Parmenion laid a hand on Hermias’ shoulder. ‘Since that is the case, why are you worried? I will lose. So be it. But I will not play to lose.’
Hermias sat down at the foot of the statue of Zeus and took two apples from his hip-pouch. He passed one to Parmenion, who bit carefully into it. ‘Why are you so stubborn?’ Hermias asked. ‘Is it your Macedonian blood?’
‘Why not the Spartan blood, Hermias? Neither peoples are renowned for giving ground.’
‘It was not meant as an insult, Savra. You know that.’
‘Not from you, no,’ said the taller youth, taking his friend’s hand. ‘But think on it, you all call me Savra – lizard – and you think of me as a half-breed barbarian.’
Hermias pulled away, his expression showing his hurt. ‘You are my friend,’ he protested.
‘That is not at issue, Hermias, nor is it an answer. You cannot help what you are – you are a Spartan, pure-blooded, with a line of heroes that goes back far beyond Thermopylae. Your own father marched with Lysander and never knew defeat. Probably you have friends among the helots and the other slave classes. But you still see them as slaves.’
‘You also had a Spartan father who came back on his shield, with all his wounds in front,’ insisted Hermias. ‘You are Spartan too.’
‘And I have a Macedonian mother.’ Parmenion removed his tunic, wincing as his arms stretched over his head. His lean body was marked by bruises and cuts, and his right knee was swollen. His angular face was also bruised, the right eye almost closed. ‘These are the marks I bear for my blood. When they took me from my mother’s house, I was seven years old. From that day to this I have never known the sun to shine on a body that did not carry wounds.’
‘I too have suffered bruises,’ said Hermias. ‘All Spartan boys must suffer – else there would be no Spartan men, and we would no longer be pre-eminent. But I hear what you say, Sav . . . Parmenion. It seems Leonidas hates you, and he is a powerful enemy. Yet you could go to him and ask to serve him. Then it would stop.’
‘Never! He would laugh at me and throw me out into the street.’
‘Yes he might. But, even so, the beatings would end.’
‘Would you do that if you were me?’
‘No.’
‘Then why should I?’ hissed Parmenion, his pale eyes locking to his friend’s face.
Hermias sighed. ‘You are hard on me, Parmenion. But you are right. I love you as a brother, and yet I do not see you as Spartan. I do inside my head – but my heart . . .’
‘Then why should the others – who are not my friends -accept me?’
‘Give us time – give us all time. But know this: whatever you choose, I will stand beside you,’ said Hermias softly.
‘That is something I never doubted. Now call me Savra -from you it has a good sound.’
‘I shall be at your side for the contest, and I will pray to Athena of the Road for your victory,’ said Hermias, smiling. ‘Now, would you like me to stay with you?’
‘No – but thank you. I will remain here a while with Father Zeus, and I will think, and I will pray. I will see you at Xenophon’s house three hours after noon for the contest.’
Hermias nodded and wandered away. Parmenion watched him go, then swung his attention to the awakening city.
Sparta. The home of heroes, birth-place of the finest warriors ever to walk the green earth. From here, less than a century before, the legendary Sword King had set off for the Pass of Thermopylae with 300 warriors and 700 helots. There the tiny force had faced an army of Persians numbering more than a quarter of a million.
And yet the Spartans had held, hurling back the foe, until at last the Persian King Xerxes sent in his Immortals. Ten thousand of the finest warriors Persia could muster from her great empire, highly trained, the elite corps. And the Spartans humbled them. Parmenion felt his heart swell as he pictured those grim-eyed men in their full-faced helms of bronze, their blood-red cloaks and their shining swords. The might of Persia – the might of the world! – broken upon the swords of 300 Spartans. He turned to the south-east. There, out of sight now, was the monument to the King