Lion of Macedon (36 page)

The days dragged by. Argonas no longer called, and Parmenion learned from a collector of the dead that the fat man had suffered the fate of thousands, his body consumed by the plague. Mothac grew stronger, the red swirls disappearing, the swellings abating, but he was weak, needing to sleep often. Cleo worked tirelessly, bathing her mistress, changing soiled sheets, cooking and cleaning. Parmenion scoured the city for food, but even the horses and dogs had long since been slaughtered.

Then, like a spent storm, the plague began to wither away. Fewer and fewer bodies were left for the collectors, and the gates were opened to allow a convoy of food wagons to enter the blighted city. Parmenion fought his way through the mob that surrounded the convoy and emerged with a haunch of beef and a sack of dried cereal.

At home Cleo cooked some of the meat and spoon-fed it to Thetis, who was now more lucid. The two men carried her bed upstairs to Parmenion’s room to give her more privacy, while Cleo slept on a couch in the
andron
.

By the end of summer the city had almost returned to normal. More than four thousand people had perished in the plague, but as Calepios pointed out, this was a fraction of those who would have died or been enslaved had the Spartan army sacked the city. Fearing the plague, the Spartans had marched from Boeotia without a battle, and allied troops had now secured the passes over Mount Cithaeron against them. News also came from Tegyra that Pelopidas and the Sacred
Band had routed a Spartan division that outnumbered them two to one and had killed Phoebidas, the Spartan responsible for the taking of the Cadmea four years earlier. The defeated soldiers were not Spartan regulars but mercenaries from the city of Orchomenus, yet even so a day of celebration was declared in Thebes and the sounds of laughter and song drifted to the room where Thetis lay. She was still very weak, her heartbeat ragged and irregular, but the distant laughter cheered her.

Parmenion entered, bearing a tray of food and drink. Setting it down, he sat beside her. “You have more color today,” he said. “Mothac managed to find some fresh honey cakes. An old friend of mine swore they gave strength to the weary.”

Her green eyes rested on his face, but she said nothing. Instead she reached out and took his hand, tears falling to her cheeks.

“What is wrong?” he asked her.

“Nothing,” she replied.

“Then why are you weeping?”

“Why did you do this for me?” she countered. “Why did you not let me die?”

“Sometimes there are no answers,” he told her, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her palm. “You are not Derae, as I am not Damon. But our lives have crossed; the lines of our destinies are now entwined. I no longer have great faith in distant gods, but I believe in the Fates. I believe we were meant to be together.”

“I do not love you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Nor I you. But I care for you. You have been on my mind constantly since I discovered the truth about the night you brought me back. Stay with me, Thetis. I cannot promise to make you happy, but I will try.”

“I will not marry you, Parmenion, but I will stay. And if we are happy, so be it, we will remain together. But know this: one day you may awake to find me gone. If that happens, promise me you will never try to find me.”

“I promise,” he said. “Now eat and regain your strength.”

* * *

The man stood in the moonlight at the gates of Parmenion’s house. There was no one in sight as he carefully slid his knife into the crack at the center of the gates, easing up the wooden bar beyond. The gate opened, the bar sliding at an angle toward the ground, but before it could thud against the stone, he rammed his knife blade into the wood, jamming it in place until he could slip through and lower it carefully to the courtyard. Returning the knife to its sheath, he walked toward the closed door of the
andron
.

Something cold touched his neck, and a hand clamped to his shoulder. “Were I you, I would stand very still,” warned a voice by his ear.

“I have a message for Parmenion,” whispered the man.

“The knife at your throat is very sharp. Put your hands behind you.”

The man obeyed, standing quietly as his wrists were lashed together. Then he was led into the darkened
andron
and watched as his red-bearded captor lit three lanterns. “You would be Mothac?”

“I would. Sit down.” Mothac pushed the man to a couch. “Parmenion!” he called. Moments later a tall, slender man, thin-faced, with piercing, pale blue eyes, entered the room. He was carrying a gleaming sword.

“Clearchus!” cried Parmenion, tossing aside the sword and smiling broadly.

“The very same,” grunted Xenophon’s servant.

“Untie him,” ordered Parmenion. Mothac slashed his knife through the leather thongs binding the man, and Clearchus rubbed at his wrists. His hair was whiter and thinner than the young Spartan remembered, the lines on his face deeper, like knife cuts in leather. “An odd time to be calling,” Parmenion commented.

“My lord asked me to make sure I was unobserved.” Reaching into his thick woolen shirt, Clearchus produced a scroll, which he handed to the young Spartan.

Parmenion put it aside and sat facing the older man. “How does the general fare?”

Clearchus shrugged. “He’s a sad man. He writes now. Many things—horsemanship, tactics, the state of Greece. He spends hours every day with his scribes. I cannot recall the last time he went riding or hunting. And he has grown
fat.”
Clearchus almost spit the last word, as if even forming it offended his mouth.

Parmenion reached for the scroll, then noticed Mothac still standing by, his knife in his hand. “It is all right, my friend. This is Clearchus, a companion of the general Xenophon. He is trustworthy.”

“He is a Spartan,” muttered Mothac.

“Beware, child, lest I crack your skull for you,” snapped Clearchus, reddening.

“Once upon a time perhaps, Grandfather,” retorted Mothac. Clearchus lurched to his feet.

“Stop this, both of you!” ordered Parmenion. “We are all friends here—or we should be. How long have you been in Thebes?”

“I arrived this evening,” answered Clearchus, casting a murderous glare at Mothac. “I visited friends in Corinth, then bought a horse and rode here through Megara and Plataea.”

“It is good to see you. Would you like some food and drink?”

Clearchus shook his head. “I will be leaving once you have given me an answer for my lord.”

Mothac bade Parmenion good night and wandered back to his room, leaving the two Spartans together. The younger man opened the scroll and sat close to a lantern.

There was no signature.

Parmenion looked up into the weather-beaten face of the old servant. “You risked much to bring this to me, Clearchus. I thank you.”

“Do not thank me,” said the old man. “I did it for the general. I liked you, boy. But that was a long time ago, before you became a traitor. I hope the assassins find you before you can play any more of your deadly games.”

“None of you will ever see it, will you?” said Parmenion, his voice icy. “You Spartans think of yourselves as demigods. You take a child and you torment him all his life, telling him he is no Spartan, then accuse him of treachery when he takes you at your word. Well, here is a thought for you, Clearchus, and all your foul breed: After I tricked Sphodrias, I was caught by a Sciritai warrior. He had fought for you for years; he had been raised to fight for you. And as we drew swords against one another, he told me he had always wanted to kill a Spartan. You are hated not only by Thebes and Athens but by the very people who fight alongside you.”

Clearchus opened his mouth to reply, but Parmenion raised his hand.

“Say nothing, servant!” he hissed. “You have delivered your message. Now begone!”

For only a moment the old man glowered at him, then backed away and vanished into the darkness.

Mothac stepped into view, still carrying his knife. “Do not let it concern you,” he said gently.

Parmenion gave a bitter laugh. “How would you recommend I do that? After the assassins came, Menidis told me he couldn’t care less whether I lived or died. That’s the Theban view of me, Mothac: I am a Spartan traitor. And it cuts me to the bone to be called so.”

“I think we should get drunk,” Mothac suggested.

“It is not exactly the answer I was looking for,” Parmenion responded.

“It is the best I have.”

“Then it will have to do,” said the Spartan. “Fetch the jug.”

THEBES, SUMMER, 371 B.C.

Thetis awoke early. Her dreams had been good, her sleep restful. She stretched her arms and rolled on one side, gazing at the sleeping man beside her. Reaching out, she gently brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead. He sighed but did not wake.

The last six years had been good to them both. Parmenion at twenty-nine was in his prime and had won races in Corinth, Megara, Plataea, and even Athens. His face was sharper now, the prominent nose more hawklike, his hair slowly receding. But his smile was still boyish, and his touch gentle.

Good years …

At first he had noticed her discontent at being virtually housebound and had come to her one morning from the marketplace, where he had purchased a dark
chiton
, knee-length sandals, a pair of Persian-style trews in light linen, and a felt hat. “Put these on,” he told her.

She had laughed then. “You want me to dress as a man? Are we in need of such devices?”

“No,” he replied with a grin. “But I will teach you another way to ride.”

It was an adventure she had enjoyed more than she would ever have thought possible. Still weak after the plague, she had sat high upon a chestnut mare and had ridden through the city, her felt hat covering her hair and the loose
chiton
disguising the curves of her body. Once in the hills, she had discovered
the joys of the gallop, the wind in her hair, the impossible speed.

They had made love in a high meadow, shaded from the afternoon sun by the branches of a tall cypress, then splashed naked in a cold mountain stream. The recollection of that day shone with clear light in her memories. “When I am gone,” he said, “you will be able to send Mothac to fetch the horses and continue to ride. There is freedom here and no one to question you or frown at the lack of dignity shown by a woman of quality.”

“Gone?” she queried. “Where will you go?”

“Epaminondas has decided it is time to set about freeing Boeotia. We will be taking troops to captive cities and aiding their rebellions. We must secure the land against Sparta.”

Early one morning, some five weeks later, Thetis awoke to see Parmenion standing beside the bed. He was dressed in a bronze helm with baked leather cheek guards and a breastplate showing the head of a roaring lion. His sword was strapped to his side, the scabbard resting against a kilt made of bronze-edged leather strips.

“It is today, then?” she said.

“Yes.”

“You could have told me last night.”

“I did not want to burden you. I will be gone for perhaps a month, maybe two.” She nodded and turned her back to him, closing her eyes and pretending to sleep.

For days she fretted, imagining him riding to his death. “I will not fall in love with him,” she promised herself. “I will not cry over his corpse as I did with Damon.”

But her fears grew as the news of skirmishes and sieges reached the city. The Spartan garrison at Thisbe, formed mainly from mercenary units from the city of Orchomenus, had marched out to confront the Theban force. A short battle had followed, before the mercenaries were routed; it was reported that seventeen Thebans were dead. One by one the cities fell, mostly without bloodshed, the beleaguered Spartan
garrisons agreeing to leave after being granted safe conduct back across the Peloponnese. But still there was no news of Parmenion.

Six weeks to the day since she had refused to say goodbye, he walked into the courtyard. She saw him from the upstairs window and stopped herself from running down to meet him. Instead she walked slowly, and they met on the stairs. His helmet was dented in two places, his breastplate gashed, the lion’s head showing a deep groove.

“Did you miss me?” he asked, untying the chin strap and removing the helmet.

“A little,” she conceded. “Are you home for good?”

“No, I ran out of sylphium. I ride back tomorrow.”