend.’
‘Will we stay?’
Parmenion did not answer. The journey had been long across Asia Minor and into Thrace, crossing mountains and rivers. And despite the saving of a week’s travel after the meeting with Aristotle, he was tired and felt the dull ache of the old spear-wound under his right shoulder. He rubbed himself down with a towel, then lay on a couch while Mothac massaged oil into his back.
Macedonia. It was greener than he had imagined, more lush. But he experienced a slight disappointment, for he had hoped to feel that he had come home. Instead it was just another land, boasting tall mountains and fertile plains.
Dressing in a simple tunic and sandals, he wandered out to the courtyard to watch the setting sun. He felt old and bone-weary. Epaminondas was dead – slain at Mantinea just as Tamis had foretold. Parmenion shivered.
Mothac brought him a pitcher of wine and they sat in comfortable silence. As the sun set Mothac lit a lantern and the two men ate a frugal meal of bread and cheese.
‘You liked him, didn’t you?’ asked Mothac at last.
‘Yes. He reminds me of Pelopidas.’
‘He’ll probably end his life the same way,’ remarked Mothac.
‘By Heaven, you’re in a sour mood,’ snapped Parmenion. ‘What’s wrong with you?’