Lion of Macedon (23 page)

Parmenion flicked a glance at the wine carriers, and Calepios waved the men away. As the doors closed, the councillor beckoned Parmenion to the couch beside him, and both men sat.

“How close are your plans to fruition?” asked Parmenion.

“Plans, my boy? What do you mean?”

“We have little time, sir, for playing games. Polysperchon and Epaminondas have been arrested. But then, you know this. You are gambling that they will say nothing of your involvement in the plan to retake the Cadmea. Now I ask again, how close are you?”

Calepios’ green eyes locked to Parmenion’s face, and his own features tightened. “Epaminondas trusted you,” he said softly, “but there is no way I can help you. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Parmenion smiled. “Then perhaps the man who was with you a moment ago can offer us some advice.” He turned his head and looked back over his shoulder to a long embroidered curtain. “Perhaps you would like to come out, sir, and join us.”

The curtains parted, and a tall man stepped into view. He was broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, and his bronzed arms showed many scars. His face was square-cut and darkly handsome, his eyes so deep a brown that they appeared black. He smiled grimly. “You are observant, Parmenion,” commented the newcomer.

“Even an accomplished drinker does not have two pitchers of wine and two servants by his side,” said the Spartan. “And this couch still retained the heat from your body. You are Pelopidas?”

“Observant and sharp-witted,” said Pelopidas, moving to a nearby couch and reclining on his side. He picked up a goblet of wine and sipped it. “What would you have us tell you?”

Parmenion looked at the man who had fought side by side with Epaminondas, suffering seven great wounds and yet surviving,
the man who with only thirty companions had fought off two hundred Arcadians in a pitched battle. Pelopidas looked like exactly what he was: a peerless fighter, a man made for war. “A long time ago Epaminondas asked me to prepare a plan to take the Cadmea. I have done so. I was merely waiting for him to announce the time; it can be brought into operation within a day. But it depends on the resources available.”

“I take it you mean men,” said Pelopidas.

“Exactly. But men who understand discipline and the necessity for timing.”

“We have more than four hundred men in the city, and within minutes of a general insurrection there will be thousands of Thebans on the streets, marching on the Cadmea. I think we can kill a few hundred Spartans.”

“My plan involves no killing of Spartans,” said Parmenion.

“Are you mad?” Pelopidas asked. “These are Spartan warriors. You think they will give up without a fight?”

“Yes,” answered Parmenion simply.

“How?” put in Calepios. “It would be against all tradition.”

“First,” said Parmenion quietly, “let us examine the alternatives. We can storm the Cadmea and perhaps take it. By killing the Spartans we give Agisaleus no choices. He will bring the army to Thebes and retake the city, putting to death all who had a part in the insurrection. You will have no time to gather an army of your own. The retaking of the Cadmea in those circumstances would be the worst folly.”

“You speak like a coward!” snapped Pelopidas. “We can raise an army, and I do not believe the Spartans are invincible in battle.”

“Neither do I,” said Parmenion, holding his voice at an even pitch. “But there is a way to retake the Cadmea without a battle.”

“This is all nonsense,” said Pelopidas. “I’ll listen to no more of it.”

“It must be fascinating,” said Parmenion quietly, as the
warrior rose, “to have a body like a god without a mind to match it.”

“You dare insult me?” stormed Pelopidas, the color draining from his face as his hand reached for the dagger at his side.

“Draw that blade and you die,” Parmenion told him. “And after you Epaminondas will die, and Thebes will remain in chains or be destroyed utterly.” Holding to the man’s gaze, Parmenion rose. “Understand this,” he said, his voice shaking with repressed emotion. “My entire life is devoted to one dream—the destruction of Sparta. For years I have been forced to wait for my vengeance, learning patience while the talons of rage tore at my soul. Now the first moment of my revenge is close. Can you imagine how much I want to see the Spartans in the Cadmea slain? How my heart cries out for them to be humbled, cut down, their bodies thrown out to feed the crows? But there is no point to petty vengeance when the greater dream lives on. First we free Thebes, then we plan for the great day. Now, Pelopidas, be silent and learn.”

Swinging away from the warrior, he turned to Calepios, outlining his plan and watching the man’s every expression. The councillor was intelligent, with a keen mind, and Parmenion needed his support. Choosing his words with care, the Spartan spoke quietly, answering every question Calepios put to him. Then he turned to Pelopidas.

“What now is your view, warrior?” he asked.

Pelopidas shrugged. “Sitting here, it sounds good, but I don’t know how it will work in reality. And I still think the Spartans will bring an army.”

“So do I,” agreed Parmenion, “but they may not fight. I think Agisaleus will seek the support of Athens. The Spartans took the Cadmea three years ago because pro-Spartan dissidents in the city invited them here. They have always argued that they are guests—friends. It makes a lie of that if—when asked to leave—they return to do battle.”

“What do you require?” asked Calepios.

“First, a doctor, or an herbalist, and also the name of the man who supplies provisions to the Spartans. Next, you must prepare a speech to be delivered in the main square tomorrow an hour before dusk.”

“And what of me?” Pelopidas asked.

“You will kill every pro-Spartan councillor,” said Parmenion, dropping his voice.

“Sweet Zeus!” whispered Calepios. “Murder? Is there no other way?”

“There are five of them,” Parmenion said. “Two are good orators. Leave them alive and Sparta will use them as the lever to bring down the insurrection. After the Cadmea is taken, the city must be seen to be united. They must die.”

“But one of them, Cascus, is my cousin. I grew up with him,” said Calepios. “He is not a bad man.”

“He has chosen the wrong side,” stated Parmenion, shrugging his shoulders, “and that makes him bad. For Thebes to be free, the five must die. But all Spartan soldiers outside the citadel must be taken alive and brought to the Cadmea.”

“What then?” asked Pelopidas.

“Then we will free them,” answered the Spartan.

Mothac was awakened by a hand pushing at his shoulder. “What in Hades?” he grumbled as he sat up, pushing away the insistent hand.

“I need you,” said Parmenion.

Mothac glanced out of the window. “But it is not dawn yet.” He scratched at his red beard, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Swinging his legs from the bed, he rose unsteadily and reached for his
chiton
. “What is happening?”

“Freedom,” answered Parmenion. “I will await you in the
andron
.”

Mothac dressed and splashed his face with cold water. He had downed several goblets of unwatered wine before retiring, and now they were reminding him of his stupidity. He
belched, took a deep breath, then joined Parmenion in the small
andron
. The Spartan looked tired; dark rings were showing under his eyes.

“We are going to free Epaminondas today, but first there are many matters to be resolved. Do you know the man Amta?”

“The meat merchant in the southwestern quarter. What of him?”

“You will go to the surgeon Horas and collect from him a package of herbs. You will take them to Amta; there you will be met by a tall warrior, dark-bearded. He will tell you what must be done.”

“Herbs? Meat merchants? What has this to do with freeing Epaminondas?”

Parmenion ignored the question. “When you have accomplished your task, you will accompany the warrior. He is a known and wanted man. He must not be taken; therefore, he will use you—and others—to take messages across the city. Do as he bids, whatever the request.”

“You are talking of revolt,” said Mothac, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Yes. Exactly that.”

“What of the officers of the watch? There are more than two hundred soldiers patrolling the city.”

“Theban soldiers. Let us hope they remember that. Now go. We have little time, and there are people I must see.”

Mothac took his dark green cloak and swung it around his shoulders. “Take a sword and a dagger,” Parmenion advised him, and he nodded.

Minutes later he was at the house of Horas the physician, where a man was waiting in the shadowed doorway. He was tall and skeletally thin. Mothac approached him and bowed. “Greetings, Doctor. You have a package for me?”

The man glanced nervously at the darkened street, his eyes flicking from side to side. “There is no one but me, I assure you,” said Mothac.

“This package did not come from me. You understand that?”

“Of course.”

“Now use it sparingly. Sprinkle it carefully over the meat. Try not to get it on your fingers, but if you do, then wash them with care.”

“It is poison, then?” whispered Mothac, surprised.

“Of course it is not poison,” snapped the physician. “You think I became a doctor so that I could kill people? It is what the lords asked for: purgatives and vomiting powders. Now get you gone from here. And remember, I have no part in this!”

Mothac took the package and headed toward the north of the city. As he turned a corner near the
agora
, a soldier stepped out in his path.

“Where are you going, friend?” he asked. Three other soldiers of the watch came into view.

“I am heading home, sir,” answered Mothac, smiling. “Is there trouble?”

“You are well armed for an evening’s stroll,” the man observed.

“It pays to be careful,” Mothac told him.

The soldier nodded. “Pass on,” he said.

When Mothac arrived at the home of Amta the butcher—a large building set close to the slaughter yard and warehouse—he halted at the main gates, searching the shadows for the man he was to meet.

“You are Mothac?” came a voice from behind him. Mothac dropped the package and whirled, scrabbling for his sword. Cold iron touched his throat.

“I am,” he replied. “And you?”

“I? I am none of your concern. Pick up the package and let us awaken our friend.”

The gate was not locked, and the tall warrior eased it open, then the two men crept across the courtyard and into the house beyond. All was in darkness, but moonlight was shining through an open window, and they could make out the staircase by the eastern wall. Mothac followed his nameless companion up into the second story to a bedroom facing east, where the man opened the door and stepped inside. In a broad bed on a raised platform lay a fat man, snoring heavily.
The warrior moved alongside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. The snoring ceased, and Mothac saw Amta’s eyes flick open. The warrior’s knife rested on the fat man’s quivering jowls. “Good morning,” said the warrior with a smile. “It will be a fine day.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to show that you love Thebes.”

“I do. All men know that.”

“And yet you supply food to the Spartan garrison.”

“I am a merchant. I cannot refuse to sell my merchandise. I would be arrested, called a traitor.”

“It is all a question of perspective, dear Amta. You see, we are going to free Thebes. And then
we
will call you a traitor.”

The fat man eased himself to a sitting position, trying not to look at the knife poised above his throat. “That would be unfair,” he protested, his voice regaining composure. “You could not accuse every man who deals with Spartans or all shop owners and merchants—yes, and even whores would be under sentence. Who are you?”

“I am Pelopidas.”

“What do you require of me?” the fat man asked, fear returning with the sweat that suddenly appeared on his face.

“What time do you prepare the meat for the garrison?”

“An hour before dawn. Then my lads pull it up to the Cadmea on a cart.”

“Then let us be about our business,” said Pelopidas, sheathing his dagger.

“What has my meat to do with freeing Thebes?”

“We have some herbs with us to add to the flavor.”

“But if you poison them, I’ll get the blame. You can’t!”

“It is not poison, fool!” hissed Pelopidas. “Would that it were! Now get out of that bed and take us to your storeroom.”

Three hours after dawn Parmenion still had not slept. He waited at the entrance to the smithy, his mind whirling with thoughts that became problems and problems that became fears.

What if?

What if the Spartans saw that the meat was doctored? What if Pelopidas was caught salting the water? What if the news of the plot leaked out?

Parmenion’s head was pounding, and the early-morning sunshine hurt his eyes; feeling nauseous and unsteady, he sat down in the roadside. Ever since the day he had rescued Derae he had suffered periodic head pain, but during the last two years the bouts had increased in both regularity and intensity. At times even his Spartan training could not help him overcome the agony, and he had taken to drinking poppy juice when the attacks became unbearable. But today there was no time for the sleep of opium, and he tried to ignore the pain.

The smith, Norac, came walking into the street minutes later. He was a huge man, wide-shouldered and bull-necked. Parmenion rose to greet him. “You’re early, young man,” said Norac, “but if you think to arrange speedy work, forget it. I have a full order book.”

“I need twenty iron spikes by midday, each one the length of a man’s forearm,” Parmenion told him.

“You are not listening, my young friend. I cannot take any more work for this week.”

Parmenion stared into the man’s deep-set brown eyes. “Listen to me, Norac. You are said to be a man who can be trusted. I am sent by Pelopidas. You understand? The watchword is
Heracles
.”

The smith’s eyes narrowed. “For what purpose do you need the spikes?”

“To nail shut the Cadmea gates. We also need men to wield the hammers.”