‘I will think on it,’ said Parmenion.
The lolaus training ground was bordered by oak trees to the north and west. To the east was the shrine to Artemis of the Glory, a high-columned temple dedicated to the goddess of the hunt, and to the south was the legendary Grave of Hector, the mighty Trojan warrior slain by Achilles during the war with Troy.
As Parmenion stretched the muscles of his thighs and groin, prior to his training run, he gazed at Hector’s tomb. It was of marble, decorated with raised reliefs, carvings which showed his valiant battle with the Greek hero. Parmenion had always felt a great admiration for Hector.
Most Spartans spoke of Achilles, for he was the victor, and yet it seemed to Parmenion that Hector had shown the greater courage. An oracle had warned Hector that to fight Achilles would mean death, for his opponent was invincible. During the ten-year Trojan war both men had studiously avoided single combat. And then, one bright morning, Hector had seen Achilles riding towards him in a bronze chariot, his armour – caught in the sunlight -seeming to blaze with white fire. The two men had met on the field of combat – and Hector won. He struck down Achilles with a terrible blow to the neck, and watched his nemesis writhe in his death throes.
What a glory for Hector, what a weight lifted from his heart! Now he would see his baby son grow to manhood, now he would know again the peace which the oracle had stolen. He knelt by the body and tore the white plumed helmet from the head – only to find himself gazing down on the dead face of Patroclus, Achilles’ lover. Hector staggered back, shocked, confused. He ran to a Greek prisoner. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded. ‘Why was Patroclus wearing Achilles’ armour?’
The man could not meet Hector’s fierce eyes, but looked down. ‘Achilles has decided to return home. He will fight no more,’ he said.
Oh, but he would. Hector knew that. In killing Patroclus he had hastened his own doom. Leaping into his chariot, he galloped his horses back into the city of Troy and waited for the challenge he knew must come.
Within the hour Achilles was at the gates. . . .
Parmenion finished his exercises and walked to the tomb, laying his hand upon it. ‘You went out to meet him, Hector,’ he said. ‘That was bravely done. And you died as a man should, facing his enemy.’
The bones of Hector had been brought from the ruins of Troy and buried in Thebes because of another oracle which said, ‘Thebans in the city of Cadmos, your country shall have innocent wealth if you bring out of Asia the bones of Hector. Carry them home and worship the hero by the decree of Zeus.’
The Thebans had obeyed. Every year, according to Epaminondas, they declared a holy day for Hector and a great celebration was held at the training ground, where men and women danced and drank in honour of the Trojan. And wealth had followed, in trade with Athens in the south and the exporting of goods north to Thessaly and Macedonia, to the Illyrians and the Thracians. Thebes was awash with coin.
Parmenion sucked in a deep breath and began to run. The track was hard-baked clay, formed in a great oval that skirted the training ground. Five circuits represented a mile. He loped easily round the circuit, examining the ground. The races all began and ended at the Shrine to Artemis, so he stopped on the last curve before the finish and knelt to examine the track. Here it was more concave, the clay powdery on the surface. This was no surprise, for the runners would kick for home and over the years the track had taken more punishment here. A man could slip and fall at this point, were he not wary. He would need to come wide on this last bend . . . but then so would Meleager.
Parmenion continued his run for almost an hour, increasing his speed in short, lung-bursting sprints before dropping back to an even pace. Finally he jogged to where Epaminondas lay in the shade of a spreading oak.