They would expect him to make either for the barracks or
for the home of his mother. He would do neither. Instead he ran through the deserted market-place and on to the sanctuary hill above the city.
Back at the statue of Athena an old woman stepped out into the moonlight, leaning on a long staff. She sighed and sat down on a marble seat – her body weary, her mind touched with sorrow.
‘I am sorry, Parmenion,’ she said. ‘Strong though you are, I must make you iron. You are a man of destiny.’ She thought then of the other boys in the barracks. How easy it was to make them hate the half-breed, such a simple enchantment. To heal a boil took more psychic energy than to encourage hatred. It was a disturbing thought and Tamis shivered.
Glancing up at the statue she saw the blind, marble eyes staring down at her. ‘Do not be so haughty,’ she whispered. ‘I know your true name, woman of stone. I know your weaknesses and your desires, and I have more power than you.’
Tamis pushed herself to her feet.
A face came to her mind and she smiled. Despite the enchantment Parmenion had one friend, a boy impervious to the fuel of hatred. Although it went against her plans, yet still she found the thought comforting.
‘Sweet Hermias,’ she said. ‘If all men were as you, then my work would not be necessary.’
*
Parmenion sat on a rock waiting for the dawn, his belly hungry but his jaw too bruised to chew on the stale bread he had saved from the previous day’s breakfast. The sun rose slowly over the red hills of the Parnon range, and the water of the Eurotas River sparkled into life. The sun’s warmth touched Parmenion’s wiry body, causing him to shiver involuntarily. Spartan training taught a man to ignore pain, to close his mind to cold or heat. To a great degree he had mastered this, but the new warmth served only to remind him how cold he had been on this long night, hidden upon the sanctuary hill above the city.
The statue of Zeus, Father of Heaven – twelve feet tall, majestic and bearded – stared out over the lands to the west of the city, seeming to study the towering Mount Ilias. Parmenion shivered once more and took a tentative bite from the dark bread, stifling a groan as pain flamed from his jaw. The punch from Gryllus had been powerful and, held as he was, Parmenion could not roll with the blow. He lifted a finger to his mouth. A tooth was loose. Tearing the bread, he pushed a small piece to the right of his jaw, chewing gently. Having finished his meagre breakfast, he stood. His left side was tender. Lifting the chiton tunic, he examined the area; it was an angry purple, and there was blood above the hip.
He stretched – then froze as he heard movement on the Climbing Path. Swiftly he ran behind the marble Sanctuary to the Muses, crouching to wait for the newcomers, his heart pounding. He picked up a sharp shard of broken marble; it had an edge like an axe-blade. If they came at him again, someone would die!
A slender boy in a blue tunic walked into view. He had dark curly hair and thick brows. Parmenion recognized his friend, Hermias, and relief washed over him. Dropping the stone, he pushed himself wearily to his feet. Hermias saw him and ran forward, gripping him by the shoulders. ‘Oh, Savra, my friend, how much more must you suffer?’
Parmenion forced a smile. ‘Today will see the end of it. Maybe.’
‘Only if you lose, Savra. And you must lose. They could kill you. I fear they will!’ Hermias looked into his friend’s pale blue eyes and saw no compromise there. ‘You are not going to lose, though, are you?’ he said sadly.
Parmenion shrugged. ‘Perhaps – if Leonidas is more skilful, if the judges favour him.’
‘Of course they will favour him. Gryllus says that Agisaleus is coming to watch – you think the judges will allow a nephew of the King to be humiliated?’