Lion of Macedon (32 page)

“He thought he recognized you but could not be sure. He sent me and Damasias to intercept you.”

Parmenion nodded. “Not sure … that is good. Then even now the Spartan army is marching upon its old enemy. I wonder if they are singing battle songs of glory. What do you think, Asiron?”

“I think you are a misbegotten and vile creature.”

“Is that any way to speak to an old friend who has decided not to kill you?”

“You’ll get no thanks from me.”

Parmenion chuckled. “Do you remember the night before the general’s games when you and Learchus and Gryllus attacked me? I spent that night hiding upon the acropolis, dreaming of the day when I could repay you all. But then, children are like that, aren’t they—full of fantasies? As you sit here I have sent the Spartan army to invade Athens. My heart is glowing.”

“You make me sick! Where is your loyalty? Your sense of honor?”

“Honor? Loyalty? Why, I think that was thrashed out of me by good Spartan gentlemen like yourself, who pointed out that I was a Macedonian, not a Spartan at all. For whom should I express my loyalty?” His voice hardened. “To the people who killed the woman I loved? To the city that made me an outcast? No, Asiron. I left you alive for a simple reason. I want you to tell Leonidas that it was I who organized the retaking of the Cadmea and I who set Sparta at war with Athens. And more,
my old, dear friend. It will be I who will see Sparta destroyed, her buildings razed, her power at an end.”

“Who do you think you are?” Asiron asked with a dry, humorless laugh.

“I’ll tell you who I am,” answered Parmenion, the words of Tamis echoing in his mind. “I am Parmenion, the Death of Nations.”

Soon after dawn Parmenion released Asiron and rode for Thebes. The cuts on his face and arm were healing fast, but his right foot was burned and blistered, leaving his mood grim as he cantered to the city gates. An arrow flashed by him, then another. Swinging the gelding’s head, he galloped out of range. Several horsemen rode out toward him, swords drawn. Parmenion wrenched off the Spartan helmet and waited for them.

“It is I,” he yelled, “Parmenion!” The horsemen surrounded him, and he recognized two of the men as members of the Sacred Band. They began to question him, but he waved them away and steered his mount into the city to report to Epaminondas.

Four days later Parmenion was awakened at midnight by shouting outside his home. Rising from his bed, disgruntled and annoyed, he threw a cloak around his naked frame and moved down the stairs, meeting Mothac as he emerged to the courtyard. “I’ll crack his skull, whoever he is,” muttered the Theban as the pounding on the gate began. Mothac pulled open the gate, and Pelopidas ran in, followed by Epaminondas. The drunken Theban warrior grabbed Parmenion around the waist, hoisting him into the air and swinging him round.

“You did it!” yelled Pelopidas. “Damn your eyes, you did it!”

“Put me down, you oaf! You’re breaking my ribs.”

Pelopidas released him and turned to Mothac. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping, man. Get some wine. This is a celebration!”

Mothac stood his ground. “Shall I break his face?” he asked Parmenion.

The Spartan laughed. “I think not. Better fetch the wine.” He turned his gaze to Epaminondas. “What is going on?”

“A messenger arrived an hour ago from Calepios in Athens. Sphodrias and his army appeared to the north of the city at dawn three days ago. They ravaged some villages and advanced on the Piraeus. An Athenian force went out to meet them, the Spartan ambassador with them, and Sphodrias was forced to withdraw. By all the gods, I wish I’d seen it,” said Epaminondas.

“But what happened then?” snapped Parmenion.

“Let me tell him,” urged Pelopidas. His face sported a lopsided grin, and his joy was almost childlike.

Epaminondas bowed to him. “Continue,” he said, “noble Pelopidas!”

“The Athenians were not happy. Oh, no! Their council met, and they have decided to send—sweet Zeus, I love this—they have decided to send five thousand
hoplites
and six hundred cavalry for the defense of Thebes. Five thousand!” he repeated.

“It is wonderful news,” said Epaminondas, accepting the goblet of wine from Mothac. Pelopidas staggered into the
andron
and stretched himself out on a couch.

“It is not an end in itself,” said Parmenion quietly, “but it is a good beginning. What has happened to Sphodrias?”

“He has been summoned back to Sparta, with his army. Boeotia is free—except for the garrisons.”

“So,” whispered Parmenion, “Sparta and Athens are now at war. We should be safe—at least until next spring.”

Epaminondas nodded. “And now other cities in Boeotia will seek to rid themselves of Spartan garrisons. Pelopidas is leading his Sacred Band out into the countryside tomorrow to aid the Tanagra rebels. I think we could win, Parmenion. I really do.”

“Do not tempt the gods,” advised Mothac.

Epaminondas laughed aloud. “A long time ago I was told I would die at a battle in Mantinea. This frightened me greatly, for the seer was the renowned Tamis and beloved of
the gods. So you can imagine how I felt when, with Pelopidas, I found myself fighting at Mantinea against the Arcadians. We were surrounded, and Pelopidas went down. I stood my ground, ready to die. But I did not die. And why? Because there are no gods, and all prophecies can be twisted to mean anything the hearer desires. Tempt the gods, Mothac? I defy them. And even if they do exist, they are far too interested in changing their shapes and rutting with anything that moves to care what a lonely mortal thinks of them. And now I think I should collect Pelopidas and guide him home.” He took Parmenion’s arm suddenly, the smile fading from his face.

“Once more you are our savior, my Spartan friend. I cannot tell you how grateful I am. One day I will find a way to repay you.”

Pelopidas was asleep on the couch, but Epaminondas shook him, hauling him to his feet and steering him to the gates. Immediately the drunken Theban launched into a marching song, and the two men walked off into the darkness.

During the months that followed Parmenion settled back into private life, spending his time training
hoplites
, running, and reading. Occasionally he would attend parties or celebrations as a guest of Epaminondas or Calepios, who had returned in triumph from Athens. But mostly he kept to himself, taking his horse and riding into the countryside, exploring the hills and valleys surrounding Thebes.

By the spring of the following year hopes were high in the city that the Spartan menace had been overcome and that the old Boeotian League could be re-formed. Pelopidas and the Sacred Band had been instrumental in helping the rebels of Tanagra and Plataea expel the Spartan garrisons, and there was even talk of the great king of Persia granting the Theban request for autonomy from Sparta.

Then came fearful news. Agisaleus had gathered an army of eleven thousand
hoplites
and two thousand cavalry and was marching to crush the rebellion. The next night Mothac
returned from visiting the grave of Elea, tending the flowers planted there. It was late, and he walked home in darkness, his thoughts somber. As he reached the narrow street before the house of Parmenion, he saw a figure in the shadows leap and scale the wall. He blinked and focused his eyes on the spot, but there was nothing to be seen. Then a second figure scrambled over the wall to Parmenion’s home.

Mothac felt a chill sweep over him. Swiftly he ran for the gate, pushing it open. “Parmenion!” he bellowed. As he raced across the courtyard, a dark figure leapt from the shadows, cannoning into him. Moonlight glinted on a knife blade that slashed by his face. Mothac rolled and came to his feet, blocking a thrust and hammering his fist into the man’s face. The assassin fell back. Mothac threw himself at the man, making a wild grab for the knife wrist. He missed, and the blade plunged home into his left shoulder. His knee jerked up into the man’s groin, bringing a grunt of pain, then Mothac’s hands were on the assassin’s throat. Hurling himself forward, he cracked the man’s skull against the courtyard wall. The assassin went limp, but three times more Mothac smashed the man’s head to the stone. Blood and brains fell onto his hands, and he let the corpse sink to the ground.

“Parmenion!” he shouted again.

The assassin Gleamus cursed softly as he heard the servant call out, then ran up the steps to the upper floor bedroom where the traitor slept. Pausing outside the door, he listened, but there was no sound from within. Was it possible that the Spartan had not heard the cry?

Perhaps, but Gleamus had practiced his trade for almost twenty years in Egypt and Persia, Athens and Illyria, and he had survived by always using his wits, leaving nothing to chance.

For days now he had watched the house, observing the movements of the traitor, gauging the man. His prey was a warrior. He moved well, smoothly, his eyes alert. But the
weakness was in the house. There was only one exit from the bedroom unless the man wished to leap to the courtyard below, where he would surely break bones.

The plan had already gone awry, but there was still time to collect the bounty offered by Agisaleus. Gleamus considered his next move. The man beyond the door could be awake. If so, where would he be? The previous day, while no one was present, Gleamus had searched the building, memorizing the details of the bedroom. There was nowhere to hide. The room was small. So there were few options for the man within. If awake, he would be standing either to the left of the door or to the right. Behind him Aris and Sturma were moving up the stairs. But he would not need them. This was a kill he could make alone. It would show them he was still the master.

Lifting the catch, he hurled open the door, which crashed against the left wall. In that moment he saw the bed was empty, and with a savage cry he leapt forward, his knife slashing to the right, where the traitor had to be. The blade slammed against the wall.

Momentarily stunned, Gleamus stood still, his gaze scanning the moonlit room. The traitor was gone! It was impossible. He had seen the man enter. There was nowhere else for him to be!

A shadow moved above him. He spun, his blade coming up. But he was too late. The traitor’s sword slammed down past his collarbone, plunging deep into his lungs. Gleamus grunted and fell back, his dagger clattering to the floor. Even as life fled from him, his assassin’s mind could not help but admire the ploy. The Spartan had climbed to the lintel stone above the door.

So simple, thought Gleamus.

The wood of the floorboards was cool against his face, and his mind wandered. He saw again his father’s house on the isle of Crete, his brothers playing on the hillsides, his mother singing them to sleep with songs of gods and men.

Blood bubbled into his throat, and his last thoughts returned to the Spartan. So clever. So cle …

Parmenion dragged his sword clear of the corpse and stepped from the doorway. A blade sliced toward his face. The Spartan’s sword flashed up, blocking the cut, his left fist cracking into the man’s chin, sending him back into a third assassin on the stairs. Both men stumbled. Feet first, Parmenion leapt at them, his right foot thundering against the first man’s chin. The two assassins were hurled to the foot of the stairs. Parmenion vaulted over the balcony, dropping to the
andron
below. Both assassins regained their feet and advanced on him.

“You are dead now, mix-blood,” muttered the first.

The two men moved apart, coming at the Spartan from both sides. Parmenion launched a sudden attack at the man on the right, then spun on his heel, his sword cleaving the throat of the man on the left as he darted in. The assassin fell, blood gouting to the Persian rugs covering the stone floor. The last assassin moved warily now, and sweat shone on his bearded face.

“I am not easy to kill,” said Parmenion, his voice soft.

The man edged back toward the door. Mothac loomed up behind him, ramming a dagger through his lungs.

The assassin crumpled to the floor.

Mothac staggered in the doorway, then stumbled outside to sit at the courtyard table, the bronze hilt of a knife jutting from his shoulder. Parmenion lit two lanterns and examined the wound.

“Pull the cursed thing out,” grunted Mothac.

“No. It is best where it is for the moment. It will prevent excessive bleeding until we get a physician.” He poured Mothac a goblet of unwatered wine. “Do not move around,” he ordered. “I will come back with Argonas.”

Mothac reached up and grabbed Parmenion’s arm. “I appreciate that you want to move quickly,” he said, forcing a grin. “But it might be better if you dressed first.”

Parmenion smiled, his face softening. “You saved my life, Mothac. And almost lost yours. I will not forget it.”

“It was nothing. But you could at least say you’d do the same for me.”

Two hours later, with Mothac asleep, the knife removed, the wound bandaged, Parmenion sat with Argonas, watching the fat man devour a side of ham and four goblets of wine, followed by six sweet honey cakes. Argonas belched, then lay back on the couch, which creaked under his weight.

“An interesting life you lead, young man,” said Argonas. “Impersonating Spartans, fighting assassins in the dead of night. Is it safe to be around you? I wonder.”

“Mothac will be as he was?” asked Parmenion, ignoring the question.

“The wound passed through the fleshy part of the shoulder, where he is well muscled. It is not a round wound and will therefore heal more easily. I have applied fig-tree sap, which will clot the blood. He will be in some discomfort for several weeks, but the muscles will knit and he should be recovered by the summer.”

“I am very grateful to you. Mothac means much to me.”

“Yes,” agreed Argonas, stroking his oiled beard, “good servants are hard to come by. I myself had a Thracian body servant, a wonderful man who anticipated my every need moments before I realized the need was there. I have never found another like him.”

“What happened to him?” inquired Parmenion, more from politeness than out of genuine interest.

“He died,” said Argonas sadly. “He suffered a brain growth—like yours—but he was a man who never spoke of his troubles, and when he finally collapsed, it was too late to prevent his death. Never forget, my friend, to take the sylphium brew. Such deaths are painful to see and worse to suffer. I must say that your servant found a novel cure for you. I would use it myself, but already I am in trouble with my peers.”