Lion of Macedon (22 page)

All Cletus now wanted—desired above all else—was to revenge himself on the Spartan traitor who had tricked them.

Mothac could understand his desire for revenge.

He waited until the Spartan had finished his meal, then followed
him on the long walk to the Cadmea steps. As the Spartan began to climb the winding path, Mothac glanced around. There was no one in sight. Softly he called Cletus by name and then ran up alongside him.

“Have you good news for me, man?” the Spartan asked.

“No,” answered Mothac, ramming his dagger into the man’s neck, driving it deep above the collarbone. Cletus fell back, scrabbling for his sword. Mothac struck him viciously in the face, then wrenched his knife clear, severing the jugular. Blood spouted from the wound, but still Cletus tried to attack, swinging his sword desperately. Mothac leapt back. The Spartan fell and began to writhe in his death throes.

Mothac ran from the pathway and back to his home, removing his bloodstained
chiton
and washing himself clean. Dressed once more in the new tunic bought for him by Parmenion, he returned to the house of Epaminondas.

It would not take long for the hired killers to find out that their paymaster was dead.

When he entered the house, he found Parmenion lounging on a couch in the
andron
.

The Spartan looked up at him. “You concluded your business?”

“I did … sir.”

“To your satisfaction?”

“I would not call it satisfaction, sir. Merely a necessary chore.”

When Epaminondas brought the news of Cletus’ murder to Parmenion, the Theban seemed genuinely distressed by the killing.

“I thought you had no love for Spartans,” said Parmenion as they strolled through the gardens at the base of the great statue to Heracles.

Epaminondas glanced around. There were few people in the gardens, and none within earshot. “No, I have not, but that is not the issue. I trust you, Parmenion, but there are plans in progress that must not be thwarted. The Spartan officer
commanding the Cadmea has called for an investigation. He is also said to be requesting more troops from Sparta, for he fears the murder may be the opening move in a revolt.”

“Which it was not,” said Parmenion, “for if it was, you would know of it.”

Epaminondas looked at him sharply, and a blush spread over his pockmarked features. Then he smiled. “You have a keen mind; thankfully it is allied to a curbed tongue. Yes, I am one who seeks to free Thebes. But it will take time, and when it is close, I will seek your advice. I have not forgotten the plan you outlined.”

They halted by a fountain that spouted from the arms of a statue of Poseidon, the sea god. Parmenion drank from the pool below it, then both men sat on a marble seat beneath a canvas awning.

“You must be more careful,” advised Parmenion. “Even the servants know you are engaged in secret meetings.”

“My servants can be trusted, but I take your point. I have no choice, however. We must meet to plan.”

“Then meet in daylight,” Parmenion suggested.

The two friends walked back along the avenue by Electra’s Gates, but Epaminondas, instead of walking on to his house, turned left down a shaded alley, stopping by an iron gate. He pushed it open and beckoned Parmenion inside. There was a narrow courtyard with high walls festooned with purple blooms. Beyond this was a paved section, roofed by climbing plants growing between crisscrossed twine. Epaminondas led the Spartan into the house beyond. There was a small split-level
andron
containing six couches and with two doors, one leading to a kitchen and bathroom, the other to a corridor with three bedrooms.

“Whose house is this?” asked Parmenion.

“Yours,” the Theban answered with a broad grin. “I placed three thousand drachmas on your race. This house was a mere nine hundred. I felt it would suit you.”

“Indeed it does, but such a gift? I cannot accept it.”

“Of course you can—and you must. I won ten times what this building cost me. Also,” he added, his smile fading, “these are dangerous times. If I am arrested and you are still my houseguest, then they will take you also.”

Parmenion lounged on a couch, enjoying the breeze from the main window and the scent of flowers growing in the courtyard. “I accept,” he said, “but only as a loan. You must allow me to pay for the house as and when I can.”

“If that is what you desire, then I agree,” said Epaminondas.

Parmenion and Mothac moved in the following morning. The Theban bought provisions in the market, and the two men sat in the courtyard, enjoying the early morning sunshine.

“Were you seen when you killed Cletus?” asked Parmenion suddenly.

Mothac looked into his master’s blue eyes and considered lying. Then he shook his head. “There was no one nearby.”

“Good, but you will never again take such an action without speaking to me first. Is that understood?”

“Yes … sir.”

“And I do not require you to call me that. My name is Parmenion.”

“It was necessary, Parmenion. He ordered your death. As long as he lived, you were in danger.”

“I accept that, and do not take my criticism as ingratitude. But I am the master of my own fate. I neither want nor expect any man to act for me.”

“It will not happen again.”

During the next eight months Parmenion raced twice and won both times, once against the Corinthian champion, the second time against a runner from Athens. He still competed under the name Leon, and few wagered against him, which meant that his winnings were not huge. For his last race he had wagered two hundred drachmas to win fifty.

That night, as usual after a tough race, Parmenion stretched his tired legs with a gentle midnight run on the moonlit race-track. As well as easing his muscles, he found in this quiet time a sense of peace, almost contentment. His
hatred of Sparta was no less powerful now, but it was controlled, held in chains. The day of his vengeance was coming closer, and he had no wish to hurry it.

As he passed the grave of Hector, a shadow moved from the trees. Parmenion leapt back, his hand clawing for the dagger in the sheath by his side.

“It is I, Parmenion,” called Epaminondas. The Theban stepped back into the shadows of the trees. Parmenion walked to the grave and sat down on the marble seat.

“What is wrong, my friend?” he whispered.

“I am being followed again, though for now I have lost them. I know you come here after races, and I need your help.”

“What can I do?”

“It is only a matter of time before I am taken. I want you to prepare a strategy to retake the Cadmea. But also there are letters I need carried to friends in other Boeotian cities. You are Spartan; you can travel without scrutiny. You have business interests across Boeotia. No one will think it strange if you travel to Thespiae or Megara. Will you help?”

“You know that I will. You must bring the letters here, wrapped in oilskin. You can leave them behind this seat, covered with stones. No one will see them. I run here almost every day. I will find them.”

“You are a good friend, Parmenion. I will not forget this.”

Epaminondas faded back into the shadows and was gone.

Eleven times during the next four months Parmenion rode across Boeotia, carrying letters to rebels in Tanagra, Plataea, Thespiae, and Heraclea. During this time he saw little of Epaminondas but heard, through Mothac, of increasing unrest among Thebans. In late summer two Spartan soldiers were stoned by a mob close to the marketplace and were rescued only when a contingent of armored warriors ran to their aid from the Cadmea.

The crowd backed away as the soldiers arrived, but the mood was still ugly. Drawing their swords, the Spartans
charged the mob, their blades slicing into those unfortunates at the front. Blind panic overtook the Thebans, and they scattered in terror. Parmenion, at the marketplace to purchase new sandals, saw women and children trampled as the crowd fled. One young woman tripped and fell directly in front of the advancing Spartan line. Sprinting from the shop doorway, Parmenion hauled the woman to her feet and carried her back to the relative safety of the shop. Two Spartan soldiers ran after him.

“I am a Spartan,” said Parmenion as their swords came up. Blood was dripping from the blades and battle lust shone in the eyes of the warriors, but Parmenion stood his ground, meeting their gaze.

“What statue overlooks Leaving Street?” asked one of the soldiers, touching his bloodied blade to Parmenion’s chest.

“The statue of Athena,” he answered, pushing aside the sword. “Now ask me how many bricks there are in the Cattle Price Palace.”

“You keep bad company,” the soldier said. “Make sure you know where your loyalties lie.”

“I know where they lie, Brother, have no fear of that.”

The soldiers ran back to the street, and Parmenion turned to the woman. Her lips were stained blood-red, her eyelids painted in the three colors of Aphrodite: red, blue, and gold. “You are a priestess?” he asked.

“No, I am a shepherd boy,” she snapped.

“I am sorry. It was a foolish question.”

Stepping forward, she pressed herself against him. “Do not be sorry. For forty obols I can make you very happy.” Her hand slid under his tunic, but he pushed her away and left the shop. Bodies lay in the street, but the troops had moved on.

That night he thought again of the priestess, of her warm hand on his thigh. As the moon rose high over the city, he made his way to the temple, finally finding her in a small room on the second floor. She smiled wearily when she saw
him and was about to speak when his hand came up and gently touched her lips.

“Say nothing,” he said coldly. “I require your body, not your voice.”

As the months passed he made many visits to the young priestess with the red hair. But his passions were soon spent, and usually he left feeling sad and ashamed. It seemed to him that sex with any woman was a betrayal of the love he had known with Derae. Yet he returned week after week to the redhead, whose name he never bothered to ask.

His money dwindled as the odds on his races shortened, but at the start of his third year in Thebes he won against a Thessalian named Coranus, the middle-race victor of the Olympic Games, where he had narrowly beaten Leonidas of Sparta. The odds against Parmenion were five to one, and he wagered all he had. The race was close, Parmenion finishing a mere arm’s length in front of the Thessalian, and then only because his opponent stumbled in the powdery dust at the last bend. It was a lesson well learned. Never again would he wager everything on a single gamble.

Two days later came the news Parmenion had feared for almost three years. Mothac ran into the courtyard. “Epaminondas has been arrested, along with Polysperchon. They have been taken to the Cadmea for torture.”

BOOK TWO

THEBES, AUTUMN, 379 B.C.

Ordering Mothac to stay at the house, Parmenion headed for the west of the city and the home of the councillor Calepios. An elderly servant led him to a small room with three couches and asked him to wait. After several minutes another servant entered, bowed, and led the Spartan along a corridor to an elaborately decorated
andron
, the walls covered with Persian rugs and hangings, the floor boasting a colorful mosaic showing Heracles slaying the Nemean lion.

There were nine couches set around the room, and two servants stood by, holding pitchers of wine and water, as the master of the house reclined, apparently reading from a large scroll. Calepios looked up as Parmenion entered and adopted the expression of a man pleasantly surprised to see an old friend. Parmenion was not fooled by the scene; there was tension in the air, and Calepios’ eyes showed fear.

“Welcome to my house, young Leon,” said the councillor, tossing aside the scroll and rising. He was not a tall man, yet he was imposing in a subtle way. His eyes were deep green under shaggy brows, and his beard was carefully curled in the Persian fashion. But it was his voice that gave him power, deep and vibrant. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“May we talk alone?” asked Parmenion.

“We are alone,” said Calepios, unconsciously betraying his noble birth. For him, servants were as much a part of the house as tables and couches.