Lion of Macedon (18 page)

“I care nothing about omens,” said the warrior, his voice shaking. “Let us gather an army and drive the cursed Spartans from the city.”

The tall man at the window turned to the speaker and smiled. Allowing the silence to grow, his dark eyes raked the room. “We three,” he said at last, “hold the hopes of our city in our hearts. We must not be rash.” Ignoring the warrior, he locked his gaze to the sea-green eyes of the orator Calepios. “The Spartans seized Thebes because they
knew
we had not the force to oppose them. What we must consider is what
they
want from us.”

“How do we do that?” Calepios asked.

“What they want is sharp swords in their bellies!” roared the warrior, surging to his feet.

The tall man moved swiftly to him, dropping his voice.

“Why not get closer to the window, Pelopidas? For then you could let the whole city hear you!”

“I’m sick of this constant talk,” Pelopidas replied, but he lowered his voice. “It offends me that we allow the Spartans to strut around Thebes.”

“You think you are the only man who finds it so?” the tall man asked him.

Their eyes met. “I am sorry, my friend,” said the warrior, “but it knots my belly and clouds my mind. Speak on.”

“We must decide what the Spartans desire—and do the opposite. But we must use stealth and cunning, and we must learn patience.”

The tall man moved back to the window, staring out over the city and the hill upon which the Cadmea stood, its high walls patrolled by Spartan soldiers.

“It seems to me,” said Calepios, “that the Spartans desire what they have always desired—conquest. They want to rule. Agisaleus hates Thebes. Now he has us.”

“But does he have what he
wants
?” queried the tall man. “I think they are hoping we will rise against them and attack the Cadmea. If we do that, spilling Spartan blood, they will descend upon us with a full army. They will sack the city, maybe even destroy it. And we have no force with which to oppose them.”

“There are other cities,” said Pelopidas. “We could ask for help.”

“Cities full of spies and loose mouths,” snapped the tall man. “No, I suggest we organize ourselves. You, Pelopidas, should leave the city. Take to the open country. Gather to yourself warriors and move north, selling your services as mercenaries in Thessaly or Illyria or Macedonia—it does not matter where. Build a force. Prepare for the day when you are summoned back to Thebes.”

“And what of me?” Calepios asked.

“The pro-Spartan councillors now lord it over the city. You must become part of their ruling elite.”

“I will be hated by the people,” the orator protested.

“No! You will never speak about the Spartans in public, neither to criticize nor to praise. You will devote yourself to working among Thebans, helping and advising. You will invite no Spartans to your home. Trust me, Calepios; we need a strong man at the center, and your abilities are respected by all. They will need you—even as we need you.”

“And what of you, Epaminondas?” asked the warrior.

“I will stay in the city, and slowly I will gather supporters
for the cause. But remember this: It is vital that the Spartans find no excuse to send an army into our lands—not until we are ready.”

The door to the
andron
opened, and Calepios leapt from his seat as a servant entered and bowed.

“Sir,” he said to the tall man, “there is a Spartan to see you.”

“Do they know?” whispered Calepios, his face reddening.

“Is he alone?” Epaminondas asked.

“Yes, sir. He has a letter from the General Xenophon.”

“Show him to the eastern room; I will see him there,” said the tall man. “Wait here for a little,” he told the others, “then leave by the rear alleys.”

“Be careful, my friend,” warned the warrior. “Without you we are nothing.”

Epaminondas leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes fixed to the young man’s face. “And how is the general?” he asked, his fingers drumming on the desk before him.

“He is well, sir. He sends you greetings, and I have a letter for you.”

“Why did he send you to me, Parmenion? I am merely a private citizen in a city ruled by … others. I can offer you little.”

The younger man nodded. “I understand that, sir. But Xenophon said you were a soldier of great skill. I think he hoped you would find me a place in the army of Thebes.”

Epaminondas chuckled, but there was little humor in the sound. He stood and walked to the window, opening the shutters. “Look up there,” he said, pointing to the citadel on the hill. “There is the Cadmea. It is garrisoned by Spartans like yourself; there are no Thebans there.”

“I am no Spartan,” replied Parmenion. “I was despised as a mix-blood, part Macedonian, but were I a Theban, I would be seeking a way to … persuade the Spartans to leave.”

“Would you, now?” responded the Theban, a red flush spreading across his thin, pockmarked cheeks but his voice
remaining cold. “There are few men who would attempt such an action. For myself, as I said, I am a private citizen and have little interest now in matters martial.”

“Then I shall trouble you no further, sir,” said Parmenion. Leaving the letter from Xenophon on the desk, he bowed and walked to the door.

“Wait, man!” called Epaminondas, not wishing his unwelcome visitor to see his other guests as they left. “You are a stranger in the city, and you can stay in my home until we can find suitable lodging for you. I will have a servant prepare you a room.”

“That will not be necessary. I have no wish to remain where the welcome is so grudging.”

“I see you are a plain speaker, so let me be equally frank. I have no great love for Spartans, be they friends of Xenophon or no. But you are a stranger in a strange city. Finding good lodgings will take time. I urge you to reconsider, and,” he added, forcing a smile, “I will even apologize for my crusty behavior.”

At the smile Parmenion appeared to relax. “I, too, must apologize. I am out of place here, and I feel awkward.”

“We shall start again, then, Parmenion. Come, sit and take some wine while I read this letter.”

Returning to his couch, the Theban unrolled the parchment and read of the duel with Nestus and the need for Parmenion to seek his fortune in another city. “Why did you fight this man, or is it a private matter?” he asked at last.

“He was betrothed to a girl. I, too, was in love with her.”

“I see. What happened to her?”

“She was sacrificed as Cassandra’s victim.”

“What a barbarous people we are,” said Epaminondas. “It amazes me how easily we criticize the peoples of other races, calling them barbarians, while still we practice obscene blood sacrifices.”

“The gods require them,” Parmenion said.

“There are no gods,” responded the Theban. “It is all a grand nonsense, yet they have their uses.”

“How can something that does not exist have a use?” asked the younger man.

The Theban smiled. “There are two doors leading from this room, Parmenion. If I told you that one door was guarded by a lion and that the other leads to a paradise, which door would you open?”

“The paradise door.”

“Exactly. The lion does not exist, but it helps me make sure you open the door I require. It is very simple. Soldiers tend to believe in gods and oracles, but in my experience any prophecy can be turned to advantage.”

Parmenion felt uneasy with this casual blasphemy and changed the subject. “Xenophon told me you once fought alongside the Spartan army.”

“Three years ago. I was twenty-five then and a lot more naïve. Thebes and Sparta were allies against the Arcadians. I was given ten gold pieces by Agisaleus, who told me I fought well—for a Theban.”

“The line broke,” said Parmenion, “but you and Pelopidas locked shields and stopped their advance. When Pelopidas was struck down, wounded in seven places, you stood over his body and protected it until the Spartans came up to support you.”

“You know a great deal about me,” said Epaminondas, “while I know little about you. Was Xenophon your lover?”

“No, friends only. Is it important?”

Epaminondas spread his hands. “Only insofar as I must trust his judgment. He says you are a gifted
strategos
. Is he right?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent, no false modesty. I cannot abide a man who cloaks his talents.” The Theban rose. “If you are not tired from your long ride, we will walk around the city and become acquainted with your new home.”

Epaminondas led Parmenion through to the front of the house and out onto the wide main street heading south to Electra’s Gates. Parmenion had ridden through those gates only an hour before, but now he stopped to examine the reliefs carved in the stone gateway. The figure of a man, hugely muscled, was shown attacking a beast with many heads. “Heracles’ battle with the Hydra,” said the Theban. “It was carved by Alcamenes. There is more of his work to the northwest.”

Together the two men walked around the walls of Thebes, through the marketplaces, passing houses built of white marble and other smaller dwellings of sun-dried clay bricks painted white. Everywhere there were people, and Parmenion was struck by the variety of color in the clothing and in the decoration on house walls. The streets also were paved and decorated with mosaics, unlike the hard-packed earth of Sparta’s roads. Parmenion stopped and stared at a woman sitting on a low wall. She wore a dress of red edged with gold, and silver pendants hung from her ears. Her lips were impossibly red, her hair a gold he had never seen.

She saw him and rose smoothly. “A gift for the goddess?” she inquired.

“What gift?” asked Parmenion. She giggled, and Epaminondas stepped in.

“He is a stranger to Thebes; doubtless he will give the gift on another day.” Taking Parmenion’s arm, he steered the young man away from the girl.

“What gift did she desire?”

“She is a priestess of the temple of Aphrodite, and she wanted to bed you. It would have cost forty obols. One obol goes to the temple, the rest to the priestess.”

“Incredible!” whispered Parmenion.

They walked on and made their way slowly through the crowds thronging the market stalls. “I have never seen so much waiting to be sold, so many trinkets and items of little value,” remarked Parmenion.

“Little value?” replied Epaminondas. “They are pleasing
to look at or to wear. There is value in that, surely. But then, I am forgetting you are a Spartan; you like to live in rooms with one chair made of sharp sticks and a bed with a mattress of thorns.”

“Not quite,” responded Parmenion, smiling. “We occasionally allow ourselves the treat of sleeping naked on a cold stone floor!”

“A Spartan with a sense of humor. No wonder you were unpopular with your fellows.”

At last they came to the twin statues of Heracles and Athena, standing at the southern base of the Cadmea. They were shaped from white marble and were over twenty feet high. “Alcamenes’ greatest achievement,” said the Theban. “When you and I are dust and forgotten by history, men will marvel at his workmanship.”

“They are so real, like frozen giants,” said Parmenion, lowering his voice.

“If Athena did exist, I would think she would be pleased with his creation. It is said that the model was a priestess of Aphrodite, but then, with a body like that it is hardly surprising.”

“I wish you wouldn’t blaspheme,” said Parmenion. “Have you ever considered the possibility that you might be wrong? The Spartans are very religious, and they have never lost a land battle where the foe had equal numbers.”

“I like you, Parmenion, and I ask you to consider this: Sparta is the only city to retain a regular army, magnificently trained, superbly disciplined. Could that be the reason they win battles?”

“Perhaps it is both.”

“Spoken like an ambassador,” said the Theban with a broad smile. He led Parmenion to an open square where seats and tables had been placed beneath canvas awnings to block the sun. They sat at an empty table, and a young boy wandered over and bowed.

“Bring us some water and a few honey cakes,” ordered Epaminondas. As they ate, he questioned Parmenion about
his life in Sparta and the full story behind his departure. He listened in silence as the Spartan talked of his life and of his love for Derae.

“Falling in love is like gripping a sword by the blade,” said the Theban. “You have it in your hand, but at great cost. We stopped sending victims for Cassandra more than thirty years ago. Athens abandoned the vile practice ten years since. It makes no sense.”

“It placates the gods,” said Parmenion with the ghost of a smile.

“I’ll not worship any being who demands the blood of innocence,” responded the Theban. He gazed up at the citadel on the acropolis; it was surrounded by a high wall on which Parmenion could see sentries walking. “So, young
strategos
, merely for the sake of debate, how would you retake the Cadmea if you were a Theban?”

“I would not bother. I would take the city.”

“You would conquer Thebes in order to save it?”

“How many citizens live in or around this city? Twenty thousand? Thirty?” asked Parmenion.

“More, but I do not know the exact number,” replied the Theban, leaning forward and lowering his voice.

“And how many Spartans in the garrison?”

“Eight hundred.”

Parmenion lifted his goblet and drained his water. “Is there a well there?”

“No.”

“Then I would encourage the citizens to rise up and besiege the Cadmea—starve the Spartans into submission.”

“And what would happen when the Spartans drew their swords and opened the gates? There would be panic; the crowd would flee.”

“If they
could
open the gates,” Parmenion agreed. “But what if they were secured from the outside? Then there would be no way out unless the soldiers lowered themselves by ropes. I don’t think I can recall a battle where a phalanx advanced by dropping down on the enemy.”

“Interesting,” said Epaminondas, “merely as a theoretical strategy, of course. But I like you, young man, and I think it likely that we shall become friends. Now let us move on; there are many things to see.”