more a sense of guilt. Forced to marry a foreigner, he had left his shame for future generations to share.
A strange people were the Spartans.
The only race in Greece to take their boy children as infants and train them for war; the only race to allow their women to exercise and grow strong, in order to bear warriors to continue Sparta's glory.
Parmenion moved on until he came to the street parallel to his own house. Here he stopped and scaled a high wall, his nimble fingers seeking out cracks in the mortar. Easing himself on to a tiled roof, he slid across to look down on the gate of his own small home. Hermias had said the campaign of hate was over, but Parmenion did not believe it. Keeping low to the shadows, he inched his way to the overhang of the roof and scanned the alleys below for several minutes, listening and watching.
Just as he was sure that all were clear, he saw a movement from the west and recognized Hermias running up the cobbled street. He was about to shout a greeting when five figures detached themselves from the shadows and pounced on the running youth. Parmenion saw sticks and clubs in their hands. Hermias went down to a blow that cracked against his skull. Parmenion stood and launched himself, feet first, from the roof. He landed with gruesome force on the back of a cloaked figure and heard the sickening crack of splintering bone; his victim gave a terrible scream and fell to the cobbles. Parmenion fell with him, then rolled to his feet. A stick lashed towards his head, but he ducked inside and hammered his fist into a hooded face. The hood fell back and Parmenion recognized Gryllus. The Athenian, blood pouring from crushed lips, leapt to the attack. Parmenion stepped in close and whipped two blows to the other boy's belly before sending a hooking left to his ear. Gryllus went down hard. A club crashed against Par-menion's back, hurling him forward, but he spun on his heel and blocked the next blow with his forearms. Grabbing his opponent's cloak, he dragged him forward. Their heads cracked together, but Parmenion had dipped so that his brow crushed his opponent's nose. His attacker tore himself clear and staggered away.
Parmenion scooped up a fallen club and swung it viciously as they closed in on him, smashing it into the arm of his nearest attacker. The boy he had leapt upon was lying unconscious on the ground and Gryllus had run. Only three youths faced him now, but one of these had stumbled back with one arm hanging uselessly at his side.
Parmenion charged the other two, ramming his club forward into the belly of the first and then hurling himself at the second. He fell to the ground, his opponent beneath him, and rolled. The other youth came up with a knife in his hand, the blade shining wickedly in the moonlight.
'Now you die, mix-blood!' came the voice of Learchus. The remaining two attackers sprinted away as Parmenion rose smoothly, his club held two-handed. Learchus sprang forward but Parmenion sidestepped, cracking the club down on the other's wrist. The dagger fell from his fingers.
Parmenion gathered it and advanced.
Learchus backed away, Parmenion following, until he reached the wall.
Parmenion flicked a glance at the still form of Hermias, saw the blood oozing from a wound in the temple.
'You went too far,' he told Learchus, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes gleaming. 'Too far,' he repeated, reaching up and pushing back the hood.
The knife plunged into Learchus' belly, ripping up into the lungs. Parmenion stepped inside, his face inches from the astonished, wide-eyed features of Learchus. 'This is what death feels like, you Spartan whoreson.'
'Oh, Gods . . .' cried Learchus, sagging back into the wall. Parmenion grabbed him by the hair and hauled him back to his feet.
'Prayers will not help you now.'
The breath rattled from Learchus' throat and his eyes closed. Parmenion let the body fall, his anger disappearing. He gazed down at the corpse, then let slip the bloody
A strange people were the Spartans.
The only race in Greece to take their boy children as infants and train them for war; the only race to allow their women to exercise and grow strong, in order to bear warriors to continue Sparta's glory.
Parmenion moved on until he came to the street parallel to his own house. Here he stopped and scaled a high wall, his nimble fingers seeking out cracks in the mortar. Easing himself on to a tiled roof, he slid across to look down on the gate of his own small home. Hermias had said the campaign of hate was over, but Parmenion did not believe it. Keeping low to the shadows, he inched his way to the overhang of the roof and scanned the alleys below for several minutes, listening and watching.
Just as he was sure that all were clear, he saw a movement from the west and recognized Hermias running up the cobbled street. He was about to shout a greeting when five figures detached themselves from the shadows and pounced on the running youth. Parmenion saw sticks and clubs in their hands. Hermias went down to a blow that cracked against his skull. Parmenion stood and launched himself, feet first, from the roof. He landed with gruesome force on the back of a cloaked figure and heard the sickening crack of splintering bone; his victim gave a terrible scream and fell to the cobbles. Parmenion fell with him, then rolled to his feet. A stick lashed towards his head, but he ducked inside and hammered his fist into a hooded face. The hood fell back and Parmenion recognized Gryllus. The Athenian, blood pouring from crushed lips, leapt to the attack. Parmenion stepped in close and whipped two blows to the other boy's belly before sending a hooking left to his ear. Gryllus went down hard. A club crashed against Par-menion's back, hurling him forward, but he spun on his heel and blocked the next blow with his forearms. Grabbing his opponent's cloak, he dragged him forward. Their heads cracked together, but Parmenion had dipped so that his brow crushed his opponent's nose. His attacker tore himself clear and staggered away.
Parmenion scooped up a fallen club and swung it viciously as they closed in on him, smashing it into the arm of his nearest attacker. The boy he had leapt upon was lying unconscious on the ground and Gryllus had run. Only three youths faced him now, but one of these had stumbled back with one arm hanging uselessly at his side.
Parmenion charged the other two, ramming his club forward into the belly of the first and then hurling himself at the second. He fell to the ground, his opponent beneath him, and rolled. The other youth came up with a knife in his hand, the blade shining wickedly in the moonlight.
'Now you die, mix-blood!' came the voice of Learchus. The remaining two attackers sprinted away as Parmenion rose smoothly, his club held two-handed. Learchus sprang forward but Parmenion sidestepped, cracking the club down on the other's wrist. The dagger fell from his fingers.
Parmenion gathered it and advanced.
Learchus backed away, Parmenion following, until he reached the wall.
Parmenion flicked a glance at the still form of Hermias, saw the blood oozing from a wound in the temple.
'You went too far,' he told Learchus, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes gleaming. 'Too far,' he repeated, reaching up and pushing back the hood.
The knife plunged into Learchus' belly, ripping up into the lungs. Parmenion stepped inside, his face inches from the astonished, wide-eyed features of Learchus. 'This is what death feels like, you Spartan whoreson.'
'Oh, Gods . . .' cried Learchus, sagging back into the wall. Parmenion grabbed him by the hair and hauled him back to his feet.
'Prayers will not help you now.'
The breath rattled from Learchus' throat and his eyes closed. Parmenion let the body fall, his anger disappearing. He gazed down at the corpse, then let slip the bloody
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