Lion of Macedon Read Free Page B

stamina in half-breeds.”
    “Last! Last! Last!” they chanted as he ran on to the marketplace, where his barrack tutor, Lepidus, was waiting to count his charges home.
    “What in the name of Hades happened to you?” asked the soldier. “Lycurgus barracks should have won the day. We finished sixth, thanks to you.”
    Parmenion had said nothing. What was there to say?
    But that was in the past—and the past was dead. Parmenion grew hungry and wandered down into the marketplace and on along Leaving Street to the barracks. In the mess hall he got in line with the other boys of Lycurgus and sat alone with his bowl of dark soup and chunk of black bread. No one spoke to him. Leonidas was on the other side of the hall, sitting with Gryllus and a dozen others; they affected not to notice him. Parmenion ate his meal, enjoying the feeling of a full stomach, then left and walked through the streets to the small home of his mother. He found her in the courtyard, sitting in the sunshine. She glanced up at him and smiled. She was painfully thin, her eyes sunken. He touched her shoulder and kissed her gently, his lips touching bone beneath the dry, taut skin.
    “Are you eating well?” he asked her.
    “I have no appetite,” she whispered. “But the sun is good for me, it makes me feel alive.” He fetched her a goblet of water and sat beside her on the stone bench. “Do you contest the final today?” she asked.
    “Yes.”
    She nodded, and a strand of dark hair fell across her brow. Parmenion stroked it back into place. “You are hot. You should come inside.”
    “Later. Your face is bruised?”
    “I fell during a race. Clumsy. How are you feeling?”
    “Tired, my son. Very tired. Will the king be at Xenophon’s house to see you win?”
    “It is said that he will—but I might not win.”
    “No.” A mother’s pride spoke. “But you will do your best, and that is enough. Are you still popular with the other boys?”
    “Yes.”
    “That would have pleased your father. He, too, was popular. But he never reached the final of the general’s games. He would have been so proud.”
    “Is there anything I can do for you? Can I get you some food?” Parmenion took her hand, holding to it tightly, willing his own strength to flow into her frail limbs.
    “I need nothing. You know, I have been thinking these last few days about Macedonia and the forests and the plains. I keep dreaming of a white horse on a hillside. I am sitting in a field, and the horse is coming toward me. I so long to ride that horse, to feel the wind on my face, whispering through my hair. It is a tall horse with a fine neck. But always I wake before he reaches me.”
    “Horses are good omens,” said Parmenion. “Let me help you inside. I will fetch Rhea—she will cook for you. You must eat, Mother, or you will never regain your strength.”
    “No, no. I want to sit here for a while. I will doze. Come to me when you have played the game. Tell me all.”
    For a while he sat with her, but she rested her head against a threadbare pillow and slept. Moving back into the house, he washed the dust from his body and combed his dark hair. Then he pulled on a clean
chiton
tunic and his second pair of sandals. The
chiton
was not embroidered and was too small for him, barely reaching midway to his thighs. He felt like ahelot—a slave. Parmenion walked to the next house and rapped his knuckles on the door frame. A short red-haired woman came out; she smiled as she saw him.
    “I will go in to her,” she said before he spoke.
    “I do not think she is eating,” said Parmenion. “She is becoming thinner every day.”
    “That is to be expected,” answered Rhea softly, sadness in her voice.
    “No!” Parmenion snapped. “Now the summer is here, she will improve. I know it.”
    Without waiting for her to speak, he ran back beyond the barracks and on to Leaving Street and the house of Xenophon.
    On the day of the game Xenophon awoke early. The sun was just