Lion of Macedon

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Authors: David Gemmell
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honesty; it is the greatest disguise of all. But these are thoughts for another day. You wonder why Xenophon has taken an interest in you? The answer is not complex. I watched you play Leonidas, and your breadth of vision touched me. War is an art, not a science, and that is something you understand instinctively. You studied Leonidas, and you learned his weakness. You took a risk, and it paid off handsomely. Also, you used your cavalry well—and that is rare in a Spartan.”
    “It did not impress the audience,” said Parmenion.
    “There is a lesson there,
strategos
. You won, but you allowed a greater share of the glory to go to the Sciritai. That was not sensible. If the slave races ever believed they were the equal of the Spartans, there would be another revolt. And then city-states like Athens or Thebes would once more combine their forces to invade Spartan lands. It is a question of balance—that is what the warriors in the crowd understood.”
    “Then I was wrong?” Parmenion asked.
    “In a game? No. In life? Yes.”
    “Why, then, did you give me the victory?” asked the youth.
    “You won the battle,” answered Xenophon. “It matters nothing—in a game—that you would have gone on to lose the war.” The general stood and walked to his mount, and Parmenion followed him.
    “Will you teach me?” asked the younger man before he could stop the words.
    “Perhaps,” said Xenophon. “Now let us ride.”
    Leonidas took three running steps and hurled the javelin high into the air, watching its curving arc as the sunlight caught the iron tip. The weapon dropped gracefully to thud home in the sun-baked earth a dozen paces farther than the longest throw of his peers. Leonidas swung and raised his arms, and a score of youths applauded.
    At this stage their barrack officer, Lepidus, would normally complete a throw, and Leonidas turned his eyes on the man.
    Lepidus shook his head and took up his javelin. He strode back seven paces, tested the weapon for weight, then ran forward and, with a grunt of effort, launched it. Even as it left the officer’s hand Leonidas allowed himself a smile of triumph.
    Lepidus saw the javelin fall less than three paces short of Leonidas’ mark. He swung and bowed to the younger man. “You have a good arm,” he said, smiling warmly, “but you are not dipping your body back far enough on the launch. There is at least another eight paces in you. Work on it.”
    “I will, sir,” promised Leonidas.
    “Now I’d like to see you Spartan gentlemen run,” Lepidus told them. “Twenty laps of the racecourse, if it please you.”
    “And if it does not?” shouted a boy at the back.
    “Twenty-five laps,” said Lepidus. A groan went up, but the youngsters ran off to the start. Lepidus wandered to a wooden bench seat in the shade and watched the young men. Gryllus took the lead, followed by Learchus. But Leonidas had eased himself into fourth place behind Hermias. Lepidus rubbed at his shoulder, where a Persian lance point was still buried under the bone. The joint ached murderously in winter, and even in summer any effort, such as throwing a javelin, caused a dull ache.
    Lepidus looked up as the sweating youngsters passed him. He envied them their youth and their energy, rememberinghis days in the barracks, his longing to march with the phalanx into battle.
    He saw a boy at the back of the pack. “More effort, young Pausias!” he yelled, and the boy sprinted into the group, trying to hide from his critical eye.
    Lepidus’ mind wandered, and he saw again his own youth. Sparta was different then, he told himself, more true to the principles laid down by the divine Lycurgus. The boys in the barracks were allowed two tunics, one for summer and one for winter. There were no minstrels performing in the Theater of Marble, no plays, no parties at the homes of the rich. One bowl of black soup a day for the youngsters, and iron discipline maintained by the birch. A race bred for battles. He

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