‘You there!’ shouted a sentry. ‘Stop!’
Parmenion leapt over the ramparts and slid down the rope, his hands burning. Above him the sentry ran to the rope, hacking at it with his sword. It parted and sailed over the wall.
Far below Parmenion grabbed for a handhold, his fingers hooking into a crack just as the rope went slack. Carefully he climbed down and returned to the tent of Calepios.
‘Well?’ asked the orator.
‘They are safe,’ whispered Parmenion.
At dawn inside the citadel Arimanes sat doubled over, clutching his belly. He had lost count of the number of times he had vomited during the night, and now only yellow bile filled the bowl at his side. Of more than 780 men under his command, 500 were so stricken they could not walk, and the rest moved around like walking wounded — their faces grey, their eyes lifeless. If the Thebans decided to attack today, he realized, his force would be overpowered within minutes.
An aide knocked at his door and Arimanes struggled to his feet, stifling a groan. ‘Come in,’ he said, the effort of speaking making his stomach tremble.
A young officer entered; he too looked white. ‘We have searched the entire Cadmea. The prisoners must have escaped.’
‘Impossible!’ shouted Arimanes. ‘Epaminondas could hardly walk - let alone climb. And only one man was seen going over the wall.’
‘There is nowhere left to search, sir,’ the man told him.
Arimanes sank back to his couch. Surely the gods had damned him? He had planned to execute the traitors as a warning to the mob that Sparta would not be threatened. Now he had no prisoners, and commanded a force too weak to defend the walls.
A second officer entered the room. ‘Sir, the Thebans want to send a man in to discuss... the situation.’
Arimanes tried to think, but logical thought was difficult when bowels and belly were in revolt. ‘Tell them yes,’ he ordered, staggering back into the latrine and squatting over the open pipe.
He felt a little better then, and returned to his couch, stretching himself out on his side with knees drawn up. He had not wanted this commission, hating Thebes and all its depravities, but his father had insisted that it was an honour to command a Spartan garrison - no matter where it was stationed. Arimanes ran a slender hand through his thinning blond hair. What he would not give for a drink of cool, clean water. Damn those Thebans to Hades and the fires therein!
Minutes later the officer returned, ushering in a tall young man with dark hair and close-set blue eyes. Arimanes recognized him as the runner, Leon the Macedonian, by all accounts a mix-blood Spartan. ‘Sit down,’ he whispered.
The man stepped forward, holding out a stone flagon. ‘The water is clean,’ said the messenger.
Arimanes took it and drank. ‘Why did they pick you?’ he asked, holding on to the flagon.
‘I am half-Spartan by birth, sir, as perhaps you know,’ said Parmenion smoothly, ‘but I live in Thebes now. They thought that, perhaps, I could be trusted.’
‘And can you?’
The man shrugged. ‘It seems an easy task. There is no need for deceit.’
‘What are their plans, man? Will they attack?’
‘I do not know, sir. But they have killed all pro-Spartan councillors.’
‘What did they tell you to say?’
‘That they will promise safe conduct for you and your men to the edge of the city. They have set tents there, with fresh food, and a physician who has an antidote to the poison you have taken.’
‘Poison?’ whispered Arimanes. ‘Poison, you say?’
‘Yes. It is a disgusting ploy - typical of Thebans,’ said Parmenion. ‘It is slow-acting but will kill within five days. That is why, I suspect, they have not attacked beforenow.’
‘Can they be trusted, do you think? Why shoulcT they not slay us as soon as we... we... ?’ He could not bring himself to say the word ‘surrender’. ‘As soon as we leave,’ he said at last.
‘They have heard,’ said Parmenion, edging forward and lowering his voice, ‘that Cleombrotus has two regiments north of Corinth. He could be here in three days. I think they will let you go, rather than risk the King marching upon them.’
Arimanes groaned and doubled over. His mind reeled with pain, and nausea made him gag. The messenger picked up an empty bowl and held it while the officer vomited, then Arimanes wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘They will give us an antidote?’
‘I believe die man Calepios can be trusted,’ said Parmenion soothingly. ‘And, after all, there is no disgrace in leaving the city. Sparta was invited to have a garrison here, but now the city has changed its mind. It is for kings and councillors to work out a solution; soldiers merely obey the orders of the great, they do not create the policies.’
‘True,’ Arimanes agreed.
‘What shall I tell the Thebans?’
‘Tell them I agree. It will take us time to saw through the crossbar on the gate, but then I will march my men from the city.’
‘Sadly, sir, the gates are out of the question. In their excitement the mob have nailed them shut with timbers. Calepios suggests that you descend by ropes, twenty men at a time.’
‘Ropes!’ snapped Arimanes. ‘You want us to leave by rope?’
‘It shows how much the Thebans fear you,’ said Parmenion. ‘Even in your weakened state they know a Spartan force could crush them. It is a compliment of sorts.’
‘Curse them to the fires of Hades! But tell them I agree.’
‘A wise choice, sir. And one you will not regret, I am sure.’
Two hours later, as the last of the Spartans left the Cadmea, Parmenion waited as Norac and the others stripped the timbers from the gates, sawing through the crossbar beyond. The gates swung open.
Pelopidas ran into the courtyard, raising his fists in the air. ‘They are beaten!’ he bellowed, and the crowd cheered. Turning to Parmenion, he grabbed the Spartan by the shoulders. ‘Now tell me where you hid our friends?’
‘They are in the dungeons still.’
‘But you said they were freed!’
‘No, I said they were safe. The Spartans were bound to search the Cadmea, but I hoped they would not consider such a bizarre hiding-place. I merely moved them to a cell at the far end of the corridor. Take a doctor with you - for Epaminondas has been harshly treated.’
As Pelopidas and a dozen men ran to the Governor’s house, Mothac approached Parmenion. ‘What will happen to the Spartan commander?’ he asked.
‘They will execute him,’ answered Parmenion. ‘Then they will march on Thebes. We still have much to do.’
That night, as the sound of riotous celebration filled the air, Parmenion opened the gates of his home, staggered into the courtyard and collapsed in the doorway of the andron. Mothac found him there in the early hours of the morning and carried him to the master bedroom.
Three times in the night Parmenion awoke, on the third occasion to find Horas the Physician looming over him. The doctor cut into Parmenion’s arm with a small, curved knife. The Spartan tried to struggle free, but Mothac helped Horas to hold him down. Once more Parmenion passed out.
His dreams were many, but one returned again and again. In it he was climbing a winding stair, seeking Derae. As he struggled on, the stairs behind him disappeared, leaving a dark abyss. He walked on towards a room within which he knew Derae was waiting, but then he stopped. For the abyss was growing and he realized, with dawning horror, that he was drawing it with him. If he opened the door to the room, the abyss would swallow it. Not knowing what to do to save his love, he stepped from the stair and fell, plunging into the darkness of the pit.
Mothac sat beside the bed, looking down at the pale face of his unconscious master. Against the advice of the physician, the Theban had opened the shutters of the window to see Parmenion’s features more clearly. The Spartan looked grey under his tan, his eyes sunken and his cheeks hollow. When Mothac placed his hand on Parmenion’s chest, the heartbeat was fluttering and weak
.
During the first two days that Parmenion had slept, Mothac was unconcerned. Each day he assisted the physician, Horas, to bleed the Spartan - trusting in Horas, who explained that the retaking of the Cadmea had drained Parmenion of strength and he was merely resting.
But now, on the fourth day, Mothac no longer believed it.
The flesh was melting away from Parmenion’s face and there was no sign of a return to consciousness. Filling a goblet with cool water Mothac lifted Parmenion’s head, holding the goblet to his lips. The water dribbled from the sleeping man’s mouth and the Theban gave up.
Hearing the gate below creak open, he walked to the door. Horas entered the house, climbing the stairs to the bedroom where he unrolled his pack of knives. Mothac looked hard at the tall, thin physician; he did not like surgeons, but envied them their knowledge. Never would he hav& believed he would ever defy such a skilled and clever man. But today he knew there would be no further blood-letting, and he stepped over to the physician.
‘Put away your knife,’ he said.
‘What’s this?’ enquired Horas. ‘He needs bleeding. Without it he will die.’
‘He’s dying anyway,’ said Mothac. ‘Leave him be.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Horas, lifting a skeletal hand and attempting to push Mothac aside. But the servant stood his ground, his face reddening.
‘I had a wife, master physician. She too was bled daily -until she died. I’ll not see Parmenion follow her. You said he was resting, recovering his strength. But you were wrong. Now you can go.’ He glanced down at the doctor’s hand, which still rested against his chest.
Horas hastily removed his hand, replaced his knife and rolled his pack. ‘You are interfering in matters you do not understand,’ he said. ‘I shall go to the justices and have you forcibly removed from this room.’
Mothac grabbed the man’s blue tunic, hauling him close. All colour drained from his face and his eyes shone like green fire - Horas blanched as he gazed into them.
‘What you will do, doctor, is go away from here. If you take any action which results in the death of Parmenion, I will hunt you down and cut out your heart. Do you understand me?’
‘You are insane,’ Horas whispered.
‘No, I am not. I am merely a man who keeps his promises. Now go!’ And Mothac hurled the physician towards the door.
After the man had gone Mothac settled down in the chair beside the bed. He had no idea what to do, and a sense of rising panic set his hands trembling.
Surprised by his reaction, he looked down at Par-menion’s face -aware for the first time how much he loved the man he served. How curious, he thought. Parmenion was in many ways a distant man, his thoughts and dreams a mystery to Mothac; they rarely talked of deep matters, never joked with one another, never discussed their secret longings. Mothac leaned back and gazed out of the window, remembering the first night he had come to the house of Epaminondas, the death of Elea like a hot knife in his heart. Parmenion had sat with him, silently, and he had felt his companionship, felt his caring without the need for words.
The three years he had served Parmenion had been happy ones, to his amazement. Thoughts of Elea remained, but the jagged sharp edges of hurt had rounded, allowing him at least to recall the times of joy.
The creaking gate cut through his thoughts and he rose, drawing his dagger. If the doctor had brought back officers of the watch, then he would see what it meant when Mothac made a promise!
The door opened and Epaminondas entered. The Theban’s face was swollen, his eyes dark and bruised. He walked slowly to the bedside and looked down at the sleeping man.
‘No better?’ he asked Mothac.
The servant sheathed his blade, ‘No. I stopped the physician bleeding him; he has threatened to go to the justices.’
Epaminondas eased his tortured body into a chair. ‘Calepios tells me that Parmenion suffered terrible pains in the head.’
‘It happens sometimes,’ Mothac told him, ‘especially after races. The pain was intense, and on occasions he would almost lose his sight. Parmenion told me only a month ago that the attacks were increasing.’
Epaminondas nodded. ‘I had a letter from a friend in Sparta; his name is Xenophon. He was Parmenion’s mentor for several years and he witnessed the first attack. The physician then believed there was some growth in Parmenion’s skull. I hope he does not die. I would like to thank him. I could not have taken much more... punishment.’
‘He won’t die,’ said Mothac.
Epaminondas said nothing for a while, then he looked up at the servant. ‘I was wrong about you, my friend,’ he admitted.
‘It does not matter. Do you know of anyone who could help him?’
Epaminondas rose. ‘There is a healer, a herbalist named Argonas. Last year the Guild of Physicians sought to have him expelled from the city; they say he is a fraud. But a friend of mine swears Argonas saved his life. And I know of a man, blinded in the right eye, who can now see again. I will send the physician here, tonight.’
‘I have heard of the man,’ said Mothac. ‘His fees are huge. He is fat and wealthy, and treats his servants worse than slaves.’
‘I did not say he was pleasant company. But let us be honest, Mothac. Parmenion is dying: I cannot see him lasting another night. But do not concern yourself with thoughts of fees; I will settle them. I owe him much - all of Thebes owes him more than we can repay.’
Mothac gave a dry, humourless laugh. ‘Yes, I have noted how often Calepios and Pelopidas have come to see how he fares.’
‘Calepios has obeyed Parmenion’s last instruction,’ Epaminondas told him. ‘He has gone to Athens to seek their aid against Spartan vengeance. And Pelopidas is training hoplites, trying to build an army in case Cleombrotus comes against us. Stay here, with Parmenion. I will send Argonas. And, Mothac... get some food inside you and rest awhile. It will not help your master if you fall sick.’
‘I am as strong as an ox. But you are right. I will get some sleep.’
It was dusk before Argonas arrived at the small house. Mothac had fallen asleep in the courtyard and he awoke to see an enormous figure, swathed in a red and yellow cloak, looming over him.
‘Well, fellow, where is the dying man?’ Argonas asked, his voice deep, seeming to echo from within the vastness of his chest.
Mothac rose. ‘He’s in the bedroom upstairs. Follow me.’
‘I need to eat something first,’ said Argonas. ‘Fetch me some bread and cheese. I’m famished.’ The fat man sat down at the courtyard table. For a moment Mothac stood and stared, then he turned and strode to the kitchen. He sat and watched as Argonas devoured a large loaf and a selection of cheese and dried meat that would have fed a family of five for a full day. The food simply disappeared, with little evidence of chewing. At last the doctor belched and leaned back, stroking crumbs from his glistening black beard. ‘And now a little wine,’ he said. Mothac poured a goblet and passed it across the table. As Argonas reached out, his pudgy fingers curling round the goblet, Mothac noted that each finger boasted a golden ring set with a gem.
The doctor drained the wine at a single swallow and then rose ponderously. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I am ready.’
Following Mothac to the bedroom, he stood looking down at Parmenion in the lantern light. Mothac was standing in the doorway, watching the scene. Argonas had brought no knives, and that at least was a blessing. The physician bent over the bed and reached down to touch Parmenion’s brow; as his fingers brushed against the burning skin, Argonas cried out and stumbled back.
‘What is wrong with you?’ asked Mothac.
Argonas did not reply at first, and his dark eyes narrowed as he looked down on the dying man. ‘If he lives, he will change the world,’ whispered the physician. ‘I see the ruins of empire, the fall of nations. It might be better to leave him.’
‘What’s that? Speak up, man, I can’t hear you!’ said Mothac, moving to stand beside the physician.
‘It was nothing. Now
be silent while I examine him.’ For several minutes the fat man stood in silence, his hands gently moving over Parmenion’s skull. Then he walked from the room. Mothac followed him to the courtyard.
‘He has a cancer,’ said Argonas, ‘at the centre of his brain.’
‘How can you tell, if it is within the skull?’
‘That is my skill,’ responded Argonas, sitting at the table and refilling his goblet. ‘I travelled inside his head and found the growth.’
‘Then he will die?’ asked Mothac.
‘That is by no means certain - but it does look likely. I have a herb with me that will prevent the cancer from growing; it is from the plant sylphium, and he must take an infusion from the herb every day of his life from now on, for the growth will not disappear. But there is something else -and that I cannot supply.’
‘What?’ asked Mothac, as the fat man lapsed into silence.
‘When you... travel... inside a man’s head, you see many things - you feel his hopes, his dreams, you suffer his torments. He had a love - a woman called Derae - but she was taken from him. He blames himself for her loss and he is empty inside, living only by clinging to thoughts of revenge. That kind of hope can sustain a man for a while, but revenge is a child of darkness and in darkness there is no sustenance.’
‘Can you say it simply, physician?’ asked Mothac. ‘Just tell me what I can do?’
‘I do not believe you can do anything. He needs Derae . .. and he cannot have her. However, on the slender chance that it may prove useful - and to earn my fee from Epaminondas - I will prepare the first infusion. You will watch, and observe me closely. Too much sylphium can kill - too little, and the cancer will spread. It may help - but without Derae, I do not think he will survive.’
‘If you are the mystic you claim,’ sneered Mothac, ‘how is it you cannot speak to him, call him back?’
The fat man shook his head. ‘I tried,’ he said softly, ‘but he is in a world he has created for himself, a place of darkness and terror. In it he battles demons and creatures of horror. He could not hear me - or would not.’
Lion of Macedon Page 20