‘With me? Nothing. But I want to know why we left Susa to come here. We had the life of princes; we were rich, Parmenion. What does this frontier land hold for us? The Macedonians will never amount to anything. And what do you have to gain here? You are known as the greatest general in the civilized world. But it is not enough, is it? You cannot resist the impossible challenge.’
‘You are probably right. But I asked you if you wanted to stay in Persia. I put no bridle on you, Mothac.’
The Theban grunted. ‘You think friendship has no chains? Well, it has. Even to following you – and your pride – into this wilderness with its half-Greek barbarians.’
Parmenion reached out and gripped his friend’s arm.
‘You shame me, Mothac. And I am sorry if this enterprise does not meet with your approval. I don’t understand all the reasons that drew me here. Partly it was the call of blood. My ancestors lived on this land, fought for it, died for it; I had to see it. But there is truth in what you say. I know what men call me, but are they correct? I have always led well-trained armies, mostly outnumbering the enemy. Here, as you observe, there is a challenge. The Illyrians are disciplined and well-led, the Thracians ferocious and many, the Olynthians rich enough to hire the best mercenaries. What glory would there be in leading any of them? But Macedon?’ He smiled. ‘I cannot resist it, my friend.’
‘I know,’ said Mothac wearily. ‘I have always known.’
‘That we would come to Macedonia?
‘No. It is not easy to put into words.’ He was silent for a while, his green eyes fixed to Parmenion’s face. Finally he smiled, reaching forward to grip his friend’s shoulder. ‘I think – deep inside – you are still the mix-blood boy in Sparta, striving to prove your worth. And, if you succeed here – which is doubtful – you will hunt the impossible challenge elsewhere. And the foolish Mothac will be with you. And now I’ll say goodnight.’ The Theban rose and walked away to his rooms.
For a while Parmenion sat alone, his thoughts sombre, then he strolled out into the gardens beyond the courtyard and up the steps of the high wall, where he leaned on the parapet looking south towards Thessaly.
Mothac was right, he knew. The boy Savra remained within the general Parmenion – sad and lonely, still seeking a home, a love, happiness. He had hoped to find it in Persia, in wealth and renown. But fame was no answer, and fortune merely served to remind him of all the joys he could not buy.
All was darkness beyond the city, but somewhere out there to the south Pelopidas had fallen, fighting alongside the Thessalians against the Tyrant of Pherae. The enemy advancing on all fronts, Pelopidas had charged into their centre, cleaving his way towards the Tyrant. It had changed the course of the battle, but the Theban had died in the
charge. The victorious Thessalians had cut the manes and tails from their horses in honour of the dead general.
Parmenion shivered. He had thought Pelopidas invulnerable. ‘But no man is,’ he whispered. ‘May the gods bless your spirit, Pelopidas. May you know joy in the Hall of Heroes.’
‘Do you believe that he does?’ asked Philip, moving up the steps and sitting opposite Parmenion.
The older man sighed. ‘It would be fitting. You should have seen him at Leuctra – like a god of War he clove the enemy, striking down the Battle King.’
Philip nodded. ‘While you charged the enemy centre, sending their javeliners and archers running from the field. It was your victory, Parmenion, the forerunner of many more in Cappadocia, Phrygia, Egypt, Mesopotamia. You have never lost. Why is that?’
‘Perhaps I fight like twenty lions, sire.’
‘It was a serious question, strategos.’
‘Your barracks supplies the answer. The footings must be right, the foundations solid, the walls resting on firm ground. An army needs many things, but above all it needs confidence, belief that it will win the day. Training gives confidence, those are the footings. Good officers are the foundations.’