What she saw sent a shiver through her and she fled back to her body, crying out as she woke.
‘What is it?’ asked Parmenion, dismounting and kneeling beside her, gripping her shoulder.
‘Send the others south,’ she whispered. ‘Tell them we will join them later.’
‘Why?’
‘Trust me! You are about to walk a different path and you must send them on. Swiftly now, for there is little time.’
Parmenion called Attalus to him. ‘You must travel on without me for a while, my friend. Take Alexander south - to the Gateway, if necessary. I will meet you when I can.’
‘We should stay together,’ argued Attalus.
‘There is no time for debate. You must protect Alexander. Brontes has gone to prepare the way, and you will be safe in the south. I can tell you no more, for I know no more.’
Attalus cursed softly, then vaulted to his mount. ‘Look after yourself, Spartan,’ he called, as he led the company away to the south.
Parmenion returned to the priestess. ‘Tell me all,’ he said.
‘Wait,’ she advised. ‘The battle is beginning.’
The strategos turned his attention to the two armies. At this distance they were just like the tiny carved models with which he had won his first encounter with his rival, Leonidas, thirty-three years ago in another world. They appeared as toys, glittering and bright, moving across the dusty plain. But they were not toys. Within moments living, breathing men would be cut down, swords and spears slashing and cleaving through flesh and bone. The army of Makedon, black cloaks and black banners swirling in the breeze, marched forward confidently, the cavalry to the left sweeping out to envelop the enemy flanks.
But then they were met by a counter-charge, warriors in blue cloaks and shining helms emerging from their hiding-places among the boulders at the foot of the slopes. Parmenion smiled. This was good strategy from the Spartan King. Straining his eyes, he could just make out the monarch standing at the centre of the Spartan phalanx, 300 men in tight formation six ranks deep, fifty shields wide. It was a defensive formation and had been placed at the centre of the field, with mercenary divisions around it. ‘He seeks to hold the centre steady,’ said Parmenion. ‘See how they gather around the Spartans?’ More allied cavalry rode from the right, but the Makedones swung their lines to meet the charge. It seemed to Parmenion that the Makedones’ defence was moving into action even before the charge, and he recalled with sinking heart that Philippos could read the mind of his enemy.
Even so the charge carried through, pushing back the enemy. The Spartan centre surged forward and Parmenion watched as the King mounted a fine grey stallion and rode back to join the reserve cavalry on the left. The battle was fully joined now, a great heaving mass of men vying for control of the field.
‘Now!’ whispered Parmenion. ‘Now lead the charge!’ As if the Spartan King had heard him Parmenion saw the great grey horse thunder into the gallop, riders streaming behind with the sun glittering on their lance-points.
But on the far side of the battle the allied cavalry suddenly gave way, panic sweeping their ranks. Swinging their mounts they fled the field. The Makedones poured into the breach, moving out to surround the allied centre. Two mercenary divisions broke and ran, leaving a gap on the Spartan right.
‘Sweet Zeus, no!’ shouted Parmenion. ‘He had it won!’
The Spartan King disengaged his cavalry from the attack and led his men in a desperate ride across the battlefield, trying to close the gap, but Parmenion knew the attempt was doomed. Panic swept through the allied army like a grass fire, and all but the Spartans threw down their shields and ran.
The Spartan phalanx closed, becoming a fighting square, moving back from the centre towards a narrow pass in the mountains. But the King led one last desperate charge against the enemy centre, almost reaching Philippos. Now Parmenion saw the Demon King riding forward on a giant black stallion, hacking and cutting his way towards his enemy. A spear slashed into the grey stallion and it bolted, carrying the Spartan King clear of the action as he fought to control the pain-maddened beast.
Now the King was riding towards Parmenion and Thena, pursued by a score of black-cloaked riders. Glancing back, he saw them and swung the horse up on to a scree slope, the beast scrambling on to a ledge. There was nowhere else to go and the Spartan King leapt from his mount as the first Makedones reached the top. The man’s horse reared as the King ran at it, toppling his rider, but then the others arrived, leaping from their horses and advancing on the lone warrior.
Parmenion’s heart ached for the man. He had come so close, only to be betrayed by cowards and men of little heart. He longed to gallop down to fight alongside the King, but a gorge separated them and the King was but moments from death - before him a score of enemies, behind him a chasm. He fought bravely and with great skill, but at the last a sword gashed his throat and he fell back, teetering on the edge of the abyss. Parmenion cried out in anguish as the Spartan King toppled from the ledge, his bronze-clad body cartwheeling through the air to crash against the mountainside before pitching once more into space to be dashed against the rocks below. Parmenion groaned and looked away. ‘So close - so near to victory,’ he whispered.
‘I know,’ said Thena. ‘Now we must wait.’
‘For what? I have seen enough.’
‘There is more, my dear,’ she told him.
The enemy soldiers pulled baek from the ledge, seeking a way to recover the body. But the cliff was too steep and they remounted their horses and vanished from sight.
‘Now,’ said Thena. ‘Before they can circle round from the north, we must get to the body.’
‘Why?’
‘There is no time to explain. Trust me.’ Remounting, Thena urged her horse over the crest of the hill and down the gentle slope to the valley floor. Parmenion had no wish to gaze upon the ruined body of so great a warrior, but he followed the priestess on the long ride, coming at last to the blood-spattered corpse. Thena climbed down from her mount and moved to the body, gently rolling it to its back. The red-plumed helm lay close by, scarcely dented, but the breastplate was split at the shoulder, where a white bone could be seen jutting from dead flesh.
The man’s face was remarkably untouched, his blue eyes open and staring at the sky. Parmenion moved to the body and stopped, heart hammering and legs unsteady.
‘I am sorry,’ whispered Thena, ‘but you stand before the body of Parmenion, the King of Sparta.’
Parmenion could find no words as he gazed down at his own corpse. He had observed Thena’s magic back in the forest when she had created the illusion of the group still sleeping around the camp-fire. Though in its way that had been almost amusing, causing a lifting of tension and fear. But this was real. The dead man at his feet was his twin, and Parmenion felt the anguish of bereavement. Worse than this, the tragedy brought him a sickening sense of his own mortality. The Parmenion lying here had been a man with dreams, hopes, ambitions. Yet he had been cut down in his prime, his body smashed, broken.
The Spartan took a deep, shuddering breath.
‘We must move him,’ said Thena, ‘before the Makedones arrive.’
‘Why?’ responded Parmenion, unwilling to touch his alter ego.
‘Because they must not know he is dead. Come now! Lift him across your horse.’
Parmenion’s hands were trembling as he pulled the corpse upright, draping the body over his shoulder, transferring it to the Makedones gelding, then vaulting to the beast’s back. The horse was strong, but even so could not bear the double weight for long. Parmenion turned to see Thena sitting upon a boulder.
‘Take my horse to the woods,’ she commanded. ‘I will be there by dusk.’
‘You cannot stay here. They will kill you.’
‘No, they will not see me. When you reach the woods strip the body and bury it. Then put on his armour. Go now!’ Parmenion tugged the reins and the gelding began to walk away to the west. ‘Wait!’ called Thena. Gathering
up the King’s fallen sword and helm, she passed them to Parmenion. ‘Now ride - for time is short.’
The ground was rock-strewn and hard-packed, the gelding’s hooves leaving little sign as the Spartan rode away. Now and again he glanced back to see Thena sitting quietly, awaiting the Makedones. He tried not to look at the body, but his eyes were drawn to it. It was no longer leaking blood, but the bowels had opened and the stench was strong. There is no dignity in death, thought Parmenion as he angled the horse up to the tree-line and into the woods.
Once there he followed Thena’s instructions, stripping the body, digging out a shallow grave in the loam and rolling the corpse into it. The body fell to its back - dead eyes staring up at the Spartan, dead mouth sagging open.
‘I have no coin for the ferryman,’ Parmenion told the dead King. ‘But you were a man of courage and I believe you will find the Elysian Fields without it.’
Swiftly he pushed the dark earth over the body, then sat back trembling.
After a while he picked up the King’s sword, and was not surprised to find it the same blade he himself had won more than thirty years ago in another Sparta. It was the legendary blade of Leonidas, the Sword King, beautifully crafted and wondrously sharp.
Leonidas! A glorious name from the past yet also the name of Parmenion’s first enemy, the brother of Derae, in whose name Parmenion had suffered taunts and beatings, hatred and dark violence.
That era had come to an end at Leuctra when Parmenion’s battle plan had smashed the Spartan line, killing their King and freeing the city of Thebes from Spartan dictatorship. When the battle ended, so too had Spartan power in Greece.
Parmenion remembered well the day he had won the sword. It was the final of the General’s Games where the young men of Sparta, using carved model armies, engaged in battles of tactics and strategy. The final was contested at the house of Xenophon, the renegade Athenian general who had become a close friend of the Spartan King Agisaleus.
Agisaleus, believing his nephew Leonidas would win the final, had offered the legendary blade as a prize. But Leonidas had not won. He had been crushed by the hated‘ mix-blood, humiliated in front of his peers and his King.
And the sword came to Parmenion.
Yet at Leuctra, with Sparta crushed, it had been Leonidas who had come to discuss the recovery from the battlefield of the Spartan dead, and it was Parmenion to whom he had come.
Leonidas had been dignified in defeat, strong and proud, and - in a moment he had never quite understood - Parmenion had given him the sword, ending for ever their enmity.
Yet now he sat in an alien forest with the twin of the blade in his hand.
What now, he asked himself? But the answer was inescapable. Parmenion the King had been slain, leaving his enemy triumphant and the Spartan army leaderless.
The Demon King had won.
Derae watched until Parmenion was no longer in sight, then she relaxed, calming her mind, honing her powers, reaching out to seek the Makedones riders who were coming to claim the body of their enemy.
They were still half a mile distant and she focused on the leader, Theoparlis - a stocky, dark-eyed man, strong and fearless, his heart darkened by bitter memories of slavery and torture in the early years of his life. Derae floated within his subconscious, silently preparing him. Then she moved on to the others, one by one.
When at last she opened her eyes they were riding towards the rocks, fanning out, their eyes scanning the boulders. Drawing rein they dismounted and began to search.
Derae took a deep breath. Not a man had noticed her. Now she stood.
‘He is not here,’ she said softly. The nearest man gasped and staggered back. He did not see a tall, bony woman in an ill-fitting chiton. His eyes widened in awe as he drank in the sight of a regal warrior woman, a doric helm pushed back on her head, a golden breastplate adorning her torso. An owl sat upon her shoulder, its bright eyes blinking in the sunlight.
The twenty warriors stood silently before Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and War. In her hand was a golden spear, and this she raised to point at Theoparlis. ‘Return to your King,’ she said, her voice ringing with authority, ‘and tell him that Parmenion lives.’
‘He will kill us all, lady, and brand us liars,’ Theoparlis protested.
‘Draw your swords,’ she said softly. They did so. ‘Now gaze upon them.’
The blades writhed in their hands, becoming serpents. With cries of shock and horror the men flung the weapons aside... all but Theoparlis. ‘It is still a sword,’ he said, his face white, his hand trembling.
The serpent blade stiffened, the snake disappearing. ‘Indeed it is, Theoparlis; you are a strong man,’ said Derae. ‘But then the magic was not wrought to harm you but to allow you to go to your King and convince him. Has he not the Eye to read a man’s mind? He will know you do not lie.’
‘How could the Spartan have survived such a fall?’ he asked.
Derae pointed to the man beside Theoparlis. ‘Take up your sword,’ she ordered. The man obeyed. ‘Draw the blade across your palm.’
‘No!’ shouted the man, but the sword rose of its own accord, his left hand opening to receive it. ‘No!’ he screamed again, but the sharp iron cut into his flesh and blood welled from the wound.
‘Hold up the hand so that all may see,’ Derae ordered. ‘This is no illusion. Theoparlis, touch the blood.’ The Makedones obeyed. ‘Is it real?’
‘Yes, lady.’
‘Now watch... and learn.’
Derae closed her eyes. The cut was shallow and even and it was a matter of moments to accelerate the tissue bond, producing ten days of healing in as many heartbeats. When she opened her eyes the men had gathered around the injured warrior and were staring at his blood-covered hand. ‘Wipe clear the blood,’ said Derae. Using the edge of his black cloak the man did so. Only a faint scar remained.
‘Now you know how the King survived,’ she told them. ‘I healed him. And I tell you this, he is beloved of the gods. The next time you see him will be on the day of your deaths - if he should so choose.’
‘His army is destroyed,’ said Theoparlis.
‘You have yet to face the might of Sparta.’
‘Five thousand men cannot stand against the forces of Makedon.’
‘We shall see. Go now. Report what I have said to Philippos. And tell him the words of Athena - if he marches against Sparta he will die.’
Theoparlis bowed and backed away to his horse, his men following.
Derae let fall the illusion, and it seemed to the warriors as if the goddess had suddenly disappeared from view. Unnoticed, the priestess walked away to the west and the distant woods.
She found Parmenion sitting by the freshly-covered grave. ‘You will take his place?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know, Thena,’ he answered. ‘We were heading for Sparta because we thought it would be safe and Aristotle could meet us there. But now? Now the Spartans have no war leader and the Makedones could march all the way to the city.’
‘What choices are there?’
He shrugged. ‘We could make for the Gateway and allow Alexander his destiny - if such it be... and hope Aristotle is there to bring us home before the Makedones arrive.’
‘And the Demon King?’
‘He is not my problem, Thena. This is not my world.’ His words lacked conviction and his gaze strayed to the grave. He sighed and stood. ‘Tell me what is right,’ he said.
‘Are you asking me - or him? He was you, Parmenion. Ask yourself what you would wish for if the roles were reversed. Would you prefer to see your city conquered, your people enslaved? Or would you hope that your twin could achieve what you could not?’
‘You know the answer to that. But there is Alexander to consider.’
‘Yet the situation is the same as before,’ she said. ‘We need Sparta to hold back the Makedones, to give Alexander time at the Gateway. Who better to ensure the Spartans can do just that than their own Battle King?’
‘B
ut I am not him. It feels wrong, Thena. He may have a family - a wife, sons, daughters. They will know him. And even if they do not, surely it is an insult to his memory?’
‘Would you consider it an insult to yours if it was he who fought for you?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Yet still it does not sit well with me. And what of Attalus and the Korinthians? They know I am not the Spartan King.’
‘Attalus knows what he must do. But you and I must ride to Sparta. There is much to be done, and little time, for Philippos will march upon the city within a few days.’
Suddenly Parmenion cursed. ‘Why me?’ he shouted. ‘I came here to rescue my son, not to become embroiled in a war in which I have no interest.’
Derae said nothing for a while, then came close to the Spartan and laid her hand on his arm. ‘You know the answer to that, my dear. Why you? Because you are here. Simply that. Now time is short.’
Parmenion moved to the graveside. ‘I never knew you,’ he said softly, ‘but men spoke well of you. I will do what I can for your city and your people.’
Swiftly he donned the dented armour of the dead monarch, strapping the sword of Leonidas to his side. Turning to Derae, he smiled.
‘There is much to do,’ she told him.
‘Then let us begin,’ he said.
For two hours they rode south, then cut towards the east over rolling hills, stopping at dusk in a ruined and deserted settlement. Parmenion built a fire against the stones of a fallen wall and sat in silence staring at the flames. Derae did not intrude on his thoughts. At last he spoke.
‘The King’s bodyguard were engaged in a fighting retreat,’ he said suddenly. ‘Did they escape?’
‘I will find out,’ she said. Moments later she nodded. ‘They lost more than a third of their number, but they are defending a narrow pass and still holding the Makedones.’
‘We must be with them by dawn. If I can convince the King’s captain that there is a chance, I can carry this through.’
‘Even then,’ she whispered, ‘can you win against the Demon King?’