The man’s armour fitted Parmenion well, save that the breastplate was a little large. But the greaves and metal-studded kilt could have been made for the slender Spartan. The cloak was of fine wool, dyed red and held in place by a golden brooch which Parmenion replaced with one of bronze. Such a brooch would be recognized and would lead to questions, he reasoned.
The rider’s papers had been taken to Thebes, where Epaminondas opened the despatch and read it. It dealt with supplies and the need to isolate Thebes, but at the close it mentioned Athens and the need for vigilance. Epaminondas handed the scroll to a middle-aged scribe with prematurely white hair. ‘Can you duplicate the style of script?’ he asked.
‘It will not be difficult,’ said the man, peering at the despatch.
‘How many lines can we add above the King’s signature?’ queried Parmenion.
‘No more than two,’ the scribe told him. Parmenion took the script and read it several times. It concluded with the words: ‘The traitor Calepios is hiring mercenaries in Athens. Be vigilant.’ Then there was a gap before the signature Cleombrotus.
Parmenion dictated a short addition to the scroll, which the scribe carefully inserted. Epaminondas read the words and smiled grimly. ‘ ‘Be vigilant and advance upon the Piraeus, destroying any hostile force.’ If this succeeds, Parmenion, it will mean war between Athens and Sparta.’
‘Which can only be good for Thebes,’ Parmenion pointed out.
‘There are great dangers for you in this,’ said the Theban softly. ‘What if you are recognized, or your message disbelieved? Or if there is a password? Or .. .’
‘Then I will be dead,’ snapped Parmenion. ‘But it must be done.’
Now, as he rode down towards the tents, Parmenion felt his fear swell. Three soldiers on sentry duty.barred his way on the road; they were men from the Sciritis mountains and not Spartiates. They saluted as he approached, clenched fists on their breastplates of leather. He returned the salute and tugged on the reins.
‘I seek the general Sphodrias,’ he said.
‘He is in the city; he stays at the house of Anaximenes the ephor. You ride through the main gate and head for the Temple of Zeus. There is a tall house with two slender trees alongside the gates.’
‘Thank you,’ said Parmenion, riding on.
The city was smaller than Thebes, housing a mere 12,000 inhabitants. Thespiae was a city of tradesmen, specializing in chariots and the training of horses. As Parmenion entered he could see many small pastures holding fine herds. He rode until he reached the house with twin trees, then he dismounted and led the gelding to the front of the white-walled building. A male servant ran to take the horse’s reins and a second servant, a young girl dressed in white, bowed and bade him follow her into the house.
Parmenion was taken through to a large andron where several Spartan officers were sitting and drinking. The servant moved to a burly figure with a rich red beard, who rose and stood with hands on hips, scrutinizing Parmenion who bowed low and approached.
‘Well, who are you?’ snapped Sphodrias.
‘Andicles, sir. I have despatches from the King.’
‘Never heard of you. Where’s Cleophon?’
‘He had a fall from his horse, broke his shoulder, sir. But he is determined to ride with the King this evening and be at his side during the battle.’
‘Ride? Battle? What are you talking about, man?’
‘My apologies, sir,’ said Parmenion, handing the general the leather cylinder. Sphodrias pulled out the scroll within and opened it. As he did so Parmenion glanced at the other officers, his eyes falling upon a young man dicing at a window table. His stomach turned... the man was Leonidas.
‘There’s nothing about numbers here,’ muttered Sphodrias. ‘How many of the enemy are there? Where are they camped? I can’t just march into Athenian territory and butcher the first men I see in armour.’
‘There are said to be 5,000 of them,’ said Parmenion swiftly. ‘Three thousand hoplites, the rest cavalry. It is rumoured that they are being paid with Persian gold.’
Sphodrias nodded. ‘You can always expect treachery from Athenians. But we’ll have to march all night to surprise them - I don’t doubt they have scouts out. You will stay by my side while I brief my officers. They may have questions.’
‘With respect, sir,’ said Parmenion, struggling to keep his voice calm, ‘the King has ordered me to return at once with your plans, so that he can link with you on the Thriasian Plain.’
‘Very well. I’ll order my scribe to draft an answer.’
‘That will not be necessary, sir. If you are to march all night I will advise the King to meet you between Eleusis and Athens.’
Sphodrias nodded and returned his attention to the scroll. ‘Curious despatch. It starts by talking of supplies and ends with the invasion of Athens. Still, who am I to argue, eh?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Parmenion, saluting. His eyes flicked to Leonidas, who had stopped playing dice and was watching him intently. Parmenion bowed and swung back to the door, marching out into the yard beyond; once there, he ran behind the house to the stables. The gelding had been brushed and combed and the lion-skin chabraque was laid carefully over a rail. Parmenion draped it over the beast’s back, smoothing out the folds before grasping the horse’s mane and vaulting to his back.
He could hear the sound of pounding feet and kicked the gelding into a run, galloping past the running figure of Leonidas.
‘Wait!’ shouted the man.
The gelding thundered out on to the main avenue, where Parmenion slowed him until they reached the main gates. Then he allowed the horse his head, riding at speed towards the mountains.
Glancing back, he saw two horsemen galloping from the city. The gelding was breathing hard as they topped a rise and Parmenion had no choice but to slow down. Even so he took the horse along narrow paths and treacherous trails where he guessed the riders would not follow.
He was wrong. As he made camp in a cave high upon a ridge he heard the sound of walking horses on the scree outside. He had a fire blazing, and there was no way to disguise his presence.
‘Come inside, there’s a warm fire,’ he called, keeping his voice cheerful and bright. Moments later two men entered the cave. One was tall, his beard dark and heavy, the other slender but well-muscled. Both wore swords and breastplates.
‘Leonidas wished to speak with you,’ said the bearded man. ‘What is your name, friend?’
‘Andicles. And yours?’ asked Parmenion, rising.
‘And what of your family?’ continued the man. ‘Where do you live?’
‘By what right do you question me, Sciritai?’ stormed Parmenion. ‘Since when do slaves badger their masters?’
The man’s face burned crimson. ‘I am a free man and a warrior and, Spartan or no, I’ll take no insults!’
‘Then offer none!’ snapped Parmenion. ‘I am a messenger of the King, and I answer to no man. Who is this Leonidas that he should send you to question me?’
The slender man moved closer. ‘By all the gods, Leonidas was right! It is you, Parmenion!’
Parmenion’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the man; it was Asiron, one of the boys who had taunted him at Lycurgus Barracks ten years before.
‘There is obviously some mistake here,’ he said, smiling.
‘No,’ said Asiron. ‘I’d stake my life on it.’
‘Yes, you have,’ replied Parmenion, drawing his sword and slashing it swiftly across Asiron’s throat. The man hurled himself back from the gleaming blade, but blood was already gouting from the wound in his neck.
The Sciritai leapt to his left, drawing his own sword and grinning wolfishly. ‘Never killed a Spartan yet,’ he hissed, ‘but I always wanted to.’
The Sciritai attacked with blinding speed. Parmenion parried and jumped back, his right forearm stinging. Glancing down, he saw a line of blood oozing from a narrow cut. ‘I think I’ll take you a slice at a time,’ said the Sciritai. ‘Unless you�
�d like to surrender and throw yourself on my mercy?’
‘You are very skilful,’ Parmenion told him as they circled one another. The Sciritai smiled, but said nothing. He launched an attack, feinted with a belly thrust and then slashed his sword towards Parmenion’s face. The blade sliced agonizingly close to Parmenion’s throat, the tip opening the skin of his cheek.
‘A slice at a time,’ repeated the Sciritai. Parmenion moved to his left, putting the fire between them, then sliding his foot forward into the blaze he flicked burning branches into the Sciritai’s face. His opponent stumbled back, oiled beard aflame. Parmenion ran in close, slamming his sword into the man’s groin. The Sciritai screamed and lashed out, but Parmenion ducked and wrenched his blade clear. As bright arterial blood gushed from the wound, drenching the Sciritai’s leg, Parmenion moved back, waiting for him to fall. Instead, the Sciritai charged him. Parmenion blocked a vicious cut, but the man’s fist cracked into his chin, sprawling him to the cave floor; he rolled as the man’s iron blade clanged next to his head, sending a shower of sparks into the air. The Sciritai staggered, his blood pooling on the floor by his feet.
‘By the gods,’ he muttered thickly. ‘I think you’ve killed me, boy.’
He sank to his knees, dropping his sword.
Parmenion sheathed his own blade and caught the man as he toppled sideways. Lowering him to the ground, he sat beside the warrior as his face grew ever more pale.
‘Never... got to... kill a... Spa...’ His eyes closed, his last breath rattling from his throat. Parmenion rose and walked to Asiron. The man had hit his head on the cave wall as he jumped back from Parmenion’s wild cut. His throat was bleeding, but the cut was not deep and already the blood was clotting. Removing the man’s sword-belt, he bound his hands behind him and then rebuilt the fire. His right foot was blistered from the flames and he removed his sandals, hurling them across the cave. It took more than an hour for Asiron to wake: at first he struggled against his bonds, then he sat back and stared at Parmenion.
‘You treacherous dog!’ he hissed.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Parmenion wearily. ‘Let us have all the insults first - then we can talk.’
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ answered Asiron, his eyes flicking to the body of the Sciritai and widening in shock. ‘Gods, I never believed he could be bested with a blade!’
‘All men can be bested,’ said Parmenion. ‘What did Leonidas say to you?’
‘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 honour?’
‘Honour? 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, humourless 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 towards 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 round 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 lop-sided 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 5,000 hoplites and 600 cavalry for the defence 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 Man tinea. 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 car
e 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 saviour, 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 reformed. Pelopidas and the Sacred Band had been instrumental in helping the rebels of Tanagra and Plataea to 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 11,000 hoplites and 2,000 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 sombre. 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.
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