Lion of Macedon (27 page)

“It does not matter. Do you know of anyone who could help him?”

Epaminondas rose. “There is a healer, an herbalist named Argonas. Last year the Guild of Physicians sought to have him expelled from the city; they say he is a fraud. But a friend of mine swears Argonas saved his life. And I know of a man, blinded in the right eye, who can now see again. I will send the physician here tonight.”

“I have heard of the man,” said Mothac. “His fees are huge. He is fat and wealthy and treats his servants worse than slaves.”

“I did not say he was pleasant company. But let us be honest, Mothac. Parmenion is dying: I cannot see him lasting another night. But do not concern yourself with thoughts of fees; I will settle them. I owe him much—all of Thebes owes him more than we can repay.”

Mothac gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Yes, I have noted how often Calepios and Pelopidas have come to see how he fares.”

“Calepios has obeyed Parmenion’s last instruction,” Epaminondas told him. “He has gone to Athens to seek their aid against Spartan vengeance. And Pelopidas is training
hoplites
, trying to build an army in case Cleombrotus comes against us. Stay here, with Parmenion. I will send Argonas. And Mothac … get some food inside you and rest awhile. It will not help your master if you fall sick.”

“I am as strong as an ox. But you are right. I will get some sleep.”

It was dusk before Argonas arrived at the small house. Mothac had fallen asleep in the courtyard, and he awoke to see an enormous figure, swathed in a red and yellow cloak, looming over him.

“Well, fellow, where is the dying man?” Argonas asked, his voice deep, seeming to echo from within the vastness of his chest.

Mothac rose. “He’s in the bedroom upstairs. Follow me.”

“I need to eat something first,” said Argonas. “Fetch me some bread and cheese. I’m famished.” The fat man sat down at the courtyard table. For a moment Mothac stood and stared, then he turned and strode to the kitchen. He sat and watched as Argonas devoured a large loaf and a selection of cheese and dried meat that would have fed a family of five for a full day. The food simply disappeared with little evidence of chewing. At last the doctor belched and leaned back, stroking crumbs from his glistening black beard. “And now a little wine,” he said. Mothac poured a goblet and passed it across the table. As Argonas reached out, his pudgy
fingers curling around the goblet, Mothac noted that each finger boasted a golden ring set with a gem.

The doctor drained the wine at a single swallow and then rose ponderously. “Now,” he said, “I am ready.”

Following Mothac to the bedroom, he stood looking down at Parmenion in the lantern light. Mothac was standing in the doorway, watching the scene. Argonas had brought no knives, and that at least was a blessing. The physician bent over the bed and reached down to touch Parmenion’s brow; as his fingers brushed against the burning skin, Argonas cried out and stumbled back.

“What is wrong with you?” asked Mothac.

Argonas did not reply at first, and his dark eyes narrowed as he looked down on the dying man. “If he lives, he will change the world,” whispered the physician. “I see the ruins of empire, the fall of nations. It might be better to leave him.”

“What’s that? Speak up, man, I can’t hear you!” said Mothac, moving to stand beside the physician.

“It was nothing. Now be silent while I examine him.” For several minutes the fat man stood in silence, his hands gently moving over Parmenion’s skull. Then he walked from the room. Mothac followed him to the courtyard.

“He has a cancer,” said Argonas, “at the center of his brain.”

“How can you tell if it is within the skull?”

“That is my skill,” responded Argonas, sitting at the table and refilling his goblet. “I traveled inside his head and found the growth.”

“Then he will die?” asked Mothac.

“That is by no means certain, but it does look likely. I have an herb with me that will prevent the cancer from growing; it is from the plant sylphium, and he must take an infusion from the herb every day of his life from now on, for the growth will not disappear. But there is something else, and that I cannot supply.”

“What?” asked Mothac as the fat man lapsed into silence.

“When you … travel … inside a man’s head, you see
many things—you feel his hopes, his dreams, you suffer his torments. He had a love—a woman called Derae—but she was taken from him. He blames himself for her loss, and he is empty inside, living only by clinging to thoughts of revenge. That kind of hope can sustain a man for a while, but revenge is a child of darkness, and in darkness there is no sustenance.”

“Can you say it simply, physician?” asked Mothac. “Just tell me what I can do.”

“I do not believe you can do anything. He needs Derae … and he cannot have her. However, on the slender chance that it may prove useful—and to earn my fee from Epaminondas—I will prepare the first infusion. You will watch and observe me closely. Too much sylphium can kill—too little, and the cancer will spread. It may help, but without Derae, I do not think he will survive.”

“If you are the mystic you claim,” sneered Mothac, “how is it you cannot speak to him, call him back?”

The fat man shook his head. “I tried,” he said softly, “but he is in a world he has created for himself, a place of darkness and terror. In it he battles demons and creatures of horror. He could not hear me—or would not.”

“These creatures you speak of—could they kill him?”

“I believe that they could. You see, my red-bearded friend, they are demons he has created. He is fighting the dark side of his own soul.”

The abyss was swirling around him as he slashed the sword of Leonidas through the throat of a man-sized scaled bat with wings of black leather. The creature spouted blood that drenched Parmenion like lantern oil, making the sword difficult to hold. He backed farther up the low hill. The creatures flew around him, keeping away from the shining sword, but the abyss lapped at his feet, swallowing the land. He glanced down to see distant fires within the pit far below, and he felt he could hear the screams of tormented souls
.

Parmenion was mortally tired, his head ablaze with pain
.

Wings flapped behind him, and he swiveled and thrust out his sword, plunging it deep into a furred belly. But the creature was upon him, its serrated teeth tearing at the flesh of his shoulder. He threw himself back, wrenching his sword clear and hacking the head from the demon’s neck. Emptiness swallowed the land beneath his legs, and Parmenion slithered to the edge of the abyss. Rolling to his stomach, he scrambled clear and ran to the brow of the hill
.

All around him, like an angry sea, the pit beckoned, closing on him slowly, inexorably
.

Above him the bats circled
.

Then he heard the voice
.

“I love you,” she said. And light streamed from the dark sky, curving into a bridge to heaven
.

Mothac stood outside the temple grounds, waiting for the woman. She had two worshipers with her, and he knew he would be here for some time. There was a fountain nearby, and he sat watching the starlight in the water of the pool below it.

Finally the men left, and he made his way to the temple entrance, cutting left into the corridor where the priestesses rented their rooms. He knocked at the door of the farthest chamber.

“Wait a moment,” came a weary voice, then the door opened. The redhead produced a bright smile from the recesses of memory.

“Welcome,” she said. “I was hoping a
real
man would come to worship.”

“I am not here to worship,” he told her, pushing past her. “I wish to hire you.”

“You contradict yourself,” she said, the painted smile fading.

“Not at all,” he rejoined, sitting down on the broad bed and trying to ignore the smell of the soiled sheet. “I have a friend who is dying—”

“I’ll not bed anyone diseased,” she snapped.

“He is not diseased, and you will not have to bed him.” Swiftly Mothac told her of Parmenion’s illness and the fears outlined by Argonas.

“And what do you expect me to do?” she asked. “I am no healer.”

“He comes to you each week, sometimes more than that. You may have seen him at the training ground. His name is Parmenion, but he runs as Leon the Macedonian.”

“I know him,” she said. “He never speaks, not even to say hello. He walks in, hands me money, uses me, and leaves. What could I do for him?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Mothac. “I thought perhaps he was fond of you.”

She laughed then. “I think you should forget him,” she said, moving to sit beside him, her hand resting on his thigh. “Your muscles are tense, and your eyes are showing exhaustion. It is you who need what I can give.” Her hand slid higher, but he grabbed her wrist.

“I have no other plan, woman. Now I will pay you for this service. Will you do it?”

“You still have not said what you require,” she answered.

He looked into her painted eyes and took a deep breath. “I want you to wash the lead and ocher from your face. I want you to bathe. Then we will go to the house.”

“It will cost you twenty drachmas,” she said, holding out her hand.

He reached into his pouch and counted out ten drachmas. “The rest when you have completed the task,” he said.

An hour later, with the moon high over the city, Mothac and the priestess entered the house. She now wore a simple white ankle-length
chiton
, a blue
chlamys
around her shoulders. Her face was scrubbed clean, and to Mothac she looked almost pretty. He led her to the bedroom and took her hand. “Do your best, woman,” he whispered, “for he means much to me.”

“My name is Thetis,” she said. “I prefer it to
woman.”

“As you wish, Thetis.”

He closed the door behind him, and Thetis walked to the bedside and let her
chiton
and shawl slip to the floor. Pulling back the sheet, she slid alongside the dying man. His body was cold. Reaching up, she touched the pulse point at his neck; the heart was still beating, but the pulse was erratic and weak. She snuggled in close to him, lifting her right leg across his thighs, her hand stroking his chest. She felt warmth being drawn from her, but still he did not stir. Her lips touched his cheek, and her hand moved farther down his body, caressing his skin. Her fingers curled around his penis, but there was no response. She kissed his lips softly, touching them with her tongue.

There was little more she could do now. Thetis was weary after a long day, and she considered dressing and claiming her ten drachmas. But she gazed down once more at the pale, gaunt face, the hawk nose, and the sunken eyes. What had the servant said? That Parmenion had lost his love and could not forget her? You fool, she thought. We all suffer lost loves. But we learn to forget; we teach ourselves to ignore the pain.

What more could she do?

Laying her head on the pillow, she put her mouth to his ear.

“I love you,” she whispered. For a moment there was no response, but then he sighed, a soft, almost inaudible escape of breath. Thetis tensed and began to rub her body against him, her fingers stroking the flesh of his inner thighs and loins. “I love you,” she said, louder now. He groaned, and she felt his penis swell in her hands.

“Come to me,” she called. “Come to … Derae.”

His body arched suddenly. “Derae?”

“I am here,” she told him. He rolled to his side, his arms drawing her to him, and kissed her with a passion Thetis had not experienced in a long time. It almost aroused her. His hands roamed across her body … searching … touching. She looked into his eyes; they were open yet unfocused, and tears were streaming from them.

“I missed you,” he said. “As if they’d torn my heart from me.”

She drew him onto her, swinging her legs over his hips and guiding him home. He slid into her and stopped; there was no sudden thrust, no pounding. Gently he dipped his head and kissed her, his tongue like moist silk upon her lips. Then he began to move, slowly, rhythmically. Thetis lost all sense of time passing, and despite herself, arousal came to her like a long-lost friend. Sweat bathed them both, and she felt him building to a climax, but he slowed once more and slid from her. She felt his lips on her breasts, then her belly, his hands on her thighs, his tongue sliding into her, soft and warm and probing. Her back arched, her eyes closed; she began to shudder and moan. Her hands reached down, holding his head to her. The climax came in a series of intense, almost painful spasms. She sank back to the bed and felt the heat of his body as he moved upon her—within her—once more. His lips touched hers, their tongues entwining, then he entered her. Unbelievably Thetis felt a second orgasm welling, and her hands pulled at his back, feeling the tension in his muscles as he drove into her with increasing passion. The spasms were even more intense than before, and she screamed but did not hear the sound. She felt the warm rush of his climax, then he slumped over her.

For a moment Thetis lay still, his dead weight upon her. Gently she pushed him to his back, seeing that his eyes were now closed. For a moment only she wondered if he had died, but his breathing was regular. She felt the pulse at his neck, which was beating strongly.

Thetis lay quietly beside the sleeping man for some minutes before silently rising from the bed. She dressed and returned to the courtyard, where Mothac sat, nursing a goblet of wine.

“Drink?” he asked, not looking up.

“Yes,” she answered softly. Pouring herself a goblet of wine, she sat opposite the Theban. “I think he will live,” she told him, forcing a smile.

“I guessed that from the noise,” he answered.

“He thought I was Derae,” she said. “I wish I was.”

“But you are not,” he said harshly, rising and scattering the ten drachmas on the table before her.

She scooped up the money and looked at the Theban. “I did what you wanted. Why are you angry with me?”

“I don’t know,” lied Mothac, forcing himself to be civil. “But thank you. I think you should go now.”

He opened the gate for her and then returned to his wine, which he downed swiftly, pouring another. Then another. But still Elea’s face floated before him.