Lion of Macedon (21 page)

“No, I had no money to bet. But now I have been paid, and I will honor the agreement. Stand aside!”

“I think not,” said the Theban. “And it is an ill day when a Theban soldier takes blood money from a Spartan.”

“Needs must,” shrugged the man, and suddenly he ran forward with sword raised. Parmenion moved in to meet him, blocking the blow and hammering his left fist into his attacker’s face. His opponent staggered back. Parmenion leapt into the air, his right foot cracking into the man’s nose and hurling him from his feet. The other three men remained where they were as the red-bearded leader snatched up his fallen sword and rose unsteadily.

“There is no reason for you to die,” Parmenion told him.

“I took the money,” said the man wearily, and moved in to attack once more, stabbing out his sword for a belly lunge. Parmenion blocked it with ease, his left fist lancing into the man’s jaw and dropping him to the ground.

Epaminondas suddenly charged at the other three men, who broke and ran. Parmenion knelt by his unconscious opponent. “Help me get him inside,” he told Epaminondas.

“Why?”

“I like him.”

“This is insane,” said Epaminondas, but together they hauled the body back into the house, laying him on one of the seven couches in the
andron
.

A servant brought wine and water, and the two men waited for the red-bearded man to come around. After several minutes he stirred.

“Why did you not kill me?” he asked, sitting up.

“I need a servant,” Parmenion answered.

The man’s green eyes narrowed. “Is this some jest?”

“Not at all,” the Spartan assured him. “I will pay five obols a day, the payment to be made every month. You will also have a room and food.”

“This is madness,” said Epaminondas. “The man came to kill you.”

“He took money, and he tried to earn it. I like that,” said Parmenion. “How much were you paid?”

“Ten drachmas,” the man answered.

Parmenion opened the pouch at his side and counted out thirty-five silver drachmas. “Will you become my servant?” he asked. The man gazed down at the coins on the table; he swallowed, then nodded. “And what is your name?”

“Mothac. And your friend is right—this
is
madness.”

Parmenion smiled and scooped up the coins, handing them to Mothac. “You will return the ten drachmas to the man who hired you; the rest is your first month’s pay. Get a bath and buy a new tunic. Then gather what possessions you have and return here tonight.”

“You trust me to return? Why?”

“The answer is not difficult. Any man prepared to die for ten drachmas ought to be prepared to live for twenty-five a month.”

Mothac said nothing. Turning on his heel, he left the room.

“You will never see him again,” said Epaminondas, shaking his head.

“Would you care to wager on that?”

“I take it the wager is thirty-five drachmas. Correct?”

“Correct. Is it acceptable?”

“No,” conceded Epaminondas. “I bow to your obviously superior understanding of the human species. But he will make a terrible servant. Tell me, why did you do this?”

“He is not as those others. They were cowardly scum; he at least was prepared to fight. But more than that, when he knew he could not win, he came forward to die rather than take money falsely. That sort of man is rare.”

“We must agree to differ,” said Epaminondas. “Men who would kill for ten drachmas are not rare enough.”

The man called Mothac left the house. He felt dizzy and nauseous, but anger gave him the strength to keep going. He had
not eaten in five days and knew this was the reason the Spartan had defeated him so easily. Give back the ten drachmas? He had paid that to the doctor for the drugs that would nurse Elea back to strength. He wandered into an alley and leaned against a wall, trying to summon up the energy to return home. His legs started to give way, but he grabbed a jutting stone on the wall and hauled himself upright.

“Don’t give in!” he told himself. Drawing in a great breath, he started to walk. It took almost half an hour to reach the marketplace, where he purchased fruit and dried fish. He sat in the shade and ate, feeling strength soaking into his limbs.

The Spartan was a fool if he expected him to come back. “I will be no man’s servant. Not ever!”

He felt better for the food and pushed himself to his feet. The Spartan had shamed him, making him look weak and foolish. Three miserable blows and he had fallen. That was hard to take for a man who had stood against Arcadians and Thessalians, Chalcideans and Spartans. No man had ever laid him low. But lack of food and rest had conspired to see him humbled.

Still, now he had thirty-four drachmas and three obols and with that he could buy food for two months. Surely in that time Elea would recover. Returning to the marketplace, he bought provisions and began the long walk home, deep into the northern quarter where the houses were built of sundried brick, the floors of hard-packed earth. The stench of sewage flowing in the streets had long since ceased to cause him concern along with the rats that ran across his path.

You’ve come down a long way, he told himself, not for the first time.

Mothac. The name had sprung to his lips with an ease he found surprising. It was an old word from the gray dawn of time. Outcast. It is what you are. It is what you have become.

He turned into the last alley beneath the wall and entered his tiny house. Elea was in the bedroom asleep, her face calm. He glanced in and then unwrapped the food, preparing a platter with pomegranates and sweet honey cakes.

As he worked he pictured her smile, remembering the first day he had seen her, during the dance to Hector. She had been wearing a white
chiton
, ankle-length, her honey-colored hair held by an ivory comb. He had been smitten in that moment, unable to drag his eyes from her.

Six weeks later they were wed.

But then the Spartans had taken the Cadmea and pro-Spartan councillors controlled the city. Her family had been arrested and sentenced to death for treason, their estates confiscated. Mothac himself had been named as a wanted man and had sought the refuge of anonymity in the poor quarter of the city. He had grown his beard thick and changed his name.

With no money and no hope of employment, Mothac had planned to leave Thebes and join a mercenary company. But then Elea had fallen sick. The doctor diagnosed lung fever and bled her regularly, but it seemed only to make her grow weaker.

He carried the platter into her room and laid it beside the bed. He touched her shoulder … she did not move.

“Oh, blessed Hera, no!” he whispered, turning her onto her back. Elea was dead.

Mothac took her hand and sat with her until the sun set, then stood and left the house. He walked through the city until he reached the main square, his eyes unseeing, his thoughts random, unconnected. A man grabbed his arm. “What happened, my friend? We thought they had killed you.”

Mothac pulled clear of his grip. “Killed me? I wish they had. Leave me alone.”

He walked on down long avenues, through winding streets and alleyways, with no thought of a destination, until at last he stood before the house of Epaminondas.

With nowhere else to go, he strode up to the wide doors and rapped his fist on the wood.

A servant led him to the Spartan, who was sitting in the courtyard drinking watered wine. Mothac forced himself to
bow to his new master. The man looked at him closely, his clear blue eyes seeming to gaze into Mothac’s soul.

“What is wrong?” the Spartan asked.

“Nothing … sir,” replied the Theban. “I am here. What do you require of me?” His voice was dull and lifeless.

The Spartan poured a goblet of wine and passed it to Mothac. “Sit down and drink this.”

Mothac dropped to the bench and drained the wine at a single swallow, feeling its warmth spreading through him.

“Talk to me,” said the Spartan.

But Mothac had no words. He dipped his head, and the tears fell to his cheeks, running into his beard.

Mothac could not bring himself to speak of Elea, but he would long remember that the Spartan did not force questions upon him. He waited until Mothac’s silent tears had passed, then called for food and more wine. They sat together, drinking in silence, until Mothac became drunk. Then the Spartan had led his new servant to a bedroom at the rear of the building, and here he had left him.

With the dawn Mothac awoke. A new
chiton
of green linen was laid out on a chair; he rose, washed, and dressed, then sought out Parmenion. The Spartan, he was told by another servant, had gone to the training ground to run. Mothac followed him there and sat by the grave of Hector watching his new master lope effortlessly around the long circuit. The man moved well, thought Mothac, his feet scarcely seeming to make contact with the earth.

For more than an hour Parmenion continued to run, until sweat bathed his body and his calf muscles burned with fatigue. Then he slowed and jogged to the grave, waving to Mothac and smiling broadly.

“You slept well?” he asked.

Mothac nodded. “It was a good bed, and there is nothing like wine for bringing a man sweet dreams.”

“Were they sweet?” asked Parmenion softly.

“No. You are a fine runner. I never saw better.”

Parmenion smiled. “There will be a better man somewhere; there always is.” He began to ease his way through more stretching exercises, pulling gently at the muscles of his calves by leaning forward against the stone of the grave.

“Are you going to run again?” Mothac asked.

“No.”

“Then why are you exercising?”

“The muscles are tight from the run. If they are not stretched, they will cramp; then I would not be able to run tomorrow. I was pleased to see no assailants waiting this morning,” he added, changing the subject.

“They will be back,” said Mothac. “There are people determined to see you dead.”

“I do not think I will ever be an easy man to kill,” answered Parmenion, stretching out on the grass. “But that could be arrogance speaking.”

“You have not asked me who hired me to kill you,” said Mothac.

“Would you tell me?”

“No.”

“That is why I did not ask.”

“Also,” added the red-bearded servant, turning his head away, “you had the good grace not to question my tears. For that I thank you.”

“We all carry grief, my friend. Someone once told me that all the seas are but the tears of time, shed for the loss of loved ones. It may not be true, but I like the sentiment. I am glad you came back.”

Mothac smiled ruefully. “I am not sure why I did. I had not intended to.”

“The reason does not matter. Come, let’s get back and enjoy breakfast.”

As they reached the last corner, Parmenion held out his arm, stopping Mothac. Leaning out, the Spartan peered down the street. Once more there were armed men at the front of the house, and Parmenion’s lips thinned as anger
swept over him, but he crushed the rising fury and took a deep breath. “Go out to them,” he told Mothac, “and explain that you have just seen me running at the training ground and that no one else was around. It will not be a lie, after all.”

The red-bearded Theban nodded and then ran out to the waiting men. Parmenion ducked down behind a low wall and waited as they pounded past him; then he rose and walked to where Mothac waited.

“Let us eat,” said Parmenion.

Epaminondas had left the house the night before but had not yet returned. His servants were unable or unwilling to say where he had gone, so Parmenion and Mothac sat down to breakfast without waiting for the master of the house.

“Should I not be with them?” asked Mothac as the servants brought food from the kitchens.

“Not yet,” answered Parmenion. “We should get to know one another. Have you ever been a servant?”

“No,” Mothac admitted.

“And I have never had one.”

Mothac chuckled suddenly and shook his head.

“What is amusing you?” asked Parmenion.

The Theban shrugged. “I had servants once. I can probably instruct you in how to care for them.”

Parmenion smiled broadly. “I could do with instruction. I have very few belongings, so caring for my clothes will not strain you. My diet is … Spartan? My needs are few. But I do need someone I can trust and someone I can talk to. So let us begin by giving you a better title—you will be my companion. How does that sound?”

“I have been in your service only one day and already I am promoted. I see the prospects are good with you. But will you allow me one more day before I join you? There is something I must finish.”

“Of course.” Parmenion looked at him closely. “Is this … business … something I can help you with?”

“No. I will settle it.”

The two men finished their breakfast, and Mothac left the house and walked back to the main square and onto the Lane of the Dead. He paid twelve drachmas to an elderly man and gave him directions to his home.

“I will be there at sunset,” he told the undertaker. “Make sure the mourners wail loudly.”

“They are the best,” the man promised him.

Mothac returned home and changed into an old
chiton:
it had once been red but had faded to the pink of a dawn sky. He waited for an hour before the women arrived. There were three of them, all dressed in mourning gray. He left them to prepare Elea, then strapped on his sword belt and dagger and strolled back to the square.

Elea was gone. Nothing could bring her back now, but he hoped she would find happiness on the other side, reunited with her parents. But he would miss her and would never forget her. Some men, he knew, married several times when their wives died. But not Mothac.

Never again, he decided, as he sat waiting for the night. When I travel to the other side, it will be to find Elea and to enjoy eternity beside her.

The sun sank in splendor, and the stars illuminated the sky. Torches were lit and placed in brackets set on the walls. Lanterns were hung from ropes, and servants began to carry tables out into the square, ready for the diners. Mothac stood and faded back into the shadows, waiting patiently. The hours passed, and it was approaching midnight before the Spartan, Cletus, made his way to a table and sat down to eat. Mothac knew the cause of Cletus’ hatred of Parmenion. The racer Meleager had been unable to settle all his debts and had been sent home in disgrace. Without Meleager to help him, Cletus would soon run short of money and be forced to give up the life of pleasure he now enjoyed.