#parmenion

For context, the scene is set in Pelopidas' house. Pelopidas was one of the leading generals of Thebes and led expeditions into Thessaly. He also meddled with the politics of Macedonia and was the one who asked for young Philippos to be sent as a hostage.

Philippos was supposed to be sleeping in Pelopidas' son's room when the men went out for a komos, but when mysterious men showed up, he decided to go on an adventure with Lysias, the little master of the house.

We moved from shadow to shadow. Some lights still shone bright, waiting for the return of the komos, while others had already been extinguished by Pelopidas’ servants. We reached the backyard in silence, keeping close to the wall—we didn’t want to be sent back to our room. Horses were being moved in and out of the stables until they could all settle. Low voices drifted toward us, despite the rain beating down—thin but heavy and noisy—on the terracotta tiles of the roof.

The voices grew nearer. Now that the horses were settled, the servants were probably taking the strangers somewhere warmer to offer them spiced wine. I could make out words and tone, and soon, the accent of the newcomers. With a start, I flattened against the wall.

They were men from Makedonia.

Did I have friends in Makedonia? I knew I had enemies: the men who obeyed Ptolemaios of Aloros out of misguided loyalty, the ones he paid, and the cruel ones who took pleasure in serving a cruel lord. No one had stood for me against him during the few weeks I spent at court, between Illyria and Thebai. Who were these men? Exiles? Or agents of my stepfather, sent to kill me?

I took a deep, steady breath. The men were approaching—fast. It was too late already: the servant led them into the hallway where we hid. The light of his lamp spilled over Lysias’ face; half a heartbeat later, it found me.

“Young master,” the servant greeted.

Lysias straightened up. He wasn’t thinking of murder or death. To him, this was still a game. His voice was clear, playful.

“Well met, noble men. I am Lysias, son of Pelopidas. I’m afraid my father is away.”

“Well met, Lysias,” the leader of the men answered in accented Attic. “I am Parmenion, son of Philotas. I was told your father is expected soon.”

“Indeed. I am honored to welcome my father’s friends. Please, follow me. The symposium has ended, but I’m sure some food remains.”

The man’s gaze landed on me. If I had met him before, I couldn’t recall. Nor could I remember who this Philotas was. It was a common enough name in the highlands and in Pella. Parmenion was too well-dressed to be a nobody—his heavy belt with its bronze ornaments, the elaborate sheath of his dagger, all gave him away.

Did he know me?

Just then, Lysias seemed to remember I was there—and that it was impolite not to introduce me.

“This is my friend…”

I cut in before he could finish. “Hippolytos. Son of Perdikkas. From the city of Dion.”

Lysias threw me a glance. Thankfully, he had his back to Parmenion when he did, or the look on his face would have given me away. But then, understanding dawned—his mouth formed a small ‘o,’ and he nodded.

“Yes. This is my Macedonian friend from Dion.”

“One of the hostages?” Parmenion asked curiously.

“Yes,” Lysias said as he opened the door to the dining room. "He’s here tonight to keep me company. Please, make yourselves comfortable. You!” He turned to one of the servants, who had been piling bones onto empty plates. “We need mulled wine for our guests!” Then, turning back to Parmenion and the two men following him, he added, “Sit wherever you like. He won’t be long. I’m sorry, there are only some cakes left.”

Soon, the room looked somewhat clean, except for the wine stains that would be scrubbed away in the morning. Lysias sat nervously on a couch across from the men; I sat beside him until the slave returned with the hot wine. By then, Lysias had asked enough questions for me to gather that Parmenion was the son of a prince from Upper Macedonia, from one of those rare cantons that had remained loyal to the kings—even when the kings had as little power as we did now.

But which kings? In his eyes, was Ptolemaios of Aloros a king? Men from the mountains were known for their ruthlessness, almost like the Thracian and Illyrian barbarians.

I rose from the couch to take the pitcher and cups from the slave’s hands. He looked at me in disbelief—so did Lysias, who had never seen a rich man’s son serve at dinner. I hadn’t spoken a word since the conversation began. But I wasn’t a barbarian, and if Parmenion was the son of a prince, my father or elder brother would have honored him by having me serve as cupbearer.

“Do you often serve the men here?” Parmenion asked.

The light was better here than in the hallway, and now that I was closer, I could see him properly. His hair was dark blond, his eyes light brown; he was in his early thirties, with a long face and keen eyes.

“No. It isn’t done.”

“Then why tonight?”

“You are from my own country.” I finished filling the cups—all three of them. “Are you one of the Companions?”

“My father is one of them.”

“And you aren’t?” That was strange—he was of age.

“I’m afraid not,” he said with a wry smile. Then, he switched to his thickest Macedonian, the mountain dialect no foreigner could understand. “The other hostages—do you know them?”

“Some,” I admitted truthfully. I had made no effort to meet those from families allied with my stepfather, and since most of the hostages came from such families, I avoided the majority of them.

“Do they treat you well? With respect?”

“Yes. Pelopidas has been very kind.”

“And the prince?” asked another of the men, seated to Parmenion’s right. “Have you seen him?”

Why do you want to know that? I struggled to keep my expression neutral. The question made sense—it didn’t necessarily mean they were looking for me to kill me. I was the prize of the flock; I should have expected inquiries.

“Yes,” I lied.

“There have been rumors in Pella,” Parmenion said, his voice slow and low, his eyes locked onto mine. Did he know me? Was he playing along, thinking: what a fool? “Rumors that the Thebans seek to corrupt the prince.”

“Corrupt,” I repeated, frowning as I stepped back with the wine jug. “What do you mean?”

“That they are setting him up as a tool to replace King Perdikkas and turn Makedonia into a Theban protectorate.”

I felt the urge to smash the jug, the cups—everything. The red fog of the palestra filled my vision again, the same rage that had made me smash the nose of the boy who had called me a whore.

“Do you believe these rumors, sir?” My voice was cold. “Because if you do, then we have nothing more to say to each other.”

“Do we?”

“Who spreads these rumors? The regent, Ptolemaios? What would I want with a man who listens to the words of a fratricide? Of a thief who rules only because his stolen gold—taken from foreign hands—allows him to hire thugs and barbarians so he can feast in Pella like he’s a king? The prince found more honor and care in Thebai than he ever did in Pella.”

I was trembling with rage, my face flushed. I couldn’t believe it. I had been gone only a few weeks, and that traitor was already slandering my name. I knew why. Once he had killed my brother, he needed to dispose of me. Destroying my reputation was a good start.

Parmenion merely raised an eyebrow.

“You sound like someone who loves Thebai more than Makedonia.”

“And why,” I snapped, “should I love Makedonia? Tell me, is it not Makedonia that tolerates a man no one acclaimed? A fratricide? A man who forced himself upon the mother of the king?”

Silence fell, heavy. The men’s mouths set into hard lines.

One of them growled, “It is a disgrace for a man to despise the land of his birth.”

Six months ago, I would have backed down. Not that night.

I had danced for Herakles. I had been schooled by Pelopidas and Epaminondas—men who fought for their city and the Boeotian League, but who also spoke of justice, of virtue, of Hellas as it could be: strong and peaceful, if only Right and Good could prevail.

“I do not despise Makedonia as she was,” I said. “But I cannot say I love Makedonia as she is. I can only hope that when I return, I can make her great again—so that I may love her, as a son should love his mother.”

Silence, again.

Then, the man on the left grumbled, “Big mouth, for a boy. If I were your father…”

“Well,” Parmenion interjected, never once breaking eye contact with me. Did he know? “None of us is his father, and none of us wish to offend his guardian.”

“Who does the brat think he is? When we—”

Parmenion silenced him with a sharp look. “Not now.”

They looked ready to argue when noise erupted in the courtyard. Pelopidas and his friends had returned. I barely had time to slip back onto the couch beside Lysias—still red-faced, still holding the jug—before the men entered.

Laughter and chatter filled the room, shoulders were clapped. I realized then that Pelopidas had no idea who Parmenion was. They shared a guest-friend in Thessalia, but they had never met before.

A chill spread through me like ice dumped into my stomach. If Pelopidas did not know him, then Parmenion could be here to kill me—and I had almost revealed who I was.

The thought crossed my mind, and I saw it cross Epaminondas’ as well. The moment his green eyes took in the scene, he placed himself between me and the guests. Not in a threatening way, not as though he were defending me—but directly in their path.

Parmenion noticed. He raised an eyebrow again.

“I think,” Epaminondas said, “that it’s time for you to go home.”

-*-

Some time later, Philippos is invited to Pelopidas' house again, to listen to talks about the Macedonian Situation. Here, he discovered Parmenion travelled to Thebes because he is, in fact, a staunch opponent of Ptolemaios of Aloros.

I sat in the inner courtyard, by the fishpond and its yellowing bushes, elbows on my knees, chin in my hands. Life sucked, I was useless, the sky was grey, and I wished I were grown already so I could ride hard to Pella and slaughter Ptolemaios myself.

“I wasn’t expecting you in this place.”

I rose and turned. Parmenion was leaning against a column, eating an apple with a lopsided grin.

“A boy like you, in a meeting like this?”

“My guardian believes matters of Makedonia concern me.” I straightened my clothes and cleared my throat. “I am sorry. I misjudged you, thinking you weren’t…”

He pushed off the column and began pacing by the pool, shrugging. “Do not worry, lad. The outburst was quite endearing.”

I didn’t want to be endearing—I wanted to be dangerous, powerful. I wanted to be able to fix things.

“I am sorry they did not agree to help you,” I said.

Again, he smiled. “This is democracy for you. Things need to be discussed a dozen times before anything gets done. Why do you think I arrived when I did? What they decide now is of little importance, as long as they give me what I hope for in the spring.”

“And if they won’t? Will you return to Makedonia?”

Light brown eyes fixed upon a yellowing bush, Parmenion answered, “I don’t have a death wish. Ptolemaios has spies here—if I return without Pelopidas and his army, he will have me killed.”

“But you are a nobleman of high birth.”

“Am I?” He snorted. “My father disowned me before I left. I am just Parmenion now.”

“Why?”

“Why not? My father wants to hunt, care for his horses and his fields and his forests and the flock of siblings I have… What was he supposed to do? Wait for the knife? No. Rebels are clanless until they win.” But the smile, thin-lipped on his long face, added to that: but I intend to win, and I shall be clanless no more at the end of the play.

I envied him. He stood tall, strong, and free at thirty—an age not young enough to be discarded, not old enough to be burdened with a wife and a herd of children. I could easily imagine him living the adventures of mercenary life if Thebai didn’t move this year, riding his stallion on sun-baked roads and racing bulls in the fields, while I, a boy of thirteen, would remain useless for ages.

And not only was I useless—I was a liar.

I cleared my throat again. Maybe I was sick, because it kept itching and feeling tight. “I have not been… entirely, ah, honest with you, the last time we met.”

I could read in the glint of his eyes that he knew; he merely waited for me to blurt my apologies, amused by my plight.

“My name is not Hippolytos, and I have deceived you, answering your honest questions. I am Prince Philippos, son of Amyntas, and I am honored to meet you, Parmenion, son of No-One.”

He frowned a little, tilted his head, but said nothing, so I continued: “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Epaminondas gave it away when he moved to protect you.”

“As you saw, they take good care of me.”

“What I see,” Parmenion answered, “is that you mispronounce your own name. My prince.”

I flushed red. I hadn’t even noticed how I altered my speech now, to sound Theban and fit in with the other boys—and of course, Parmenion would take offense. They say the Thebans seek to corrupt the prince.

Parmenion stepped closer, close enough to whisper, “Never forget we are only their pawns. A pawn well cared for, in your case, perhaps even loved by them—but we are not of Thebai.”

No.

I was of Makedonia, where brothers killed brothers.

“What I am puts a death mark on me, Parmenion,” I said gravely. “I dream of who I am at night. The gods themselves will not let me forget.”

His gaze turned sad then, and his smile kinder. The men poured out of the andron, the meeting finished, their voices filling the courtyard.

“I will pray the gods watch over you, Philippos,” he said, bowing his head before turning to join his friends.