Book One

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 BC
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 which 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 which 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 saviour 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 BC

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 towards Leaving Street. The cold, marble eyes of the statue of Athena gazed down on
the boy as he ran, drawing him on towards 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 woollen 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