Lion of Macedon by David Gemmell
‘Which it was not,’ said Parmenion, ‘for if it was you would know of it.’
Epaminondas looked at him sharply and a blush spread over his pockmarked features. Then he smiled. ‘You have a keen mind - thankfully it is allied to a curbed tongue. Yes, I am one who seeks to free Thebes. But it will take time and when it is close I will seek your advice. I have not forgotten the plan you outlined.’
They halted by a fountain which spouted from the arms of a statue of Poseidon, the sea god. Parmenion drank from the pool below it, then both men sat on a marble seat beneath a canvas awning.
‘You must be more careful,’ advised Parmenion. ‘Even the servants know you are engaged in secret meetings.’
‘My servants can be trusted, but I take your point. I have no choice, however. We must meet to plan.’
‘Then meet in daylight,’ Parmenion suggested.
The two friends walked back along the avenue by Electra’s Gates but Epaminondas, instead of walking on to his house, turned left down a shaded alley, stopping by an iron gate. He pushed it open and beckoned Parmenion inside. There was a narrow courtyard with high walls festooned with purple blooms. Beyond this was a paved section, roofed by climbing plants growing between crisscrossed twine. Epaminondas led the Spartan into the house beyond. There was a small, split-level andron containing six couches and with two doors, one leading to a kitchen and bathroom, the other to a corridor with three bedrooms.
‘Whose house is this?’ asked Parmenion.
‘Yours,’ the Theban answered with a broad grin. ‘I placed 3,000 drachms on your race. This house was a mere 900 - I felt it would suit you.’
‘Indeed it does - but such a gift? I cannot accept it.’
‘Of course you can - and you must. I won ten times what this building cost me. Also,’ he added, his smile fading, ‘these are dangerous times. If I am arrested, and you are still my house guest, then they will take you also.’
Parmenion lounged on a couch, enjoying the breeze from the main window and the scent of flowers growing in the courtyard. ‘I accept,’ he said, ‘but only as a loan. You must allow me to pay for the house - as and when I can.’
‘If that is what you desire, then I agree,’ said Epaminondas.
Parmenion and Mothac moved in the following morning. The Theban bought provisions in the market and the two men sat in the courtyard, enjoying the early morning sunshine.
‘Were you seen when you killed Cletus?’ asked Parmenion suddenly.
Mothac looked into his master’s blue eyes and considered lying. Then he shook his head. ‘There was no one nearby.’
‘Good - but you will never again take such an action without speaking to me first. Is that understood?’
‘Yes... sir.’
‘And I do not require you to call me that. My name is Parmenion.’
‘It was necessary, Parmenion. He ordered your death. As long as he lived you were in danger.’
‘I accept that - and do not take my criticism as ingratitude. But I am the master of my own fate. I neither want - nor expect - any man to act for me.’
‘It will not happen again.’
During the next eight months Parmenion raced twice and won both times, once against the Corinthian champion, the second time against a runner from Athens. He still competed under the name Leon, and few wagered against him, which meant that his winnings were not huge. For his last race he had wagered 200 drachms to win SO.
That night, as usual after a tough race, Parmenion stretched his tired legs with a gentle midnight run on the moonlit race-track. As well as easing his muscles he found, in this quiet time, a sense of peace - almost contentment. His hatred of Sparta was no less powerful now but it was controlled, held in chains. The day of his vengeance was coming closer, and he had no wish to hurry it.
As he passed the Grave of Hector a shadow moved from the trees. Parmenion leapt back, his hand clawing for the dagger in the sheath by his side.
‘It is I, Parmenion,’ called Epaminondas. The Theban stepped back into the shadows of the trees. Parmenion walked to the Grave and sat down on the marble seat.
‘What is wrong, my friend?’ he whispered.
‘I am being followed again, though for now I have lost them. I know you come here after races, and I need your help.’
‘What can I do?’
‘It is only a matter of time before I am taken. I want you to prepare a strategy to retake the Cadmea. But also there are letters I need carried to friends in other Boeotian cities. You are Spartan, you can travel without scrutiny. You have business interests across Boeotia. No one will think it strange if you travel to Thespiae, or Megara. Will you help?’
‘You know that I will. You must bring the letters here, wrapped in oilskin. You can leave them behind this seat, covered with stones. No one will see them. I run here almost every day. I will find them.’
‘You are a good friend, Parmenion. I will not forget this.’
Epaminondas faded back into the shadows and was gone.
Eleven times during the next four months Parmenion rode across Boeotia, carrying letters to rebels in Tanagra, Plataea, Thespiae and Heraclea. During this time he saw little of Epaminondas but heard, through Mothac, of increasing unrest among Thebans. In late summer two Spartan soldiers were stoned by a mob, close to the marketplace, and were rescued only when a contingent of armoured warriors ran to their aid from the Cadmea.
The crowd backed away as the soldiers arrived, but the mood was still ugly. Drawing their swords the Spartans charged the mob, their blades slicing into those unfortunates at the front. Blind panic overtook the Thebans and they scattered in terror. Parmenion, at the market-place to purchase new sandals, saw women and children trampled as the crowd fled. One young woman tripped and fell directly in front of the advancing Spartan line. Sprinting from the shop doorway, Parmenion hauled the woman to her feet and carried her back to the relative safety of the shop. Two Spartan soldiers ran after him.
‘I am a Spartan,’ said Parmenion as their swords came up. Blood was dripping from the blades and battle-lust shone in the eyes of the warriors, but Parmenion stood his ground, meeting their gaze.
‘What statue overlooks Leaving Street?’ asked one of the soldiers, touching his bloodied blade to Parmenion’s chest.
‘The statue of Athena,’ he answered, pushing aside the sword. ‘Now ask me how many bricks there are in the Cattle Price Palace.’
‘You keep bad company,’ the soldier said. ‘Make sure you know where your loyalties lie.’
‘I know where they lie, brother, have no fear of that.’
The soldiers ran back to the street and Parmenion turned to the woman. Her lips were stained blood-red, her eyelids painted in the three colours of Aphrodite, red, blue and gold. ‘You are a priestess?’ he asked.
‘No, I am a shepherd boy,’ she snapped.
‘I am sorry. It was a foolish question.’
Stepping forward she pressed herself against him. ‘Do not be sorry. For forty obols I can make you very happy.’ Her hand slid under his tunic, but he pushed her away and left the shop. Bodies lay in the street, but the troops had moved on.
That night he thought again of the priestess, of her warm hand on his thigh. As the moon rose high over the city he made his way to the temple, finally finding her in a small room on the second floor. She smiled wearily when she saw him, and was about to speak when his hand came up and gently touched her lips.
‘Say nothing,’ he said coldly. ‘I require your body - not your voice.’
As the months passed he made many visits to the young priestess with the red hair. But his passions were soon spent, and usually he left feeling sad and ashamed. It seemed to him that sex with any woman was a betrayal of the love he had known with Derae. Yet he returned week after week to the red-head, whose name he never bothered to ask.
His money dwindled as the odds on his races shortened, but at the start of his third year in Thebes he won against a Thessalian named Coranus,
Two days later came the news Parmenion had feared for almost three years. Mothac ran into the courtyard. ‘Epaminondas has been arrested, along with Polysperchon. They have been taken to the Cadmea for torture.’
Book Two
Thebes, Autumn, 379 BC
Ordering Mothac to stay at the house, Parmenion headed for the west of the city and the home of the councillor Calepios. An elderly servant led him to a small room with three couches and asked him to wait. After several minutes another servant entered, bowed and led the Spartan along a corridor to an elaborately decorated andron, the walls covered with Persian rugs and hangings, the floor boasting a colourful mosaic showing Heracles slaying the Nemean Lion.
There were nine couches set around the room and two servants stood by, holding pitchers of wine and water, as the master of the house reclined, apparently reading from a large scroll. Calepios looked up as Parmenion entered, and adopted the expression of a man pleasantly surprised to see an old friend. Parmenion was not fooled by the scene; there was tension in the air, and Calepios’ eyes showed fear.
‘Welcome to my house, young Leon,’ said the councillor, tossing aside the scroll and rising. He was not a tall man, yet he was imposing in a subtle way. His eyes were deep green under shaggy brows, and his beard was carefully curled in the Persian fashion. But it was his voice which gave him power, deep and vibrant. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘May we talk alone?’ asked Parmenion.
‘We are alone,’ said Calepios, unconsciously betraying his noble birth. For him, servants were as much a pan of the house as tables and couches.
Parmenion flicked a glance at the wine carriers and Calepios waved the men away. As the doors closed, the councillor beckoned Parmenion to the couch beside him and both men sat.
‘How close are your plans to fruition?’ asked Parmenion.
‘Plans, my boy? What do you mean?’
‘We have little time, sir, for playing games. Polysperchon and Epaminondas have been arrested. But then you know this. You are gambling that they will say nothing of your involvement in the plan to retake the Cadmea. Now I ask again, how close are you?’
Calepios’ green eyes locked to Parmenion’s face, and his own features tightened. ‘Epaminondas trusted you,’ he said softly, ‘but there is no way I can help you. I don’t know what you are talking about.’
Parmenion smiled. ‘Then perhaps the man who was with you a moment ago can offer us some advice.’ He turned his head and looked back over his shoulder to a long, embroidered curtain. ‘Perhaps you would like to come out, sir, and join us.’
The curtains parted and a tall man stepped into view. Broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, his bronzed arms showed many scars. His face was square-cut and darkly handsome, his eyes so deep a brown that they appeared black. He smiled grimly. ‘You are observant, Parmenion,’ commented the newcomer.
‘Even an accomplished drinker does not have two pitchers of wine and two servants by his side,’ said the Spartan. ‘And this couch still retained the heat from your body. You are Pelopidas?’
‘Observant and sharp-witted,’ said Pelopidas, moving to a nearby couch and reclining on his side. He picked up a goblet of wine and sipped it. ‘What would you have us tell you?’
Parmenion looked at the man who had fought side by side with Epaminondas, suffering seven great wounds and yet surviving, the man who with only thirty companions had fought off 200 Arcadians in a pitched battle. Pelopidas looked exactly what he was: a peerless fighter, a man made for war. ‘A long time ago Epaminondas asked me to prepare a plan to take the Cadmea. I have done so. I was merely waiting for him to announce the time; it can be brought into operation within a day. But it depends upon the resources available.’
‘I take it you mean men,’ said Pelopidas.
‘Exactly. But men who understand discipline and the necessity for timing.’
‘We have more than 400 men in the city, and within minutes of a general insurrection there will be thousands of Thebans on the streets, marching upon the Cadmea. I think we can kill a few hundred Spartans.’
‘My plan involves no killing of Spartans,’ said Par-menion.
‘Are you mad?’ Pelopidas asked. ‘These are Spartan warriors - you think they will give up without a fight?’
‘Yes,’ answered Parmenion simply.
‘How?’ put in Calepios. ‘It would be against all tradition.’
‘First,’ said Parmenion quietly, ‘let us examine the alternatives. We can storm the Cadmea, and - perhaps -take it. By killing the Spartans we give Agisaleus no choices. He will bring the army to Thebes and retake the city, putting to death all who had a part in the insurrection. You will have no time to gather an army of your own. The retaking of the Cadmea in those circumstances would be the worst folly.’
‘You speak like a coward!’ snapped Pelopidas. ‘We can raise an army - and I do not believe the Spartans are invincible in battle.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Parmenion, holding his voice at an even pitch. ‘But there is a way to retake the Cadmea -without a battle.’
‘This is all nonsense,’ said Pelopidas. ‘I’ll listen to no more of it.’
‘It must be fascinating,’ said Parmenion quietly, as the warrior rose, ‘to have a body like a god without a mind to match it.’
‘You dare insult me?’ stormed Pelopidas, the colour draining from his face as his hand reached for the dagger at his side.
‘Draw that blade and you die,’ Parmenion told him. ‘And after you Epaminondas will die, and Thebes will remain in chains or be destroyed utterly.’ Holding to the man’s gaze Parmenion rose. ‘Understand this,’ he said, his voice shaking with repressed emotion, ‘my entire life is devoted to one dream - the destruction of Sparta. For years I have been forced to wait for my vengeance, learning patience while the talons of rage tore at my soul. Now the first moment of my revenge is close. Can you imagine how much I want to see the Spartans in the Cadmea slain? How my heart cries out for them to be humbled, cut down, their bodies thrown out to feed the crows? But there is no point to petty vengeance when the greater dream lives on. First we free Thebes, then we plan for the great day. Now, Pelopidas, be silent - and learn.’
Swinging away from the warrior he turned to Calepios, outlining his plan and watching the man’s every expression. The councillor was intelligent, with a keen mind, and Parmenion needed his support. Choosing his words with care the Spartan spoke quietly, answering every question Calepios put to him. Then he turned to Pelopidas.
‘What now is your view, warrior?’ he asked.
Pelopidas shrugged. ‘Sitting here it sounds good, but I don’t know how it will work in reality. And I still think the Spartans will bring an army.’
‘So do I,’ agreed Parmenion, ‘but they may not fight. I think Agisaleus will seek the support of Athens. The Spartans took the Cadmea three years ago because pro-Spartan dissidents in the city invited them here. They have always argued that they are guests -friends. It makes a lie of that if- when asked to leave - they return to do battle.’
‘What do you require?’ asked Calepios.
‘First, a doctor, or a herbalist, and also the name of the man who supplies provisions to the Spartans. Next, you must prepare a speech, to be delivered in the main square tomorrow an hour before dusk.’
‘And what of me?’ Pelopidas asked.
‘You will kill every pro-Spartan councillor,’ said Par-menion, dropping his voice.
‘Sweet Zeus!’ whispered Calepios. ‘Murder? Is there no other way?’
‘There are five of them,’ Parmenion said. ‘Two a
‘But one of them, Cascus, is my cousin. I grew up with him,’ said Calepios. ‘He is not a bad man.’
‘He has chosen the wrong side,’ stated Parmenion, shrugging his shoulders, ‘and that makes him bad. For Thebes to be free the five must die. But all Spartan soldiers outside the citadel must be taken alive and brought to the Cadmea.’
‘What then?’ asked Pelopidas.
‘Then we will free them,’ answered the Spartan.
Mothac was awakened by a hand pushing at his shoulder. ‘What in Hades?’ he grumbled as he sat up, pushing away the insistent hand.
‘I need you,’ said Parmenion.
Mothac glanced out of the window. ‘But it is not dawn yet.’ He scratched at his red beard, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Swinging his legs from the bed, he rose unsteadily and reached for his chiton. ‘What is happening?’
‘Freedom,’ answered Parmenion. ‘I will await you in the andran.’
Mothac dressed and splashed his face with cold water. He had downed several goblets of unwatered wine before retiring, and now they were reminding him of his stupidity. He belched, took a deep breath, then joined Parmenion in the small andron. The Spartan looked tired; dark rings were showing under his eyes.
‘We are going to free Epaminondas today, but first there are many matters to be resolved. Do you know the man Amta?’
‘The meat merchant in the south-western quarter. What of him?’
‘You will go to the surgeon, Horas, and collect from him a package of herbs. You will take them to Amta; there you will be met by a tall warrior, dark-bearded. He will tell you what must be done.’
‘Herbs? Meat merchants? What has this to do with freeing Epaminondas?’