Lion of Macedon (29 page)

A redheaded man was sitting at a table, but from above came the sounds of a couple making love. Still closer they came, passing through the walls of the bedroom.

“I missed you,” Parmenion told the woman beneath him. “As if they’d torn my heart from me.”

“Take me back,” whispered Derae. “Take me home. You may have my gift; you may take my eyes.”

Mothac opened the package from Argonas and ran his fingers through the shredded leaves and stalks within. Filling a large goblet with boiling water, he added a handful of the leaves, and a pungent aroma—sweet, almost sickly—filled the kitchen.

Parmenion was awake upstairs, but he had said nothing or even turned his head when Mothac looked in on him. Stirring the infusion with a wooden spoon, Mothac strained off the leaves and stalks floating on the surface and climbed the stairs. Parmenion had not left the bed. He was sitting up and staring out through the open window.

Mothac moved to the bedside. “Drink this,” he said softly. Without a word Parmenion accepted the brew and sipped it.
“Drink it all,” Mothac ordered, and the Spartan silently obeyed.

Mothac took the empty goblet, placing it on the floor beside the bed. “How is the pain?” he asked, taking Parmenion’s hand.

“It is receding,” answered the Spartan, his voice distant.

“You have been asleep for five days. You missed the celebrations—they were dancing on the
agora
. You should have seen them.”

Parmenion’s eyes closed, and his voice was a whisper. “She came to me, Mothac. From beyond death she came to me. She saved me on the hill of sorrow.”

“Who came to you?”

“Derae. She was still young and beautiful.” Tears welled in Parmenion’s eyes. “She freed me; she took away the pain.”

Mothac bit back the truth as the words surged up in his throat. “Good,” he said at last. “That is good. Now it is time for you to leave that bed and get some air into your lungs. Here, let me help you.” Taking Parmenion’s arm, he gently pulled his master to his feet.

Parmenion stumbled, then righted himself. Mothac took a clean white
chiton
, helped Parmenion dress, and then guided him down to the courtyard.

The sky was overcast, but the day was warm, a fresh breeze blowing. Mothac brought Parmenion a meal of figs and dried fish and was relieved when the Spartan ate it all.

In the days that followed Parmenion’s strength flowed back into his wasted limbs. Argonas came twice to the house, examining the Spartan’s skull and pronouncing with satisfaction that the cancer was sleeping.

But still Parmenion did not venture from the house. He slept often and took little interest in the affairs of Thebes. Each day he drank the infusion prepared by Mothac, ate a light breakfast, and dozed until after noon. Concerned by Parmenion’s lethargy, Mothac sought out Argonas.

“Do not be worried,” the fat man told him. “It is the sylphium;
it is also a strong sleeping potion. But his body will become used to it, and that effect will lessen.”

Epaminondas did not visit during this time. Mothac informed Parmenion that the Theban was organizing a new city council with other members of the rebel conspiracy, while the warrior Pelopidas had gathered to him almost five hundred young Theban men and was training them for the war that was almost certain to follow. Parmenion listened to the news without expression, venturing no opinions and asking no questions.

A month after the retaking of the Cadmea, Parmenion heard cheering in the streets and sent Mothac to inquire as to the cause. The Theban returned within minutes. “An Athenian force has arrived,” he said. “They have come to help us against the Spartans.”

“That seems unlikely,” offered Parmenion. “The Athenians are in no position to make war against Sparta; they have few land forces, and Sparta has three armies that could march on Athens almost unopposed. Go and find out more.”

Mothac was delighted as he ran from the house. Parmenion’s voice had been sharp, authoritative, and Mothac felt like a man who had just seen the first rays of spring sunshine after a long winter. It took him two hours to locate Epaminondas, who was returning from a meeting in the Cadmea. The Theban leader looked weary, his shoulders slumped, his eyes dull.

“Parmenion is asking about the soldiers,” said Mothac, moving alongside the man as he pushed his way through the crowds.

“They are mercenaries,” Epaminondas told him. “Calepios bought their services in Athens. How is Parmenion?”

“As he once was,” said Mothac, and Epaminondas brightened.

“I’ll come back with you. I need to talk to him.”

A thunderstorm burst over the city as the three men reclined on couches in the
andron
, lightning flashing like the spears of Ares. Epaminondas lay back, resting his head on an
embroidered cushion and closing his eyes. “There is a great deal of meaningless debate at present,” he said. “It is beginning to look as if removing the Spartans was simplicity itself compared with planning a coherent policy. There are some who want to hire mercenaries to defend the city, others who talk of meeting the Spartans in the field. Still more dither and wait for Athens to come to our aid. Calepios says the Athenians are happy with our revolt and promise us everything—except real support. They are overjoyed to see the Spartans humbled, but they will do nothing to help us.”

“And what of the Spartan army?” asked Parmenion.

“Cleombrotus has seven thousand men near Megara—two days’ march from us. So far he has done nothing. Cascus is with him; we should never have let him escape. Calepios has much to answer for in that regard, blood kin or no. Cascus is telling all who will hear him that the Theban revolt is masterminded by a treacherous group of exiles and that the people do not support them. He is urging Cleombrotus to march on Thebes and is assuring him that the Theban people will rise against the rebels.”

“Then why have the Spartans not marched?” asked Mothac.

“Agisaleus is ill. Some say he is dying, and the omens are not good. I hope he does die.”

“Pray he does not,” put in Parmenion. “As long as he remains sick, the Spartans will do nothing. If Agisaleus dies, Cleombrotus will feel compelled to show his strength to the Spartan people. And you are not ready for war.”

“What do you advise, my friend?”

“Your choices are limited,” Parmenion told him. “There are Spartan garrisons all through Boeotia—north, south, east, and west of Thebes. Until those garrisons are removed you have no chance to succeed. But you cannot remove them while Spartan armies are poised to invade. Not an easy problem to solve.”

Epaminondas sat up and rubbed his eyes. “We have allies in Thessaly, but they alone cannot give us victory. Worse, if
we ally ourselves to any strong power, we will merely be exchanging masters.”

“Where are the strongest Spartan garrisons?” asked Parmenion.

“Orchomenus in the north, Tanagra to the west, Aegosthena to the south. We have men in each of them, trying to inspire a rebellion, but—wisely—the rebels are waiting to see how we fare. We are caught like dogs chasing our tails. In order to win, we need support from other cities, but these cities wait to see if we can win before joining us. We need a victory, Parmenion.”

“No,” said the Spartan. “That is not possible—yet. My advice to you is to avoid any pitched battle with Cleombrotus. You would be crushed.”

“We will be crushed anyway should he march against us.”

Parmenion was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on a point high and to the right on the northern wall. Slowly he lifted his hand, rubbing at his jaw. Mothac grinned, and Epaminondas waited expectantly.

“It could be,” said Parmenion at last, “that Cascus’ escape will work for us. If he has convinced the Spartans that the Theban people are ready to rise against us, then it is unlikely that Cleombrotus will attack the city; he will ravage the land around us in the hope that a show of strength will cause a counterrevolt. Winter is almost here, and with it the rains. Most of the Spartan army will return home. It is then we will strike.”

“And where should we attack? And with what force?” queried Epaminondas.

“Athens,” answered Parmenion with a broad smile. “And we will use the Spartan army.”

Day by day tension within the city mounted. Arguments broke out in public places as to the wisdom of expelling the Spartans. Fear was almost palpable, yet still the Spartan army remained at Megara, two days’ march to the southeast. News from the surrounding countryside was bleak. At the small city of Thespiae, northeast of Thebes, a group of
rebels besieged the acropolis, where Spartan troops were garrisoned. The Spartans marched out among them, killing twenty-three men and routing the mob. At the cities of Tanagra and Aegosthena troublemakers were rounded up and arrested, while in Plataea two suspected rebels were executed after a traitor told of their plotting.

Pelopidas marched from Thebes with a force of four hundred men to aid the rebels at Tanagra. Hopes were high when the warriors marched through the Proitian gates, but eight days later they were back, having been waylaid in the mountains by a Spartan force. Forty-one men were dead, twenty-six wounded. It was a bitter reverse, and yet Pelopidas emerged from the debacle with credit, for when surrounded he had gathered his men to him and charged the Spartan ranks, breaking clear and killing four Spartans single-handedly. The Thebans had sought refuge in the mountains, and the Spartans had let them go, not wishing to lose men in the narrow passes with daylight fading.

The Athenian mercenaries were sent to Erythrae, along with two hundred Theban
hoplites
, to aid the rebels there, but no word was heard from them and fear grew among the Theban people. Epaminondas proved himself a capable public speaker, but the rebels missed the oratorical skills of Calepios, who remained in Athens.

As winter moved inexorably on and the rains began, news came from the south that Agisaleus had recovered from his fever.

And the Spartan army moved north.

Parmenion seemed unconcerned and during the days sat reading Xenophon’s story of the march into Persia. As the shortest day of winter approached, Mothac walked into the
andron
, removed his rain-drenched cloak, and poured himself a goblet of watered wine.

“It will all be over in days,” said the servant sourly. “The mood in the streets is full of despair. When the Spartans come, the people will surrender without a fight.”

“If
the Spartans come,” replied Parmenion, putting aside the scroll.

“How can you remain so calm?” Mothac snapped.

“By using my mind—and not my emotions,” replied Parmenion. “Listen to me. Sparta’s armies are not trained for sieges; they prefer battle on an open plain. A phalanx cannot climb a wall. I do not believe Cleombrotus will attack the city; he will hope that our forces can be lured out, and he will seek to prevent supplies coming into Thebes.”

Mothac was unconvinced, and ill fortune continued for the beleaguered Thebans. The Athenian mercenaries had been beaten back from Erythrae, and Cleombrotus marched through Aegosthena and Plataea, his army now almost in sight of Thebes.

Pelopidas wanted to gather a force to attack them, but cooler counsel prevailed. Then came the news Parmenion had been hoping for. With winter making maneuvers more difficult, Cleombrotus split his army and marched south, back through Aegosthena, Megara, and Corinth, leaving a large force at Thespiae under the command of the General Sphodrias.

Parmenion sought out Epaminondas and Pelopidas. “Now is the time to act,” he said. “By spring Agisaleus will be fit to command the army, and that
will
lead to an attack on Thebes.”

“What can we do?” Pelopidas asked. “My stomach turns at the thought of sitting idle. But what choices do we have?”

“We must capture a messenger, a Spartan rider.”

“One messenger! This is your plan?” snorted Pelopidas. “This will bring about the Spartan defeat?”

Parmenion looked into the man’s dark eyes and chuckled. “The time will come for warriors like yourself—trust me, Pelopidas. This single man is like the stone that starts the landslide. But it is vital that he be taken; he must be stripped of armor and clothing, his body buried where it will not be found. Everything he carries must be brought here.”

“It sounds easy enough,” Pelopidas muttered.

“Then I will make it more difficult. The killing must not be seen: his disappearance must remain a mystery.”

“Well, at least his messages may prove useful,” the Theban said.

“Not even that,” said Parmenion. “The Spartans must have no idea that we have intercepted them.”

“Then would you kindly outline the point of this exercise?” asked the Theban.

Parmenion glanced at Epaminondas, who nodded. “I shall take the place of the messenger,” said Parmenion, “and ride to Sphodrias at Thespiae. But this is to be known only by us three.”

“It will be as you say,” promised Pelopidas. “I will send out riders to watch all roads to Thespiae.”

Parmenion walked back through the night-cloaked city. He felt tense and excited, and as he passed the temple to Aphrodite he remembered the redheaded priestess. Stopping by the marble fountain, he gazed at the temple, feeling the stirrings of desire deep in his loins. Checking his money sack, he strolled into the temple precincts and along the corridor. The hour was late, but lantern light could be seen under the woman’s door; he put his ear to the wood, listening for sounds of movement, but there were none, and he knocked softly. He heard the creaking of the bed as she rose. The door opened.

He held out his money and was surprised to see her smile. “I am happy you are recovered,” she said.

“I do not wish you to speak!” he snapped. The smile froze on her lips, then her cheeks darkened.

“Take your money and go!” she said, slamming the door in his face. For a moment Parmenion stood shocked; then he backed away and returned home to the cold comfort of his bed. The meeting with the woman had disturbed him. She knew he required her to say nothing; he had been with her
scores of times. He would pay her, satisfy his lust, and leave. It was a simple business. Why, then, had she broken the rules?