‘I would. Sit down.’ Mothac pushed the man to a couch. ‘Parmenion!’ he called. Moments later a tall, slender man, thin-faced, with piercing, pale blue eyes, entered the room. He was carrying a gleaming sword.
‘Clearchus!’ cried Parmenion, tossing aside the sword and smiling broadly.
‘The very same,’ grunted Xenophon’s servant.
‘Untie him,’ ordered Parmenion. Mothac slashed his knife through the leather thongs binding the man, and Clearchus rubbed at his wrists. His hair was whiter and thinner than the young Spartan remembered, the lines on his face deeper, like knife-cuts in leather. ‘An odd time to be calling,’ Parmenion commented.
‘My lord asked me to make sure I was unobserved.’ Reaching into his thick woollen shirt, Clearchus produced a scroll which he handed to the young Spartan.
Parmenion put it aside and sat facing the older man. ‘How does the general fare?’
Clearchus shrugged. ‘He’s a sad man. He writes now. Many things - horsemanship, tactics, the state of Greece. He spends hours every day with his scribes. I cannot recall the last time he went riding or hunting. And he has grown fat.’ Clearchus almost spat the last word, as if even forming it offended his mouth.
Parmenion reached for the scroll, then noticed Mothac still standing by, his knife in his hand. ‘It is all right, my friend. This is Clearchus, a companion of the general Xenophon. He is trustworthy.’
‘He is a Spartan,’ muttered Mothac.
‘Beware, child, lest I crack your skull for you,’ snapped Clearchus, reddening.
‘Once upon a time perhaps, grandfather,’ retorted Mothac. Clearchus lurched to his feet.
‘Stop this, both of you!’ ordered Parmenion. ‘We are all friends here - or we should be. How long have you been in Thebes?’
‘I arrived this evening,’ answered Clearchus, casting a murderous glare at Mothac. ‘I visited friends in Corinth, then bought a horse and rode here through Megara and Plataea.’
‘It is good to see you. Would you like some food and drink?’
Clearchus shook his head. ‘I will be leaving once you have given me an answer for my lord.’
Mothac bade Parmenion goodnight and wandered back to his room, leaving the two Spartans together. The younger man opened the scroll and sat close to a lantern.
Greetings, friend [he read], the years move on, the seasons gathering pace, the world and its troubles drifting further from me. And yet I see matters more clearly than when young, and with increasing sadness.
There was a young man in Sparta who killed another in a duel over a woman. The dead boy’s father still grieves and has hired assassins to seek out the killer, who no longer resides in Sparta. I understand that four assassins were slain by the boy, who is now a man. But others may follow.
I hope that you are well, and that your life is happier than that of the Spartan boy who lives now far from home. I think of that boy often. I think of his courage and his loneliness.
At worst may the gods smile on you, at best may they ignore you.
There was no signature.
Parmenion looked up into the weather-beaten face of the old servant. ‘You risked much to bring this to me, Clearchus. I thank you.’
‘Do not thank me,’ said the old man. ‘I did it for the general. I liked you, boy. But that was a long time ago, before you became a traitor. I hope the assassins find you -before you can play any more of your deadly games.’
‘None of you will ever see it, will you?’ said Parmenion, his voice icy. ‘You Spartans think of yourselves as demigods. You take a child and you torment him all his life, telling him he is no Spartan, then accuse him of treachery when he takes you at your word. Well, here is a thought for you, Clearchus, and all your foul breed: after I tricked Sphodrias I was caught by a Sciritai warrior. He had fought for you for years; he had been raised to fight for you. And as we drew swords against one another he told me he had always wanted to kill a Spartan. You are hated not only by Thebes and Athens but by the very people who fight alongside you.’
Clearchus opened his mouth to reply, but Parmenion raised his hand.
‘Say nothing, servant!’ he hissed. ‘You have delivered your message. Now begone!’
For a moment only the old man glowered at him, then backed away and vanished into the darkness.
Mothac stepped into view, still carrying his knife. ‘Do not let it concern you,’ he said gently.
Parmenion gave a bitter laugh. ‘How would you recommend I do that? After the assassins came, Menidis told me he couldn’t care less whether I lived or died. That’s the Theban view on me, Mothac: I am a Spartan traitor. And it cuts me to the bone to be called so.’
‘I think we should get drunk,’ Mothac suggested.
‘It is not exactly the answer I was looking for,’ Parmenion responded.
‘It is the best I have.’
‘Then it will have to do,’ said the Spartan. ‘Fetch the jug.’
Thebes, Summer, 371 BC
Thetis awoke early. Her dreams had been good, her sleep restful. She stretched her arms and rolled on one side, gazing at the sleeping man beside her. Reaching out, she gently brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead. He sighed, but did not wake.
The last six years had been good to them both. Parmenion, at 29, was in his prime and had won races in Corinth, Megara, Plataea and even Athens. His face was sharper now, the prominent nose more hawklike, his hair slowly receding. But his smile was still boyish and his touch gentle.
Good years....
In the first he had noticed her discontent at being virtually housebound and had come to her one morning from the market-place, where he had purchased a dark chiton, knee-length sandals, a pair of Persian-style trews in light linen and a felt hat. ‘Put these on,’ he told her.
She had laughed then. ‘You want me to dress as a man? Are we in need of such devices?’
‘No,’ he replied, with a grin. ‘But I will teach you another way to ride.’
It was an adventure she had enjoyed more than she would ever have thought possible. Still weak after the plague, she had sat high upon a chestnut mare and had ridden through the city, her felt hat covering her hair and the loose chiton disguising the curves of her body. Once in the hills she had discovered the joys of the gallop, the wind in her hair, the impossible speed.
They had made love in a high meadow, shaded from the afternoon sun by the branches of a tall cypress, then splashed naked in a cold mountain stream. The recollection of that day shone with clear light in her memories. ‘When I am gone,’ he said, ‘you will be able to send Mothac to fetch the horses and continue to ride. There is freedom here, and no one to question you, or frown at the lack of dignity shown by a woman of quality.’
‘Gone?’ she queried. ‘Where will you go?’
‘Epaminondas has decided it is time to set about freeing Boeotia. We will be taking troops to captive cities and aiding their rebellions. We must secure the land against Sparta.’
Early one morning, some five weeks later, Thetis awoke to see Parmenion standing beside the bed. He was dressed in a bronze helm with baked leather cheek-guards, and a breastplate showing the head of a roaring lion. His sword was strapped to his side, the scabbard resting against a kilt made up of bronze-edged leather strips.
‘It is today, then?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘You could have told me last night.’
‘I did not want to burden you. I will be gone for perhaps a month, maybe two.’ She nodded and turned her back to him, closing her eyes and pretending to sleep.
For days she fretted, imagining him riding to his death. ‘I will not fall in love with him,’ she promised herself. ‘I will not cry over his corpse as I did with Damon.’
But her fears grew as the news of skirmishes and sieges reached the city. The Spartan garrison at Thisbe, formed mainly from mercenary units from the city of Orcho-menus, had marched out to confront the Theban force. A short battle had followed, before
the mercenaries were routed; it was reported that seventeen Thebans were dead. One by one the cities fell, mostly without bloodshed, the beleaguered Spartan garrisons agreeing to leave after being granted safe conducts back across the Peloponnese. But still there was no news of Parmenion.
Six weeks to the day since she had refused to say goodbye, he walked into the courtyard. She saw him from the upstairs window and stopped herself from running down to meet him. Instead she walked slowly, and they met on the stairs. His helmet was dented in two places, his breastplate gashed, the lion’s head showing a deep groove.
‘Did you miss me?’ he asked, untying the chin-strap and removing the helmet.
‘A little,’ she conceded. ‘Are you home for good?’
‘No, I ran out of sylphium. I ride back tomorrow.’
Back in their room she helped him to remove his breastplate and shirt. Only then did she see the vivid red scar on his upper right bicep. ‘It did not bleed much,’ he said, trying to reassure her. ‘It was a mercenary who got too close. Epaminondas killed him.’
‘I do not want to know the details,’ she snapped. ‘I will have a bath prepared.’
They had made love that night, but Thetis could not relax and Parmenion’s needs were too urgent. The following morning he was gone again.
As the months passed, Epaminondas, Calepios and others gradually re-formed the old Boeotian League, launching it in Thebes following a General Assembly attended by councillors from all the freed cities. The meeting was democratic, and hopes were high for the year ahead.
Parmenion, released for the autumn from military duties, was less sure of the future. On one of their rides he confided to Thetis his fears.
‘It is less democratic than it appears,’ he said, as they sat in the high meadow they had come to consider their own private place. ‘Thebes can veto any decision, and directly controls the votes of Thespiae, Plataea and Tanagra.’
‘Why is that a problem?’ countered Thetis. ‘Thebes is a great city, and all our councillors value freedom and care about the rights of others. You heard Calepios’ speech. The new federal state of Boeotia will have no dictators.’
‘I heard it, and I hope it proves true. But an old friend once told me that society is like a spear-point - wide at the base, pointed at the tip. Democrats believe you can reshape it, removing the point. But, as if by magic, it will grow again. There will always be kings, Thetis, and if not kings then dictators. It is the nature of Man to strive to rise above others, to impose his will on all.’
‘There is no one like that in Thebes,’ she said. ‘Maybe in ancient times, yes, but this is the modern world, Par-menion. It does not have to be like that any more. Epaminondas will never be a dictator, nor Pelopidas. Nor you. I think you worry too much.’
And the years appeared to prove her right. Five years after the retaking of the Cadmea, a peace agreement was reached between Athens and Sparta which allowed Thebes and the Boeotian cities the right of self-government.
Thetis remembered that autumn well. Epaminondas had come to the house, accompanied by Calepios, to discuss with Parmenion the terms of the settlement. Against all tradition the Spartan had stopped Thetis as she was leaving the room and signalled for her to sit beside him.
The two Thebans had looked astonished. ‘It saves me going over everything twice,’ Parmenion told them. ‘She will only insist on hearing it all after you have gone.’
‘But...’ stuttered Calepios. ‘She... a woman...’
‘Is this the great orator?’ asked Parmenion, struggling to look serious. ‘Come now, Calepios, you have known Thetis for years. It should not be difficult to speak in front of her.’
‘It is not a question of difficulty,’ snapped Calepios, ‘but one of decorum. I know you Spartans have curious ideas about women, but here in Thebes we prefer to maintain civilized standards. Such matters as we are to discuss would both bore and confuse dear Thetis.’
‘I am sure Calepios is right,’ said Thetis, rising, ‘and I am grateful for his kindness in thinking of me.’ She had swallowed her anger and retired to her rooms. Later
Parmenion gave her a full account of the meeting, but not before his own anger had been unleashed.
‘You should have stayed!’ he stormed. ‘Your advice would have been valuable.’
‘You do not understand, strategos. The meeting would not have gone ahead; Calepios would have left. You cannot flout tradition - not in Thebes. Now tell me how .you view the peace talks.’
‘Athens is short of money, and Sparta is all but bankrupt,’ Parmenion told her. ‘Therefore all we have won is a little breathing space. The war is not over, but we will use the time wisely.’
‘How much time?’
He had shrugged. ‘Two years, three. But this issue will not be decided without a battle - and that means Thebes against Sparta, for Athens is mainly a sea power.’
‘The Spartans are only men, like other men,’ she had pointed out.
‘Perhaps, but they have never lost a major battle against a foe of equal numbers. And, whatever happens, we cannot yet match their strength.’
‘You will think of something, my love; you are the strategos.’ She said it lightly, but he had brightened, his smile returning.
Now Thetis shook her head clear of memories and rose from the bed. Parmenion moaned in his sleep, but did not wake as she dressed and moved downstairs where Mothac was preparing breakfast.
The Theban smiled as he saw her. ‘Another fine day,’ he said as she entered the kitchen. There were grey hairs in Mothac’s red beard and his hair was thinning at the crown. Thetis shivered. It was all very well lying in bed reliving memories, but it had the effect of highlighting the passing of time.
Cleo had long since left, wedded to the son of Norac the Smith, and Thetis now helped Mothac in the work of the household.
‘You should take a wife,’ she said suddenly, as they sat in the courtyard enjoying the early-morning sunshine.
‘I had a wife,’ replied Mothac. ‘I don’t want another. But I would have liked a son.’
Thetis found her good mood evaporating and Mothac’s hasty apology did nothing to alter the downward slide of her emotions. They finished their breakfast in silence and Mothac went back to the kitchen to prepare Parmenion’s daily infusion of sylphium.
A son. The one gift she could never give to Parmenion.
She had long known she was barren, having never suffered the monthly periods of bleeding endured by all other women. But only since she had lived with Parmenion had the knowledge turned to bitterness. Parmenion never spoke of it and this cheered her, but she knew that all men reach a point in their lives where they desire an heir.
She heard Parmenion approaching, but did not turn. His hands touched her shoulders, his lips kissing the back of her neck.
‘Good morning, lady,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘You sleep later and later,’ she chided. ‘I think you are becoming old and lazy.’
‘I was with Calepios until almost dawn.’
She looked into his face. ‘Is it war again?’
‘I don’t know. Epaminondas is going to Sparta to meet with Agisaleus.’
‘Is that wise?’ she asked.
There is to be a meeting of all the cities. Agisaleus has promised safe conducts and Athens will be represented. It may bring lasting peace.’
‘But you do not think so?’
‘I cannot make up my mind. My fear is that Athens and Sparta will reach agreement, leaving Thebes standing alone. If that is the case, then Agisaleus will feel free to lead his forces into Boeotia - and this time we will have to face him.’
‘Thebes against Sparta,’ she whispered.
‘To the death,’ he said.
‘And is that what you want?’ she asked suddenly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You hate the Spartans. Would you really desire peace?’
Parmenion smiled. ‘You are an astute woman, Thetis. But you are right. I do not w
ant peace. These years have been hard, but I am close now to my dream. One day the Spartans will come - and I will have my vengeance.’
‘And then?’ she pressed.
‘What can I say? I have lived so long with no other dream; I can see nothing beyond the humbling of Sparta. They have taken so much from me, and they shall pay in blood and shame for every moment of it.’
‘Either that - or you will die,’ she pointed out.
‘One or the other,’ he agreed. it
Parmenion called a halt to the combat training and the warriors of the Sacred Band sheathed their swords. In full battle armour they were sweating heavily. Some sank to the hard-baked clay of the training ground, others wandering to the shade near the Grave of Hector.
‘Do not be so swift to relax, gentlemen,’ called Parmenion. ‘Ten circuits should be enough to stretch those tired muscles.’
A groan went up, but the men began to run. Parmenion was about to join them when he saw a young boy sitting beneath the trees watching the training intently. The youngster was around thirteen years of age, with dark, tightly curled hair and a face that given time would be exceedingly handsome. But it was his expression which touched a chord in Parmenion. The face was still, the emotions masked, and Parmenion remembered his own boyhood long ago, the trials and suffering he had endured in Sparta.
He strolled across to where the boy sat. ‘You are studying the art of war?’ he asked.
The boy stood and bowed. He was not tall, but sturdily built. His dark eyes fixed to Parmenion’s face. ‘It is good to study the ways of foreigners,’ he said, his voice soft.
‘Why is it good?’
‘One day we may be enemies. If so, I will know how you fight. If we are friends or allies, I will know whether you can be relied upon.’
‘I see,’ said Parmenion. ‘You are a wise young man. You are a prince, perhaps?’
‘Indeed I am. A prince of Macedonia. My name is Philip.’
‘I am Parmenion.’
‘I know. I have seen you run. Why is it you compete under a Macedonian name?’
Parmenion sat down, beckoning the boy to join him. ‘My mother was Macedonian,’ he told him. ‘It is a tribute to her. You are a guest in our city?’