They set off at a murderous pace that faltered within a lap. Theo settled in at the centre of the leading group, feeling his breastplate rubbing at the back of his neck. By five circuits the leaders had pulled half a lap clear of the following pack, and by seven had started to overtake the back markers. Theo finished fifth and slumped to the ground as Achillas stepped up to receive his badge.
The Spartan waited until all the men had finished.
‘Take up shields and swords,’ he ordered them. The swords were wooden, but of the same weight and length as the short stabbing blades used by most hoplites. ‘Now we will see how you fight,’ he said. ‘Choose an opponent and form into two lines. You will fight only until a blow is struck which with a real sword would kill or disable. The loser will walk back to sit on the right, the victor to the left.’
The contest took more than an hour and by the end the men were cheering the finalists as they circled one another, blocking with shields, lunging, parrying. Theo had won his first two bouts, but had been beaten on the third. Achillas had reached the last four, but had lost to Damoras who now fought Petar, a man from Theo’s area in the north of Pelagonia. Damoras was stronger but Petar, the shorter man, had greater speed and his wooden blade cracked against Damoras’ skull, causing his opponent to stagger. ‘Killing blow!’ shouted Parmenion. Petar dropped shield and sword and punched the air with delight, taking his badge from Parmenion and holding it up for his friends to see.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Parmenion, ‘for a little amusement. Pair off with the first man you fought.’ As the warriors shuffled into place the Spartan lifted two badges from the box. ‘You will run five laps of the field, carrying your partner on your back. You may choose when to carry, or be carried. But the first pair to return here will receive a badge each.’
Theo found himself paired with a slender man from Lyncos. There was little chance of the warrior being able to carry him at speed, so Theo offered to do the carrying. The man leapt to his back.
‘When you are ready!’ yelled the Spartan. ‘Go!’
The fifty pairs set off. Theo, his powerful legs pumping hard, took an early lead; but before half a lap he felt himself losing strength. Gritting his teeth he struggled on, being passed by several pairs. On the second lap he had to stop. The slender warrior tried manfully to keep up with the pack, but under Theo’s formidable weight he stumbled and fell. Theo had regained his breath. The problem was trying to run while holding his partner’s legs in place. Pushing the man in front of him he ducked down, lifting the warrior to his shoulders. The man hooked his legs behind Theo’s back and the huge Macedonian set off in pursuit of the pack. There was no question now of changing places and Theo did not try to sprint. Conserving as much of his strength as possible for the final lap he slowly reeled in the leaders. By the final circuit Theo was third. The second pair stumbled and fell, leaving him chasing Achillas and his partner.
Achillas was tiring as Theo came up behind. The man Achillas was carrying glanced back, and shouted to his partner to put in an extra effort. But Achillas was finished; he dropped his partner and ran around to change places. It was all Theo needed. Putting in a last desperate push, he reached the finish two paces ahead of the second pair.
Parmenion stepped forward with the victors’ badges, but the young warrior with Theo refused.
‘I did not earn it,’ he said.
‘What is your name, lad?’ asked the Spartan.
‘Gaelan.’
‘What shall I do with the badge, Gaelan?’
‘Give them both to my partner. He did all the work.’
‘And what do you say?’ Parmenion asked Theo.
Theo put his arm around Gaelan’s shoulder. ‘We were a team.’ He took the badge from Parmenion and pressed it into Gaelan’s hand. ‘We won as a team and will share the prize.’
‘Good,’ said the Spartan. ‘A fine way to end a morning’s work. Go away and eat. Return in two hours, when the final badges will be won.’
As Parmenion sat alone at the training field, drinking water and eating a simple meal of figs and fruit, the King rode up with two of his officers.
‘How goes it, strategos?’ Philip asked.
Parmenion rose and bowed. ‘There are some with promise,’ he said. ‘But we shall see.’ He strode forward, rubbing his hand down the chest of the King’s horse. ‘A good animal - fine lungs and strong legs.’
‘A Thracian sire and a Macedonian dam,’ Philip told him, patting the stallion’s neck. ‘But he’s young yet; he’ll learn. Will you sell me your stallion? He would make a magnificent breeder.’
Parmenion laughed. ‘I’ll not sell him - but you are free to put him in with your mares. I daresay he will enjoy the experience.’
Philip nodded. ‘Tell me, are all Persian cavalrymen mounted on such beasts?’
‘No, sire. He is special, from the Great King’s herd. Only the Royal Guard will have mounts of similar quality.’
‘And how many men make up the King’s Guard?’
‘One thousand, sire.’
Philip looked thoughtful, then he grinned. ‘Tune for the hunt,’ he said. ‘I will leave you to your lunch.’ Touching heels to the stallion he cantered away towards the distant forest, his officers trailing behind.
Parmenion finished his meal and thought back to the morning’s work. The Macedonians were game enough, sturdy and tough, but still he sensed their suspicion. One year to train 6,000 men, to build an infantry army from cavalrymen.
One day at a time, Savra, he cautioned himself. He glanced up to see the men returning; they formed a great semi-circle around him and waited for his orders.
‘I want you to pick three generals from among you,’ he told them.
‘For what purpose?’ asked Achillas.
Parmenion smiled. ‘What purpose does a general serve? You will lead your men into battle - here on this training field. Now choose!’
Parmenion sat back and watched as the debates began, listening intently to the names proposed, studying the reaction of the men named. As he guessed Achillas was the first to be nominated, but the arguments raged on. Parmenion did nothing to interfere, even when tempers began to flare.
Theo stood up. ‘Stop this!’ he shouted. Silence fell. ‘We’ll be here for days if this keeps up. Surely it is a simple task? The strategos has asked for three men. All those in favour of Achillas raise a hand.’ Two-thirds of the men did so. ‘Then Achillas is one,’ said Theo. ‘Now, many of you were shouting for Petar. How many in favour?’ This time the vote was more evenly split, and Theo counted the hands before announcing Petar to be the second general. ‘Who will nominate a third?’ asked the black-bearded warrior.
‘I will,’ said Parmenion. ‘I nominate you - and there will be no voting on it. Let the three generals step forward.’ He stood with them before the seated men. ‘Each of you in turn will select a warrior to make up your army. One at a time, so that no one can say any general had a greater advantage. You will each choose twenty-five men. Achillas, you may begin.’
Parmenion walked back to his seat and watched the process. In the early stages the chosen men stood, raised their hands and walked out to stand behind their leader, while the others cheered. But as the choosing continued a hush settled over the waiting men. No one wanted to be left unchosen and the tension grew. As the last man was selected, Parmenion turned to the generals. ‘Over there, by the trees, you will find shields and weapons. Go, arm yourselves.’ As they trooped away, Parmenion turned to the twenty-two men still seated.
‘There is no worse feeling in the world than this,’ he told them. ‘When I was a young man in Sparta many games would begin this way. Always I would be the one chosen last, or chosen not at all. We can tell ourselves that it is unfair; we can tell ourselves the choosers were wrong.’ He scanned their faces. ‘But ultimately we must accept that we have been judged by our fellows. Some of you will have been left here because you are small, weaker than your friends. Others will be here because they a
re not popular with any of the three generals. It does not matter why. I am now your general for this ... test. We will compete with the others, and we will see if they were wrong. Now follow me.’
He led the disconsolate group to where the others waited. ‘Gentlemen, this will be your first battle as infantry units. The rules are simple. Each force has a general. The object for the enemy will be to kill or capture that general - which will be considered done if any warrior touches an enemy general. Is that understood? Good. Achillas, take your warriors to the southern end of the field, Theo to the west, and Petar to the east. When I give the signal you can move forward —against any other group. I will command the northern section. One last point: there are two badges to be won here. One will go to the general commanding the victorious army, the second will be awarded by that general to the man he believes was the most valiant of his men. Generals, take up your positions!’
The groups marched off, armed with shields and clubs. Parmenion turned to the men waiting patiently behind him. ‘Look at the weapons,’ he said. There were clubs and shields, but beyond them ten-foot-long staves left in a ragged pile.
Theo called his men together at the western edge of the field. ‘The most dangerous group will be led by Achillas,’ he told the warriors. ‘He is closer to Petar than to us. We will march across the field towards them, but hold back as they clash, then we will hit the victor.’
‘What about the Spartan?’ Gaelan asked.
‘You’ve seen the men he has,’ Theo answered. ‘We’ll keep a watch on him. I think he will also hang back.’
Achillas’ group was the first to move and, as Theo suspected, they angled directly towards the men with Petar. With a great shout they surged forward, clashing with the enemy, clubs cracking against shield and skull. One of Petar’s men broke through, racing at Achillas, who leapt back from a blow and then cracked his club against the warrior’s chin, stunning him. Petar fell under a series of hits. But then Theo and his group charged in, taking Achillas from the rear. The warrior tried to seek refuge behind his men, but Theo leapt at him, bearing him to the ground.
The Spartan!’ yelled Gaelan. Theo rolled to his feet.
‘Back!’ he ordered his men. Pulling out of the melee, his group locked shields and watched the Spartan approach. His smaller group was also in tight formation.
‘Do we charge them?’ asked Gaelan.
‘Wait!’ replied Theo.
The defeated men sat down to watch the clash. Suddenly the Spartan’s force surged forward, their long staves lancing out to punch men from their feet. Theo’s front line went down. ‘Move back!’ Theo bellowed, and the men ran to the southern end of the field, turning once more to face the advancing formation. Swiftly Theo outlined a plan to
Gaelan and the others. Then they waited, shields locked together. Once more the Spartan’s army charged. The front rank again went down, and the enemy pushed on over them, closer to Theo who had placed himself at the back of his force.
Inside the Spartan square Gaelan rose from beneath his shield and touched Parmenion on the shoulder with his club. ‘Killing blow!’ shouted Gaelan.
A great cheer went up from the watching warriors. Parmenion took hold of Gaelan’s arm and raised it in the victor’s salute, then he led all the men back to the north of the field.
‘This afternoon,’ he told them, ‘you saw almost all the major problems faced by infantry. Petar, you experienced what happens when a charge comes unexpectedly, the sheer force of it carrying the enemy through to the centre. Achillas, you suffered the double envelopment, being hit on your flank as you engaged Petar. Theo, despite being the victor, you saw what happens when a foe is better armed, the spear giving greater length and penetration than the sword. Your ploy was a good one and I do not belittle it; indeed I will learn from it. But in a real battle, though you might have destroyed the enemy general, your troops would have been cut to pieces - and you would have died in the process.’
He presented the badges, watching with pleasure as Theo handed the second to Gaelan.
‘Tonight all badge-holders will be given their prizes. Now, gentlemen, you may return to your duties - all except the generals.’
As the men wandered away, Theo, Achillas and Petar sat down with Parmenion. ‘Tomorrow,’ said the Spartan, ‘I will be riding south to Aigai to begin training the men there. I will be gone for a week. During that time you will bring the men here every day; you will make them run, you will fight mock battles and you will issue badges. One of you will command, the other two will be under-officers. For this you will all be paid an extra drachm a day.’
‘Which of us is to command?’ asked Achillas.
‘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 fill
ing 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.’
‘We will not ride alone all the way,’ Philip assured him. ‘Only the last few miles in Illyria. There we will be met.’
‘But why only four, sire?’ Nicanor asked.
The King gave a cold smile. ‘Because I choose four. No man, not even Bardylis, tells Philip how many will accompany him.’
After the meeting Philip walked with Parmenion out into the palace gardens. ‘How is the training coming, strategos?
‘Better than I had hoped. Until the new armour arrives from Phrygia we are keeping the work simple - running, single combat and a few elementary unit exercises. What is heartening though, sire, is the quality of the men and their willingness to accept new ideas. I already have several under-officers of great potential.’
Philip nodded and the two men walked to a quiet area at the back of the gardens, sitting in the shade of a high wall. ‘I know it would be easier for you, Parmenion, if we could gather all the men in one place. But you know why I cannot. If word gets out that I am building an army, Bardylis will invade swiftly.’