Lion of Macedon (26 page)

Lowering the unconscious soldier to the steps, Parmenion
moved back to the dungeon corridor. The second man was sitting with his back to the stairs, whistling tunelessly and rolling dice. Moving behind him, Parmenion hammered a blow to the man’s neck; the guard fell forward, his head bouncing against the tabletop.

The dungeon doors were thick oak, locked by the simplest means—a wooden bar that slid across the frame. Only two of the doors were locked in this way: Polysperchon was in the first. Parmenion entered the dungeon to find the Theban asleep; his face was bruised and bloody, and the room stank of vomit and excrement. The Theban was small, and Parmenion hauled him to his feet, pulling him out to the corridor.

“No more,” he pleaded.

“I am here to rescue you,” whispered Parmenion. “Take heart!”

“Rescue? Have we taken the Cadmea?”

“Not yet,” Parmenion answered, opening the second door. Epaminondas was awake but in an even worse state than Polysperchon. His eyes were mere slits, his face swollen almost beyond recognition.

Parmenion helped him to the corridor, but the Theban sank to the floor, his legs unable to take his weight. In the torchlight Parmenion gazed down at his friend’s swollen limbs: the calves had been beaten with sticks.

“You’ll not be able to climb,” said Parmenion. “I’ll have to hide you.”

“They’ll search everywhere,” muttered Polysperchon.

“Let us hope not,” Parmenion snapped.

Within the hour the Spartan was once more running alone through the deserted streets. Climbing the rampart steps, he tied his rope to a marble seat and then clambered to the wall.

“You there!” shouted a sentry. “Stop!”

Parmenion leapt over the ramparts and slid down the rope, his hands burning. Above him the sentry ran to the rope, hacking at it with his sword. It parted and sailed over the wall.

Far below Parmenion grabbed for a handhold, his fingers hooking into a crack just as the rope went slack. Carefully he climbed down and returned to the tent of Calepios.

“Well?” asked the orator.

“They are safe,” whispered Parmenion.

At dawn inside the citadel Arimanes sat doubled over, clutching his belly. He had lost count of the number of times he had vomited during the night, and now only yellow bile filled the bowl at his side. Of more than seven hundred and eighty men under his command, five hundred were so stricken that they could not walk, and the rest moved around like walking wounded, their faces gray, their eyes lifeless. If the Thebans decided to attack today, he realized, his force would be overpowered within minutes.

An aide knocked at his door, and Arimanes struggled to his feet, stifling a groan. “Come in,” he said, the effort of speaking making his stomach tremble.

A young officer entered; he, too, looked white. “We have searched the entire Cadmea. The prisoners must have escaped.”

“Impossible!” shouted Arimanes. “Epaminondas could hardly walk, let alone climb. And only one man was seen going over the wall.”

“There is nowhere left to search, sir,” the man told him.

Arimanes sank back to his couch. Surely the gods had damned him. He had planned to execute the traitors as a warning to the mob that Sparta would not be threatened. Now he had no prisoners and commanded a force too weak to defend the walls.

A second officer entered the room. “Sir, the Thebans want to send a man in to discuss … the situation.”

Arimanes tried to think, but logical thought was difficult when bowels and belly were in revolt. “Tell them yes,” he ordered, staggering back into the latrine and squatting over the open pipe.

He felt a little better then and returned to his couch, stretching himself out on his side with knees drawn up. He had not wanted this commission, hating Thebes and all its depravities, but his father had insisted that it was an honor to command a Spartan garrison no matter where it was stationed. Arimanes ran a slender hand through his thinning blond hair. What he would not give for a drink of cool, clean water. Damn those Thebans to Hades and the fires therein!

Minutes later the officer returned, ushering in a tall young man with dark hair and closely set blue eyes. Arimanes recognized him as the runner Leon the Macedonian, by all accounts a mix-blood Spartan. “Sit down,” he whispered.

The man stepped forward, holding out a stone flagon. “The water is clean,” said the messenger.

Arimanes took it and drank. “Why did they pick you?” he asked, holding on to the flagon.

“I am half-Spartan by birth, sir, as perhaps you know,” said Parmenion smoothly, “but I live in Thebes now. They thought that, perhaps, I could be trusted.”

“And can you?”

The man shrugged. “It seems an easy task. There is no need for deceit.”

“What are their plans, man? Will they attack?”

“I do not know, sir. But they have killed all pro-Spartan councillors.”

“What did they tell you to say?”

“That they will promise safe conduct for you and your men to the edge of the city. They have set tents there with fresh food and a physician who has an antidote to the poison you have taken.”

“Poison?” whispered Arimanes. “Poison, you say?”

“Yes. It is a disgusting ploy—typical of Thebans,” said Parmenion. “It is slow-acting but will kill within five days. That is why, I suspect, they have not attacked before now.”

“Can they be trusted, do you think? Why should they not slay us as soon as we … we …?” He could not bring himself
to say the word “surrender.” “As soon as we leave,” he said at last.

“They have heard,” said Parmenion, edging forward and lowering his voice, “that Cleombrotus has two regiments north of Corinth. He could be here in three days. I think they will let you go rather than risk the king marching upon them.”

Arimanes groaned and doubled over. His mind reeled with pain, and nausea made him gag. The messenger picked up an empty bowl and held it while the officer vomited, then Arimanes wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “They will give us an antidote?”

“I believe the man Calepios can be trusted,” said Parmenion soothingly. “And after all, there is no disgrace in leaving the city. Sparta was invited to have a garrison here, but now the city has changed its mind. It is for kings and councillors to work out a solution. Soldiers merely obey the orders of the great; they do not create the policies.”

“True,” Arimanes agreed.

“What shall I tell the Thebans?”

“Tell them I agree. It will take us time to saw through the crossbar on the gate, but then I will march my men from the city.”

“Sadly, sir, the gates are out of the question. In their excitement the mob have nailed them shut with timbers. Calepios suggests that you descend by ropes, twenty men at a time.”

“Ropes!” snapped Arimanes. “You want us to leave by
rope
?”

“It shows how much the Thebans fear you,” said Parmenion. “Even in your weakened state they know a Spartan force could crush them. It is a compliment of sorts.”

“Curse them to the fires of Hades! But tell them I agree.”

“A wise choice, sir. And one you will not regret, I am sure.”

Two hours later, as the last of the Spartans left the Cadmea, Parmenion waited as Norac and the others stripped the timbers from the gates, sawing through the crossbar beyond. The gates swung open.

Pelopidas ran into the courtyard, raising his fists in the air. “They are beaten!” he bellowed, and the crowd cheered. Turning to Parmenion, he grabbed the Spartan by the shoulders. “Now tell me where you hid our friends.”

“They are in the dungeons still.”

“But you said they were freed!”

“No, I said they were safe. The Spartans were bound to search the Cadmea, but I hoped they would not consider such a bizarre hiding place. I merely moved them to a cell at the far end of the corridor. Take a doctor with you, for Epaminondas has been harshly treated.”

As Pelopidas and a dozen men ran to the governor’s house, Mothac approached Parmenion. “What will happen to the Spartan commander?” he asked.

“They will execute him,” answered Parmenion. “Then they will march on Thebes. We still have much to do.”

That night, as the sound of riotous celebration filled the air, Parmenion opened the gates of his home, staggered into the courtyard, and collapsed in the doorway of the
andron
. Mothac found him there in the early hours of the morning and carried him to the master bedroom.

Three times in the night Parmenion awoke, on the third occasion to find Horas the physician looming over him. The doctor cut into Parmenion’s arm with a small curved knife. The Spartan tried to struggle free, but Mothac helped Horas hold him down. Once more Parmenion passed out.

His dreams were many, but one returned again and again. In it he was climbing a winding stair, seeking Derae. As he struggled on, the stairs behind him disappeared, leaving a dark abyss. He walked on toward a room within which he knew Derae was waiting, but then he stopped. For the abyss was growing, and he realized with dawning horror that he was drawing it with him. If he opened the door to the room, the abyss would swallow it. Not knowing what to do to save his love, he stepped from the stair and fell, plunging into the darkness of the pit.

* * *

Mothac sat beside the bed, looking down at the pale face of his unconscious master. Against the advice of the physician, the Theban had opened the shutters of the window to see Parmenion’s features more clearly. The Spartan looked gray under his tan, his eyes sunken and his cheeks hollow. When Mothac placed his hand on Parmenion’s chest, the heartbeat was fluttering and weak.

During the first two days Parmenion had slept, Mothac was unconcerned. Each day he helped the physician, Horas, bleed the Spartan, trusting in Horas, who explained that the retaking of the Cadmea had drained Parmenion of strength and he was merely resting.

But now, on the fourth day, Mothac no longer believed it.

The flesh was melting away from Parmenion’s face, and there was no sign of a return to consciousness. Filling a goblet with cool water, Mothac lifted Parmenion’s head, holding the goblet to his lips. The water dribbled from the sleeping man’s mouth, and the Theban gave up.

Hearing the gate below creak open, he walked to the door. Horas entered the house, climbing the stairs to the bedroom, where he unrolled his pack of knives. Mothac looked hard at the tall, thin physician; he did not like surgeons but envied them their knowledge. Never would he have believed he would ever defy such a skilled and clever man. But today he knew there would be no further bloodletting, and he stepped over to the physician.

“Put away your knife,” he said.

“What’s this?” inquired Horas. “He needs bleeding. Without it he will die.”

“He’s dying anyway,” said Mothac. “Leave him be.”

“Nonsense,” said Horas, lifting a skeletal hand and attempting to push Mothac aside. But the servant stood his ground, his face reddening.

“I had a wife, master physician. She, too, was bled daily, until she died. I’ll not see Parmenion follow her. You said he was resting, recovering his strength. But you were wrong.
Now you can go.” He glanced down at the doctor’s hand, which still rested against his chest.

Horas hastily removed his hand, replaced his knife, and rolled his pack. “You are interfering in matters you do not understand,” he said. “I shall go to the justices and have you forcibly removed from this room.”

Mothac grabbed the man’s blue tunic, hauling him close. All color drained from his face, and his eyes shone like green fire. Horas blanched as he gazed into them.

“What you will do, Doctor, is go away from here. If you take any action that results in the death of Parmenion, I will hunt you down and cut out your heart. Do you understand me?”

“You are insane,” Horas whispered.

“No, I am not. I am merely a man who keeps his promises. Now go!” And Mothac hurled the physician toward the door.

After the man had gone, Mothac settled down in the chair beside the bed. He had no idea what to do, and a sense of rising panic set his hands trembling.

Surprised by his reaction, he looked down at Parmenion’s face, aware for the first time how much he loved the man he served. How curious, he thought. Parmenion was in many ways a distant man, his thoughts and dreams a mystery to Mothac; they rarely talked of deep matters, never joked with one another, never discussed their secret longings. Mothac leaned back and gazed out of the window, remembering the first night he had come to the house of Epaminondas, the death of Elea like a hot knife in his heart. Parmenion had sat with him silently, and he had felt his companionship, felt his caring without the need for words.

The three years he had served Parmenion had been happy ones, to his amazement. Thoughts of Elea remained, but the jagged sharp edges of hurt had rounded, allowing him at least to recall the times of joy.

The creaking gate cut through his thoughts, and he rose,
drawing his dagger. If the doctor had brought back officers of the watch, then he would see what it meant when Mothac made a promise!

The door opened, and Epaminondas entered. The Theban’s face was swollen, his eyes dark and bruised. He walked slowly to the bedside and looked down at the sleeping man.

“No better?” he asked Mothac.

The servant sheathed his blade. “No. I stopped the physician bleeding him; he has threatened to go to the justices.”

Epaminondas eased his tortured body into a chair. “Calepios tells me that Parmenion suffered terrible pains in the head.”

“It happens sometimes,” Mothac told him, “especially after races. The pain was intense, and on occasion he would almost lose his sight. Parmenion told me only a month ago that the attacks were increasing.”

Epaminondas nodded. “I had a letter from a friend in Sparta; his name is Xenophon. He was Parmenion’s mentor for several years, and he witnessed the first attack. The physician then believed there was some growth in Parmenion’s skull. I hope he does not die. I would like to thank him. I could not have taken much more … punishment.”

“He won’t die,” said Mothac.

Epaminondas said nothing for a while, then he looked up at the servant. “I was wrong about you, my friend,” he admitted.