This was his army, 3,000 men, Spartan foot, horse and the Sciritai reserve. Leonidas would command an identical force.
Closing his eyes he recalled last year’s final, which had
been played in Menelaus Barracks. The battle had taken two hours. Long before the conclusion, Parmenion had grown bored and had wandered away into the marketplace. It had been a battle of attrition, both phalanxes locked together, the judges throwing knuckle-bones and removing the dead until at last the White army overwhelmed the Red.
A pointless exercise, Parmenion had decided. What good was such a victory? The winner had fewer than 100 men at the close. In real life he would have been overwhelmed by any second enemy force.
A battle should not be fought in such a way.
Today would be different, he decided. Win or lose, they would remember it. Slowly he began to sketch formations, to think and to plan. But his mind wandered, and he saw again the Great Race three weeks ago. He had planned for it, trained for it, dreamed of the laurel wreath of victory upon his brow.
Twenty miles under the gruelling summer sun, out over the foothills, up the scree-covered slopes of the Parnon mountains, legs aching, lungs heaving. All the young men of Sparta in one great race, the ultimate test of juvenile strength and courage.
He had outdistanced them all: Leonidas, Nestus, Hermias, Learchus and the best of the other barracks. They ate his dust and struggled behind him. Leonidas had lasted better than the rest, hanging grimly to his shadow, but twelve miles from home even he had been broken by Parmenion’s final burst.
And then Parmenion had run for home, saving the last of his energy for the sprint to the agora where the King waited with the laurel of victory.
With the city in sight, white and beckoning, he had seen the old man pulling his hand-cart along Soldiers’ Walk at the foot of the olive grove, had watched in dismay as the right wheel came loose, tipping the cart’s contents to the dust. Parmenion slowed in his run. The old man was struggling to loosen a looped thong from the stump at the end of his right arm. He was crippled. Tearing his eyes from the scene, Parmenion ran on.
‘Help me, boy!’ called the man. Parmenion slowed, and turned. Leonidas was far behind him and out of sight. . . he tried to gauge how much time he had. With a curse he ran down the slope and knelt by the wheel. It was cracked through, yet still the Spartan boy tried to lift it into place, forcing it back over the axle. It held for a moment only -then broke into several shards. The old man slumped to the ground beside the ruined cart. Parmenion glanced down into his eyes; there was pain there, defeat and dejection. The man’s tunic was threadbare, the colours long since washed away by the winter rains, bleached by the summer sun. His sandals were as thin as parchment.
‘Where are you going?’ Parmenion asked.
‘My son lives in a settlement an hour from here,’ replied the old man, pointing south. Parmenion glanced at the wrinkled skin of his arm; it showed the cuts of many sword-blades, old wounds.
‘You are Spartan?’ enquired the boy.
‘Sciritai,’ the man answered. Parmenion stood and stared down at the cart. It was loaded with pots and jugs, several old blankets, and a breastplate and helm of a style the boy had only seen painted on vases and murals.
‘I will help you home,’ said Parmenion at last.
‘Was a time, boy, I would have needed no help.’
‘I know. Come. I will support the axle if you can steer and pull.’
Hearing the sound of running feet Parmenion glanced up. Leonidas sped by along the crest of the hill; he did not look down. Swallowing his disappointment Parmenion took hold of the axle, heaving the cart upright. The old man took his place at the handles and the two made their way slowly south.
It was dusk when Parmenion finally trotted through the gates. There to greet him were many of the youths from his barracks.