Lion of Macedon (31 page)

He was delirious and thinking of her!

Joy flooded her. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to tell him she was alive and she cared for him. But cold reality came to her like the breath of winter. I am not alive, she realized. And I can never have him.

She urged time on—seeing him run on the training field, floating close to him, her spirit face mere inches from his own. Reaching out, she tried to stroke his dark hair, but her fingers moved through his skin and the skull beyond, his thoughts tumbling into her mind.

As he ran he was thinking of the days in the mountains, before their secret was out, of making love in the meadows and holding hands beneath the trees.

She withdrew from him, for his bitterness touched her like the acid that had destroyed her eyes. Her joy evaporated, and she returned to the temple and a world of darkness. Tamis helped her dress.

“What did you learn?” asked the old woman.

“Love is pain,” she answered dully. “What will you teach me today?”

“I will teach you to see,” Tamis told her. “Spirit eyes are far more powerful than the orbs you have lost. Concentrate. You have loosed the chains of your soul, and you float now inside the cloak of your body. At any time you may draw aside that cloak like a veil. Try it. The gold and the blue.”

Derae focused on the looped stem and rose. “Not too far,” shouted Tamis, catching the falling body and lowering it to the floor. “You must retain control of yourself. Come back!” The priestess returned to her body and climbed to her feet. “It will take practice,” said Tamis, “but merely move your spirit head forward while holding your body still.” Derae tried. For a moment it seemed to work, she could see and yet still feel her body. But then dizziness overcame her and she stumbled into Tamis, who held her upright.

“It will come,” Tamis promised. “But each step is a victory. And now we must work. You must learn. We must identify all your weaknesses.”

“Why?”

“You have joined the eternal war, Derae, and you now have a deadly enemy. The Dark God will also be testing you, seeking a way to destroy you.”

“That is a frightening thought,” Derae admitted.

“As it should be, for when the crucial moment of conflict comes, I will be dead and you will be alone.”

Parmenion paused at the top of the ridge and gazed down on the tents of the Spartan army. They were set out in a long rectangle along the valley floor close to the city of Thespiae. Swiftly he counted the tents. There were five lines of fifty, with each tent housing ten warriors: two thousand-five hundred fighting men, not counting those billeted in the city.

Parmenion stroked the neck of the black gelding, then touched heels to the beast’s flanks, urging him on. Now came the danger, but to his surprise Parmenion felt a sense of rising excitement along with his fear. This, he realized, was what brought joy to life, the exquisite sensations of fear and exhilaration combining to sharpen the mind and thrill the senses. It was as if the past years in Thebes were without color. He glanced up at the sky and the drifting clouds, feeling the mountain air soaking into his lungs.

This was life!

Down there was Hecate, goddess of death, her dark dagger drawn, ready for him to make one mistake, one slip that would cost him his life.

Parmenion chuckled, tightened the chin strap on his leather helmet, and began to hum an old song his mother had taught him. The gelding’s ears pricked up, and he tossed his head at the sound. He was a fine beast; Pelopidas had said that he had almost outrun the pursuers, but a lucky arrow had taken the rider in the base of the skull, toppling him to the ground. The gelding had halted its run then, turning to nuzzle at the corpse on the earth.

The man’s armor fitted Parmenion well, save that the breastplate was a little large. But the greaves and metal-studded kilt could have been made for the slender Spartan. The cloak was of fine wool, dyed red and held in place by a golden brooch that Parmenion replaced with one of bronze. Such a brooch would be recognized and would lead to questions, he reasoned.

The rider’s papers had been taken to Thebes, where Epaminondas opened the dispatch and read it. It dealt with supplies and the need to isolate Thebes, but at the close it mentioned Athens and the need for vigilance. Epaminondas handed the scroll to a middle-aged scribe with prematurely white hair. “Can you duplicate the style of script?” he asked.

“It will not be difficult,” said the man, peering at the dispatch.

“How many lines can we add above the king’s signature?” queried Parmenion.

“No more than two,” the scribe told him. Parmenion took the script and read it several times. It concluded with the words:
“The traitor Calepios is hiring mercenaries in Athens. Be vigilant.”
Then there was a gap before the signature
Cleombrotus
.

Parmenion dictated a short addition to the scroll, which the scribe carefully inserted. Epaminondas read the words and smiled grimly. “
‘Be vigilant and advance upon the Piraeus, destroying any hostile force.’
If this succeeds, Parmenion, it will mean war between Athens and Sparta.”

“Which can only be good for Thebes,” Parmenion pointed out.

“There are great dangers for you in this,” said the Theban softly. “What if you are recognized, or your message disbelieved? Or if there is a password? Or …”

“Then I will be dead,” snapped Parmenion. “But it must be done.”

Now, as he rode down toward the tents, Parmenion felt his fear swell. Three soldiers on sentry duty barred his way on the road; they were men from the Sciritis hills and not Spartiates. They saluted as he approached, clenched fists on their breast-plates of leather. He returned the salute and tugged on the reins.

“I seek the general Sphodrias,” he said.

“He is in the city; he stays at the house of Anaximenes the
ephor
. You ride through the main gate and head for the temple
of Zeus. There is a tall house with two slender trees alongside the gates.”

“Thank you,” said Parmenion, riding on.

The city was smaller than Thebes, housing a mere twelve thousand inhabitants. Thespiae was a city of tradesmen, specializing in chariots and the training of horses. As Parmenion entered, he could see many small pastures holding fine herds. He rode until he reached the house with twin trees, then he dismounted and led the gelding to the front of the white-walled building. A male servant ran to take the horse’s reins, and a second servant, a young girl dressed in white, bowed and bade him follow her into the house.

Parmenion was taken through to a large
andron
where several Spartan officers were sitting and drinking. The servant moved to a burly figure with a rich red beard, who rose and stood with hands on hips, scrutinizing Parmenion, who bowed low and approached.

“Well, who are you?” snapped Sphodrias.

“Andicles, sir. I have dispatches from the king.”

“Never heard of you. Where’s Cleophon?”

“He had a fall from his horse, broke his shoulder, sir. But he is determined to ride with the king this evening and be at his side during the battle.”

“Ride? Battle? What are you talking about, man?”

“My apologies, sir,” said Parmenion, handing the general the leather cylinder. Sphodrias pulled out the scroll within and opened it. As he did so, Parmenion glanced at the other officers, his eyes falling upon a young man dicing at a window table. His stomach turned: The man was Leonidas.

“There’s nothing about numbers here,” muttered Sphodrias. “How many of the enemy are there? Where are they camped? I can’t just march into Athenian territory and butcher the first men I see in armor.”

“There are said to be five thousand of them,” said Parmenion swiftly. “Three thousand
hoplites
, the rest cavalry. It is rumored that they are being paid with Persian gold.”

Sphodrias nodded. “You can always expect treachery from Athenians. But we’ll have to march all night to surprise them. I don’t doubt they have scouts out. You will stay by my side while I brief my officers. They may have questions.”

“With respect, sir,” said Parmenion, struggling to keep his voice calm, “the king has ordered me to return at once with your plans, so that he can link with you on the Thriasian plain.”

“Very well. I’ll order my scribe to draft an answer.”

“That will not be necessary, sir. If you are to march all night, I will advise the king to meet you between Eleusis and Athens.”

Sphodrias nodded and returned his attention to the scroll. “Curious dispatch. It starts by talking of supplies and ends with the invasion of Athens. Still, who am I to argue, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Parmenion, saluting. His eyes flicked to Leonidas, who had stopped playing dice and was watching him intently. Parmenion bowed and swung back to the door, marching out into the yard beyond; once there, he ran behind the house to the stables. The gelding had been brushed and combed, and the lionskin shabraque was laid carefully over a rail. Parmenion draped it over the beast’s back, smoothing out the folds before grasping the horse’s mane and vaulting to his back.

He could hear the sound of pounding feet and kicked the gelding into a run, galloping past the running figure of Leonidas.

“Wait!” shouted the man.

The gelding thundered out onto the main avenue, where Parmenion slowed him until they reached the main gates. Then he allowed the horse his head, riding at speed toward the mountains.

Glancing back, he saw two horsemen galloping from the city. The gelding was breathing hard as they topped a rise, and Parmenion had no choice but to slow down. Even so he took the horse along narrow paths and treacherous trails where he guessed the riders would not follow.

He was wrong. As he made camp in a cave high on a ridge,
he heard the sound of walking horses on the scree outside. He had a fire blazing, and there was no way to disguise his presence.

“Come inside, there’s a warm fire,” he called, keeping his voice cheerful and bright. Moments later two men entered the cave. One was tall, his beard dark and heavy, the other slender but well muscled. Both wore swords and breastplates.

“Leonidas wished to speak with you,” said the bearded man. “What is your name, friend?”

“Andicles. And yours?” asked Parmenion, rising.

“And what of your family?” continued the man. “Where do you live?”

“By what right do you question me, Sciritai?” stormed Parmenion. “Since when do slaves badger their masters?”

The man’s face burned crimson. “I am a free man and a warrior, and Spartan or no, I’ll take no insults!”

“Then offer none!” snapped Parmenion. “I am a messenger of the king, and I answer to no man. Who is this Leonidas that he should send you to question me?”

The slender man moved closer. “By all the gods, Leonidas was right! It is you, Parmenion!”

Parmenion’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the man; it was Asiron, one of the boys who had taunted him at Lycurgus barracks ten years before.

“There is obviously some mistake here,” he said, smiling.

“No,” said Asiron. “I’d stake my life on it.”

“Yes, you have,” replied Parmenion, drawing his sword and slashing it swiftly across Asiron’s throat. The man hurled himself back from the gleaming blade, but blood was already gouting from the wound in his neck.

The Sciritai leapt to his left, drawing his own sword and grinning wolfishly. “Never killed a Spartan yet,” he hissed, “but I always wanted to.”

The Sciritai attacked with blinding speed. Parmenion parried and jumped back, his right forearm stinging. Glancing down, he saw a line of blood oozing from a narrow cut. “I
think I’ll take you a slice at a time,” said the Sciritai. “Unless you’d like to surrender and throw yourself on my mercy.”

“You are very skillful,” Parmenion told him as they circled one another. The Sciritai smiled but said nothing. He launched an attack, feinted with a belly thrust, and then slashed his sword toward Parmenion’s face. The blade sliced agonizingly close to Parmenion’s throat, the tip opening the skin of his cheek.

“A slice at a time,” repeated the Sciritai. Parmenion moved to his left, putting the fire between them; then, sliding his foot forward into the blaze, he flicked burning branches into the Sciritai’s face. His opponent stumbled back, oiled beard aflame. Parmenion ran in close, slamming his sword into the man’s groin. The Sciritai screamed and lashed out, but Parmenion ducked and wrenched his blade clear. As bright arterial blood gushed from the wound, drenching the Sciritai’s leg, Parmenion moved back, waiting for him to fall. Instead, the Sciritai charged him. Parmenion blocked a vicious cut, but the man’s fist cracked into his chin, sprawling him to the cave floor; he rolled as the man’s iron blade clanged next to his head, sending a shower of sparks into the air. The Sciritai staggered, his blood pooling on the floor by his feet.

“By the gods,” he muttered thickly, “I think you’ve killed me, boy.”

He sank to his knees, dropping his sword.

Parmenion sheathed his own blade and caught the man as he toppled sideways. Lowering him to the ground, he sat beside the warrior as his face grew ever more pale.

“Never … got to … kill a … Spa …” His eyes closed, his last breath rattling from his throat. Parmenion rose and walked to Asiron. The man had hit his head on the cave wall as he had jumped back from Parmenion’s wild cut. His throat was bleeding, but the cut was not deep and already the blood was clotting. Removing the man’s sword belt, he bound his hands behind him and then rebuilt the fire. His right foot was blistered from the flames, and he removed his sandals, hurling them across the cave. It took more than an hour for Asiron
to wake: at first he struggled against his bonds, then he sat back and stared at Parmenion.

“You treacherous dog!” he hissed.

“Yes, yes,” said Parmenion wearily. “Let us have all the insults first. Then we can talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” answered Asiron, his eyes flicking to the body of the Sciritai and widening in shock. “Gods, I never believed he could be bested with a blade!”

“All men can be bested,” said Parmenion. “What did Leonidas say to you?”