‘Either that – or you will die,’ she pointed out.
‘One or the other,’ he agreed.
it
Parmenion called a halt to the combat training and the warriors of the Sacred Band sheathed their swords. In full battle armour they were sweating heavily. Some sank to the hard-baked clay of the training ground, others wandering to the shade near the Grave of Hector.
‘Do not be so swift to relax, gentlemen,’ called Parmenion. ‘Ten circuits should be enough to stretch those tired muscles.
A groan went up, but the men began to run. Parmenion was about to join them when he saw a young boy sitting beneath the trees watching the training intently. The youngster was around thirteen years of age, with dark, tightly curled hair and a face that given time would be exceedingly handsome. But it was his expression which touched a chord in Parmenion. The face was still, the emotions masked, and Parmenion remembered his own boyhood long ago, the trials and suffering he had endured in Sparta.
He strolled across to where the boy sat. ‘You are studying the art of war?’ he asked.
The boy stood and bowed. He was not tall, but sturdily built. His dark eyes fixed to Parmenion’s face. ‘It is good to study the ways of foreigners,’ he said, his voice soft.
‘Why is it good?’
‘One day we may be enemies. If so, I will know how you
fight. If we are friends or allies, I will know whether you can be relied upon.’
‘I see,’ said Parmenion. ‘You are a wise young man. You are a prince, perhaps?’
‘Indeed I am. A prince of Macedonia. My name is Philip.’
‘I am Parmenion.’
‘I know. I have seen you run. Why is it you compete under a Macedonian name?’
Parmenion sat down, beckoning the boy to join him. ‘My mother was Macedonian, he told him. ‘It is a tribute to her. You are a guest in our city?’
The boy laughed. ‘You do not need to be coy, Parmenion. I am a hostage against the good behaviour of Macedonia. But life here is good and Pammenes takes fine care of me. It is better, I think, than being back in Macedonia. There I would probably be killed by an anxious relative.’
‘Harsh words, young prince.’
‘Harsh but true,’ said the boy. ‘I am one of many brothers and half-brothers, all of whom have some right to the throne. It is not our way to leave rivals alive. I can see the logic of it, I suppose.’
‘You seem to be taking your plight with great calmness, young prince.’
‘What else can I do?’
Parmenion smiled. ‘That is not a question I can answer. I am not a prince.’
‘No,’ agreed Philip, ‘and I do not wish to be one. Nor would I want to be a King. Certainly not in Macedonia.’
‘What is wrong with Macedonia?’ queried Parmenion. ‘I have heard it is a beautiful land, full of rolling plains and fine forests, mountains and pure streams.’
‘So it is, Parmenion. But it is also a land surrounded by strong enemies. To the west there are the Illyrians of King Bardylis: tough, doughty warriors. To the north there are the Paionians: tribesmen who love nothing better than to ride south for plunder. To the east there are the Thracians: good horsemen, fine cavalry. And to the south there are the
Thessalians and the Thebans. Who would want to be King of such a country?’
Parmenion did not reply. The boy’s eyes were sorrowful, his mood dark, and there was nothing the Spartan could say. In all probability the lad was right. Once back in Macedonia his life would be worth little. The thought depressed Parmenion.
An uncomfortable silence developed and Parmenion rose to leave. The Sacred Band was still toiling round the circuit and the Spartan turned to the young prince. ‘I learned a long time ago never to give in to despair. Fortune may be fickle, but she loves a man who tries and tries again. I think you have a strong mind, Philip. You are a thinker, a planner. Most men just react to circumstances, but thinkers create the circumstances. If there are relatives who wish to see you dead, then make them love you. Show them you are no threat. Show them you can be useful. But more than anything, boy, you must become a hard man to kill.’