‘Who would you choose?’
‘Myself,’ Achillas said.
‘And, if it was not to be you, who then?’
Theo.’
Parmenion turned to Petar. ‘For whom would you vote, if not yourself?’
‘Theo,’ answered the blond-bearded warrior.
‘Before you ask me,’ said Theo, ‘let me say that I cannot make a choice. Achillas is an old friend and a warrior I respect. Petar is a good man, but I do not know him well. I sense that I will have the deciding vote on this issue, and I protest the unfairness of such a vote. You are the strategos. We are all strangers to you and you have seen us – and judged us. So play no more games, Parmenion. You choose!’
‘You have a fine mind,’ said Parmenion, ‘but do not complain of life’s unfairness. It is never fair – at best it is impartial. I believe that all three of you have qualities of leadership, but at this moment I would not presume to judge which of you has the greatest potential. All of you are fine swordsmen, brave men. Each of you has won the respect of his fellows. I will ask you to decide now, among yourselves, who is to lead the training.’
The men looked at one another, but it was Achillas who spoke first.
‘It should be Theo,’ he said. Petar nodded in agreement.
‘So be it,’ said Parmenion. ‘I thank you all. Now, Theo, let us walk together and discuss strategy.’
*
‘It is an insult!’ stormed Attalus. ‘Twenty men! How can a King travel into hostile lands with only twenty men?’ A murmur of agreement ran round the officers gathered in Philip’s throne-room.
‘What do you say, Parmenion?’ asked the King.
‘Bardylis is the victor. He destroyed Macedon’s army. He wants the world to see that you go to him as a supplicant and not as a King.’
‘And your advice?’
‘Do as he says,’ Parmenion answered.
‘What else would you expect from a Spartan?’ hissed Attalus. Parmenion chuckled and shook his head as Philip gestured Attalus to silence.
‘Give us the benefit of your reasoning,’ he urged Parmenion.
‘It does not matter what the world sees now. In fact it could be argued that it is better for Macedon to seem . . . vulnerable. What we need is time. Next year you will have an army the equal of Bardylis. A year after that, and it will be the envy of Greece.’
‘But,’ said Nicanor, ‘there is the question of pride, of honour.’
‘This is the game of Kings, young man,’ Parmenion fold him. ‘Today Philip must suffer for his brother’s defeat. But soon it will be others who will feel the shame.’
‘What of you, Antipater?’ asked Philip. ‘You have said littie.’
‘There is little to say, sire. I agree with Attalus. The situation is not to my liking. Yet you must go – or there will be no wedding. Without the wedding, an invasion is sure.’
Philip sat back on his couch and looked at the four men. So different all of them, but each with unique skills. Cold-eyed Attalus, who could kill without remorse as long as it served to further his ambition. Nicanor, gloriously brave and doggedly loyal, a man who would ride into the whirlwind if Philip ordered it. Antipater, cool and efficient, a warrior respected by the army.
And Parmenion, who in a few short weeks had revitalized Macedonian morale, gathering a core of warriors and filling them with pride and camaraderie.
So different in looks too: Attalus thin and hatchet-faced, his skin tight around his cheekbones, his teeth too prominent, giving him the appearance of a hastily covered skull; Nicanor almost feminine of feature, fine-boned and honest-eyed; Antipater, his black beard shining like a jaguar’s pelt, his dark eyes keen, observing more than his expressions showed; Parmenion, tall and slim, seeming younger than his forty-two years, his pale eyes so knowing.
On you all will I build Macedonia, thought Philip. ‘We will take only four riders,’ he said suddenly. ‘We here will ride to Illyria and collect my bride.’
‘That is worse than madness, sire,’ protested Attalus. ‘There are robbers, outlaws, people dispossessed of their homes.’