Parmenion. ‘I know it deep inside my soul. She was the one. We were so close during those five days.’
‘I know this may sound callous, my friend, but perhaps your passion deceives you. You are not yet a worldly man and it may be that you were merely infatuated. And there are many women in Thebes to make a man happy.’
Parmenion gazed out over the man-made lake, watching the fragmented moon floating on the surface. ‘I shall not love again,’ he said. ‘I will never open my heart to the risk of so much pain. When my mother died I felt lost and alone, but deep in my heart I had been expecting it – and, I suppose, preparing for it. But Derae? It is as if a beast with terrible talons had reached inside me and ripped away my heart. I feel nothing. I have no dreams, no hopes. For a moment back there I was willing for Nestus to kill me. But then he told me he had ordered Derae’s death.’
‘Not too clever of him, was it?’ observed Xenophon drily. Parmenion did not smile.
‘When I killed Learchus that night, I felt a surge of joy. I gloried in his death. But today I killed a man who did not deserve to die, watched the light of life fade from his eyes. Worse, he begged me not to strike the death blow.
‘He would have died in agony from the stomach wound, said Xenophon. ‘If anything, you ended his misery.’
‘That is not the point, is it?’ asked Parmenion quietly, turning to face the silver-haired Athenian.
‘No, it is not. You destroyed him, and it was not good to see. Also you made enemies. No one who saw the duel will forget the way he died. But in Thebes you can make a new life. Epaminondas is a good man and he will find a place for you.’
Parmenion sank back on a marble seat. ‘Derae had a dream about me, but it was a false one. She dreamt she was in a temple and I came to her dressed as a general; she called me the Lion of Macedon.’
‘It has a good ring to it,’ said Xenophon, suddenly feeling the chill of the evening and shivering. ‘Let us go back to the house. I have some gifts for you.’
Clearchus had set out the presents on a long table and
Parmenion moved first to the bronze breastplate. It was simply made and not, as in more expensive pieces, shaped to represent the male chest. Yet it was strong and would withstand any sword-thrust. At the centre of the breast was a lion’s head, cast in iron. Parmenion glanced up at Xenophon. ‘Perhaps she was not so wrong,’ the Athenian whispered. Parmenion reached out and stroked his fingers across the lion’s jaws. Beside the breastplate was a round helm, also of bronze and lined with leather. There were greaves, a bronze-studded leather kilt and a short dagger with a curved blade.
‘I do not know what to say,’ Parmenion told his friend.
‘They were to have been a Manhood gift. But now, I think, is a better time. There is something else which I hope will prove useful.’
Xenophon lifted a leather-bound scroll and passed it to Parmenion, who opened the tiny buckles and spread the parchment. ‘It details my journeys across Persia and the march to the sea. I do not claim to be a great writer, but there is much that a soldier can learn from my notes, and many of my friends have asked me for copies of it.’
‘I will never be able to repay you for your kindness.’
‘Friends never need repaying, it is what makes them friends. Now prepare yourself for the journey. With luck the Spartans will forget about you as time passes.’
Parmenion shook his head. ‘They will not forget, Xenophon. I will see to that.’
‘You are a man alone, and such thoughts are foolish. Sparta is the power in Greece and will remain so long past our lifetimes. Forget about vengeance, Parmenion. Even the might of Persia could not bring down Sparta.’
‘Of course you are correct,’ said the young man, embracing his friend.