A wonderful people are the Athenians. They elect ten new generals every year. In all my life I have known only one—and that is Parmenion. —PHILIP II OF MACEDON
SPRING, 389 B.C.
It had begun with a morbid fascination to know the day of her death. She had tracked the limitless paths of the future, tracing the myriad lines of possible tomorrows. In some futures she had died of illness or plague, in others of seizures or murder. In one she had even fallen from a horse, though riding was distasteful to her and she could not imagine ever being persuaded to mount such a beast.
But as she idly traced the possibilities, she became aware of a dark shadow at the edge of her last tomorrow. No matter when she died, the shadow was constant. It began to gnaw at her. With all the thousands of futures, how could this shadow remain? Tentatively she moved beyond the days of her death and saw the futures expand and grow. The shadow was stronger now, its evil palpable. And in a moment that touched her beyond terror she realized that even as she knew of the shadow, so it was becoming aware of her.
Yet Tamis was not without courage. Steeling herself, she chose a path and flew to the heart of the shadow, feeling the power of the Dark God eating into her soul like acid. She could not hold her presence here for long and fled back to the transient security of a solid present.
The knowledge she had gained became a terrible weight that burdened the old priestess. She could share it with no one and knew that at the most critical moment, when the evil needed to be challenged, she would be dead.
She prayed then, harder than she ever had, her thoughts spinning out into the cosmos. A darkness grew inside her mind, then a single light shone and she saw a face, lined but strong, hawklike with piercing blue eyes beneath a helm of iron. The face blurred and faded, to be replaced by that of a boy. Yet still the eyes were piercing blue, the mouth set in a determined line. A name came to her. But was it that of a savior or a destroyer? She could not know; she could only hope. But the name echoed in her mind like distant thunder.
Parmenion!
SPARTA, SUMMER, 385 B.C.
They came at him silently from the shadows, faces hooded and masked, wooden clubs raised.
Parmenion darted to the left, but two more attackers ran into his path and a club slashed past his head, grazing his shoulder. His fist hammered into the masked face, then he cut to the right and sprinted toward Leaving Street. The cold, marble eyes of the statue of Athena gazed down on the boy as he ran, drawing him on toward her. Parmenion leapt to the base of the statue, clambering up to stand against the stone legs.
“Come down! Come down!” chanted his tormentors. “We have something for you, mix-blood!”
“Then come up and give it to me,” he told them. The five attackers ran forward. Parmenion’s foot lashed into the face of the first, hurling him back, but a club cracked against his leg to knock him from his feet. He rolled, kicking out and sending an assailant sprawling, then he was up again and leaping high over them to land heavily on the street. A hurled club took him between the shoulder blades, and he staggered. Instantly they were upon him, pinning his arms.
“Now we have you,” said a voice, muffled by the woolen scarf masking the mouth.
“You don’t need the mask, Gryllus,” hissed Parmenion. “I’d know you by the smell.”
“You will not contest the final tomorrow,” said another voice. “You understand? You should never have been allowed to take part. The general’s games are for Spartans, not half-breeds.”
Parmenion relaxed, his manner becoming subdued, his head dropping. The hold on his arms eased … suddenly he wrenched free, his fist thundering into Gryllus’ face. They swarmed in on him then, punching and kicking, driving him to his knees. Gryllus hauled him up by his hair as the others pinned his arms once more.
“You asked for this,” said Gryllus, drawing back his fist. Pain exploded in Parmenion’s jaw, and he sagged against his captors. The blows continued, short, powerful hooks to the belly and face.
Parmenion did not cry out. There is no pain, he told himself. There is no … pain.
“What’s going on there?”
“It’s the night watch!” whispered one of his captors. Loosing their hold on Parmenion, the youths sprinted off into an alleyway. Parmenion fell to the street and rolled. Above him loomed the silent statue of Athena of the Road. As he groaned and lurched to his feet, two soldiers ran to him.
“What happened to you?” asked the first, gripping Parmenion’s shoulder.
“I fell.” Parmenion shook loose the helping hand and spit blood.
“And your friends were assisting you to rise, I suppose,” grunted the man. “Why don’t you walk with us for a while?”
“I need no escort,” Parmenion told them.
The soldier looked into the youth’s pale blue eyes. “They are still in the alley,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“I did not doubt it,” answered Parmenion, “but they’ll not take me unawares again.” As the soldiers moved away, Parmenion sucked in a deep breath and began to run, ducking into alleys and cutting left and right toward the marketplace. For a while he heard his pursuers, but then there was only the silence of the city night.
They would expect him to make either for the barracks or for the home of his mother. He would do neither. Instead he ran through the deserted marketplace and on to the sanctuary hill above the city.
Back at the statue of Athena an old woman stepped out into the moonlight, leaning on a long staff. She sighed and sat down on a marble seat, her body weary, her mind touched with sorrow.
“I am sorry, Parmenion,” she said. “Strong though you are, I must make you iron. You are a man of destiny.” She thought then of the other boys in the barracks. How easy it was to make them hate the half-breed, such a simple enchantment. To heal a boil took more psychic energy than to encourage hatred. It was a disturbing thought, and Tamis shivered.
Glancing up at the statue, she saw the blind marble eyes staring down at her. “Do not be so haughty,” she whispered. “I know your true name, woman of stone. I know your weaknesses and your desires, and I have more power than you.”
Tamis pushed herself to her feet.
A face came to her mind, and she smiled. Despite the enchantment Parmenion had one friend, a boy impervious to the fuel of hatred. Although it went against her plans, yet still she found the thought comforting.
“Sweet Hermias,” she said. “If all men were like you, then my work would not be necessary.”
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