Lion of Macedon (25 page)

“Not even a word of greeting?” came a male voice. Parmenion stared at the tall, veiled priestess, who pulled the veil clear and grinned at him. The face he saw was handsome and beardless, the lips stained red, the eyes painted.

“Get away from me. I want nothing from you!” said Parmenion, lifting a hand to push the man from him. Powerful fingers closed on his forearm with a grip of iron.

“Do you not recognize me? It is I, Pelopidas!” The warrior chuckled and used the veil to rub away the paint and the stain on his lips. “You are not the only
strategos
, my friend.”

Parmenion swung his gaze over the rest of the group as they divested themselves of female clothing. Each of them was armed with a hidden dagger, and only now did the Spartan see the bloodstains on the brightly colored garments. “You did it!” he cried.

“They are dead,” Pelopidas answered. “So is the poet Alexandros, which, if you ask me, is no loss to anyone.”

Leaving their disguises in the alley, the group ran to the
agora
, where a huge crowd was gathering. Pelopidas and his comrades moved in among the people, leaving Parmenion standing below the great steps leading to the temple of Poseidon.
The crowd was many thousands strong by the time Calepios appeared from within the temple to walk slowly down the steps. The crowd roared his name, and he seemed genuinely surprised at the ovation. He raised his hands for silence. Parmenion realized he was dreading this moment, fearing the effect Calepios’ pompous speech would have on this excited mob.

The statesman stared down at the crowd for several moments, then his voice boomed out. “It is a long time, my friends, since I spoke with you. But I have always believed that if a man has nothing good to say, then let him remain silent! Our friends and allies, the Spartans, were invited here three years ago by councillors and
ephors
of Thebes. I opposed that decision! I opposed it then. I oppose it now!” A huge cheer went up, but Calepios waved his hands and stilled the crowd. “Why, asked the councillors, should the Spartans not occupy the Cadmea? Were they not our friends? Are they not the leaders of Greece? What harm is there in having guests within the city? What harm?” he bellowed. “What harm? A Theban hero, praised by Agisaleus himself, now languishes in a cell, his body tortured, his flesh flayed. And why? Because he loves Thebes. Are these the actions of friends?
Are
they?” he shouted.

“No!” roared the crowd.

Parmenion could scarcely believe his ears. Gone was the pomposity, and though he had heard the words before, they now seemed fresh and vibrant. And in that moment Parmenion learned of the magic of the great orator. Timing and delivery alone were not enough; there was in Calepios a charisma, a power that made his green eyes see not just a crowd but every single man, his voice touching every heart.

“I shall go to the Cadmea,” said Calepios. “I shall go and say to the Spartans, ‘Free our friends and leave this city. For you are not welcome here.’ And though they drag me to a dungeon, though they flay me with their whips of fine wire, I will continue to oppose them with all the power of my soul and all the courage of a Theban heart.”

“Kill the Spartans!” yelled a voice from the crowd.

“Kill them?” answered Calepios. “Yes, we could. We are thousands, and they are few. But you do not kill unwelcome guests; you thank them for coming, and you ask them to leave. I shall go now. Shall I go
alone
?”

The answer was deafening, the single word rising from the crowd like a rolling peal of thunder.
“No!”

Calepios walked from the steps, the crowd opening before him and following him as he strode up the long path to the Cadmea.

From his hiding place in the boulders some thirty paces from the Cadmea walls, Norac watched the Spartans push shut the gates. His hands were sweating, and he dried them on his tunic. Around him the others waited nervously.

“Suppose they open the gates before the spikes bite through?” asked a man to his left.

“Keep that thought in mind when you wield the hammer,” advised the smith, “and also remember that Epaminondas is in that citadel now, undergoing torture. And he has your name in his head as well as mine.”

“I think I can see the crowd,” whispered another man. Norac risked a glance over the top of the boulder.

“That’s them,” he agreed. “Now let us do our part.” The group sprinted out from their hiding place and ran to the gates. A sentry on the battlements saw them and shouted, but before he could loose a shaft, they were safe under the overhang of the gate tower. Norac held the marked spear haft against the left-hand gate. “There!” he ordered. A spike was held in place. Norac pointed out the second impact point, and the hammer bearers looked to the smith. “Now!” he shouted, swinging the weapon.

The clanging ring of iron on iron brought a chorus of shouts from beyond the gates. “What in Hades is happening?” someone bellowed.

“There’s a crowd gathering, sir,” answered a soldier from the ramparts.

“Five formation!” yelled the officer. “Prepare to attack. Open the gates!” Beyond the walls Norac could hear the pounding feet of the Spartan soldiers as they ran to form a fighting square.

The smith’s hammer thundered into the spike, driving it through the gate and into the crossbar beyond. He ran to his left, barging aside the other wielders, whose spike was only halfway through. Stepping back, Norac swung with all his strength, and the head of the spike disappeared into the weathered oak.

“The bar won’t move, sir,” shouted a Spartan soldier, and Norac grinned as he heard them heaving at the nailed beam.

And the crowd surged up toward the citadel.…

Calepios marched forward ten paces, lifting his arms to halt the surging mob. On the walls above, a Spartan archer leaned out and loosed a shaft that pierced a man’s shoulder. The crowd moved back.

Calepios’ voice thundered above the noise of the mob. “Is this how friends treat one another? Are we armed? Have we offered violence?”

The wounded man was carried back down to the city, but there were no more shafts from the Cadmea. “Where is your general?” shouted Calepios. “Fetch him here to answer for this atrocity.”

A Spartan in an iron helm leaned over the battlements. “I am Arimanes,” he called. “The soldier who loosed the shaft will be punished for it, but I ask you now to disperse or I will be forced to send out my men against you.”

“You will send out no one,” shouted Calepios, “save the Thebans you have locked in your cells.”

“Who are you to order me?” called Arimanes.

“I am the voice of Thebes!” Calepios replied to a cheer from the crowd.

Mothac made his way to Parmenion’s side. “The western gates are secure,” he said with a smile. “They have no way out.”

Just then the crowd parted, and a group of Theban soldiers marched into sight. In their midst were eight Spartans, bruised and bloody, their hands bound.

Pelopidas greeted the Theban officer with a salute. “Take them to the Cadmea wall,” he ordered. The officer bowed and waved his men on.

Calepios strode forward. “Take back your soldiers,” he yelled to Arimanes, “for if they remain here, I fear for their lives.”

“Open the gates!” shouted the Spartan leader as the crowd roared with laughter.

“I think you should lower some ropes,” Calepios told him. Beyond the walls the crowd could hear the sounds of men still battling to move the crossbar, and they laughed and jeered at the unseen Spartans.

“By the gods, you will pay for this, you scoundrel!” bellowed Arimanes.

“I think the gods are with us,” replied Calepios. “By the way, I understand there is sickness within the garrison. Can we offer you the services of a physician?”

Arimanes replied with an obscene curse and then disappeared from view. Minutes later, ropes were lowered from the walls and the captured Spartan soldiers climbed to the ramparts. The crowd remained until dusk, then most of them returned to their homes. But Pelopidas had organized a hard core of rebels to remain stationed before the gates, and Calepios had a tent pitched where, he told the joyous mob, he would wait until the Spartans accepted his invitation to leave.

Parmenion, Mothac, and Pelopidas waited with him. “So far it has all gone as you said,
strategos,”
Calepios told Parmenion. “But what now?”

“Tomorrow you will offer to send a conciliator into the Cadmea. But we will discuss that later tonight—if I return.”

“You do not need to do this,” Mothac pointed out. “The risk is too great.”

“The Spartans do not like surrendering prisoners,” said Parmenion. “They may decide to kill Epaminondas. I cannot
take the risk. Meanwhile, my friends, bring up more timber and order Norac to seal the gates tight. They could saw through those crossbars in less than an hour.”

“You really believe you can rescue Epaminondas? How?” asked Pelopidas.

“In Sparta I had another name; they called me Savra. And tonight we will see if the
lizard
can still climb walls!” Dressed in a black full-sleeved shirt and dark Persian trews and with a coiled rope over one shoulder, Parmenion waited until a cloud obscured the moon before running silently to stand below the walls. His face blackened with earth, he edged along the wall to the east, where the ground fell away and the wall towered over a sheer drop of more than two hundred feet.

At this point, he reasoned, the walls could not be scaled by a besieging force and therefore were unlikely to be as well patrolled. Reaching up, he found the first of the narrow cracks between the four-foot-square blocks of gray stone and hooked his fingers into it.

Are you still the lizard? he wondered.

The cracks between the blocks were tiny and shallow, but Parmenion hauled himself up, his bare feet seeking out footholds, his fingers tracing the blocks, finding points where the ancient stone had worn away, leaving grooves and projections.

Inch by inch he scaled the wall, his fingers tired, his feet sore. Only once did he glance down: The ground far below shimmered in the moonlight, and his stomach heaved. There had been no buildings this high in Sparta, and he realized with a sudden burst of panic that he feared heights. Transferring his gaze to the stone of the wall, he took several deep breaths and then looked up. The parapet was still some thirty feet above him.

His foot slipped!

Like steel pins his fingers dug into the stone as he scrabbled for a foothold.

Calm yourself
, his mind told him. But his heart was hammering as he hung above the awesome drop. Letting his body go limp, he slowly eased his right foot onto the stones, carefully seeking a crack. His arms were aching now, but he was calm once more. Levering himself up, he advanced with care until he hung just below the parapet.

He closed his eyes, listening for any sound: a soldier’s breathing or the light footfalls of a patrolling sentry. But there was nothing. Hooking his hand over the parapet, he swiftly hauled himself to the battlements and crouched in the shadows. Twenty paces to his left a Spartan soldier was leaning over the wall, staring out at the mob. To his right was a stairway leading down to the courtyard.

Stealthily he crossed the ramparts and glided down the stairs, keeping to the moon-shadowed wall.

The Cadmea was a honeycomb of buildings. Now a citadel, it had originally been the old town of Cadmos, the modern city of Thebes growing around its base. Many of the older buildings were derelict, and Parmenion shivered as he ran through deserted alleyways, feeling the ghosts of the past hovering in empty homes and gaping windows.

At the sound of marching feet, he ducked into a doorway. A rat scuttled over his bare foot, and he could hear other rodents close by. Forcing himself to remain statue-still, he waited as six soldiers marched past the ancient building.

“As weak as dog’s piss,” muttered one of the soldiers. “We should saw through the beam and crush the bastards.”

“It’s not his way,” said another. “He’s probably hiding under his bed now.”

One of the men groaned and knelt by the side of the road, vomiting. Two of the others helped the stricken man to his feet. “Better, Andros?”

“Fourth time tonight. My guts won’t take much more.”

The men moved away, and Parmenion continued toward the west, seeking out the governor’s residence. According to Pelopidas, the old dungeons were below the building. Arimanes
had his rooms on the second floor, the first being used as an eating hall for the officers.

Parmenion waited in the shadows of the building opposite, watching for sentries, but there were none. Swiftly he ran across the open ground, entering a doorway and finding himself in a torch-lit corridor. The sound of conversation came from the dining hall.

“Well-cooked meat is the answer to loose bowels,” he heard a man say.

Not this time, thought Parmenion grimly. Opposite the dining hall was another doorway with spiral stairs leading down. He ran to it and began the descent to the dungeons. There were no torches on the stairs here, but he could see flickering light below.

Moving with care, he reached the bottom stair and risked a glance into the dimly lit corridor beyond. To the right was a row of dungeons, to the left a table at which sat two guards; they were dicing for copper coins. Parmenion cursed. One guard he could have silenced, but unarmed as he was, two were beyond him.

Think, man! Be a
strategos
!

Listening to the men as they gambled, he waited for a name to be used. He felt isolated and in danger, trapped as he was on the stairs. If anyone should come from above, he was finished.

The men gambled on. “You lucky pig, Mentar!” said one of them at last.

Parmenion moved back up the spiral stairs to crouch in the darkness. “Mentar?” he called. “Come up here!”

The man muttered an obscenity, and Parmenion heard his chair scrape back across the stone floor. Mentar reached the stairs and started to run up them two at a time, but Parmenion reared up before him, smashing his fist into the man’s chin. Grabbing the soldier by the hair, Parmenion rammed his head into the wall. Mentar sagged in his arms.