Dark Prince (37 page)

“Not even to save the city?”

“No.”

“Then why do you ask why they also refused?”

“Because I am used to the evil of man, and I understand the nature of selfishness and compromise. I am amazed that an entire city should exhibit such nobility of spirit.”

“They had a great leader, my dear. His name was Epaminondas, and he was King Parmenion’s closest friend. The people loved him for his virtue. They died for him.”

“What became of the enemy king?”

“He marches on Sparta, Derae. For the man was Philippos.”

“I will not stay to see it,” said Derae. “I will travel south to the giant’s gateway. I will not watch Parmenion with … with his wife. Nor will I wait to see him die.”

“You think he will fail?”

“How can he succeed, Tamis?”

The old woman had no answer.

Parmenion lay awake, deeply unhappy about the subterfuge. He knew himself to be an impostor, and it irked him. Yet what choices were there? Could he say to Leonidas, “I am not your king but a warrior from another world”? And if he did, would he still command the Spartan army? He sat up and gazed around the camp.

He could see Nestus, the swordsman he had slain for ordering Derae’s death. And Learchus, the boy he had killed in Sparta on the night of the attack on Hermias. Here and there were other men whose faces he recalled but whose names were lost to him, vanished in some dim corridor of memory.

He stood. “Officers to me,” he called. They rose and moved to sit in a circle around him, all of them bowing save the giant Nestus. Parmenion met the man’s eyes, sensing the hostility there. Leonidas appeared from the woods and joined him. Parmenion looked at his handsome face, the tightly curled hair of red-gold, the clear blue eyes. My enemy and my friend, he thought.

“We learned a great deal,” said Parmenion, “even though the battle was lost. Philippos is not a good general.”

“How can you say that?” asked Nestus. “
He
has never
lost.” There was an edge in the man’s voice that was almost a sneer.

“The golden eye gives him a power to read the thoughts of his adversary. Then he reacts. Do you understand? He has no need of a battle plan. He merely thwarts the plans of others until they are overcommitted. Then he strikes.”

“How does that help us?” queried Leonidas.

“By telling us that strength merely disguises a weakness. If we can find a way to nullify his power, we can destroy him,” Parmenion told him.

“How do we do that?” asked the slender Learchus.

“I will find a way,” Parmenion promised with a confidence he did not feel. “Now tell me, Leonidas, how many men can we gather?”

“Men, sire? There is only the army. Five thousand.”

Parmenion fell silent. Back in the Sparta he knew there were the Sciritai, warriors from the mountains to the northwest of the city. But did they exist here?

“If we had to assemble a force that was not purely Spartan,” he said carefully, “where would you look to find men?”

“There are none, sire. The Messenians have sided with Philippos. If we had time, we could enlist the aid of the Cretans, but there is no time. We stand alone.”

“If every man in the city was given a sword, how many warriors would we count?”

“You mean if we armed the slaves?”

“Exactly.”

“Fifteen thousand … twenty. But they are not warriors; they would have no discipline. And afterward—even if we won—how would we dispossess them of those weapons?”

“One step at a time, my friend. First we must win.”

“You think the Spartan army cannot win alone?” asked Nestus, his dark eyes angry.

“Given the right terrain, there is no force in all the world to equal us,” said Parmenion. “But tell me, Nestus, where is such a terrain between here and Sparta? On open ground Philippos will surround us, his cavalry perhaps passing us by and raiding the city itself. And we cannot defend the city. We
must bring Philippos to the battlefield and hold his entire army. We cannot do that with five thousand men.”

“Then what do we do?” Learchus demanded.

“As soon as we arrive back in Sparta, you will gather all the slaves and every Spartan man under the age of sixty-five and above the age of fifteen. Those slaves who agree to fight alongside us will be offered their freedom. Then it will be up to you to give them cursory training. We will have maybe five days, perhaps less.”

“Children, old men, and slaves?” sneered Nestus. “Perhaps we should surrender now.”

“If you are afraid,” said Parmenion softly, “I will give you permission to remain at home with the women.”

All color drained from the giant’s face. “You dare suggest …?”

“I dare,” Parmenion told him. “And I will have no fainthearted man serve me.”

Nestus lurched to his feet, his sword snaking clear of its scabbard.

“No!” shouted Leonidas.

“Leave him be,” said Parmenion, rising smoothly but leaving his own sword sheathed.

“This is madness,” Learchus shouted. “For Hera’s sake, Nestus, put up your blade!”

“He called me a coward! I’ll take that from no man.”

“Wrong, you arrogant whoreson!” snarled Parmenion. “You will take it from me. Now you have two choices. The first is to use that sword; the second is to kneel and ask my forgiveness. Which will it be?”

Nestus stood still, aware that all eyes were upon him. In that awful moment he realized what he had done and the fate that awaited him. If he slew Parmenion—as he dearly wanted to—the others would fall on him. But to kneel to the mixblood!

“You brought it on yourself!” he shouted. “You insulted me!”

“Two choices,” snapped Parmenion. “Choose or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

For a moment Nestus hesitated, then he dropped the sword. “On your knees!” roared Parmenion. The giant fell forward with head bowed. Parmenion ignored him, his gaze sweeping over the watching men. “Is there another here who wishes to dispute my right to lead?”

“There is no one, sire,” said Leonidas softly. “We are yours, heart and soul.”

Parmenion swung back to the kneeling Nestus. “Get out of my sight!” he said. “From this moment you will fight in the front rank. You have no command. Never open your mouth in my presence again.”

Nestus rose, stumbling back from the group of officers.

“That is all,” said Parmenion. “Prepare to march in one hour.” Turning his back on them, he walked away into the wood.

Leonidas followed him. “That should have been done three years ago,” he said. “Your patience amazes me. But tell me, Parmenion, why now?”

“It was time. I am glad you are here, I need to talk with you. Look at me, Leonidas, and tell me what you see.”

“My king and my friend,” he answered, nonplussed.

“Look closely. Do I seem older, younger?”

“You are the same, maybe a little tired.”

Thena approached them, and Parmenion turned to her. “Deceit is not my way, Thena. I cannot do this.”

“You must,” she said.

“I want Leonidas to know the truth.”

She met his gaze and knew, without recourse to reading his mind, that argument would be futile. “Then let me show him,” she pleaded. “Then he will see it all.”

“As you wish.”

“What is happening here?” asked Leonidas. “What is it that I do not know?”

“Sit down by that tree and close your eyes,” Thena commanded. “All will be made known to you.”

Perplexed, Leonidas did as he was bidden, sitting on the grass with his back to a slender cypress tree. Thena knelt before him and closed her eyes. Warmth like a hot summer
breeze flowed through his mind, and he found himself gazing down on the city of Sparta from a great height. Yet it was not Sparta, he realized. There were subtle differences.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“Watch and learn,” Thena answered.

He saw the young Parmenion, hated and hunted, saw himself and his family. But nothing was right. The years fled on, and he saw a duel between Parmenion and Nestus, watched the freeing of a city, experienced the defeat of a Spartan army and the death of a king.

Leonidas was entranced.

Then he saw Philippos, and anger flared within him. Yet even here there were small changes. Philippos was called Philip and was possessed of no golden eye, no witchcraft to protect him. Events flowed by beneath his gaze—great battles, victories, defeats—until at last he saw the kidnap of the king’s son and the journey of Parmenion to rescue him.

Derae’s voice whispered into his mind. “Prepare yourself, for what you are about to see will be painful.”

Once more the battle lines were assembled, the Kadmians on the right panicking and fleeing the field. He saw the king’s horse bolt toward the western ridges.

“No,” he groaned as Parmenion fell, his throat slashed, his dead body crashing to the rocks. “Oh, no!”

The man he served and loved was being buried now, his twin donning his armor and helm.

His vision swam, and his eyes opened. At first he could not speak, then he shook his head. “You are not my king,” he said softly.

“No,” admitted Parmenion.

“But he is the
strategos,”
Thena pointed out, laying her hand on Leonidas’ arm.

He stood, drawing in several deep breaths. “I knew something was wrong,” he whispered.

“I am sorry, Leonidas,” Parmenion told him. “I did not wish this.”

“I know. I saw.”

“If you desire me to leave, I will do so,” said Parmenion. “I do not relish the role of impostor.”

“Were the roles reversed, my king would say the same. He was a great man, kind and yet strong. That is why he tolerated Nestus. He felt he had done him harm and owed him a debt. What can I say? I do not know how to proceed.”

Thena stepped forward. “You have lost a friend, a dear friend. Ask yourself what he would choose. Your Parmenion is dead, may the source guide his soul. But this Parmenion is also a
strategos
. What would the king do?”

For a time Leonidas was silent, swinging away from them to stare through the trees. Then he spoke. “You have been honest with me, Parmenion. For that I thank you. We will go to Sparta and raise the army. I do not see how we can win, but I will fight alongside you. But if we do survive, you must leave us. You are not my … brother. It would be wrong for you to stay.”

“You have my word on it,” said Parmenion. “Is there an oath you wish me to swear?”

“No oaths,” Leonidas told him. “Your word—like my brother’s—is promise enough.”

“Then we will continue with this … drama,” said Parmenion. “I will need your help. There is much I do not know about this world, and you must advise me, especially when we reach the city. Who are the
ephors
I can trust? Where are my enemies? Time is short.”

“You believe we can defeat Philippos?”

“I know I can nullify his sorcery. You and I will discuss the strategy. But it will still depend on the numbers we can raise.”

“I will do all that you ask of me. And you will remain king until the battle is decided.”

Leonidas offered his hand, and Parmenion took it. “Victory or death,” said the young Spartan.

“Victory is preferable,” Parmenion answered.

The Spartan smiled and moved away, and Parmenion turned to Thena. “You think I was wrong to tell him?”

She shook her head. “No, you will need a friend in the city.”

“I have you.”

“No,” she said sadly, “I will not come to Sparta. I shall ride southwest to the giant’s gateway.”

“But I thought …”

“As did I. It was not to be.”

“I will … miss you, lady.”

“And I you. Is there a message for Attalus?”

“Yes. And for Brontes. Will you and I still be able to commune from such a distance?”

Thena nodded and stepped forward, taking his hand. “Across worlds,” she promised.

They sat together for almost an hour as Parmenion outlined his plans. Then Leonidas returned. “The men are ready,” he told them.

“As am I,” answered Parmenion.

THE CITY OF SPARTA

Word of the defeat had reached the city, and there were no crowds to greet the returning soldiers as they marched in formation along Leaving Street to the marble-pillared palace.

“Stay close to me,” whispered Parmenion as the warriors returned to the nearby barracks and he and Leonidas entered the great gates, “for I have never seen the inside of this place, and it would not help our cause if I were to wander off and get lost.”

Leonidas grinned. “There are six
androns
on the ground floor, and the kitchens are ahead of you. Your quarters are up the first flight of stairs and to the right.”

Parmenion nodded and glanced at the luridly painted walls leading to the marble stairs. Battle scenes were everywhere, filling the hall, and even the mosaic on the floor showed Spartan warriors in battle array. He smiled. “Sparta does not change,” he said, “even in another world.”

An elderly servant moved forward and bowed. “Priastes,” whispered Leonidas.

“Welcome home, sire,” said Priastes. “I have prepared you a bath and some refreshment.” The old man bowed once more and turned to the stairs, Parmenion and Leonidas following. The stairs were lined with statues of spear-carrying Spartan heroes from the past, none of whom Parmenion recognized. Priastes reached the top of the flight and turned right into a wide corridor, opening a door to a series of east-facing rooms. Parmenion stepped inside, following the servant through to a
small chamber where a bronze-plated hip bath had been filled with hot, scented water. The servant unbuckled Parmenion’s breastplate, and the Spartan swiftly undressed.