Tamis closed her eyes. ‘Now we will see your destiny, Parmenion,’ she whispered. ‘Now we will see.’
*
Parmenion lay on a hillside to the east of the city, watching the young girls run and play. His interest in their activities surprised him, for this was not a pastime he would have considered before last summer. He recalled the day when a new kind of joy entered his life. He had been running up and down the hillside when a voice as sweet as the birth of morning spoke to him.
‘What are you doing?’
Parmenion turned to see a young girl, perhaps fourteen years of age. She was wearing a simple white tunic, through which he could see not just the exquisite shape of her small breasts but also the nipples, pressing against the linen. Her
legs were tanned and smooth, her waist narrow, her hips rounded. He glanced up guiltily, aware that he was reddening – and found himself gazing into wide, grey eyes set in a face of surpassing beauty.
‘I was . . . running,’ he answered.
‘I saw that,’ she said, lifting a hand and pushing her fingers through her red-gold hair. It seemed to Parmenion that sunlight became trapped in her curls, glinting like jewels. ‘But tell me why?’ she went on. ‘You run up the hill. Then you run down the hill. Then up again. There is no sense to it.’
‘Lepidus – my barrack master – says that it will strengthen my legs. I am fast.’
‘And I am Derae,’ she told him.
‘No, my name is not Fast.’
‘I know that. I was joking with you.’
‘I see. I… I must be going.’ He turned and fled up the hill. Surprisingly, considering his previous exertions, he moved at a pace he had not considered possible.
For almost a year since this meeting he had come to the hills and the fields beyond the lake to watch the girls run. Lepidus had told him that only in Sparta were women allowed to develop their bodies. Other city states considered such exercise indecent, claiming that it incited men to commit grave crimes. Parmenion felt this could well be true, as he lay on his belly in acutely pleasurable discomfort, his eyes following Derae.
He saw the girls line up for the short race. Derae was on the outside. She won easily, her long legs stretching out, her feet scarcely seeming to make contact with the grass.
Only twice in the year had he found the courage to speak to her as she approached the field. But always she greeted him with a cheerful smile and a wave, then was away and running before a conversation could develop. Parmenion did not mind. It was enough that he could gaze on her every week. Besides, there would be little point in getting to know her, since no Spartan man was allowed to marry before he reached Manhood at twenty.
Four years. An eternity.
After an hour the girls finished their exercise and
prepared to return to their homes. Parmenion rolled on to
his back, closing his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun.
He thought of many things as he rested there, his hands
behind his neck. He thought of the battle with Leonidas,
k and the endless torment of the barracks, and of Xenophon,
I and of Hermias, and of Derae. He tried not to think too
much about his mother, for the wound was too fresh, and
when her face floated before his mind he felt himself
unmanned, out of control.
A shadow fell across him.
‘Why do you watch me?’ asked Derae. Parmenion jerked up to a sitting position. She was kneeling on the grass beside him.
‘I did not hear you approach.’
‘That does not answer my question, young Fast.’
‘I like to watch you,’ he answered, grinning. ‘You run well, but I think you pump your arms too much.’
‘So, you watch me because you like to criticize my running?’
‘No, that is not what I meant.’ Parmenion took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘I think you know that. I believe you are joking with me again.’