‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Find yourself a bed in the western dormitory, and then report to Solon at the training field.’ As Parmenion prepared to leave, the man rose and waved him back. ‘Lepidus spoke well of you, boy. He says you have had a tough time and that you bore it well. Know this, that here you will be judged only by what we see – not by what we have heard.’
‘That is all I ask, sir. Thank you.’
Parmenion hoisted his blanket roll to his shoulder and walked to the western wing. All the rush beds bar two had blankets upon them. Parmenion chose the empty bed farthest from the door and lay down. For a while he watched dust-motes dancing in shafts of sunlight coming through a broken shutter. Then he closed his eyes.
A hand touched his shoulder and he was instantly awake. There were stars in the sky and the room was filling up with young men. He looked up at the boy who had touched him.
It was Hermias.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Parmenion, rolling to his feet and embracing his friend.
‘I transferred here this morning,’ Hermias answered. ‘I wouldn’t want you to feel lonely.’
Parmenion was truly moved. Lycurgus Barracks was where the rich sent their youngsters; it was for the elite Spartiates. Parmenion had been the only poor boy enrolled there – as the son of a hero, part of the cost of his education was being paid by his father’s battalion. For Hermias to leave the elite to join Menelaus, the smallest of barracks, was something Parmenion could hardly believe. ‘You should not have done this, Hermias, my friend. But I am glad you did. I cannot tell you how glad.’
‘It is a new beginning, Savra. A chance to forget the past.’
Parmenion nodded. ‘You are right,’ he said.
But he would not forget. He would make them pay. He would live for the day when his enemies lay in the dust at his feet, staring up at him, begging forgiveness.
‘That’s better, Savra! I like to see you smile,’ said Hermias.
Sparta, Summer, 382 BC
Parmenion settled swiftly into life at Menelaus and during the next three years, though never popular, found few of the problems which had beset him at Lycurgus. Every year he and Hermias represented their barracks in the short- and middle-distance races, but in other spheres they remained merely good students, neither excelling nor falling short of the required standard in throwing the javelin or the discus, in sword work or wrestling. Parmenion enjoyed working with the short sword, for he was fast and strong, but only when angry did his skill become lethal. Understanding this instinctively, it did not concern him that some youths could best him in practice. Deep in his heart he knew the outcome would be different if the battles were to the death.
But as a runner Parmenion was the finest athlete in Sparta. Twice, in inter-barracks competitions, he bested Leonidas in the four-mile race, but was himself narrowly beaten in the third year when Leonidas was chosen to represent Sparta in the coming Olympics.
It was a bitter disappointment to Parmenion, who had trained hard during his time at Menelaus.
‘I understand your anger,’ said Xenophon, as they sat in his courtyard one evening, ‘but you did the best you could. No man can ask more of himself than that.’
Parmenion nodded. ‘But I made a tactical mistake. I tried
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to beat him with 200 paces left. He was waiting for my move and hung on to me. He beat me with three strides to go.’
‘You beat him in the Games three years ago and he endured his shame well. Allow him his moment of glory.’ In his fiftieth year, the Athenian was still a handsome man, though his hair was now totally silver and thinning at the crown. He poured a goblet of wine, added water and sipped the drink. Parmenion lived for the hours they spent together, discussing tactics and strategy, formations and battles. The youth learned when to wheel a phalanx, when to fight with a thinned line, when to extend, when to draw back, how to choose the anchor warriors who held the line together. Xenophon loved to talk and Parmenion was happy to listen. At times he would disagree with an analysis and the two men would argue long into the night. Parmenion always had the good sense – ultimately – to allow Xenophon to convince him, and their relationship grew. Gryllus had been sent to friends in Athens and often Parmenion would stay with the Athenian general for days at a time, taking Gryllus’ place on summer journeys to Xenophon’s second home in Olympia, near the sea.