Parmenion ignored the question. ‘When you have accomplished your task you will accompany the warrior. He is a known and wanted man. He must not be taken, therefore he will use you - and others - to take messages across the city. Do as he bids - whatever the request.’
‘You are talking of revolt,’ said Mothac, his voice dropping to a whisper.
‘Yes. Exactly that.’
‘What of the officers of the watch? There are more than 200 soldiers patrolling the city.’
‘Theban soldiers. Let us hope they remember that. Now go. We have little time and there are people I must see.’
Mothac took his dark green cloak and swung it round his shoulders. ‘Take a sword and a dagger,’ Parmenion advised him, and he nodded.
Minutes later he was at the house of Horas the physician, where a man was waiting in the shadowed doorway. He was tall, and skeletally thin. Mothac approached him and bowed. ‘Greetings, doctor. You have a package for me?’
The man glanced nervously at the darkened street, his eyes flicking from side to side. ‘There is no one but me, I assure you,’ said Mothac.
‘This package did not come from me. You understand that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Now use it sparingly. Sprinkle it carefully over the meat. Try not to get it on your fingers, but if you do then wash them with care.’
‘It is poison then?’ whispered Mothac, surprised.
‘Of course it is not poison!’ snapped the physician. ‘You think I became a doctor so that I could kill people? It is what the lords asked for: purgatives and vomiting powders. Now get you gone from here. And remember, I have no part in this!’
Mothac took the package and headed towards the north of the city. As he turned a corner near the agora, a soldier stepped out in his path.
‘Where are you going, friend?’ he asked. Three other soldiers of the watch came into view.
‘I am heading home, sir,’ answered Mothac, smiling. ‘Is there trouble?’
‘You are well armed for an evening’s stroll,’ the man observed.
‘It pays to be careful,’ Mothac told him.
The soldier nodded. ‘Pass on,’ he said.
When Mothac arrived at the home of Amta the Butcher-a large building set close to the slaughter-yard and warehouse — he halted at the main gates, searching the shadows for the man he was to meet.
‘You are Mothac?’ came a voice from behind him. Mothac dropped the package and whirled, scrabbling for his sword. Cold iron touched his throat.
‘I am,’ he replied. ‘And you?’
‘I? I am none of your concern. Pick up the package and let us awaken our friend.’
The gate was not locked and the tall warrior eased it open, then the two men crept across the courtyard and into the house beyond. All was in darkness, but moonlight was shining through an open window and they could make out the staircase by the eastern wall. Mothac followed his nameless companion up into the second storey to a bedroom facing east, where the man opened the door and stepped inside. In a broad bed on a raised platform lay a fat man, snoring heavily. The warrior moved alongside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. The snoring ceased and Mothac saw Amta’s eyes flick open. The warrior’s knife rested on the fat man’s quivering jowls. ‘Good morning,’ said the warrior, with a smile. ‘It will be a fine day.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to show that you love Thebes.’
‘I do. All men know that.’
‘And yet you supply food to the Spartan garrison?’ ‘I am a merchant. I cannot refuse to sell my merchandise. I would be arrested, called a traitor.’
‘It is all a question of perspectives, dear Amta. You see, we are going to free Thebes. And then we will call you a traitor.’
The fat man eased himself to a sitting position, trying not to look at the knife poised above his throat. ‘That would be unfair,’ he protested, his voice regaining composure. ‘You could not accuse every man who deals with Spartans, or all shop-owners and merchants - yes, and even whores would be under sentence. Who are you?’ ‘I am Pelopidas.’
‘What do you require of me?’ the fat man asked, fear returning with the sweat that suddenly appeared on his face.
‘What time do you prepare the meat for the garrison?’ ‘An hour before dawn. Then my lads pull it up to the Cadmea on a cart.’
‘Then let us be about our business,’ said Pelopidas, sheathing his dagger.
‘What has my meat to do with freeing Thebes?’ ‘We have some herbs with us, to add to the flavour.’ ‘But if you poison them I’ll get the blame. You can’t!’ ‘It is not poison, fool!’ hissed Pelopidas. ‘Would that it were! Now get out of that bed and take us to your storeroom.’
Three hours after dawn Parmenion still had not slept. He waited at the entrance to the smithy, his mind whirling with thoughts which became problems and problems which became fears.
What if?
What if the Spartans saw that the meat was doctored? What if Pelopidas was caught salting the water? What if the news of the plot leaked out?
Parmenion’s head was pounding, and the early-morning sunshine hurt his eyes; feeling nauseous and unsteady, he sat down in the roadside. Ever since the day he had rescued Derae he had suffered periodic head pain, but during the last two years the bouts had increased - in both regularity and intensity. At times even his Spartan training could not help him overcome the agony, and he had taken to drinking poppy juice when the attacks became unbearable. But today there was no time for the sleep of opium and he tried to ignore the pain.
The smith, Norac, came walking into the street minutes later. He was a huge man, wide-shouldered and bull-necked. Parmenion rose to greet him. ‘You’re early, young man,’ said Norac, ‘but if you think to arrange speedy work, forget it. I have a full order book.’
‘I need twenty iron spikes by midday, each one the length of a man’s forearm,’ Parmenion told him.
‘You are not listening, my young friend. I cannot take any more work for this week.’
Parmenion stared into the man’s deep-set brown eyes. ‘Listen to me, Norac, you are said to be a man who can be trusted. I am sent by Pelopidas. You understand? The watchword is Heracles.’
The smith’s eyes narrowed. ‘For what purpose do you need the spikes?’
‘To nail shut the Cadmea gates. We also need men to wield the hammers.’
‘Hera’s tits, boy! You are not asking much, are you! You’d better come inside.’
The smithy was deserted. Norac walked to the forge, adding tinder to the hot ashes inside and blowing the flames to life. ‘The spikes will be no problem,’ he said. ‘But how do we hammer them home without the Spartans falling upon us?’
‘Speed and skill. Once the crossbar is in place, six men will run to the gates.’ Parmenion walked to the far wall, lifting a spear-haft from a stack awaiting iron heads. Standing the haft on its end he drew his dagger, slashing two cuts into the wood. ‘That is the height and thickness of the crossbar. The gates are oak, old, weathered and thick as the length of a man’s hand. Could you pierce one in six strikes?’
Norac flexed his prodigious muscles. ‘Aye, boy, I could. But most others will need seven or eight.’
Parmenion nodded. ‘You can double the speed by having four men with hammers at each gate. But the timing is vital. The moment of greatest danger will come when the crowd is marching upon the Cadmea - it is then that the commander will consider sending out an armed force.’
‘I’ll see the deed done,’ promised Norac, and Parmenion smiled.
‘The gates are usually shut at dusk. Bring the spikes to the house of Calepios by midday, no later. And have eleven strong men with you.’
Parmenion left the smithy and walked slowly to Calepios’ home. The statesman was eating breakfast and asked Parmenion to join him, but the Spartan refused. ‘Have you heard from Pelopidas?’ he asked.
‘Not yet. You look dreadful, man; your face has lost all colour. Are
you ill?’
‘I am fine. Merely tired. The word about your speech must be spread through the city. We need as many people as possible to hear it.’
‘You said that last night. It is all in hand, my friend.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Parmenion filled a goblet with water and sipped it.
‘Go inside and sleep for a while,’ advised Calepios. ‘I will wake you when Pelopidas returns.’
‘Later. How many men will be watching the city gates? No one must leave until Thebes is ours.’
‘There will be ten men per gate. Have no fears; everything is as you planned it.’
‘Some people will bring bows to the Cadmea, hoping for a chance to loose an arrow at a Spartan. All but our own men must be disarmed. There must be no unplanned assault.’
Pelopidas and Mothac entered the courtyard and Parmenion stood. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Mothac and I delivered the food. As you thought, we were left to ourselves in the store-room. I salted the water barrels; there were ten of them. We ran out of salt for the last barrel and I thought of urinating in it, but instead we tipped it over the floor.’
‘Good! Well done,’ said Parmenion, sinking back to his seat. ‘Then we are ready. Have you planned your speech?’ he asked Calepios.
‘Yes,’ answered the statesman, ‘and I will deliver it at the agora just before dusk. There will be a great crowd. Now will you get some rest?’
Parmenion ignored his plea and turned to Pelopidas. ‘What of the councillors?’
The warrior sat down on the bench seat alongside Parmenion. ‘The gods are with us, Parmenion. I am told they will all be at a celebration at the house of Alexandras. They are gathering there at midday; they will eat and drink - and then send out for whores. We will kill them all - save Calepios’ cousin, Cascus.’
‘No!’ snapped Parmenion. ‘All must die!’
‘Cascus is no longer in the city,’ said Pelopidas, swinging his eyes to Calepios. ‘By a strange stroke of luck, he left two hours ago for his summer estate near Corinth.’
Parmenion’s fist slammed to the table-top and his eyes locked to Calepios’ face. ‘You warned him. You put everything in jeopardy.’
The statesman shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I do not deny asking him to leave the city, but I did not betray anyone. I told Cascus of a dream I had had for three nights, that he died. I told him I had been to the seeress about it, and she had said he had to make a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Hecate at Corinth. All men know how religious Cascus is - he left immediately.’
‘It was foolish, Calepios,’ Parmenion told him. ‘If we do retake the city, then Cascus will run to the Spartans and they will use him as a figurehead to march upon us. You may have doomed us all.’
The statesman nodded his head. ‘I have no defence to that. But Cascus is of my blood and very dear to me. And, in his own way, he cares for Thebes as much as any of us. But there is nothing I can do to change my actions - and if there were, I would refuse so to do.’
Parmenion’s head felt as if it were ready to explode. He drank more water and then walked into the house, seeking to escape the brightness of the courtyard.
Mothac followed him. ‘I have seen marble statues with more colour than you,’ said Mothac, as Parmenion slumped on to a divan. ‘I think you need some wine.’
‘No,’ said Parmenion, as his stomach surged. ‘Just leave me for a while. I’ll get some sleep.’
Fierce waves pounded at a jagged coastline, while monsters of the deep with serrated teeth glided around the slender figure of the girl as she struggled to free her hands. Parmenion swam through the waves, battling to reach her before the dark sea dragged her down.
A huge creature slid by him, so close that its dorsal fin rubbed against Parmenion’s leg, but a colossal wave caught the young man’s body, lifting him towards the heavens. At its rip, he almost screamed as he tumbled down into the trough. His head went under the water and he found he could breathe there. Derae’s body was flooring beneath him; he dived down and ripped the cords from her wrists, dragging her to the surface.
‘Live! Live!’ he screamed. The monsters circled them - cold, opal eyes staring at the lovers. Derae regained consciousness and clung to Parmenion.
‘You saved me,’ she said. ‘You came for me!’
Mothac shook him awake and Parmenion opened his eyes and groaned - not just at the pain flaring within his skull, but for the loss of Derae and his dream. He sat up. ‘Is it midday?’
‘Yes,’ answered Mothac. Parmenion rose. Pelopidas was still in the courtyard, and with him was the smith, Norac, and eleven burly men. Four had huge, long-handled hammers.
‘Good enough for you, strategos?’ asked Norac, lifting an iron spike the length of a short sword.
‘You did well,’ Parmenion told him, ‘but I would like to see your hammer men at work.’
‘I brought extra spikes,’ said the smith, ‘for just that purpose.’ Two men hoisted a thick section of timber, standing it against the far wall, while a third man held a spike in place. Moving to one side, Norac gestured to one of the hammer men to take his place on the other. The smith hefted his hammer, then swung it viciously, the head thundering into the spike. As the hammer bounced clear, so the second man swung; after the first strike the holder released his grip and ducked clear. Three strikes later, the spike was deeply embedded.
‘Work on it,’ said Parmenion. ‘It needs to be faster.’
Calling Pelopidas to him, he walked to the andron. ‘The celebration you mentioned at the house of Alexandras-will there be guards?’
‘Yes. They are not popular men,’ Pelopidas answered.
‘How many guards?’
‘Perhaps five, perhaps twenty. I don’t know.’
‘Outside or inside the house?’
‘Outside. It is a private orgy,’ said Pelopidas with a wide grin.
‘I will meet you at the house of Alexandras. We will make a plan when we have seen how many guards are present.’
After Pelopidas had gone Calepios went to his room to rehearse his speech, leaving Parmenion in the andron. The Spartan was lost in thought for some time, but then became aware that he was not alone. Turning his head he saw the Spartan seeress, Tamis, standing by the table leaning on a staff.
Tamis gazed at the young Spartan, glorying in the power of his soul-fire, sensing his pain, admiring the courage he showed in resisting its power.
For a moment he stared at her, disbelieving.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘will you offer me a seat, young Spartan?’
‘Of course,’ he answered, rising to guide her to the table, where he poured her a goblet of water. ‘How are you here, lady?’
I go where I will. Are you set now upon leading this insurrection?’
‘lam.’
‘Give me your hand.’
Parmenion obeyed and she covered his palm with her own. ‘With each heartbeat a man has two choices,’ she whispered. ‘Yet each choice makes a pathway, and he must walk it wherever it takes him. You stand, Parmenion, at a crossroads. There is a road leading to sunlight and laughter, and another road leading to pain and despair. The city of Thebes is in your hands, like a small toy. On the road to sunlight the city will grow, but on the other road it will be broken, crushed into dust and forgotten. These are the words I am ordered to speak.’
‘Which road, then?’ he asked. ‘How will I know it?’
‘You will not, until long after you have walked upon it.’
‘Then what is the point of telling me?’ he snapped, pulling his hand clear of hers.
‘You are a Chosen Man. You are Parmenion, the Death of Nations. A hundred thousand souls will you send to the dark river, screaming and wailing, lamenting their fate. It is right and just that you should know your choices.’
Then tell me how to walk the road to sunlight.’
‘I will, but like Cassandra before me my words will not alter your path.’
‘Just tell mev’
&
nbsp; ‘Walk from this house and bridle your mare. Ride from this city and journey across the sea to Asia. Seek out the Shrine to Hera of the Book.’
‘Ha! I see it now,’ said Parmenion. ‘You witch! You are Spartan and you serve them. I will not listen to your lies. I will free Thebes, and if a city is to fall to ashes then it will be Sparta.’
‘Of course,’ she said, smiling, showing rotted teeth and blood-red gums. ‘The Death of Nations speaks, and his words will be heard by the gods. But you misjudge me, Parmenion. I care nothing for Sparta or her dreams, and I am happy with the path you have chosen. You are important to me - to the world.’
‘Why should I be important to you?’ he asked her, but she shook her head.
‘All will be revealed in time. You have pleased me today; your mind is sharp, your wits keen. Soon you will become the man of iron, the man of destiny.’ Her laughter was like wind through dead leaves.
Parmenion said nothing, but his fingers strayed towards the dagger at his side.
‘You will not need that,’ she told him softly. ‘I am no threat to you, and will speak to no one of your plans.’
The Spartan did not reply. He was not about to risk the life of Epaminondas on the word of a Spartan witch! The dagger slid clear....
‘Parmenion!’ called Calepios from the doorway. ‘I am torn over the conclusion to my speech. Will you listen to the ending?’
For a moment only, Parmenion’s attention was diverted. He glanced back to Tamis... but she had gone. Lurching to his feet with dagger in hand, he swung round. But of Tamis there was no sign. ‘Where did she go?’ he asked Calepios.
‘Who?’
‘The old woman who was here a moment ago.’
‘I saw no one; you were dreaming. Now, listen to this ending...’
Parmenion ran to the door. Outside in the courtyard the smith and his men were hammering at the spikes and the courtyard gates were locked.
Parmenion listened to Calepios’ speech, which sounded pompous and lacking in credibility. But he said nothing, his mind locked to the words of Tamis. Had she been real - or an illusion born of pain? He had no way of knowing. Complimenting the statesman on his speech, he left the building and walked in the bright sunshine towards the house of Alexandras. The man was a poet and an actor. According to Calepios he excelled at neither profession, but made his name among the nobility for organizing exquisite orgies. His home was close to the Homoloides, the Great North Gate, and overlooked the hills leading to Thessaly. Parmenion found the house and sat on a wall some sixty paces from the front gates. From here he could see four guards in breastplates and helms, carrying lances, and could hear the sound of music and laughter from within. But there was no sign of Pelopidas. Leaning his back against a cool stone wall, he ran through the plans once more.
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