Lion of Macedon (39 page)

“You slut!” stormed the man who held her. “You killed him!” He backhanded a blow that knocked her from her feet, then advanced on her with her own dagger.

“Leave her!” commanded the leader, a tall man dressed in a dark green
chiton
and riding boots.

“But she killed Cinon!” protested the other.

“Watch the gates! When he enters, kill him. Then you can do as you will with the woman.”

And the long night had begun. Thetis was determined that when she heard Parmenion, she would shout a warning. But the first sound was of the gate crashing open, followed by the screams of the dying.

Now Parmenion stood in the doorway, blood on his clothes, a terrible fury in his eyes.

“Put down your sword or the woman dies.”

She saw the indecision in Parmenion, watched his sword hand slowly drop. “Don’t!” she cried. “He will kill us both anyway.”

“Be silent, whore!” ordered the Spartan.

Parmenion’s sword fell to the floor. “Now kick it over here,” ordered the assassin, and Parmenion obeyed. The Spartan flung Thetis against a wall and advanced on Parmenion.

“Your time has come, traitor!” the man hissed.

Parmenion edged into the
andron
, circling away from the knifeman. “Who sent you?” he asked, his voice calm.

“I serve the king and the cause of the just,” the man replied. Suddenly he leapt, the knife flashing for Parmenion’s belly. Parmenion sidestepped to the left, throwing a punch that glanced from the man’s chin. The knife slashed by his face, cutting the skin of his shoulder.

Thetis’ head had cracked against the wall, and a thin trickle of blood was flowing from a narrow gash in her temple. Her vision was blurred, but she crawled across the floor, gathering Parmenion’s sword. Slowly she rose. Nausea swept through her. She saw Parmenion grappling with the assassin, whose back was to her. Running forward, she plunged the sword into the Spartan. He tried to turn, but Parmenion held him by the knife wrist.

Thetis fell back against a couch, the room spinning around her madly. She saw the two men struggling, the gleaming
sword jutting from the assassin’s back. Parmenion threw his weight against the killer, hurling him at the wall. The sword hilt hit the stone, driving the blade deeper into the Spartan’s back. Blood bubbled from the man’s mouth. Parmenion jumped aside as the assassin tried one last desperate lunge with his dagger. The man’s eyes closed, and he toppled to the floor.

Parmenion ran to Thetis, lifting her to the couch. “Are you all right?” he asked, his hands cradling her face.

“Yes,” she answered weakly. “Mothac … in the kitchen.”

Parmenion rose, dragging his sword clear of the dead Spartan. With the bloody blade in hand he moved through the house to the kitchen. Two bodies lay on the floor. Stepping over the first, he knelt by Mothac, touching his fingers to the man’s throat. There was a pulse! Parmenion ripped away Mothac’s bloodstained shirt to reveal two wounds, one high in the chest and the other over the left hip. The blood flow from the chest was slowing, but the bleeding from the hip showed no sign of abating. Parmenion had seen battlefield surgeons at work, and he pinched the flesh over the cut, drawing the skin together and holding it tight. He sat for some minutes with blood seeping through his fingers, but at last it began to slow.

Mothac groaned. “Lie still,” ordered Parmenion, gently releasing his hold. Blood still ran from the wound, but only as a trickle.

Returning to the
andron
, he found Thetis asleep. Leaving her, he ran to the home of Dronicus, the physician who had replaced Argonas. The man was an Athenian and notoriously brusque, but his skill was without question, and like Argonas before him, he had little use for the practice of bleeding. He was bald and beardless and so short as to appear deformed.

The two men heaved Mothac onto his bed, then Dronicus plugged the wounds, using wool smeared with sap taken from fig-tree leaves. He covered the plugs with woolen pads soaked in red wine, holding them in place with bandages of white linen.

Parmenion returned to the
andron
and knelt beside Thetis, lifting her hand and kissing her fingers.

She awoke and smiled. “Why is it so dark?” she asked him. “Can you not light a lantern?”

Sunlight was pouring in through the window, and Parmenion felt a touch like ice on his soul. He passed his hand across her face, but her eyes did not blink. He swallowed hard. “Dronicus!” he called. “Come quickly!”

“What is the matter?” asked Thetis. “Light a lantern for me.”

“In a moment, my love. In a moment.”

“Is Mothac well?”

“Yes. Dronicus!”

The doctor moved to Thetis’ side. Parmenion said nothing but passed his hand once more over her face. Dronicus reached out and touched the wound at Thetis’ temple, gently pressing it. She groaned. “Is that you, Parmenion?” Her voice was slurred now.

“I am here,” he whispered, holding her hand.

“I thought we were going to die, that all our happiness would be ended. And then I thought: That is the price for the years we had. The gods do not like us to be happy for too long. I know this sounds strange, but I realized I had no regrets. You brought me back to life, you made me smile and laugh. But now … we have … won again. And there will be more years. Parmenion?”

“Yes?”

“I love you. Do you mind my saying that?”

“I don’t mind,” he whispered. He glanced at Dronicus, but the man’s expression was unreadable. “What is wrong?” Parmenion mouthed the words without a sound.

Dronicus rose but gestured for Parmenion to remain. The doctor walked out into the courtyard and sat in the sunshine.

“Do you love me?” asked Thetis, her voice suddenly clear.

Parmenion found his throat swelling, tears burning at his eyes. “Yes,” he said.

“I can’t … hear … you. Parmenion? Par …” Her breath sighed away.

“Thetis!” he shouted, but she did not stir. Her eyes stared at him. Dronicus returned silently and pressed her eyelids closed. Taking Parmenion by the arm, he led the dazed Spartan out into the sunlight.

“Why? There was only a small wound.”

“Her skull was crushed at the temple. I am sorry, Parmenion. I do not know what else to say. But take comfort that she did not suffer; she did not know she was dying. And try to remember what she said about your life together. Few people know such happiness.”

Parmenion ignored him. He sat down at the courtyard table and stared at the purple flowers growing by the wall. He did not stir even when Menidis and a squad of Theban soldiers arrived to clear away the bodies of the assassins. The elderly officer sat opposite him.

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

Parmenion did so calmly, mechanically. He did not even notice when Menidis stood and walked away.

Pelopidas found him there at dusk. The Theban general sat beside him.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said. “Truly. But you must rouse yourself, Parmenion. I need you. Thebes needs you. Cleombrotus is in the north with twelve thousand men. Chaireas and his men have been slaughtered, and the road to Thebes is open.”

Epaminondas sat alone on the ridge, gazing down at the Spartan army camped on the plain of Leuctra, a day’s march east of Thebes. Slowly he undid the chin strap on his simple iron helmet and removed it, laying it on the stony slope as he sat watching the distant campfires.

As the breeze gusted and veered, he could hear laughter from the Spartan camp and hear the whinnying of their horses picketed beyond the fires.

Tomorrow loomed in his mind like the half-remembered monsters of his childhood dreams. For more than fifteen of his thirty-seven years Epaminondas had worked, conspired,
risked his life in the service of Thebes to free the city he loved from Spartan rule. And he had come so close.

So close …

Now he faced an army of twelve thousand men—twice the combined Boeotian force—and the future of Thebes hung like a fragile jewel, suspended over a fiery abyss.

In Sparta he had allowed himself to dream of golden days. Agisaleus had been convivial—even friendly—and the negotiations had moved smoothly ahead … until that bitter moment when he had seen the change to the treaty of peace. And then Epaminondas had been caught like a fish in the net. To sign would mean the end of Boeotia. Not to sign would herald a new invasion.

Drawing in a deep breath, he closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the advice of his generals, but all he could see was the Spartan army, the finest fighting men in all of Greece—all the world.

He thought of Parmenion’s plan, but dismissed it from his mind.

Hearing a sound from behind, he looked up to see the Thespian general, Ictinus. The man was young and slender, his iron armor polished to shine like silver. Epaminondas said nothing. Ictinus irritated him, but as the elected representative of Thespiae, he had to be tolerated.

“We will not engage them in open battle, will we, Epaminondas?” asked Ictinus. “My men are concerned. Not for their lives, of course, which they would willingly give … willingly give. But … it would be folly. Tell me you are not considering this course.”

“I am considering all possibilities, sir, and I shall present my views to the seven at the agreed time. Now, if you will leave me to think.”

“Yes, yes. But we could hold the ridge? Yes. That would be good, sound strategy, I think—”

“I will see you in an hour, Ictinus, with the other Boeotarchs,” snapped Epaminondas. The man bowed and walked away, but almost immediately the Theban general thought he
heard him return. “For the sake of the gods!” he stormed. “Will you leave me alone?”

“You need a drink,” said Pelopidas, smiling broadly and thumping the back of Epaminondas’ breastplate.

“I am sorry. I thought it was that fool Ictinus.”

“Whatever happens tomorrow, my friend, I think your strategy should ignore the Thespians. They will run if the Spartans so much as shout at them.”

“Which leaves us with around five and a half thousand fighting men—against twelve thousand. Good odds, don’t you think?”

Pelopidas shrugged. “I do not care how many there are. Tomorrow we crush them.” He hawked and spit on the rocks. “I like Parmenion’s plan.”

Epaminondas closed his eyes for a moment. “He has been deranged since Thetis was murdered. I cannot consider it. To gamble all we have on a single move, to risk annihilation? Do not take this wrongly, Pelopidas, but would you attack a lion with a brooch pin?”

“Why would a lion have a brooch pin?” asked Pelopidas, grinning.

Epaminondas chuckled. “If all the men were like you, I would not hesitate to follow Parmenion’s advice. But they are not, Pelopidas. You are … special, perhaps even unique. I cannot take the risk.”

“Ask yourself why,” Pelopidas suggested.

“You know why. All we have worked for is at risk.”

“That is not an answer, and you know it. Either the strategy is a good one or it is not. You cannot plan a battle on anything else. Are you saying that if nothing rested on the outcome you would try the plan?”

“Perhaps I am.” Epaminondas laughed. “But the truth is that I am frightened out of my wits.”

“Think on this: If Parmenion had not realized the Spartans were planning to invade, you would have had no army to block the passes at Coronea. Even so, they captured Creusis and our precious triremes. That dealt a blow to our pride—
and to our credibility. The league is tottering. If we do not deliver a crushing blow, we will be finished anyway. Thebes will fall. And this time Agisaleus has promised to raze the city, selling every man, woman, and child into slavery. I would not want to live to see that. Would you?”

Epaminondas pushed himself to his feet. His right knee ached, and he rubbed warmth into it. “Even if I did agree,” he said, “we would never be able to convince the other Boeotarchs.”

“I have already convinced Bachylides of Megara. With you, that makes three of the seven. We could carry the vote, I am sure of it.”

“Such a tactic has never been tried,” argued Epaminondas.

“Oh, but it has,” said Pelopidas, straight-faced. “Parmenion told me he once won a game with it in Sparta.”

For a moment Epaminondas stood and stared at his lifelong friend, then he began to laugh. Pelopidas joined in, and the sounds of their merriment echoed through the silent camp.

It was close to noon before the Spartans and their allies marched out into the center of the plain, taking up their battle formation, challenging the Boeotians to confront them.

Epaminondas looked to his right and watched his army preparing to march. On the extreme right were the Thespians under Ictinus, forming their phalanx behind Parmenion and the four hundred horsemen. At the center the Sacred Band, and behind them javeliners and archers. Epaminondas himself stood in the fifth rank of the Theban contingent, four thousand strong, well armored with breastplates and helms, metal-edged leather kilts, and bronze greaves to protect the shins. Each man carried a large bronze-rimmed shield of leather-covered wood. Epaminondas drew his short stabbing sword and hitched up his shield, his voice ringing out.

“Forward! For Thebes and glory!”

The army began to move.

The Theban general tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He could feel his heart beating like a ragged drum, and such was his tension that his legs trembled as he sought to keep pace with the men at either side. From here there was no going back.

The arguments had raged long into the night, not helped by a curious accident. As Epaminondas had sat down in the tent to address the seven generals, his chair had collapsed beneath him, sprawling him to the floor. At first only nervous laughter greeted him, but then Ictinus said, “It is a bad omen, Epaminondas. Very bad.” The other Boeotarchs had looked nervous.

“Yes, it is an omen,” snapped Epaminondas, rising. “We are commanded not to sit idle but to stand like men.” Then he had outlined the battle plan.

“You cannot have thought this through,” said Ictinus. “The Spartans are deadly. If we must attack, then let us hit their left, where the Orchomenans stand. Smash their allies and isolate Cleombrotus.”

“And what do you think Cleombrotus will be doing while we march upon his left?” Epaminondas asked. “I’ll tell you: He will wheel the regiments and crush us. No, I propose to strike at the head of the snake.”