Lion of Macedon Read Free

were engraved on the hearts of all Spartans: “A Spartan leaves the battle carrying his shield—or upon it. There will be no retreat.” It seemed ironic to Parmenion that his greatest hero and his worst enemy should share the same name and bloodline—Leonidas. And at times he wondered if the king of legend had been as cruel as his namesake. He hoped not.
    Parmenion climbed to the highest point of the acropolis, gazing down at the city that circled the hill. Fewer than thirty thousand people dwelt here, yet they were held in awe from Arcadia to Asia Minor, from Athens to Illyria. No Spartan army had ever been beaten in a pitched battle by a foe of equal numbers. The Spartan foot soldier—the
hoplite
—was worth three Athenians, five Thebans, ten Corinthians, and twenty Persians. These scales were drummed into Sparta’s children and remembered with pride.
    Macedonians did not rate a mention in Spartan scales. Scarcely considered to be Greek, they were barbaric and undisciplined, hill tribes of little culture save that which they stole from their betters. “I am a Spartan,” said Parmenion. “I am not a Macedonian.”
    The statue of Zeus continued to gaze at the distant Mount Ilias, and Parmenion’s words seemed hollow. The boy sighed, remembering the conversation minutes before with Hermias.
“You are hard on me, Parmenion. But you are correct. I love you as a brother, and yet I do not see you as Spartan. I do inside my head—but my heart …”
    “Then why should the others—who are not my friends—accept me?”
    As a young child Parmenion had experienced few problems with other youngsters. But at seven, when all Spartan boys were taken from their parents and moved to barracks for training as warriors, he had first suffered the torment of his tainted blood. It was there that Leonidas—named for the king of glory—had taunted him, demanding that he kneel to him as befitted a man from a race of slaves. Smaller and younger, Parmenion had flown at him, fists lashing at the older boy’s face. Leonidas had thrashed him then—and many times since. Worse, Leonidas was of a noble Spartiate family, and many of the other boys in the barracks of Lycurgus had sought his favors. Parmenion became an outcast, hunted, hated by all save Hermias—even Leonidas could not turn on
him
, for he was the son of Parnas, the king’s friend.
    For eight years Parmenion had borne the blows and the insults, convinced that one day he would see their eyes look upon him as a brother Spartan. Today should have seen the hour of triumph. He had succeeded beyond his dreams in the general’s games, battling his way to the final. But who should be his opponent among all the youths in Sparta? None other than Leonidas.
    As Hermias had warned, victory would bring only more pain, yet he could not—would not—consider playing to lose. Every year the general’s games were the high point of the calendar for the apprentice warriors in Sparta’s many barracks. The winner would wear the laurel crown and hold the victory rod. He was the
strategos
—the master!
    The game pitched two armies against one another, the competitors acting as generals, issuing orders, choosing formations. The soldiers were carved from wood: there was no blood, no death. Losses were decided by two judges who threw numbered knucklebones.
    Picking up a stick, Parmenion traced a rectangle in the dust, picturing the Spartan phalanx, more than a thousand warriors with shields locked, spears steady. This was the main force in the game, the cavalry coming second. To the right he sketched a second block: the Sciritai, Spartan vassalswho always fought alongside their masters. Doughty men, hard and ungiving, yet never were they allowed into the front rank of the battle. For they were not Spartan and were therefore almost subhuman.
    This was his army, three thousand men, Spartan foot, horse, and the Sciritai reserve. Leonidas would command an identical force.
    Closing his eyes, he