Lion of Macedon (33 page)

“I thought it was the sylphium that healed me,” said Parmenion.

“Indeed it was. But first you had to be brought back in order to drink it. He is a thoughtful man and a clever one. If ever he should think of leaving your service, I would be delighted to acquire him.”

“Yes, yes, but what did he do?”

“You don’t remember?”

“For pity’s sake, Argonas! If I remembered, why would I ask you?” snapped Parmenion, his irritation growing.

“He brought your favorite whore to your bed: a priestess. It seems that the will to live is considerably strengthened in a man who is aroused to copulation.”

“No,” whispered Parmenion, “that is not how it was. It was Derae who came to me.”

Argonas heaved himself upright, his dark eyes showing concern. “I am sorry, Parmenion,” he said. “I have not spoken wisely. Put it down to a lack of sleep and an excess of wine. Perhaps it was both women: Derae in the spirit, the priestess in the flesh.”

Parmenion scarcely heard him. He was seeing again the priestess in the doorway, her smile, the smell of her perfume, the anger and sorrow in her eyes, the slamming of the door.

“Have you thought about why assassins should seek to kill you?” asked Argonas.

“What? No, I cannot think of a reason. Perhaps they were merely robbers.”

“Robbers without pockets or sacks? I think not. Well, I must leave. I will come back tomorrow to check Mothac’s wound and receive my fee.”

“Yes. Thank you,” said Parmenion absently.

“And walk with care, my friend. Whoever hired these men can always hire more.”

Two days later the senior officer of the city militia visited Parmenion. Menidis was almost seventy years of age and
had been a soldier for more than half a century. For the last ten years he had headed the small militia force operating within the city, responsible for patrolling the streets after dark and manning the great gates of Thebes.

“The men were foreigners,” said Menidis, his sharp gray eyes peering at Parmenion from under thick white brows. “They arrived in the city four days ago, passing through the Proitian gates. They said they had recently traveled from Corinth and were interested in purchasing Theban chariots. My belief is that they came from Sparta.” The old soldier waited to see what effect this had on the young man before him, but Parmenion’s face was impassive. “The part you played in freeing us of Spartan domination is well known,” he continued. “I believe the men were hired to kill you.”

Parmenion shrugged. “They failed,” he said.

“This time, youngster. But let us assume for a moment that they were paid by a rich nobleman. Such men are easy to find. Sadly, so too are you.”

“You suggest I leave Thebes?”

The old man smiled. “What you do is a matter for you. I could have men guard you wherever you go and watch over you while you sleep. The lord Epaminondas has requested—at the very least—that we set a sentry outside your gates. But still there will be times when you walk in crowded avenues or pause at market stalls or shops. A dedicated killer will find you.”

“Indeed,” agreed Parmenion, “but I am in no mood to run. This is my home. And I do not want your guards here, though I thank you for the offer. If an assassin is to kill me, then so be it. But I will not be an easy victim.”

“Had it not been for your
Theban
servant,” Menidis pointed out, “you would have been the simplest victim. A sleeping man offers little resistance. However, it is your choice and you have made it.” The soldier stood and replaced his bronze helm, securing the strap at the chin.

“Tell me something,” asked Parmenion. “I sense you do not care much whether they succeed or fail. Why is that?”

“You are very astute, and I believe in honesty at all times, so I will tell you. That you chose to betray your own city and aid Thebes gives me cause to be grateful to you. But you are still a Spartan, and I despise Spartans. Good day to you.”

Parmenion watched the old man depart, then shook his head. In a curious way the words of Menidis caused him more concern than the attack. He strolled up to Mothac’s room, where the servant was cursing as he tried to nurse his injured arm into a
chiton
.

“Let me help you,” said Parmenion, “though Argonas insisted you stay in bed for a week.”

“Two days felt like a week,” Mothac snapped.

“Do you feel up to walking?”

“Of course! Do I look like a cripple?” Parmenion looked into the man’s face, reading the anger in his eyes. Mothac’s cheeks were flushed almost as red as his beard, and he was breathing heavily.

“You are a stubborn man. But let it be as you say; we will walk.” Parmenion armed himself with sword and dagger, and slowly they made their way to the gardens at the western slope of the Cadmea, where fountains were placed to cool the breeze and flowers grew all year. The two men sat close to a shallow stream, beneath a yellowing willow, and Parmenion told the Theban about his conversation with Menidis.

Mothac chuckled. “He doesn’t mellow with age, does he? Two years ago he arrested two Spartan soldiers, cracking their skulls for them. He claimed they were molesting a Theban woman of quality, which was complete nonsense. Theban women of quality are not allowed on the streets.”

“In that—if in nothing else—you lag behind Sparta,” said Parmenion. “There women walk as freely as men, with no restrictions.”

“Disgraceful,” Mothac observed. “How, then, do you tell them from the whores?”

“There are no whores in Sparta.”

“No whores? Incredible! No wonder they are so anxious to conquer other cities.”

“While we are on the subject of whores, Mothac, tell me about the night you brought one to my bed.”

“How did you find out?”

“It does not matter. Why did you not tell me?”

Mothac shrugged, then winced as his shoulder flared. He rubbed at the wound, but that only made it worse. “You were convinced it was a miracle. I wanted to tell you the truth, but … but I didn’t. No excuses. I am sorry; it was all I could think of. Yet it worked, didn’t it?”

“It worked,” agreed Parmenion.

“Are you angry?”

“Just a little sad. It was good to feel that Derae came back to me, if only in a dream. Perhaps Epaminondas is right and there are no gods. I hope he is wrong. When I look at the sky, or the sea, or a beautiful horse, I like to believe in gods. I like to feel there is some order, some meaning to existence.”

Mothac nodded. “I know what you mean, and I do believe. I have to. There is someone waiting for me on the other side; if I didn’t believe that, I would cut my throat.”

“She died on the day you came to me,” said Parmenion. “Her name was Elea.”

“How did you know?”

“I followed you on the first day. I saw the funeral procession. When you went off—as it turned out, to kill Cletus—I walked to the grave to pay my respects.”

“She was a wonderful woman,” said Mothac. “She never complained. And I still see her face whenever I close my eyes.”

“At least you had more than five days,” whispered Parmenion, rising. “Let us return. I think you are more tired than you look.”

Suddenly a man stepped from the shadows behind them. Parmenion’s sword slashed into the air, and the man leapt back, lifting his hands, his mouth hanging open in shock.

“I have no weapon! No weapon!” he screamed. Behind him stood a child of around seven years, clutching his father’s cloak.

“I am sorry,” said Parmenion. “You startled me.” Sheathing his sword, he smiled down at the child, but the boy started crying.

“You are more concerned than you look,” said Mothac as the two began the long walk home.

“Yes, it frightens me to know that a knife, or a sword, or an arrow could come from anywhere. Yet if I leave Thebes, I will be as I was when I came here—virtually a pauper. I have money in several merchant ventures, but I have still to pay Epaminondas for the house.”

“Better to be poor and alive,” said Mothac, “than rich and dead.”

“But better still to be rich and alive.”

“You could join the Sacred Band. Pelopidas would be delighted to have you, and even the doughtiest assassin would have difficulty in getting close to you.”

“That is true,” Parmenion agreed, “but I will serve under no man—save perhaps Epaminondas. He and I think alike. Pelopidas is too reckless, and it does not pay to be reckless when facing the Spartans.”

“You still believe we do not have the strength to go against them?”

“I
know
it, Mothac; it is not a question of belief. No, we must stall them, refuse open battle. The time will come. But we must have patience.”

Leucion had slept badly, his dreams full of anxiety and frustration. He woke early, his mood foul, while the other nine warriors still slept.

Curse the whore! thought Leucion as he stirred the ashes of the fire, at last finding a glowing ember and adding dry leaves and twigs to bring the blaze to life. She had talked of love, but when his money ran out, she had laughed at him, ordering him from her house. Cursed Persian whore! The battles were over, the mercenaries disbanded. We were welcomed by cheering crowds and flowers strewn in our
path, he remembered, but dismissed in the night with a handful of coins and not a word of thanks.

They all look down on us, he realized. Persians. Yet where would they be without us, fighting their miserable battles? Barbarians, all of them. He opened the pouch at his side, pulling clear his last coin. It was gold, heavy and warm. On one side was stamped the face of the great king, on the other a kneeling archer with bow bent. The Persians called them darics, after Darius the Great. But to the Greek mercenaries they were archers and the single reason why so many Greek warriors fought in Persian wars.

“No Greek is impervious to Persian archers,” Artabazarnes had told him during a drinking bout. Then the Persian had laughed, the sound mocking. He had wanted to smash the leering grin from the Persian’s face.

Leucion sat now before the fire, his anger burning brighter than the flames. Pendar awoke and joined him. “What troubles you?” asked his friend.

“This cursed country,” Leucion told him.

“Your mood was fine yesterday.”

“Well, this is today!” snapped Leucion. “Wake the men and let us push on. It is a ten-day ride to the city.”

“You think they’ll take us on?”

“Just do as I ask!” roared Leucion. Pendar backed away from him and woke the men as Leucion rubbed his fingers through his short black beard. It was matted now, and he longed for a vial of perfumed oil … and a bath. Lifting his breastplate into place, he settled the shoulder guards and strode for his horse.

Mounted at last, the men rode across the green hills, their armor glinting in the morning sun. Topping a rise, they gazed down on a series of small villages and a distant temple with white columns, beyond which lay the shimmering sea.

Leucion tugged on the reins, riding toward the nearest village. His head was pounding now, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.

Curse you, whore, to a worm-ridden death!

As they neared the village, he glanced at the temple. Riding high on the hills, they could see over the white walls of the temple garden. A young woman was walking there, her red-gold hair reflecting the sunlight, her body slim, breasts pressing against the filmy gown she wore.

A scene came to his mind: the woman writhing beneath him, begging him to stop, pleading with him, his knife at her throat, the blade slipping into the skin, the blood gushing from her.…

Kicking his horse into a run, he galloped for the rose-covered gateway.

Even as he approached, he realized that the others would never stand for him murdering the girl before they had enjoyed her. No, he would have to be patient. His thoughts surprised him, for he had never before considered there to be pleasure in murder. In fighting, yes; in war, obviously. How curious, he thought. Dragging on the reins, he leapt from the horse’s back and strode through the gateway. The girl was kneeling by a rosebush. Her head came up.

She was blind. For some reason this made his arousal more fierce, his sense of power soaring.

He heard the other men dismounting and halted, watching the girl. Her beauty was considerable, more Greek than Persian, but Leucion did not care what nationality she was.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice soft yet deeper than he had expected, her accent betraying her Doric origins. Spartan or Corinthian, he thought, which delighted him. He would not have felt as content with the prospect of raping an Athenian woman.

“Why do you not speak?” she asked, no trace of fear yet in her voice. But that would come, he knew. Slowly he drew his knife and advanced toward her.

“What are you doing?” cried Pendar.

Leucion ignored him and moved close to the woman. Even above the scent of the roses he could smell the perfume of
her hair. Reaching out, he took hold of her gown at the shoulder and slashed through it, pulling the remnants clear of her body. She stumbled back naked, and now the fear showed.

“Stop this!” Pendar shouted, running forward and grabbing Leucion’s arm. Before he could stop himself, the warrior swung and plunged his blade into his friend’s chest. “Why?” whispered Pendar, falling against Leucion and sliding to the ground, his blood smearing Leucion’s bronze breastplate. For a moment Leucion hesitated, confused; then he shook his head and swung to the other men. “You want to take her?” he asked them.

“Why not?” answered Boras, a thickset Thracian. “She looks tender enough.” The men advanced on the naked girl, Leucion in the lead with his bloody knife raised. The priestess stood her ground. She lifted her hand, and Leucion felt the knife writhe in his grasp. Glancing down, he screamed. He was holding a viper whose raised head was drawn back with fangs poised for the strike. He threw it from him, hearing it clatter to the stones.

“What’s the matter with you, man?” asked Boras.

“Did you not see it? The snake?”

“Are you mad? You want her first or not? I’ll not wait for long.”

A low growl came from behind them.

A beast stood in their midst. It had the head of a lion, the body of a bear, huge shoulders, and taloned paws. Swords flashed into the air as the warriors attacked the creature, which offered no resistance as the blades cleaved its massive frame. It fell, covered in blood, and became their comrade Metrodorus.