Lion of Macedon by David Gemmell
Mothac felt a chill sweep over him. Swiftly he ran for the gate, pushing it open. ‘Parmenion!’ he bellowed. As he raced across the courtyard a dark figure leapt from the shadows, cannoning into him. Moonlight glinted on a knife blade that slashed by his face. Mothac rolled and came to his feet, blocking a thrust and hammering his fist into the man’s face. The assassin fell back. Mothac threw himself at the man, making a wild grab for the knife wrist. He missed, and the blade plunged home into his left shoulder. His knee jerked up into the man’s groin, bringing a grunt of pain, then Mothac’s hands were on the assassin’s throat. Hurling himself forward, he cracked the man’s skull against the courtyard wall. The assassin went limp, but three times more Mothac smashed the man’s head to the stone. Blood and brains fell on to his hands and he let the corpse sink to the ground.
Tarmenion!’ he shouted again.
The assassin Gleamus cursed softly as he heard the servant call out, then ran up the steps to the upper floor bedroom where the traitor slept. Pausing outside the door, he listened, but there was no sound from within. Was it possible that the Spartan had not heard the cry?
Perhaps, but Gleamus had practised his trade for almost twenty years, in Egypt and Persia, Athens and Illyria, and he had survived by always using his wits, leaving nothing to chance.
For days now he had watched the house, observing the movements of the traitor, gauging the man. His prey was a warrior. He moved well, smoothly, his eyes alert. But the weakness was in the house. There was only one exit from the bedroom - unless the man wished to leap to the courtyard below, where he would surely break bones.
The plan had already gone awry, but there was still time to collect the bounty offered by Agisaleus. Gleamus considered his next move. The man beyond the door could be awake. If so, where would he be? Yesterday, while no one was present, Gleamus had searched the building, memorizing the details of the bedroom. There was nowhere to hide. The room was small. So then there were few options for the man within. If awake he would be standing either to the left of the door, or the right. Behind him Aris and Sturma were moving up the stairs. But he would not need them. This was a kill he could make alone. It would show them he was still the master.
Lifting the catch, he hurled open the door, which crashed against the left wall. In that moment he saw the bed was empty, and with a savage cry he leapt forward, his knife slashing to the right where the traitor had to be. The blade slammed against the wall.
Momentarily stunned, Gleamus stood still, his gaze scanning the moonlit room. The traitor was gone! It was impossible. He had seen the man enter. There was nowhere else for him to be!
A shadow moved above him. He spun, his blade coming up. But he was too late. The traitor’s sword slammed down past his collar bone, plunging deep into his lungs. Gleamus grunted and fell back, his dagger clattering to the floor. Even as life fled from him, his assassin’s mind could not help but admire the ploy. The Spartan had climbed to the lintel stone above the door.
So simple, thought Gleamus.
The wood of the floorboards was cool against his face, and his mind wandered. He saw again his father’s house on the isle of Crete, his brothers playing on the hillsides, his mother singing them to sleep with songs of gods and men.
Blood bubbled into his throat, and his last thoughts returned to the Spartan. So clever. So cle...
Parmenion dragged his sword clear of the corpse and stepped from the doorway. A blade sliced towards his face. The Spartan’s sword flashed up, blocking the cut, his left fist cracking into the man’s chin, sending him back into a third assassin on the stairs. Both men stumbled. Feet first, Parmenion leapt at them, his right foot thundering against the first man’s chin. The two assassins were hurled to the foot of the stairs. Parmenion vaulted over the balcony, dropping to the andron below. Both assassins regained their feet and advanced on him.
‘You are dead now, mix-blood,’ muttered the first.
The two men moved apart, coming at the Spartan from both sides. Parmenion launched a sudden attack at the man on the right, then spun on his heel, his sword cleaving through the throat of the man on the left, as he darted in. The assassin fell, blood gouting to the Persian rugs covering the stone floor. The last assassin moved warily now and sweat shone on his bearded face.
‘I am not easy to kill,’ said Parmenion, his voice soft.
The man edged back towards the door. Mothac loomed up behind him, ramming a dagger through his lungs.
The assassin crumpled to the floor.
Mothac staggered in the doorway then stumbled outside to sit at the courtyard table, the bronze hilt of a knife jutting from his shoulder. Parmenion lit two lanterns and examined the wound.
‘Pull the cursed thing out,’ grunted Mothac.
‘No. It is best where it is for the moment. It will prevent excessive bleeding until we get a physician.’ He poured Mothac a goblet of unwatered wine. ‘Do not move around,’ he ordered. ‘I will come back with Argonas.’
Mothac reached up and grabbed Parmenion’s arm. ‘I appreciate that you want to move quickly,’ he said, forcing a grin. ‘But it might be better if you dressed first.’
Parmenion smiled, his face softening. ‘You saved my life, Mothac. And almost lost yours. I will not forget it.’
‘It was nothing. But you could at least say you’d do the same for me.’
Two hours later, with Mothac asleep, the knife removed, the wound bandaged, Parmenion sat with Argonas, watching the fat man devour a side of ham and four goblets of wine, followed by six sweet honeycakes. Argonas belched, then lay back on the couch, which creaked under his weight.
‘An interesting life you lead, young man,’ said Argonas. ‘Impersonating Spartans, fighting assassins in the dead of night. Is it safe to be around you, I wonder?’
‘Mothac will be as he was?’ asked Parmenion, ignoring the question.
‘The wound passed through the fleshy part of the shoulder, where he is well muscled. It is not a round wound and will therefore heal more easily. I have applied fig-tree sap, which will clot the blood. He will be in some discomfort for several weeks, but the muscles will knit and he should be recovered by the summer.’
‘I am very grateful to you. Mothac means much to me.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Argonas, stroking his oiled beard, ‘good servants are hard to come by. I myself had a Thracian body servant, a wonderful man who anticipated my every need moments before I realized the need was there. I have never found another like him.’
‘What happened to him?’ enquired Parmenion, more from politeness than out of genuine interest.
‘He died,’ said Argonas sadly. ‘He suffered a brain growth - like yours - but he was a man who never spoke of his troubles, and when he finally collapsed it was too late to prevent his death. Never forget, my friend, to take the sylphium brew. Such deaths are painful to see and worse to suffer. I must say that your servant found a novel cure for you. I would use it myself, but already I am in trouble with my peers.’
‘I thought it was the sylphium that healed me,’ said Parmenion.
‘Indeed it was. But first you had to be brought back in order to drink it. He is a thoughtful man, and a clever one. If ever he should think of leaving your service, I would be delighted to acquire him.’
‘Yes, yes, but what did he do?’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘For pity’s sake, Argonas! If I remembered, why would I ask you?’ snapped Parmenion, his irritation growing.
‘He brought your favourite whore to your bed: a priestess. It seems that the will to live is considerably strengthened in a man who is aroused to copulation.’
‘No,’ whispered Parmenion, ‘that is not how it was. It was Derae who came to me.’
Argonas heaved himself upright, his dark eyes showing concern. ‘I am sorry, Parmenion,’ he said. ‘I have not spoken wisely. Put it down to a lack of sleep and an excess of wine. Perhaps it was both women - Derae in the spirit, the priestess in the flesh.’
Parmenion scarcely heard him. He was seeing again the priestess in the doorway, her smile, the smell of her perfume, the anger and sorrow in her eyes, the slamming of the door.
‘Have you thought about why assassins should seek to kill you?’ asked Argonas.
‘What? No, I cannot think of a reason. Perhaps they were merely robbers.’
‘Robbers without pockets or sacks? I think not. Well, I must leave. I will come back tomorrow to check Mediae’s wound and receive my fee.’
‘Yes. Thank you,’ said Parmenion absently.
‘And walk with care, my friend. Whoever hired these men can always hire more.’
Two days later the senior officer of the city militia visited Parmenion. Menidis was almost seventy years of age and had been a soldier for more than half a century. For the last ten years he had headed the small militia force operating within the city, responsible for patrolling the streets after dark and manning the great gates of Thebes.
‘The men were foreigners,’ said Menidis, his sharp grey eyes peering at Parmenion from under thick white brows. They arrived in the city four days ago, passing through the Proitian Gates. They said they had recently travelled from Corinth and were interested in purchasing Theban chariots. My belief is that they came from Sparta.’ The old soldier waited to see what effect this had on the young man before him, but Parmenion’s face was impassive. ‘The part you played in freeing us of Spartan domination is well known,’ he continued. ‘I believe the men were hired to kill you.’
Parmenion shrugged. ‘They failed,’ he said.
‘This time, youngster. But let us assume for a moment that they were paid by a rich nobleman. Such men are easy to find. Sadly, so too are you.’
‘You suggest I leave Thebes?’
The old man smiled. ‘What you do is a matter for you. I could have men guard you wherever you go, and watch over you while you sleep. The lord Epaminondas has requested -at the very least - we set a sentry outside your gates. But still there will be times when you walk in crowded avenues, or pause at market stalls or shops. A dedicated killer will find you.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Parmenion, ‘but I am in no mood to run. This is my home. And I do not want your guards here, though I thank you for the offer. If an assassin is to kill me, then so be it. But I will not be an easy victim.’
‘Had it not been for your Theban servant,’ Menidis pointed out, ‘you would have been the simplest victim. A sleeping man offers little resistance. However, it is your choice and you have made it.’ The soldier stood and replaced his bronze helm, securing the strap at the chin.
‘Tell me something,’ asked Parmenion. ‘I sense you do not care much whether they succeed or fail - why is that?’
‘You are very astute, and I believe in honesty at all times, so I will tell you. That you chose to betray your own city and aid Thebes gives me cause to be grateful to you. But you are still a Spartan and I despise Spartans. Good day to you.’
Parmenion watched the old man depart, then shook his head. In a curious way the words of Menidis caused him more concern than the attack. He strolled up to Mothac’s room, where the servant was cursing as he tried to nurse his injured arm into a chiton.
‘Let me help you,’ said Parmenion, ‘though Argonas insisted you stay in bed for a week.’
‘Two days felt like a week,’ Mothac snapped.
‘Do you feel up to walking?’
‘Of course! Do I look like a cripple?’ Parmenion looked into the man’s face, reading the anger in his eyes. Mothac’s cheeks were flushed almost as red as his beard and he was breathing heavily.
‘You are a stubborn man. But let it be as you say; we will walk.’ Parmenion armed himself with sword and dagger and slowly they made their way to the gardens at the western slope of the Cadmea, where fountains were placed to cool the breeze and flowers grew all the year. The two men sat close to a shallow stream, beneath a yellowing willow, and Parmenion told the Theban about his conversation with Menidis.
Mothac chuckled. ‘He doesn’t mellow with age, does he?
Two years ago he arrested two Spartan soldiers, cracking their skulls for them. He claimed they were molesting a Theban woman of quality, which was complete nonsense. Theban women of quality are not allowed on the streets.’
‘In that - if in nothing else - you lag behind Sparta,’ said Parmenion. ‘There women walk as freely as men, with no restrictions.’
‘Disgraceful,’ Mothac observed. ‘How then do you tell them from the whores?’
‘There are no whores in Sparta.’
‘No whores? Incredible! No wonder they are so anxious to conquer other cities.’
‘While we are on the subject of whores, Mothac, tell me about the night you brought one to my bed.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘It does not matter. Why did you not tell me?’
Mothac shrugged, then winced as his shoulder flared. He rubbed at the wound, but that only made it worse. ‘You were convinced it was a miracle. I wanted to tell you the truth, but. .. but I didn’t. No excuses. I am sorry, it was all I could think of. Yet it worked, didn’t it?’
‘It worked,’ agreed Parmenion.
‘Are you angry?’
‘Just a little sad. It was good to feel that Derae came back to me - if only in a dream. Perhaps Epaminondas is right, and there are no gods. I hope he is wrong. When I look at the sky, or the sea, or a beautiful horse, I like to believe in gods. I like to feel there is some order, some meaning to existence.’
Mothac nodded. ‘I know what you mean - and I do believe. I have to. There is someone waiting for me on the other side; if I didn’t believe that, I would cut my throat.’
‘She died on the day you came to me,’ said Parmenion. ‘Her name was Elea.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I followed you on the first day. I saw the funeral procession. When you went off- as it turned out, to kill Cletus -I walked to the grave to pay my respects.’
‘She was a wonderful woman,’ said Mothac. ‘She never complained. And I still see her face whenever I close my eyes.’
‘At least you had more than five days,’ whispered Parmenion, rising. ‘Let us return. I think you are more tired than you look.’
Suddenly a man stepped from the shadows behind them. Parmenion’s sword slashed into the air and the man leapt back, lifting his hands, his mouth hanging open in shock.
‘I have no weapon! No weapon!’ he screamed. Behind him stood a child of around seven years, clutching his father’s cloak.
‘I am sorry,’ said Parmenion. ‘You startled me.’ Sheathing his sword he smiled down at the child, but the boy started crying.
‘You are more concerned than you look,’ said Mothac as the two began the long walk home.
‘Yes, it frightens me to know that a knife, or a sword, or an arrow could come from anywhere. Yet, if I leave Thebes I will be as I was when I came here - virtually a pauper. I have money in several merchant ventures, but I have still to pay Epaminondas for the house.’
‘Better to be poor and alive,’ said Mothac, ‘than rich and dead.’
‘But better still to be rich and alive.’
‘You could join the Sacred Band. Pelopidas would be delighted to have you, and even the doughtiest assassin would have difficulty in getting close to you.’
‘That is true,’ Parmenion agreed, ‘but I will serve under no man - save perhaps Epaminondas. He and I think alike. Pelopidas is too reckless and it does not pay to be reckless when facing the Spartans.’
‘You still believe we do not have the strength to go against them?’
‘I fenowit, Mothac; it is not a question of belief. No, we must stall them, refuse open battle. The time will come. But we must have patience.’
Leucion had slept badly, his dreams full of anxiety and frustration. He woke early, his mood foul, while the other nine warriors still slept.
Curse the whore! thought Leucion as he stirred the ashes of the
They all look down on us, he realized. Persians. Yet where would they be without us, fighting their miserable battles? Barbarians, all of them. He opened the pouch at his side, pulling clear his last coin. It was gold, heavy and warm. On one side was stamped the face of the Great King, on the other a kneeling archer with bow bent. The Persians called them darics, after Darius the Great. But to the Greek mercenaries they were archers, and the single reason why so many Greek warriors fought in Persian wars.
‘No Greek is impervious to Persian archers,’ Artabazarnes had told him, during a drinking bout. Then the Persian had laughed, the sound mocking. He had wanted to smash the leering grin from the Persian’s face.
Leucion sat now before the fire, his anger burning brighter than the flames. Pendar awoke and joined him. ‘What troubles you?’ asked his friend.
‘This cursed country,’ Leucion told him.
‘Your mood was fine yesterday.’
‘Well, this is today!’ snapped Leucion. ‘Wake the men, and let us push on. It is a ten-day ride to the city.’
‘You think they’ll take us on?’
‘Just do as I ask!’ roared Leucion. Pendar backed away from him and woke the men as Leucion rubbed his fingers through his short black beard. It was matted now, and he longed for a phial of perfumed oil... and a bath. Lifting his breastplate into place, he settled the shoulder-guards and strode for his horse.
Mounted at last, the men rode across the green hills, their armour glinting in the morning sun. Topping a rise, they gazed down on a series of small villages and a distant temple with white columns, beyond which lay the shimmering sea.
Leucion tugged on the reins, riding towards the nearest village. His head was pounding now and he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.