It was only later, when alone in his upper room, that memories of Derae would steal upon him, bringing pain and clutching at his heart. Then he would rise from his bed and stare balefully out over the sleeping city, his thoughts bitter. Dreams of revenge grew inside his soul, building slowly like a temple of hate within him.
They would pay.
Who will pay? asked a still small voice.
Parmenion pondered the thought. It was Leonidas who
was his enemy, yet the whole of Parmenion’s life had been scarred by rejection, by the hated use of ‘mix-blood’. He had been welcomed nowhere save at the home of Xenophon. No one in Sparta had made him feel he belonged – not even Hermias.
They will all pay, he told himself: the whole city. There will come a day when the very name Parmenion will bring a wail of anguish from 10,000 throats.
And in this way Parmenion cloaked the hurt of Derae’s death.
Epaminondas spent little time with Parmenion in the days before the race. Every evening he would visit friends in distant parts of the city, going out early and arriving home late. He was cool during this time though not unfriendly, but Parmenion took to wandering the city, learning its roads and streets, orienting himself.
On most days he saw Spartan soldiers walking through the market-places or sitting at the dining areas. Their voices were loud and pompous, he felt, and the manner of the soldiers was arrogant. In his calmer moments Parmenion knew this was untrue – they were merely unwelcome strangers in a foreign city. But his hatred was growing now, and he could rarely look upon the soldiers without feeling its dread power.
On the night before the race Epaminondas invited him to the andron and the two men reclined on couches and discussed the contest.
‘Meleager likes to wait at the shoulder of the leader, then strike for home from a hundred paces,’ said the Theban.
‘That suits me well,’ responded Parmenion.
‘He has a friend who runs with him, dark-bearded, short. In three races, when it looked as if Meleager could be beaten, this man tripped and fell in front of the leader, bringing him down.’
‘Meleager should have been disqualified.’
‘Perhaps,’ Epaminondas agreed. ‘On the second occasion at least. But he is a Spartan, and Theban objections count for little. I have managed only odds of three to one. How much money will you wager?’
Parmenion had given great thought to the race. At four to one he could have afforded to hold back some coin. But now? He lifted the pouch from his belt and handed it to the Theban.
‘I have 168 drachms. Wager it all.’
‘Is that wise?’
Parmenion shrugged. ‘It would be nice to have choices. If I lose, I will sell the bay mare and seek employment in a mercenary company. If not? Then I will be able to hire rooms.’
‘You know you are welcome to stay with me.’
‘That is kind, but I will be a burden to no man.’
*
The training ground was packed with people when the two men arrived early the following morning, and tiered seats had been set at the centre of the field. Parmenion was restless as he waited for the races to begin. There was a boxing tourney first, but it was a sport which did not interest him and he wandered to the Grave of Hector and sat in the shade of an oak tree.
The middle race was new to the Greeks, and pride of place still went to the stadia, a sprint of 200 paces. In many cities, Xenophon had told him, training groups did not have oval tracks and runners were forced to move up and down the stadia distance, turning around poles set in the earth. But the Persians loved the longer distance races, and gradually they had caught the interest of spectators in Greece. Part of the appeal, Parmenion knew, was born of the wagers. If a man was to bet on a runner, then he liked to watch a longer race where his excitement could be extended.
For a while he dozed, then was woken by a roar from the crowd as the final boxing match ended with an ear-splitting knockout. Parmenion rose and went in search of Epami-nondas, finding the Theban at the northern end of the ground watching the javelin throwers.