Lion of Macedon

Thebes, Autumn, 379 BC

Ordering Mothac to stay at the house, Parmenion headed for the west of the city and the home of the councillor Calepios. An elderly servant led him to a small room with three couches and asked him to wait. After several minutes another servant entered, bowed and led the Spartan along a corridor to an elaborately decorated andron, the walls covered with Persian rugs and hangings, the floor boasting a colourful mosaic showing Heracles slaying the Nemean Lion.

There were nine couches set around the room and two servants stood by, holding pitchers of wine and water, as the master of the house reclined, apparently reading from a large scroll. Calepios looked up as Parmenion entered, and adopted the expression of a man pleasantly surprised to see an old friend. Parmenion was not fooled by the scene; there was tension in the air, and Calepios'

eyes showed fear.

'Welcome to my house, young Leon,' said the councillor, tossing aside the scroll and rising. He was not a tall man, yet he was imposing in a subtle way. His eyes were deep green under shaggy brows, and his beard was carefully curled in the Persian fashion. But it was his voice which gave him power, deep and vibrant. 'To what do I owe this pleasure?'

'May we talk alone?' asked Parmenion.

'We are alone,' said Calepios, unconsciously betraying his noble birth. For him, servants were as much a pan of the house as tables and couches.

Parmenion flicked a glance at the wine carriers and Calepios waved the men away. As the doors closed, the councillor beckoned Parmenion to the couch beside him and both men sat.

'How close are your plans to fruition?' asked Parmenion.

'Plans, my boy? What do you mean?'

'We have little time, sir, for playing games. Polysperchon and Epaminondas have been arrested. But then you know this. You are gambling that they will say nothing of your involvement in the plan to retake the Cadmea. Now I ask again, how close are you?'

Calepios' green eyes locked to Parmenion's face, and his own features tightened. 'Epaminondas trusted you,' he said softly, 'but there is no way I can help you. I don't know what you are talking about.'

Parmenion smiled. 'Then perhaps the man who was with you a moment ago can offer us some advice.'

He turned his head and looked back over his shoulder to a long, embroidered curtain. 'Perhaps you would like to come out, sir, and join us.'

The curtains parted and a tall man stepped into view. Broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, his bronzed arms showed many scars. His face was square-cut and darkly handsome, his eyes so deep a brown that they appeared black. He smiled grimly. 'You are observant, Parmenion,' commented the newcomer.

'Even an accomplished drinker does not have two pitchers of wine and two servants by his side,'

said the Spartan. 'And this couch still retained the heat from your body. You are Pelopidas?'

'Observant and sharp-witted,' said Pelopidas, moving to a nearby couch and reclining on his side.

He picked up a goblet of wine and sipped it. 'What would you have us tell you?'

Parmenion looked at the man who had fought side by side with Epaminondas, suffering seven great wounds and yet surviving, the man who with only thirty companions had fought off 200 Arcadians in a pitched battle. Pelopidas looked exactly what he was: a peerless fighter, a man made for war. 'A long time ago Epaminondas asked me to prepare a plan to take the Cadmea. I have done so. I was merely waiting for him to announce the time; it can be brought into operation within a day. But it depends upon the resources available.'

'I take it you mean men,' said Pelopidas.

'Exactly. But men who understand discipline and the necessity for timing.'

'We have more than 400 men in the city, and within minutes of a general insurrection there will be thousands of Thebans on the streets, marching upon the Cadmea. I think we can kill a few hundred Spartans.'

'My plan involves no killing of Spartans,' said Par-menion.

'Are you mad?' Pelopidas asked. 'These are Spartan warriors — you think they will give up without a fight?'

'Yes,' answered Parmenion simply.

'How?' put in Calepios. 'It would be against all tradition.'

'First,' said Parmenion quietly, 'let us examine the alternatives. We can storm the Cadmea, and -

perhaps — take it. By killing the Spartans we give Agisaleus no choices. He will bring the army to Thebes and retake the city, putting to death all who had a part in the insurrection. You will have no time to gather an army of your own. The retaking of the Cadmea in those circumstances would be the worst folly.'

'You speak like a coward!' snapped Pelopidas. 'We can raise an army — and I do not believe the Spartans are invincible in battle.'

'Neither do I,' said Parmenion, holding his voice at an even pitch. 'But there is a way to retake the Cadmea — without a battle.'

'This is all nonsense,' said Pelopidas. 'I'll listen to no more of it.'

'It must be fascinating,' said Parmenion quietly, as the warrior rose, 'to have a body like a god without a mind to match it.'

'You dare insult me?' stormed Pelopidas, the colour draining from his face as his hand reached for the dagger at his side.

'Draw that blade and you die,' Parmenion told him. 'And after you Epaminondas will die, and Thebes will remain in chains or be destroyed utterly.' Holding to the man's gaze Parmenion rose.

'Understand this,' he said, his voice shaking with repressed emotion, 'my entire life is devoted to one dream — the destruction of Sparta. For years I have been forced to wait for my vengeance, learning patience while the talons of rage tore at my soul. Now the first moment of my revenge is close. Can you imagine how much I want to see the Spartans in the Cadmea slain? How my heart cries out for them to be humbled, cut down, their bodies thrown out to feed the crows? But there is no point to petty vengeance when the greater dream lives on. First we free Thebes, then we plan for the great day. Now, Pelopidas, be silent — and learn.'

Swinging away from the warrior he turned to Calepios, outlining his plan and watching the man's every expression. The councillor was intelligent, with a keen mind, and Parmenion needed his support. Choosing his words with care the Spartan spoke quietly, answering every question Calepios put to him. Then he turned to Pelopidas.

'What now is your view, warrior?' he asked.

Pelopidas shrugged. 'Sitting here it sounds good, but I don't know how it will work in reality.

And I still think the Spartans will bring an army.'

'So do I,' agreed Parmenion, 'but they may not fight. I think Agisaleus will seek the support of Athens. The Spartans took the Cadmea three years ago because pro-Spartan dissidents in the city invited them here. They have always argued that they are guests — friends. It makes a lie of that if- when asked to leave — they return to do battle.'

'What do you require?' asked Calepios.

'First, a doctor, or a herbalist, and also the name of the man who supplies provisions to the Spartans. Next, you must prepare a speech, to be delivered in the main square tomorrow an hour before dusk.'

'And what of me?' Pelopidas asked.

'You will kill every pro-Spartan councillor,' said Par-menion, dropping his voice.

'Sweet Zeus!' whispered Calepios. 'Murder? Is there no other way?'

'There are five of them,' Parmenion said. 'Two are good orators. Leave them alive and Sparta will use them as the lever to bring down the insurrection. After the Cadmea is taken, the city must be seen to be united. They must die.'

'But one of them, Cascus, is my cousin. I grew up with him,' said Calepios. 'He is not a bad man.'

'He has chosen the wrong side,' stated Parmenion, shrugging his shoulders, 'and that makes him bad. For Thebes to be free the five must die. But all Spartan soldiers outside the citadel must be taken alive and brought to the Cadmea.'

'What then?' asked Pelopidas.

'Then we will free them,' answered the Spartan.

Mothac was awakened by a hand pushing at his shoulder. 'What in Hades?' he grumbled as he sat up, pushing away the insistent hand.

'I need you,' said Parmenion.

Mothac glanced out of the window. 'But it is not dawn yet.' He scratched at his red beard, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Swinging his legs from the bed, he rose unsteadily and reached for his chiton. 'What is happening?'

'Freedom,' answered Parmenion. 'I will await you in the andran.'

Mothac dressed and splashed his face with cold water. He had downed several goblets of unwatered wine before retiring, and now they were reminding him of his stupidity. He belched, took a deep breath, then joined Parmenion in the small andron. The Spartan looked tired; dark rings were showing under his eyes.

'We are going to free Epaminondas today, but first there are many matters to be resolved. Do you know the man Amta?'

'The meat merchant in the south-western quarter. What of him?'

'You will go to the surgeon, Horas, and collect from him a package of herbs. You will take them to Amta; there you will be met by a tall warrior, dark-bearded. He will tell you what must be done.'

'Herbs? Meat merchants? What has this to do with freeing Epaminondas?'

Parmenion ignored the question. 'When you have accomplished your task you will accompany the warrior. He is a known and wanted man. He must not be taken, therefore he will use you — and others — to take messages across the city. Do as he bids — whatever the request.'

'You are talking of revolt," said Mothac, his voice dropping to a whisper.

'Yes. Exactly that.'

'What of the officers of the watch? There are more than 200 soldiers patrolling the city.'

'Theban soldiers. Let us hope they remember that. Now go. We have little time and there are people I must see.'

Mothac took his dark green cloak and swung it round his shoulders. 'Take a sword and a dagger,'

Parmenion advised him, and he nodded.

Minutes later he was at the house of Horas the physician, where a man was waiting in the shadowed doorway. He was tall, and skeletally thin. Mothac approached him and bowed. 'Greetings, doctor.

You have a package for me?'

The man glanced nervously at the darkened street, his eyes flicking from side to side. 'There is no one but me, I assure you,' said Mothac.

'This package did not come from me. You understand that?'

'Of course.'

'Now use it sparingly. Sprinkle it carefully over the meat. Try not to get it on your fingers, but if you do then wash them with care.'

'It is poison then?' whispered Mothac, surprised.

'Of course it is not poison!' snapped the physician. 'You think I became a doctor so that I could kill people? It is what the lords asked for: purgatives and vomiting powders. Now get you gone from here. And remember, I have no part in this!'

Mothac took the package and headed towards the north of the city. As he turned a corner near the agora, a soldier stepped out in his path.

'Where are you going, friend?' he asked. Three other soldiers of the watch came into view.

'I am heading home, sir,' answered Mothac, smiling. 'Is there trouble?'

'You are well armed for an evening's stroll,' the man observed.

'It pays to be careful,' Mothac told him.

The soldier nodded. 'Pass on,' he said.

When Mothac arrived at the home of Amta the Butcher-a large building set close to the slaughter-yard and warehouse — he halted at the main gates, searching the shadows for the man he was to meet.

'You are Mothac?' came a voice from behind him. Mothac dropped the package and whirled, scrabbling for his sword. Cold iron touched his throat.

'I am,' he replied. 'And you?'

'I? I am none of your concern. Pick up the package and let us awaken our friend.'

The gate was not locked and the tall warrior eased it open, then the two men crept across the courtyard and into the house beyond. All was in darkness, but moonlight was shining through an open window and they could make out the staircase by the eastern wall. Mothac followed his nameless companion up into the second storey to a bedroom facing east, where the man opened the door and stepped inside. In a broad bed on a raised platform lay a fat man, snoring heavily. The warrior moved alongside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. The snoring ceased and Mothac saw Amta's eyes flick open. The warrior's knife rested on the fat man's quivering jowls. 'Good morning,' said the warrior, with a smile. 'It will be a fine day.'

'What do you want?'

'I want you to show that you love Thebes.'

'I do. All men know that.'

'And yet you supply food to the Spartan garrison?' 'I am a merchant. I cannot refuse to sell my merchandise. I would be arrested, called a traitor.'

'It is all a question of perspectives, dear Amta. You see, we are going to free Thebes. And then we will call you a traitor.'

The fat man eased himself to a sitting position, trying not to look at the knife poised above his throat. 'That would be unfair,' he protested, his voice regaining composure. 'You could not accuse every man who deals with Spartans, or all shop-owners and merchants — yes, and even whores would be under sentence. Who are you?' 'I am Pelopidas.'

'What do you require of me?' the fat man asked, fear returning with the sweat that suddenly appeared on his face.

'What time do you prepare the meat for the garrison?' 'An hour before dawn. Then my lads pull it up to the Cadmea on a cart.'

'Then let us be about our business,' said Pelopidas, sheathing his dagger.

'What has my meat to do with freeing Thebes?' 'We have some herbs with us, to add to the flavour.'

'But if you poison them I'll get the blame. You can't!' 'It is not poison, fool!' hissed Pelopidas. 'Would that it were! Now get out of that bed and take us to your storeroom.'

Three hours after dawn Parmenion still had not slept. He waited at the entrance to the smithy, his mind whirling with thoughts which became problems and problems which became fears.

What if?

What if the Spartans saw that the meat was doctored? What if Pelopidas was caught salting the water? What if the news of the plot leaked out?

Parmenion's head was pounding, and the early-morning sunshine hurt his eyes; feeling nauseous and unsteady, he sat down in the roadside. Ever since the day he had rescued Derae he had suffered periodic head pain, but during the last two years the bouts had increased — in both regularity and intensity. At times even his Spartan training could not help him overcome the agony, and he had taken to drinking poppy juice when the attacks became unbearable. But today there was no time for the sleep of opium and he tried to ignore the pain.

The smith, Norac, came walking into the street minutes later. He was a huge man, wide-shouldered and bull-necked. Parmenion rose to greet him. 'You're early, young man,' said Norac, 'but if you think to arrange speedy work, forget it. I have a full order book.'

'I need twenty iron spikes by midday, each one the length of a man's forearm,' Parmenion told him.

'You are not listening, my young friend. I cannot take any more work for this week.'

Parmenion stared into the man's deep-set brown eyes. 'Listen to me, Norac, you are said to be a man who can be trusted. I am sent by Pelopidas. You understand? The watchword is Heracles.'

The smith's eyes narrowed. 'For what purpose do you need the spikes?'

'To nail shut the Cadmea gates. We also need men to wield the hammers.'

'Hera's tits, boy! You are not asking much, are you! You'd better come inside.'

The smithy was deserted. Norac walked to the forge, adding tinder to the hot ashes inside and blowing the flames to life. 'The spikes will be no problem,' he said. 'But how do we hammer them home without the Spartans falling upon us?'

'Speed and skill. Once the crossbar is in place, six men will run to the gates.' Parmenion walked to the far wall, lifting a spear-haft from a stack awaiting iron heads. Standing the haft on its end he drew his dagger, slashing two cuts into the wood. 'That is the height and thickness of the crossbar. The gates are oak, old, weathered and thick as the length of a man's hand. Could you pierce one in six strikes?'

Norac flexed his prodigious muscles. 'Aye, boy, I could. But most others will need seven or eight.'

Parmenion nodded. 'You can double the speed by having four men with hammers at each gate. But the timing is vital. The moment of greatest danger will come when the crowd is marching upon the Cadmea — it is then that the commander will consider sending out an armed force.'

'I'll see the deed done,' promised Norac, and Parmenion smiled.

'The gates are usually shut at dusk. Bring the spikes to the house of Calepios by midday, no later. And have eleven strong men with you.'

Parmenion left the smithy and walked slowly to Calepios' home. The statesman was eating breakfast and asked Parmenion to join him, but the Spartan refused. 'Have you heard from Pelopidas?' he asked.

'Not yet. You look dreadful, man; your face has lost all colour. Are you ill?'

'I am fine. Merely tired. The word about your speech must be spread through the city. We need as many people as possible to hear it.'

'You said that last night. It is all in hand, my friend.'

'Yes, of course.' Parmenion filled a goblet with water and sipped it.

'Go inside and sleep for a while,' advised Calepios. 'I will wake you when Pelopidas returns.'

'Later. How many men will be watching the city gates? No one must leave until Thebes is ours.'

'There will be ten men per gate. Have no fears; everything is as you planned it.'

'Some people will bring bows to the Cadmea, hoping for a chance to loose an arrow at a Spartan.

All but our own men must be disarmed. There must be no unplanned assault.'

Pelopidas and Mothac entered the courtyard and Parmenion stood. 'Well?' he asked.

'Mothac and I delivered the food. As you thought, we were left to ourselves in the store-room. I salted the water barrels; there were ten of them. We ran out of salt for the last barrel and I thought of urinating in it, but instead we tipped it over the floor.'

'Good! Well done,' said Parmenion, sinking back to his seat. 'Then we are ready. Have you planned your speech?' he asked Calepios.

'Yes,' answered the statesman, 'and I will deliver it at the agora just before dusk. There will be a great crowd. Now will you get some rest?'

Parmenion ignored his plea and turned to Pelopidas. 'What of the councillors?'

The warrior sat down on the bench seat alongside Parmenion. 'The gods are with us, Parmenion. I am told they will all be at a celebration at the house of Alexandras. They are gathering there at midday; they will eat and drink

— and then send out for whores. We will kill them all — save Calepios' cousin, Cascus.'

'No!' snapped Parmenion. 'All must die!'

'Cascus is no longer in the city,' said Pelopidas, swinging his eyes to Calepios. 'By a strange stroke of luck, he left two hours ago for his summer estate near Corinth.'

Parmenion's fist slammed to the table-top and his eyes locked to Calepios' face. 'You warned him.

You put everything in jeopardy.'

The statesman shrugged and spread his hands. 'I do not deny asking him to leave the city, but I did not betray anyone. I told Cascus of a dream I had had for three nights, that he died. I told him I had been to the seeress about it, and she had said he had to make a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Hecate at Corinth. All men know how religious Cascus is

— he left immediately.'

'It was foolish, Calepios,' Parmenion told him. 'If we do retake the city, then Cascus will run to the Spartans and they will use him as a figurehead to march upon us. You may have doomed us all.'

The statesman nodded his head. 'I have no defence to that. But Cascus is of my blood and very dear to me. And, in his own way, he cares for Thebes as much as any of us. But there is nothing I can do to change my actions — and if there were, I would refuse so to do.'

Parmenion's head felt as if it were ready to explode. He drank more water and then walked into the house, seeking to escape the brightness of the courtyard.

Mothac followed him. 'I have seen marble statues with more colour than you,' said Mothac, as Parmenion slumped on to a divan. 'I think you need some wine.'

'No,' said Parmenion, as his stomach surged. 'Just leave me for a while. I'll get some sleep.'

Fierce waves pounded at a jagged coastline, while monsters of the deep with serrated teeth glided around the slender figure of the girl as she struggled to free her hands. Parmenion swam through the waves, battling to reach her before the dark sea dragged her down.

A huge creature slid by him, so close that its dorsal fin rubbed against Parmenion's leg, but a colossal wave caught the young man's body, lifting him towards the heavens. At its rip, he almost screamed as he tumbled down into the trough. His head went under the water and he found he could breathe there. Derae's body was flooring beneath him; he dived down and ripped the cords from her wrists, dragging her to the surface.

'Live! Live!' he screamed. The monsters circled them — cold, opal eyes staring at the lovers.

Derae regained consciousness and clung to Parmenion.

'You saved me,' she said. 'You came for me!'

Mothac shook him awake and Parmenion opened his eyes and groaned — not just at the pain flaring within his skull, but for the loss of Derae and his dream. He sat up. 'Is it midday?'

'Yes,' answered Mothac. Parmenion rose. Pelopidas was still in the courtyard, and with him was the smith, Norac, and eleven burly men. Four had huge, long-handled hammers.

'Good enough for you, strategos?' asked Norac, lifting an iron spike the length of a short sword.

'You did well,' Parmenion told him, 'but I would like to see your hammer men at work.'

'I brought extra spikes,' said the smith, 'for just that purpose.' Two men hoisted a thick section of timber, standing it against the far wall, while a third man held a spike in place. Moving to one side, Norac gestured to one of the hammer men to take his place on the other. The smith hefted his hammer, then swung it viciously, the head thundering into the spike. As the hammer bounced clear, so the second man swung; after the first strike the holder released his grip and ducked clear. Three strikes later, the spike was deeply embedded.

'Work on it,' said Parmenion. 'It needs to be faster.'

Calling Pelopidas to him, he walked to the andron. 'The celebration you mentioned at the house of Alexandras-will there be guards?'

'Yes. They are not popular men,' Pelopidas answered.

'How many guards?'

'Perhaps five, perhaps twenty. I don't know.'

'Outside or inside the house?'

'Outside. It is a private orgy,' said Pelopidas with a wide grin.

'I will meet you at the house of Alexandras. We will make a plan when we have seen how many guards are present.'

After Pelopidas had gone Calepios went to his room to rehearse his speech, leaving Parmenion in the andron. The Spartan was lost in thought for some time, but then became aware that he was not alone. Turning his head he saw the Spartan seeress, Tamis, standing by the table leaning on a staff.

Tamis gazed at the young Spartan, glorying in the power of his soul-fire, sensing his pain, admiring the courage he showed in resisting its power.

For a moment he stared at her, disbelieving.

'Well,' she said, 'will you offer me a seat, young Spartan?'

'Of course,' he answered, rising to guide her to the table, where he poured her a goblet of water.

'How are you here, lady?'

I go where I will. Are you set now upon leading this insurrection?'

'lam.'

'Give me your hand.'

Parmenion obeyed and she covered his palm with her own. 'With each heartbeat a man has two choices,' she whispered. 'Yet each choice makes a pathway, and he must walk it wherever it takes him. You stand, Parmenion, at a crossroads. There is a road leading to sunlight and laughter, and another road leading to pain and despair. The city of Thebes is in your hands, like a small toy.

On the road to sunlight the city will grow, but on the other road it will be broken, crushed into dust and forgotten. These are the words I am ordered to speak.'

'Which road, then?' he asked. 'How will I know it?'

'You will not, until long after you have walked upon it.'

'Then what is the point of telling me?' he snapped, pulling his hand clear of hers.

'You are a Chosen Man. You are Parmenion, the Death of Nations. A hundred thousand souls will you send to the dark river, screaming and wailing, lamenting their fate. It is right and just that you should know your choices.'

Then tell me how to walk the road to sunlight.'

'I will, but like Cassandra before me my words will not alter your path.'

'Just tell mev'

'Walk from this house and bridle your mare. Ride from this city and journey across the sea to Asia. Seek out the Shrine to Hera of the Book.'

'Ha! I see it now,' said Parmenion. 'You witch! You are Spartan and you serve them. I will not listen to your lies. I will free Thebes, and if a city is to fall to ashes then it will be Sparta.'

'Of course,' she said, smiling, showing rotted teeth and blood-red gums. 'The Death of Nations speaks, and his words will be heard by the gods. But you misjudge me, Parmenion. I care nothing for Sparta or her dreams, and I am happy with the path you have chosen. You are important to me -

to the world.'

'Why should I be important to you?' he asked her, but she shook her head.

'All will be revealed in time. You have pleased me today; your mind is sharp, your wits keen. Soon you will become the man of iron, the man of destiny.' Her laughter was like wind through dead leaves.

Parmenion said nothing, but his fingers strayed towards the dagger at his side.

'You will not need that,' she told him softly. 'I am no threat to you, and will speak to no one of your plans.'

The Spartan did not reply. He was not about to risk the life of Epaminondas on the word of a Spartan witch! The dagger slid clear. .

'Parmenion!' called Calepios from the doorway. 'I am torn over the conclusion to my speech. Will you listen to the ending?'

For a moment only, Parmenion's attention was diverted. He glanced back to Tamis. . but she had gone. Lurching to his feet with dagger in hand, he swung round. But of Tamis there was no sign.

'Where did she go?' he asked Calepios.

'Who?'

'The old woman who was here a moment ago.'

'I saw no one; you were dreaming. Now, listen to this ending…"

Parmenion ran to the door. Outside in the courtyard the smith and his men were hammering at the spikes and the courtyard gates were locked.

Parmenion listened to Calepios' speech, which sounded pompous and lacking in credibility. But he said nothing, his mind locked to the words of Tamis. Had she been real — or an illusion born of pain? He had no way of knowing. Complimenting the statesman on his speech, he left the building and walked in the bright sunshine towards the house of Alexandras. The man was a poet and an actor. According to Calepios he excelled at neither profession, but made his name among the nobility for organizing exquisite orgies. His home was close to the Homoloides, the Great North Gate, and overlooked the hills leading to Thessaly. Parmenion found the house and sat on a wall some sixty paces from the front gates. From here he could see four guards in breastplates and helms, carrying lances, and could hear the sound of music and laughter from within. But there was no sign of Pelopidas. Leaning his back against a cool stone wall, he ran through the plans once more.

There is nothing more you can do, he told himself. It is out of your hands.

But this was advice he could not take. In the years since Derae had been taken from him, thoughts of vengeance against the Spartans had filled his mind. Now the day was here and the beginning of his revenge was close. But where was Pelopidas?

If the councillors were not killed, they would flee to the Spartans, and even if the Cadmea was taken Agisaleus or Cleombrotus would lead an army to regain it. Silently he cursed the Theban warrior. Arrogant, stupid man!

Slowly time passed. The guards continued to pace outside the gates, and the laughter from within grew more raucous. Seven priestesses of Aphrodite arrived, dressed in colourful chitons and wearing veils beneath gilded and bejewelled combs. The guards stepped aside to allow them in.

Parmenion closed his eyes against the pain in his skull; the plan was complex enough, without having to rely on men like Pelopidas.

A cool wind touched his face, bringing momentary relief from pain. He sat up — aware of a difference, a change. The guards still paced and all seemed to be as it was. Then he realized there was no sound, no music or laughter.

So, he thought, the orgy has begun.

But where in the name of Hades was Pelopidas?

An hour passed. Soon it would be time for Calepios to make his speech, to lift the crowd and set them marching on the Cadmea. With a last muttered curse against unreliable Thebans, Parmenion stood and began the long walk to the agora. A noise from behind made him turn to see the gates of Alexandras' home opening, the priestesses emerging into the sunlight. They began to walk towards Parmenion. Ignoring them he continued on his way, but as he turned a corner he heard the sound of running feet and a hand fell upon his shoulder.

'Leave me be!' snapped Parmenion.

'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-coloured garments. 'You did it!' he cried.

'They are dead,' Pelopidas answered. 'So is the poet, Alexandras — 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 amongst 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 scarce 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 learnt of the magic of the great orator. Timing and delivery alone were not enough; there was in Calepios a charisma, a power, which 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 half-way 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 towards 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 top 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 200 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 grey 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 on to 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 but 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 towards 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 torchlit 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 nickering 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 was beyond him.

Think, man! Be a strategosl

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.

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 table-top.

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: Polysper-chon 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 780 men under his command, 500 were so stricken they could not walk, and the rest moved around like walking wounded — their faces grey, 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 honour 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 close-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 beforenow.'

'Can they be trusted, do you think? Why shoulcT 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 die 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 hi 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 to 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 towards 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 grey 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 that Parmenion had slept, Mothac was unconcerned. Each day he assisted the physician, Horas, to 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 hav& believed he would ever defy such a skilled and clever man. But today he knew there would be no further blood-letting, and he stepped over to the physician.

'Put away your knife,' he said.

'What's this?' enquired 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 colour 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 which 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 towards 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 Par-menion'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 occasions 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.

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

Epaminondas rose. 'There is a healer, a 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, humourless 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 round 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 centre 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 travelled 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 a 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 which drenched Parmenion like lantern oil, making the sword difficult to hold. He backed further 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 fares 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 swivelled 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 worshippers 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 furthest chamber.

'Wait a moment,' came a weary voice, then the door opened. The red-head 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 ochre from your face. I want you to bathe. Then we will go to the house.'

'It will cost you twenty drachms,' she said, holding out her hand.

He reached into his pouch and counted out ten drachms. '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 further 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 drachms. 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 on to 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 niove, 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 upon 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 drachms 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.

The Temple, Asia Minor, 379 BC

The priestess stared at the open gate and the lush green fields beyond, focusing on the roses which grew up and over the lintelled opening — red and white blooms that filled the air with heady scent.

This time I will escape, Derae told herself. This time I will concentrate as never before.

Steadying herself she walked slowly forward, her mind holding to a single thought.

Pass the gateway. Walk in the fields.

Each step was taken with care as her bare feet touched the paved path. Roses were growing on either side of her, beautiful blooms of yellow and pink.

Don't think of the flowers! The gate! Concentrate on the gateway.

Another step.

Birds flew above her and she glanced up to see their flight. They were eagles, flying together, banking and gliding on the thermal currents. Such grace. The priestess returned her gaze to the roses beneath the gate. Mindful of the thorns, she plucked a bloom and held it to her nose; she stared around the garden, seeing the old man who cared for the plants; he pushed himself wearily to his feet and approached her.

'That one is almost dead,' he told her. 'Take a bloom that is still to open. Then, if you put it in water it will fill your room with perfume.'

'Thank you, Naza,' she said, as he cut two blooms and placed them in her hand. She walked back up the path to the temple, pausing in the doorway.

Then, as she remembered, Derae closed her eyes and a single tear forced its way through closed lids, spilling to her cheek. There was no escape through the gateway. . just as there was no escape from the window of her room. She could lean out and enjoy the sunshine, or see the distant mountains, but as soon as she attempted to climb from the room she would find herself sitting at her bed, her thoughts confused.

It had been this way for three years, three lonely, soul-aching years.

She recalled the first day when she had opened her eyes and seen the old woman sitting by her bed.

'How do you feel, child?' the woman asked.

'I am well,' she had answered. 'Who are you?'

'I am Tamis. I am here to teach you.'

Derae had sat up, remembering the ship and her hands being bound behind her, men picking her up and throwing her over the side. . the sudden shock of the cold water, the terrible struggle to be free of her bonds as she sank beneath the waves. But then there was nothing — save a strange memory of floating high in the night sky towards a bright light.

'What will you teach me?'

'The mysteries,' answered the woman, touching her brow. And she had slept again.

She had discovered the spell of the gateway on her third day, as she walked in the garden alone.

Approaching it to look at the runes carved in the old stone, she had found herself back in the white-columned temple.

Twice more she tried, then Tamis had seen her. 'You cannot leave, my dear. You are the priestess now; you are the heir to Cassandra.'

'I don't understand — not any of this,' said Derae.

'You were the victim. The legend says that any girl who successfully survives the sacrifice, and reaches the temple, becomes the priestess until the next victim is similarly successful. You knew that.'

'Yes, but. . they bound my hands. I do not remember coming here.'

'But you are here,' Tamis pointed out. 'And therefore I will instruct you.'

Day by day the old woman had tried to teach Derae the mysteries, but the girl seemed incapable of understanding. She could not free the chains of her soul and soar her spirit into the sky, nor could she close her eyes and enter the Healing Trance. Simple tasks like holding a dead rose and willing it to become once more a fresh, budding bloom were beyond her.

At the end of the first year Tamis took her to a small study at the rear of the temple. 'I have thought much about your lack of talent,' said the old woman, 'and I have researched the origins of the legend. You surrendered a gift a long time ago: you allowed a man to violate you. This has caused your powers to be buried deep. In order to bring them forth, you must now be prepared to give another gift.'

'I do not want to be a priestess,' protested Derae. 'I do not have these gifts. Just let me go!'

But Tamis continued as if she had not heard her, her words striking Derae like sharp knives. 'I watched you heal Hermias, when his skull was crushed! That is when I knew you were the one to follow me. You can do it, Derae — but only by surrendering another gift. You know what is needed, why do you persevere with this defiance?'

'I will not do it!' stormed the girl. 'Never! You will not take my eyes!'

Tamis had shrugged and had patiently continued with the lessons. By the third year Derae showed small signs of success. She could stand in the garden and will sparrows to fly to her hand; and once she healed Naza of a cut to his arm, placing her fingers over the wound and sealing it so that there was no scar.

At night she still dreamt of escape — of running into the hills, hiding in the distant woods and somehow finding her way back to Sparta — and Parmenion.

But it would not be today, she realized, staring at the open gateway and the fields beyond. Slowly she walked between the temple pillars to the open altar where she laid the roses Naza had given her.

'When will you learn, child?' asked Tamis.

The girl looked round. 'I did not know you had returned.'

The old woman approached the priestess, laying her hand on the girl's shoulder. 'It must be as it is. Try to accept it: you are Chosen.'

'I don't want it!' cried the girl, brushing Tamis' hand from her shoulder. 'I never wanted it.'

'You think that I did? Wanting it is not part of the gift. You have it, or you do not.'

'Well, I do not. I speak no prophecies, there are no visions.'

Tamis took the girl by the arm and led her back into the garden to sit beside a white-walled pool.

'There are men and women who will die today,' said the old woman softly. 'They do not wish to. All of them will have works that are left undone, or children, or husbands or wives. They have no choice — as you have no choice. The days of the Dark God are close, my dear, and I will be dead.

Someone must follow me. Someone of courage and spirit. Someone who cares. It was always to be you.'

'Are you deaf, Tamis? I have few gifts!'

'They are there, but they have been pushed deep. You will find them when you give your own gift to the Lord of All Things, when you give up your sight.'

'No!' said the girl. 'You cannot force me! I will not do it!"

'No one is going to force you — that would destroy all I have worked for. It must be your own decision.'

'And if I do not?'

'I don't know, child. I wish that I did.'

'But you can see the future — you are a sorceress.'

Tamis smiled. Leaning forward, she cupped her hand in the water of the pool and drank. 'Life is not so simple. There are many futures. The life of a single person is like a great tree: every branch, every twig, every leaf is a possible future. Years ago I looked at my own deaths — it took almost a year to track them all down and at the end I realized there were still thousands to be seen. Now the end is close, and I know the day. But, yes, I have seen you take up the challenge and refuse it, and I have seen you both win and lose. But which is it to be?'

'Will I be able to speak to the gods?' questioned the priestess.

Tamis was silent for a moment, then she sighed. 'I am patient, Derae, but time is becoming precious. I have waited three years for you to realize there is no going back. But now is the time for a different course. I may be wrong, but I will tell you the truth — all of it, though it will be painful. Firstly, there are no gods as you think of them. The names we know — Zeus, Apollo, Aphrodite — all were once men and women like you and I. But that is not to say there are no gods at all. For beyond the myths there are real forces of light and darkness, of love and chaos.'

'And which do you serve?' the priestess asked.

Tamis chuckled. 'Do not seek to annoy me, girl. If I served the Chaos Spirit, I would have taken your gift by force!'

'But that is how you hold me here. I am not free to leave.'

'As I said, nothing is simple. But I hold you not out of hate but out of love. You see, my dear, you cannot leave this place — ever. And that is not my doing.'

'Then who is my jailer? Who holds me here?' asked the priestess.

'Your death,' Tamis answered.

'What does that mean?' she asked, suddenly fearful.

'I am sorry, Derae, but you died when they threw you overboard. I found your body by the rocks, I carried you here and brought you back. That is why you cannot leave.'

'You are lying! Tell me you are lying!'

Tamis took the girl's hand. 'If you left this temple your body would decay in seconds, your flesh peeling away, corrupt and worm-filled, and your bleached bones would lie on the grass not ten paces from the gateway.'

'I do not believe you. It is a trick to keep me here!'

'Think back to the day, your hands bound, your lungs filling with salt water, your struggles weakening as you sank.'

'Stop it!' shouted Derae, covering her face with her hands. 'Please stop it.'

'I will not apologize, for it cost years of my life and alLmy power to bring you back. Naza helped to carry you here. Speak to him, if you disbelieve me.'

'Sweet Hera, why did you tell me this? I have lived here for three years, waiting for Parmenion to come for me, praying, hoping. And now you dash all my hopes.'

Then you believe me?'

'I wish that I did not,' answered Derae, 'and now I will never see Parmenion again. Why did you not let me die?'

'You will see him,' insisted Tamis. 'He is the reason I saved you. Once you have learned the mysteries, your soul will be free to fly anywhere in the world — into the past or the many futures. But it will take time for you to learn all the mysteries. . perhaps years.'

'What do years matter to the dead?'

'In this temple you are not dead. You will age, as do all of us, and finally your body will give out and your soul will fly free. When it does, I will be waiting for you. I will show you Paradise.'

Derae stood and leaned over the pool, gazing down at her reflection, seeing the red-gold of her hair and the flush of health on her cheeks. Swiftly she looked away. 'Why was I chosen?'

'Because you love Parmenion.'

'I don't understand.'

'The Dark God is coming, Derae. Not today, not this year, but soon. He will be born in the flesh and he will grow into a man. All the world will fall to him and chaos will reign. There will be rivers of blood, a mountain of dead. He must be stopped.'

'And Parmenion can destroy him?'

'That is the question which torments me, Derae. It is why I need you. When first I saw the shadow of the Dark God, I prayed to the Source for a way to defeat him. I saw Parmenion then, and heard his name echo across the vaults of Heaven. I thought he would be the sword to strike the Chaos Spirit. But since then I have realized that he is also linked to the Dark God, and I have followed the paths of his futures. He is the Death of Nations and he will change the world.'

'I cannot believe that of Parmenion,' protested Derae. 'He is gentle — and kind.'

'In some ways, yes. But since your. . you left him. . he has become filled with bitterness and hate. And that serves the Chaos Spirit. If I were more sure, I would see him dead. But I am not sure.' Tamis drank again from the pool, then rubbed her weary eyes. 'You see a rabid dog about to kill a baby, what do you do?'

'You kill the dog,' answered Derae.

'But if you know the future, and you know that the babe will grow into an evil destroyer who will bring the world to blood and fire?'

'You let it kill the baby?'

'Indeed — but what if the destroyer is due to sire another babe who will rebuild the world and bring peace and joy for a thousand years?'

'You have lost me, Tamis. I don't know. How can anyone answer such a question?'

'How indeed?' whispered the old woman. 'I cling to my first prayer, when the Source showed me Parmenion. He is a man torn, pulled towards darkness, yearning for the light. When the Dark God conies, he will either serve him or help to destroy him.'

'Can you destroy a god?' Derae asked.

'Not thenspirit. But he will come in the flesh, in the guise of a man. And that is where his weakness will lie.'

Derae took a deep breath. 'I want to help you, Tamis, I really do. But is there a way I can develop my. . powers. . without giving the gift you require?'

'We do not have the time,' answered Tamis sadly. 'It would take perhaps thirty years.'

'Will there be pain?'

'Yes,' admitted Tamis, 'but it will be short-lived — that I promise you.'

'Show me Parmenion,' said Derae. 'Then I will give you my answer.'

'That might not be wise.'

'It is my price.'

'Very well, child. Take my hand and close your eyes.'

The world lurched, and Derae felt she was falling into a great void. She opened her eyes. . and screamed. All around her were stars, huge and bright, while far below her the moon floated in a sea of darkness. 'Do not fear, Derae. I am with you,' came the voice of Tamis, and Derae calmed herself. Colours blazed around her — and she found herself floating above the night-shrouded city of Thebes, gazing down at the colossal statues of Heracles and Athena. Closer they flew until they came to a house with a small courtyard.

A red-headed man was sitting at a table, but from above came the sounds of a couple making love.

Still closer they came, passing through the walls of the bedroom.

'I missed you,' Parmenion told the woman beneath him. 'As if they'd torn my heart from me.'

'Take me back,' whispered Derae. 'Take me home. You may have my gift; you may take my eyes.'

Mothac opened the package from Argonas and ran his fingers through the shredded leaves and stalks within. Filling a large goblet with boiling water, he added a handful of the leaves, and a pungent aroma — sweet, almost sickly — filled the kitchen.

Parmenion was awake upstairs, but he had said nothing, nor even turned his head when Mothac looked in on him. Stirring the infusion with a wooden spoon, Mothac strained off the leaves and stalks floating on the surface and climbed the stairs. Parmenion had not left the bed. He was sitting up and staring out through the open window.

Mothac moved to the bedside. 'Drink this,' he said softly. Without a word Parmenion accepted the brew and sipped it. 'Drink it all,' Mothac ordered, and the Spartan silently obeyed.

Mothac took the empty goblet, placing it on the floor beside the bed. 'How is the pain?' he asked, taking Parmenion's hand.

'It is receding,' answered the Spartan, his voice distant.

'You have been asleep for five days. You missed the celebrations — they were dancing on the agora.

You should have seen them.'

Parmenion's eyes closed and his voice was a whisper. 'She came to me, Mothac. From beyond death she came to me. She saved me on the Hill of Sorrow.'

'Who came to you?'

'Derae. She was still young and beautiful.' Tears welled in Parmenion's eyes. 'She freed me, she took away the pain.'

Mothac bit back the truth as the words surged up in his throat. 'Good,' he said at last. 'That is good. Now it is time for you to leave that bed and get some air into your lungs. Here, let me help you.' Taking Parmenion's arm, he gently pulled his master to his feet.

Parmenion stumbled, then righted himself. Mothac took a clean white chiton, helped Parmenion to dress and then guided him down to the courtyard.

The sky was overcast but the day was warm, a fresh breeze blowing. Mothac brought Parmenion a meal of figs and dried fish, and was relieved when the Spartan ate it all.

In the days that followed, Parmenion's strength flowed back into his wasted limbs. Argonas came twice to the house, examining the Spartan's skull and pronouncing, with satisfaction, that the cancer was sleeping.

But still Parmenion did not venture from the house. He slept often and took little interest in the affairs of Thebes. Each day he drank the infusion prepared by Mothac, ate a light breakfast and dozed until after noon. Concerned by Parmenion's lethargy, Mothac sought out Argonas.

'Do not be worried,' the fat man told him. 'It is the sylphium — it is also a strong sleeping potion. But his body will become used to it and that effect will lessen.'

Epaminondas did not visit during this time. Mothac informed Parmenion that the Theban was organizing a new city council with other members of the rebel conspiracy, while the warrior Pelopidas had gathered to him almost 500 young Theban men and was training them for the war that was almost certain to follow. Parmenion listened to the news without expression, venturing no opinions and asking no questions.

A month after the retaking of the Cadmea, Parmenion heard cheering in the streets and sent Mothac to enquire as to the cause. The Theban returned within minutes. 'An Athenian force has arrived,'

he said. They have come to help us against the Spartans.'

'That seems unlikely,' offered Parmenion. 'The Athenians are in no position to make war against Sparta; they have few land forces and Sparta has three armies that could march on Athens almost unopposed. Go and find out more.'

Mothac was delighted as he ran from the house. Parmenion's voice had been sharp, authoritative, and Mothac felt like a man who has just seen the first rays of spring sunshine after a long winter. It took him two hours to locate Epaminondas, who was returning from a meeting in the Cadmea. The Theban leader looked weary, his shoulders slumped, his eyes dull.

'Parmenion is asking about the soldiers,' said Mothac, moving alongside the man as he pushed his way through the crowds.

'They are mercenaries,' Epaminondas told him. 'Calepios bought their services in Athens. How is Parmenion?'

'As he once was,' said Mothac, and Epaminondas brightened.

'I'll come back with you. I need to talk to him.'

A thunderstorm burst over the city as the three men reclined on couches in the andron, lightning flashing like the spears of Ares. Epaminondas lay back, resting his head on an embroidered cushion and closing his eyes. 'There is a great deal of meaningless debate at present,' he said. 'It is beginning to look as if removing the Spartans was simplicity itself compared with planning a coherent policy. There are some who want to hire mercenaries to defend the city, others who talk of meeting the Spartans in the field. Still more dither and wait for Athens to come to our aid.

Calepios says the Athenians are happy with our revolt and promise us everything — except real support. They are overjoyed to see the Spartans humbled, but they will do nothing to help us.'

'And what of the Spartan army?' asked Parmenion.

'Cleombrotus has 7,000 men near Megara — two days' march from us. So far he has done nothing.

Cascus is with him; we should never have let him escape. Calepios has much to answer for in that regard, blood kin or no. Cascus is telling all who will hear him that the Theban revolt is masterminded by a treacherous group of exiles, and that the people do not support them. He is urging Cleombrotus to march on Thebes, and is assuring him that the Theban people will rise against the rebels.'

Then why have the Spartans not marched?' asked Mothac.

'Agisaleus is ill. Some say he is dying, and the omens are not good. I hope he does die.'

Tray he does not,' put in Parmenion. 'As long as he remains sick, the Spartans will do nothing. If Agisaleus dies, Cleombrotus will feel compelled to show his strength to the Spartan people. And you are not ready for war.'

'What do you advise, my friend?'

'Your choices are limited,' Parmenion told him. 'There are Spartan garrisons all through Boeotia -

north, south, east and west of Thebes. Until those garrisons are removed you have no chance to succeed. But you cannot remove them while Spartan armies are poised to invade. Not an easy problem to solve.'

Epaminondas sat up and rubbed his eyes. 'We have allies in Thessaly, but they alone cannot give us victory. Worse, if we ally ourselves to any strong power we will merely be exchanging masters.'

'Where are the strongest Spartan garrisons?' asked Parmenion.

'Orchomenus in the north, Tanagra to the west, Aegosthena to the south. We have men in each of them, trying to inspire a rebellion, but — wisely -

the rebels are waiting to see how we fare. We are caught like dogs chasing our tails. In order to win we need support from other cities, but these cities wait to see if we can win before joining us. We need a victory, Parmenion.'

'No,' said the Spartan. 'That is not possible — yet. My advice to you is to avoid any pitched battle with Cleombro-tus. You would be crushed.'

'We will be crushed anyway — should he march against us.'

Parmenion was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on a point high and to the right on the northern wall. Slowly he lifted his hand, rubbing at his jaw. Mothac grinned and Epaminondas waited expectantly.

'It could be,' said Parmenion at last, 'that Cascus' escape will work for us. If he has convinced the Spartans that the Theban people are ready to rise against us, then it is unlikely that Cleombrotus will attack the city; he will ravage the land around us, in the hope that a show of strength will cause a counter-revolt. Winter is almost here, and with it the rains. Most of the Spartan army will return home. It is then we will strike.'

'And where should we attack? And with what force?' queried Epaminondas.

'Athens,' answered Parmenion, with a broad smile. 'And we will use the Spartan army.'

Day by day tension within the city mounted. Arguments broke out in public places as to the wisdom of expelling the Spartans. Fear was almost palpable, yet still the Spartan army remained at Megara, two days' march to the southeast. News from the surrounding countryside was bleak. At the small city of Thespiae, north-east of Thebes, a group of rebels besieged the acropolis, where Spartan troops were garrisoned. The Spartans marched out among them, killing twenty-three men and routing the mob. At the cities of

Tanagra and Aegosthena troublemakers were rounded up and arrested, while in Plataea two suspected rebels were executed after a traitor told of their plotting.

Pelopidas marched from Thebes with a force of 400 men to aid the rebels at Tanagra. Hopes were high when the warriors marched ihrough the Proitian Gates but eight days later they were back, having been waylaid in the mountains by a Spartan force. Forty-one men were dead, twenty-six wounded. It was a bitter reverse and yet Pelopidas emerged from the debacle with credit, for when surrounded he had gathered his men to him and charged the Spartan ranks, breaking clear and killing four Spartans single-handedly. The Thebans had sought refuge in the mountains and the Spartans had let them go, not wishing to lose men in the narrow passes with daylight fading.

The Athenian mercenaries were sent to Erythrae, along with 200 Theban hoplites, to aid the rebels there, but no word was heard from them and fear grew among the Theban people. Epaminondas proved himself a capable public speaker, but the rebels missed the oratorical skills of Calepios who remained in Athens.

As winter moved inexorably on, and the rains began, news came from the south that Agisaleus had recovered from his fever.

And the Spartan army moved north.

Parmenion seemed unconcerned, and during the days sat reading Xenophon's story of the march into Persia. As the shortest day of winter approached Mothac walked into the andron, removed his rain-drenched cloak and poured himself a goblet of watered wine.

'It will all be over in days,' said the servant sourly. 'The mood in the streets is full of despair. When the Spartans come, the people will surrender without a fight.'

'//the Spartans come,' replied Parmenion, putting aside the scroll.

'How can you remain so calm?' Mothac snapped.

'By using my mind — and not my emotions,' replied Parmenion. 'Listen to me. Sparta's armies are not trained for sieges, they prefer battle on an open plain. A phalanx cannot climb a wall. I do not believe Cleombrotus will attack the city; he will hope that our forces can be lured out, and he will seek to prevent supplies coming into Thebes.'

Mothac was unconvinced, and ill-fortune continued for the beleaguered Thebans. The Athenian mercenaries had been beaten back from Erythrae, and Cleombrotus marched through Aegosthena and Plataea, his army now almost in sight of Thebes.

Pelopidas wanted to gather a force to attack them, but cooler counsel prevailed. Then came the news Parmenion had been hoping for. With winter making manoeuvres more difficult, Cleombrotus split his army and marched south, back through Aegosthena, Megara and Corinth, leaving a large force at Thespiae under the command of the general Sphodrias.

Parmenion sought out Epaminondas and Pelopidas. 'Now is the time to act,' he said. 'By spring Agisaleus will be fit to command the army, and that will lead to an attack on Thebes.'

'What can we do?' Pelopidas asked. 'My stomach turns at the thought of sitting idle. But what choices do we have?'

'We must capture a messenger, a Spartan rider.'

'One messenger! This is your plan?' snorted Pelopidas. 'This will bring about Spartan defeat?'

Parmenion looked into the man's dark eyes and chuckled. "The time will come for warriors like yourself — trust me, Pelopidas. This single man is like the stone which starts the landslide. But it is vital that he is taken; he must be stripped of armour and clothing, his body buried where it will not be found. Everything he carries must be brought here.'

'It sounds easy enough,' Pelopidas muttered.

'Then I will make it more difficult. The killing must not be seen: his disappearance must remain a mystery.'

'Well, at least his messages may prove useful,' the Theban said.

'Not even that,' said Parmenion. 'The Spartans must have no idea that we have intercepted them.'

'Then would you kindly outline the point of this exercise?' asked the Theban.

Parmenion glanced at Epaminondas, who nodded. 'I shall take the place of the messenger,' said Parmenion, 'and ride to Sphodrias at Thespiae. But this is to be known only by we three.'

'It will be as you say,' promised Pelopidas. 'I will send out riders to watch all roads to Thespiae.'

Parmenion walked back through the night-cloaked city. He felt tense and excited, and as he passed the Temple to Aphrodite he remembered the red-headed priestess. Stopping by the marble fountain he gazed at the temple, feeling the stirrings of desire deep in his loins. Checking his money sack, he strolled into the temple precincts and along the corridor. The hour was late, but lantern light could be seen under the woman's door; he put his ear to the wood, listening for sounds of movement, but there were none and he knocked softly. He heard the creaking of the bed as she rose.

The door opened.

He held out his money and was surprised to see her smile. 'I am happy you are recovered,' she said.

'I do not wish you to speak!' he snapped. The smile froze on her lips, then her cheeks darkened.

'Take your money and go!' she said, slamming the door in his face. For a moment Parmenion stood shocked; then he backed away and returned home to the cold comfort of his bed. The meeting with the woman had disturbed him. She knew he required her to say nothing; he had been with her scores of times. He would pay her, satisfy his lust and leave. It was a simple business. Why then had she broken the rules?

As he had stood in the doorway her perfume had washed over him, filling his senses. And in her face, as he reprimanded her, there had been shock, surprise and a bun he could not understand. He felt an almost physical need to seek her out and apologize. But for what? How had he offended her?

At last he dropped into a troubled sleep and dreamt of Derae.

Parmenion awoke three hours later and climbed to the flat roof to watch dawn illuminate the city.

He turned his gaze south-west to the towering peaks of Mount Cithaeron and the mountains beyond.

This is a beautiful land, he thought, yet we squabble over it like children.

He sat in the sunlight, thinking back to his days with Xenophon.

'Greece can never rise to full glory,' the general had told him, 'for we are not a complete nation, and we have no national view. We have the finest soldiers in the world, the best generals, and we are supreme on the sea. Yet we are like the wolf-pack; we rend and tear at each other while our enemies gloat.'

'But the wolves always find a leader,' Parmenion had pointed out.

'Yes,' Xenophon agreed, 'and there the comparison ends. Greece is composed of scores of city states. Even a man of greatness from — let us say — Athens would not be able to bind Greece together. The Spartans would envy and fear him, the Thebans likewise. They would not see him as a Greek but as an Athenian. The hatreds are too deeply ingrained and they will not be overcome — at least not in my lifetime. So what do we see? Persia controls the world and she uses Greek mercenaries to do it — while here we live in a country with beautiful mountains and poor soil.

Everything we need we import from Egypt or Asia, paying the Persians handsomely for each transaction.'

'What if one man were to lead a united force against the Persians?' asked Parmenion.

'He would need to be a colossus among men, a demi-god like Heracles. More than that, he would have to be a man without a city — a Greek. And there are no such men, Parmenion. I had hoped Sparta would take the lead, but Agisaleus cannot forget his hatred of Thebes. The Athenians learn with their mothers' milk to hate Spartans. Thebans and Corinthians loathe Athenians. Where then can Greece find a leader?'

'What would you do?'

'If I were a god, I would lift the nation from the sea and shake her, so that all the cities fell to dust. Then I would gather the survivors and tell them to build one great city and call it Greece.'

Parmenion chuckled. 'And then the Athenian survivors would take the northern part of the city and call the district Athens, while the Spartans would take the southern part. Then each would decide that their neighbour's district was more precious than their own.'

'I fear you are right, my boy. But, set against my despair, there is a good side to the situation.'

'And what is that?' Parmenion asked.

'There will always be a demand for good generals.'

Now Parmenion smiled at the memory and climbed down from the roof. Mothac brought him a goblet of the sylphium brew, which he drank swiftly. He had experienced no head pain since the night of Derae's miracle, and his body felt strong once more.

'I need to run,' he told Mothac.

But the training ground was packed with warriors practising with sword and shield. Pelopidas was roaring out orders and several officers were moving among the men, offering advice or encouragement. Parmenion stood and watched for some minutes, then Pelopidas saw him and ran to where he stood.

'They are coming along well,' said the Theban. 'Good men, proud men.'

'Given time, you will have a fine force here,' said Parmenion, choosing his words with care. 'But how much close formation work do you plan?'

'We always conclude with a formation run. But the men prefer more open combat; it makes them competitive.'

'Indeed it does, my friend, and you are quite right. Yet, as I am sure you are aware, when they meet the Spartans it will be in close formation. If they are spread like this, they will be cut to pieces.'

'Would you be willing to help train the men?' Pelopidas asked.

'It would be an honour,' answered Parmenion. The Theban took his arm and led him out on to the field.

'Splendid attack!' shouted Pelopidas as a swordsman blocked a thrust and hammered his shoulder into his opponent, knocking him from his feet. The man grinned and saluted with his wooden blade.

'What is the man's name?' asked Parmenion as they walked on.

'I don't know. Do you want me to find out?'

'No,' answered Parmenion softly. Pelopidas gathered the men together, forming them in a huge semi-circle around Parmenion.

'This is the man who planned the retaking of the Cadmea,' he roared. 'This is the strategos who climbed the walls and rescued Epaminondas.' The men cheered loudly and Parmenion reddened; his heart pounded, and irrationally he felt the onset of fear. Pelopidas spoke easily to the soldiers and it was obvious that he was much admired; but Parmenion had never before addressed such a group and his nerves were in tatters. 'He will be training you in close formation manoeuvres, so that the next time we meet the Spartans we will close around them like an iron fist!' Pelopidas turned to Parmenion. 'Do you wish to say anything to the men?'

'Yes,' said Parmenion. There were several hundred men seated around him, their eyes upon him. He could feel those eyes pressing on his soul and his legs felt weak, almost unable to support him.

'Close formation fighting. .'he began.

'We can't hear him!' someone called from the back. Parmenion took a deep breath.

'Close formation fighting is about brotherhood,' he shouted. 'It is about understanding, and caring. It is about putting the good of all above what is good for one.' He paused to take a breath.

'What is he talking about?' asked a man in the front row. A ripple of laughter spread back through the ranks and anger flared in Parmenion's heart.

'Stand up!' he bellowed, his voice ringing with authority. The soldiers obeyed instantly. 'Now form a complete circle with me at the centre,' he told them, striding to the middle of the training field. The soldiers rose and trooped after him.

'Who is the best swordsman here?' he asked them, as they formed a great circle, many ranks deep.

'Pelopidas!' they shouted.

'And the worst?' This was greeted by silence, until a young man raised his hand. He was slender to the point of emaciation.

'I am not very skilled — yet,' he said, 'but I am getting stronger.' More laughter followed this admission.

'Let both men come into the circle,' said Parmenion.

Pelopidas rose and walked with the young man to stand beside the Spartan. 'May I say something?'

the Theban general asked Parmenion, who nodded. 'Some of you men,' began Pelopidas, 'laughed when our friend — and brother — Callines admitted his shortcomings with the blade. His admission took courage.' His angry eyes raked the men. 'Courage,' he repeated, 'and a man with that kind of courage will improve. And you will help him — as we will all help each other. The cause of Thebes is sacred to me, and every man who aids Thebes is sacred to me. We are not just men playing~a game of war; we are a sacred band, bound to one another in life and death. Let there be no more sneering.' He stepped back and turned to Parmenion. 'I am sorry, strategos, please continue.'

Parmenion allowed the silence to grow. The words of Pelopidas had surprised him, but the sentiments were good.

'You have heard something today,' said Parmenion at last, 'which you should burn into your hearts.

Because in days to come, when you are old, your hair grey and your grandchildren playing at your feet, you will hear men say with pride, "There he is. He was one of the Sacred Band." And you will look up and see young men gaze at you with awe and envy.' Once more he let the silence swell.

'Now, let us have two more swordsmen, good men of talent and speed.'

When the four men were standing ready, holding their swords and shields of bronze, Parmenion walked to Pelopidas. 'Your sword, sir?' Mystified, Pelopidas handed the wooden blade to the Spartan, who turned to the young man beside the Theban general. 'Your shield, sir?' The man surrendered it. Parmenion dropped the weapons at the inner rim of the circle and repeated the manoeuvre with the other pair. 'We have here,' he told the bewildered watchers, 'an example of close-formation fighting. Four men with only two swords and two shields. The shield-bearer must protect the swordsman, but has himself no weapon with which to attack. The swordsman must protect the shield-bearer, though he has no shield to defend himself. Each man in the pair must depend upon the other. Now to battle, if it please you, gentlemen.'

Pelopidas and the slender Callines advanced together. The opposing swordsman launched a sudden attack. Pelopidas blocked the blow with his shield and Callines lunged, but his strike cracked against the shield of his opponent. The warriors circled each other, but could find no openings.

After several minutes the enemy pair dropped back for a whispered conference, then advanced once more — the swordsman suddenly moving to the right, seeking to outflank Pelopidas. Ignoring him, Pelopidas darted for the shield-bearer, hurling himself at the man. Their shields met with a clash and Pelopidas' opponent was hurled from his feet. Callines ran forward, touching his sword to the fallen man's throat. Pelopidas swung as the swordsman came up behind him and only the rim of his shield deflected the blow. Callines came to his aid. Pelopidas parried a thrust, then swung his shield into his opponent's sword arm, pushing it back. Callines leapt, his blunt sword ramming into the man's groin, and the warrior fell to the earth with a groan.

'What you just saw,' said Parmenion, moving to the centre of the circle and hauling the man to his feet, 'was your worst swordsman killing two opponents. That, in essence, is the secret of the phalanx. Ordinary men, well trained, can prove magnificent in battle. But great warriors become invincible. You will be invincible!'

For two hours Parmenion worked the men, until Pelopidas called a halt and allowed the training to end. Taking Parmenion's arm, he led him to the shade by the Grave of Hector. 'You did well, my friend. Very well indeed,' said the The ban. 'You gave us a name- an inspired name. From today we are the Sacred Band.'

'No,' answered Parmenion, 'the name was yours, you coined it when you spoke up for young Callines.

But it is fitting and it does no harm for warriors to feel bonded. You are a fine leader.'

'Enough compliments,' said Pelopidas. 'I feel uncomfortable with them. Now tell me why you asked the name of the first swordsman you saw?'

Parmenion smiled. 'It is not I who should know his name — it is you. A general is like a craftsman, who knows the name and merits of each of the tools he possesses. The men look up to you, they admire you for your courage and your strength. As a general you cannot make a friend of every man, for that might lead to lax discipline. But speak to each by name and they will fight the better for you — and for Thebes.'

'But will we beat the Spartans?' asked Pelopidas.

'If any man can — you will,' Parmenion assured him.

Derae opened her eyes. . but the darkness was total. She could feel the warmth on the right side of her face and knew that the sun was up, and wept for her loss.

Blindness. The fear of humans from the dawn of time: helpless against the whims of nature, the cruelty of savage beasts.

Her last sight had been of Tamis looming above her, the copper phial in her hand with steam rising from the bubbling contents within. Then the touch of fire on her open eyes and the scream of agony that followed the kiss of acid.

She heard the door open and felt the bed shift as Tamis sat beside her. 'Lie still,' said the old woman, 'and listen to me. Hold your body still, and think of a blue sky and a long stem of gold.

Can you do that?'

'Yes,' answered Derae weakly.

'Picture the stem of gold against the blue and see the tip swell and grow — bending, twisting, becoming a loop joined back to the stem like a huge needle of gold. Do you have it in mind?'

'I do. Gold against blue,' Derae whispered.

'Now, below the loop, like the cross-guard of a Persian sword, two further stems grow from the gold. Hold it in your mind, the blue and the gold. Tell me what you feel?'

'I feel as if warm air is blowing inside my head.'

'Good. Now soar!' ordered Tamis. Derae felt all weight fall from her, as if chains of lead had parted. She floated — and opened her eyes. The ceiling was close and she rolled her spirit, looking down to see herself lying on the pallet bed with Tamis beside her. The old woman looked up. 'Now you can see,' Tamis told her, 'and you have discovered one of the secrets of the Source.

A gift to Him is returned manifold. You are free, Derae. Free to fly, and free to learn. Go!

Travel like the eagle and see all that you desire. But look not to the future, my child, for you are not ready.'

Derae's soul sped from the temple, glorying in the sunlight, moving up through clouds and across the ocean. Far below her she saw the mainland of Greece, its rearing mountains and arid plains.

Tiny triremes were anchored in the bay near Athens, and fishing-boats bobbed on the waters around them. South-west she flew to Sparta, hovering above her old home, seeing her mother and her sister in the courtyard.

Sorrow swept over her; she did not wish to see them like this — rather she desired to see what was. The scene blurred and shifted and she watched herself running from the gateway, down to the meadow where the girls could exercise, while on a nearby hilltop she saw the boy Parmenion lying on his belly, waiting for a glimpse of her.

The scenes were painful, but she could not resist following them through. She watched again his rescue of her and their first day of passion hi the summer home of Xenophon. She could not bear to see her death so she remained with Parmenion, observing with horror as he destroyed Nestus.

Then she followed his journey to Thebes and his brief, passionless encounters with Thetis the whore. Anger flared in her. How could he, she wondered?

Yet, despite her anger, she felt pride when he planned the retaking of the Cadmea and watched, astonished, as he collapsed and was carried to his bed. She saw Mothac's concern, his anger at the physician and, at the last, his desperate pleading with the whore, Thetis. And this time she watched the complete scene, hearing Parmenion whisper her name in his sleep.

He was delirious and thinking of her!

Joy flooded her. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to tell him she was alive and that she cared for him. But cold reality came to her like the breath of winter. I am not alive, she realized. And I can never have him.

She urged time on — seeing him run on the training field, floating close to him, her spirit face mere inches from his own. Reaching out, she tried to stroke his dark hair, but her fingers moved through his skin and the skull beyond, his thoughts tumbling into her mind.

As he ran he was thinking of the days in the mountains, before then- secret was out, of making love in the meadows and holding hands beneath the trees.

She withdrew from nun, for his bitterness touched her like the acid that had destroyed her eyes.

Her joy evaporated and she returned to the temple and a world of darkness. Tamis helped her to dress.

'What did you learn?' asked the old woman.

'Love is pain,' she answered dully. 'What will you teach me today?'

'I will teach you to see,' Tamis told her. 'Spirit eyes are far more powerful than the orbs you have lost. Concentrate. You have loosed the chains of your soul and you float now inside the cloak of your body. At any time you may draw aside that cloak like a veil. Try it. The gold and the blue.'

Derae focused on the looped stem, andjose. 'Not too far,' shouted Tamis, catching the falling body and lowering it to the floor. 'You must retain control of yourself. Come back!' The priestess returned to her body and climbed to her feet. 'It will take practice,' said Tamis, 'but merely move your spirit head forward while holding your body still.' Derae tried. For a moment it seemed to work, she could see and yet still feel her body. But then dizziness overcame her and she stumbled into Tamis, who held her upright.

'It will come,' Tamis promised. 'But each step is a victory. And now we must work. You must learn.

We must identify all your weaknesses.'

'Why?'

'You have joined the eternal war, Derae, and you now have a deadly enemy. The Dark God will also be testing you, seeking a way to destroy you."

'That is a frightening thought,' Derae admitted.

'As it should be — for, when the crucial moment of conflict comes, I will be dead and you will be alone.'

Parmenion paused at the top of the ridge and gazed down on the tents of the Spartan army. They were set out in a long rectangle along the valley floor close to the city of Thespiae. Swiftly he counted the tents. There were five lines of fifty, with each tent housing ten warriors — 2,500

fighting men, not counting those billeted in the city.

Parmenion stroked the neck of the black gelding, then touched heels to the beast's flanks, urging him on. Now came the danger, but to his surprise Parmenion felt a sense of rising excitement along with his fear. This, he realized, is what brings joy to life; the exquisite sensations of fear and exhilaration combining to sharpen the mind and thrill the senses. It was as if the past years in Thebes were without colour. He glanced up at the sky and the drifting clouds, feeling the mountain air soaking into his lungs.

This was life!

Down there was Hecate, goddess of Death, her dark dagger drawn, ready for him to make one mistake, one slip that would cost him his life.

Parmenion chuckled, tightened the chin-strap on his leather helmet and began to hum an old song his mother had taught him. The gelding's ears pricked up and he tossed his head at the sound. He was a fine beast; Pelopidas had said that he almost outran the pursuers, but a lucky arrow had taken the rider in the base of the skull, toppling him to the ground. The gelding had halted its run then, turning to nuzzle at the corpse on the earth.

The man's armour fitted Parmenion well, save that the breastplate was a little large. But the greaves and metal-studded kilt could have been made for the slender Spartan. The cloak was of fine wool, dyed red and held in place by a golden brooch which Parmenion replaced with one of bronze.

Such a brooch would be recognized and would lead to questions, he reasoned.

The rider's papers had been taken to Thebes, where Epaminondas opened the despatch and read it. It dealt with supplies and the need to isolate Thebes, but at the close it mentioned Athens and the need for vigilance. Epaminondas handed the scroll to a middle-aged scribe with prematurely white hair. 'Can you duplicate the style of script?' he asked.

'It will not be difficult,' said the man, peering at the despatch.

'How many lines can we add above the King's signature?' queried Parmenion.

'No more than two,' the scribe told him. Parmenion took the script and read it several times. It concluded with the words: 'The traitor Calepios is hiring mercenaries in Athens. Be vigilant.'

Then there was a gap before the signature Cleombrotus.

Parmenion dictated a short addition to the scroll, which the scribe carefully inserted.

Epaminondas read the words and smiled grimly. ' "Be vigilant and advance upon the Piraeus, destroying any hostile force." If this succeeds, Parmenion, it will mean war between Athens and Sparta.'

'Which can only be good for Thebes,' Parmenion pointed out.

'There are great dangers for you in this,' said the Theban softly. 'What if you are recognized, or your message disbelieved? Or if there is a password? Or. .'

'Then I will be dead,' snapped Parmenion. 'But it must be done.'

Now, as he rode down towards the tents, Parmenion felt his fear swell. Three soldiers on sentry duty.barred his way on the road; they were men from the Sciritis mountains and not Spartiates.

They saluted as he approached, clenched fists on their breastplates of leather. He returned the salute and tugged on the reins.

'I seek the general Sphodrias,' he said.

'He is in the city; he stays at the house of Anaximenes the ephor. You ride through the main gate and head for the Temple of Zeus. There is a tall house with two slender trees alongside the gates.'

'Thank you,' said Parmenion, riding on.

The city was smaller than Thebes, housing a mere 12,000 inhabitants. Thespiae was a city of tradesmen, specializing in chariots and the training of horses. As Parmenion entered he could see many small pastures holding fine herds. He rode until he reached the house with twin trees, then he dismounted and led the gelding to the front of the white-walled building. A male servant ran to take the horse's reins and a second servant, a young girl dressed in white, bowed and bade him follow her into the house.

Parmenion was taken through to a large andron where several Spartan officers were sitting and drinking. The servant moved to a burly figure with a rich red beard, who rose and stood with hands on hips, scrutinizing Parmenion who bowed low and approached.

'Well, who are you?' snapped Sphodrias.

'Andicles, sir. I have despatches from the King.'

'Never heard of you. Where's Cleophon?'

'He had a fall from his horse, broke his shoulder, sir. But he is determined to ride with the King this evening and be at his side during the battle.'

'Ride? Battle? What are you talking about, man?'

'My apologies, sir,' said Parmenion, handing the general the leather cylinder. Sphodrias pulled out the scroll within and opened it. As he did so Parmenion glanced at the other officers, his eyes falling upon a young man dicing at a window table. His stomach turned. . the man was Leonidas.

'There's nothing about numbers here,' muttered Sphodrias. 'How many of the enemy are there? Where are they camped? I can't just march into Athenian territory and butcher the first men I see in armour.'

'There are said to be 5,000 of them,' said Parmenion swiftly. 'Three thousand hoplites, the rest cavalry. It is rumoured that they are being paid with Persian gold.'

Sphodrias nodded. 'You can always expect treachery from Athenians. But we'll have to march all night to surprise them -1 don't doubt they have scouts out. You will stay by my side while I brief my officers. They may have questions.'

'With respect, sir,' said Parmenion, struggling to keep his voice calm, 'the King has ordered me to return at once with your plans, so that he can link with you on the Thriasian Plain.'

'Very well. I'll order my scribe to draft an answer.'

'That will not be necessary, sir. If you are to march all night I will advise the King to meet you between Eleusis and Athens.'

Sphodrias nodded and returned his attention to the scroll. 'Curious despatch. It starts by talking of supplies and ends with the invasion of Athens. Still, who am I to argue, eh?'

'Yes, sir,' replied Parmenion, saluting. His eyes flicked to Leonidas, who had stopped playing dice and was watching him intently. Parmenion bowed and swung back to the door, marching out into the yard beyond; once there, he ran behind the house to the stables. The gelding had been brushed and combed and the lion-skin chabraque was laid carefully over a rail. Parmenion draped it over the beast's back, smoothing out the folds before grasping the horse's mane and vaulting to his back.

He could hear the sound of pounding feet and kicked the gelding into a run, galloping past the running figure of Leonidas.

'Wait!' shouted the man.

The gelding thundered out on to the main avenue, where Parmenion slowed him until they reached the main gates. Then he allowed the horse his head, riding at speed towards the mountains.

Glancing back, he saw two horsemen galloping from the city. The gelding was breathing hard as they topped a rise and Parmenion had no choice but to slow down. Even so he took the horse along narrow paths and treacherous trails where he guessed the riders would not follow.

He was wrong. As he made camp in a cave high upon a ridge he heard the sound of walking horses on the scree outside. He had a fire blazing, and there was no way to disguise his presence.

'Come inside, there's a warm fire,' he called, keeping his voice cheerful and bright. Moments later two men entered the cave. One was tall, his beard dark and heavy, the other slender but well-muscled. Both wore swords and breastplates.

'Leonidas wished to speak with you,' said the bearded man. 'What is your name, friend?'

'Andicles. And yours?' asked Parmenion, rising.

'And what of your family?' continued the man. 'Where do you live?'

'By what right do you question me, Sciritai?' stormed Parmenion. 'Since when do slaves badger their masters?'

The man's face burned crimson. 'I am a free man and a warrior and, Spartan or no, I'll take no insults!'

'Then offer none!' snapped Parmenion. 'I am a messenger of the King, and I answer to no man. Who is this Leonidas that he should send you to question me?'

The slender man moved closer. 'By all the gods, Leonidas was right! It is you, Parmenion!'

Parmenion's eyes narrowed as he recognized the man; it was Asiron, one of the boys who had taunted him at Lycurgus Barracks ten years before.

'There is obviously some mistake here,' he said, smiling.

'No,' said Asiron. 'I'd stake my life on it.'

'Yes, you have,' replied Parmenion, drawing his sword and slashing it swiftly across Asiron's throat. The man hurled himself back from the gleaming blade, but blood was already gouting from the wound in his neck.

The Sciritai leapt to his left, drawing his own sword and grinning wolfishly. 'Never killed a Spartan yet,' he hissed, 'but I always wanted to.'

The Sciritai attacked with blinding speed. Parmenion parried and jumped back, his right forearm stinging. Glancing down, he saw a line of blood oozing from a narrow cut. 'I think I'll take you a slice at a time,' said the Sciritai. 'Unless you'd like to surrender and throw yourself on my mercy?'

'You are very skilful,' Parmenion told him as they circled one another. The Sciritai smiled, but said nothing. He launched an attack, feinted with a belly thrust and then slashed his sword towards Parmenion's face. The blade sliced agonizingly close to Parmenion's throat, the tip opening the skin of his cheek.

'A slice at a time,' repeated the Sciritai. Parmenion moved to his left, putting the fire between them, then sliding his foot forward into the blaze he flicked burning branches into the Sciritai's face. His opponent stumbled back, oiled beard aflame. Parmenion ran in close, slamming his sword into the man's groin. The Sciritai screamed and lashed out, but Parmenion ducked and wrenched his blade clear. As bright arterial blood gushed from the wound, drenching the Sciritai's leg, Parmenion moved back, waiting for him to fall. Instead, the Sciritai charged him. Parmenion blocked a vicious cut, but the man's fist cracked into his chin, sprawling him to the cave floor; he rolled as the man's iron blade clanged next to his head, sending a shower of sparks into the air. The Sciritai staggered, his blood pooling on the floor by his feet.

'By the gods,' he muttered thickly. 'I think you've killed me, boy.'

He sank to his knees, dropping his sword.

Parmenion sheathed his own blade and caught the man as he toppled sideways. Lowering him to the ground, he sat beside the warrior as his face grew ever more pale.

'Never… got to… kill a… Spa. .' His eyes closed, his last breath rattling from his throat. Parmenion rose and walked to Asiron. The man had hit his head on the cave wall as he jumped back from Parmenion's wild cut. His throat was bleeding, but the cut was not deep and already the blood was clotting. Removing the man's sword-belt, he bound his hands behind him and then rebuilt the fire. His right foot was blistered from the flames and he removed his sandals, hurling them across the cave. It took more than an hour for Asiron to wake: at first he struggled against his bonds, then he sat back and stared at Parmenion.

'You treacherous dog!' he hissed.

'Yes, yes,' said Parmenion wearily. 'Let us have all the insults first — then we can talk.'

'I have nothing to say to you,' answered Asiron, his eyes flicking to the body of the Sciritai and widening in shock. 'Gods, I never believed he could be bested with a blade!'

'All men can be bested,' said Parmenion. 'What did Leonidas say to you?'

'He thought he recognized you, but could not be sure. He sent me — and Damasias — to intercept you.'

Parmenion nodded. 'Not sure. . that is good. Then even now the Spartan army is marching upon its old enemy. I wonder if they are singing battle songs of glory. What do you think, Asiron?'

'I think you are a misbegotten and vile creature.'

'Is that any way to speak to an old friend who has decided not to kill you?'

'You'll get no thanks from me.'

Parmenion chuckled. 'Do you remember the night before the General's Games, when you and Learchus and Gryllus attacked me? I spent that night hiding upon the acropolis, dreaming of the day when I could repay you all. But then children are like that, aren't they, full of fantasies? As you sit here I have sent the Spartan army to invade Athens. My heart is glowing.'

'You make me sick! Where is your loyalty? Your sense of honour?'

'Honour? Loyalty? Why, I think that was thrashed out of me by good Spartan gentlemen like yourself, who pointed out that I was a Macedonian — not a Spartan at all. For whom should I express my loyalty?' His voice hardened. 'To the people who killed the woman I loved? To the city that made me an outcast? No, Asiron. I left you alive for a simple reason. I want you to tell Leonidas that it was I who organized the retaking of the Cadmea — and I who set Sparta at war with Athens. And more, my old, dear friend. It will be I who will see Sparta destroyed, her buildings razed, her power at an end.'

'Who do you think you are?' Asiron asked, with a dry, humourless laugh.

'I'll tell you who I am,' answered Parmenion, the words of Tamis echoing in his mind. 'I am Parmenion, the Death of Nations.'

Soon after dawn Parmenion released Asiron and rode for Thebes. The cuts on his face and arm were healing fast, but his right foot was burned and blistered, leaving his mood grim as he cantered to the city gates. An arrow flashed by him, then another. Swinging the gelding's head, he galloped out of range. Several horsemen rode out towards him, swords drawn. Parmenion wrenched off the Spartan helmet and waited for them.

'It is I,' he yelled, 'Parmenion!' The horsemen surrounded him and he recognized two of the men as members of the Sacred Band. They began to question him, but he waved them away and steered his mount into the city to report to Epaminondas.

Four days later Parmenion was awakened at midnight by shouting outside his home. Rising from his bed, disgruntled and annoyed, he threw a cloak around his naked frame and moved down the stairs, meeting Mothac as he emerged to the courtyard. 'I'll crack his skull, whoever he is,' muttered the Theban as the pounding on the gate began. Mothac pulled open the gate and Pelopidas ran in, followed by Epaminondas. The drunken Theban warrior grabbed Parmenion round the waist, hoisting him into the air and swinging him round.

'You did it!' yelled Pelopidas. 'Damn your eyes, you did it!'

'Put me down, you oaf! You're breaking my ribs.'

Pelopidas released him and turned to Mothac. 'Well, don't just stand there gaping, man. Get some wine. This is a celebration!'

Mothac stood his ground. 'Shall I break his face?' he asked Parmenion.

The Spartan laughed. 'I think not. Better fetch the wine.' He turned his gaze to Epaminondas.

'What is going on?'

'A messenger arrived an hour ago from Calepios in Athens. Sphodrias and his army appeared to the north of the city at dawn three days ago. They ravaged some villages and advanced on the Piraeus.

An Athenian force went out to meet them, the Spartan ambassador with them, and Sphodrias was forced to withdraw. By all the gods, I wish I'd seen it,' said Epaminondas.

'But what happened then?' snapped Parmenion.

'Let me tell him,' urged Pelopidas. His face sported a lop-sided grin, and his joy was almost childlike.

Epaminondas bowed to him. 'Continue,' he said, 'noble Pelopidas!'

'The Athenians were not happy. Oh, no! Their council met and they have decided to send — Sweet Zeus, I love this — they have decided to send 5,000 hoplites and 600 cavalry for the defence of Thebes. Five thousand!' he repeated.

'It is wonderful news,' said Epaminondas, accepting the goblet of wine from Mothac. Pelopidas staggered into the andron and stretched himself out on a couch.

'It is not an end in itself,' said Parmenion quietly, 'but it is a good beginning. What has happened to Sphodrias?'

'He has been summoned back to Sparta — with his army. Boeotia is free — except for the garrisons.'

'So,' whispered Parmenion, 'Sparta and Athens are now at war. We should be safe — at least until next spring.'

Epaminondas nodded. 'And now other cities in Boeotia will seek to rid themselves of Spartan garrisons. Pelopidas is leading his Sacred Band out into the countryside tomorrow, to aid the Tanagra rebels. I think we could win, Parmenion. I really do.'

'Do not tempt the gods,' advised Mothac.

Epaminondas laughed aloud. 'A long time ago I was told I would die at a battle in Man tinea. This frightened me greatly, for the seer was the renowned Tamis and beloved of the gods. So you can imagine how I felt when, with Pelopidas, I found myself fighting at Mantinea against the Arcadians. We were surrounded and Pelopidas went down. I stood my ground, ready to die. But I did not die. And why? Because there are no gods, and all prophecies can be twisted to mean anything the hearer desires. Tempt the gods, Mothac? I defy them. And even if they do exist, they are far too interested in changing their shapes and rutting with anything that moves to care what a lonely mortal thinks of them. And now I think I should collect Pelopidas and guide him home.' He took Parmenion's arm suddenly, the smile fading from his face.

'Once more you are our saviour, my Spartan friend. I cannot tell you how grateful I am. One day I will find a way to repay you.'

Pelopidas was asleep on the couch but Epaminondas shook him, hauling him to his feet and steering him to the gates. Immediately the drunken Theban launched into a marching song and the two men walked off into the darkness.

During the months that followed Parmenion settled back into private life, spending his time training hoplites, running and reading. Occasionally he would attend parties or celebrations as a guest of Epaminondas, or Calepios who had returned in triumph from Athens. But mostly he kept to himself, taking his horse and riding into the countryside, exploring the hills and valleys surrounding Thebes.

By the spring of the following year hopes were high in the city that the Spartan menace had been overcome, and that the old Boeotian League could be reformed. Pelopidas and the Sacred Band had been instrumental in helping the rebels of Tanagra and Plataea to expel the Spartan garrisons, and there was even talk of the Great King of Persia granting the Theban request for autonomy from Sparta.

Then came fearful news. Agisaleus had gathered an army of 11,000 hoplites and 2,000 cavalry and was marching to crush the rebellion. The next night Mothac returned from visiting the grave of Elea, tending the flowers planted there. It was late and he walked home in darkness, his thoughts sombre. As he reached the narrow street before the house of Parmenion, he saw a figure in the shadows leap and scale the wall. He blinked and focused his eyes on the spot, but there was nothing to be seen. Then a second figure scrambled over the wall to Parmenion's home.

Mothac felt a chill sweep over him. Swiftly he ran for the gate, pushing it open. 'Parmenion!' he bellowed. As he raced across the courtyard a dark figure leapt from the shadows, cannoning into him. Moonlight glinted on a knife blade that slashed by his face. Mothac rolled and came to his feet, blocking a thrust and hammering his fist into the man's face. The assassin fell back. Mothac threw himself at the man, making a wild grab for the knife wrist. He missed, and the blade plunged home into his left shoulder. His knee jerked up into the man's groin, bringing a grunt of pain, then Mothac's hands were on the assassin's throat. Hurling himself forward, he cracked the man's skull against the courtyard wall. The assassin went limp, but three times more Mothac smashed the man's head to the stone. Blood and brains fell on to his hands and he let the corpse sink to the ground.

Tarmenion!' he shouted again.

The assassin Gleamus cursed softly as he heard the servant call out, then ran up the steps to the upper floor bedroom where the traitor slept. Pausing outside the door, he listened, but there was no sound from within. Was it possible that the Spartan had not heard the cry?

Perhaps, but Gleamus had practised his trade for almost twenty years, in Egypt and Persia, Athens and Illyria, and he had survived by always using his wits, leaving nothing to chance.

For days now he had watched the house, observing the movements of the traitor, gauging the man.

His prey was a warrior. He moved well, smoothly, his eyes alert. But the weakness was in the house. There was only one exit from the bedroom — unless the man wished to leap to the courtyard below, where he would surely break bones.

The plan had already gone awry, but there was still time to collect the bounty offered by Agisaleus. Gleamus considered his next move. The man beyond the door could be awake. If so, where would he be? Yesterday, while no one was present, Gleamus had searched the building, memorizing the details of the bedroom. There was nowhere to hide. The room was small. So then there were few options for the man within. If awake he would be standing either to the left of the door, or the right. Behind him Aris and Sturma were moving up the stairs. But he would not need them. This was a kill he could make alone. It would show them he was still the master.

Lifting the catch, he hurled open the door, which crashed against the left wall. In that moment he saw the bed was empty, and with a savage cry he leapt forward, his knife slashing to the right where the traitor had to be. The blade slammed against the wall.

Momentarily stunned, Gleamus stood still, his gaze scanning the moonlit room. The traitor was gone! It was impossible. He had seen the man enter. There was nowhere else for him to be!

A shadow moved above him. He spun, his blade coming up. But he was too late. The traitor's sword slammed down past his collar bone, plunging deep into his lungs. Gleamus grunted and fell back, his dagger clattering to the floor. Even as life fled from him, his assassin's mind could not help but admire the ploy. The Spartan had climbed to the lintel stone above the door.

So simple, thought Gleamus.

The wood of the floorboards was cool against his face, and his mind wandered. He saw again his father's house on the isle of Crete, his brothers playing on the hillsides, his mother singing them to sleep with songs of gods and men.

Blood bubbled into his throat, and his last thoughts returned to the Spartan. So clever. So cle.

.

Parmenion dragged his sword clear of the corpse and stepped from the doorway. A blade sliced towards his face. The Spartan's sword flashed up, blocking the cut, his left fist cracking into the man's chin, sending him back into a third assassin on the stairs. Both men stumbled. Feet first, Parmenion leapt at them, his right foot thundering against the first man's chin. The two assassins were hurled to the foot of the stairs. Parmenion vaulted over the balcony, dropping to the andron below. Both assassins regained their feet and advanced on him.

'You are dead now, mix-blood,' muttered the first.

The two men moved apart, coming at the Spartan from both sides. Parmenion launched a sudden attack at the man on the right, then spun on his heel, his sword cleaving through the throat of the man on the left, as he darted in. The assassin fell, blood gouting to the Persian rugs covering the stone floor. The last assassin moved warily now and sweat shone on his bearded face.

'I am not easy to kill,' said Parmenion, his voice soft.

The man edged back towards the door. Mothac loomed up behind him, ramming a dagger through his lungs.

The assassin crumpled to the floor.

Mothac staggered in the doorway then stumbled outside to sit at the courtyard table, the bronze hilt of a knife jutting from his shoulder. Parmenion lit two lanterns and examined the wound.

'Pull the cursed thing out,' grunted Mothac.

'No. It is best where it is for the moment. It will prevent excessive bleeding until we get a physician.' He poured Mothac a goblet of unwatered wine. 'Do not move around,' he ordered. 'I will come back with Argonas.'

Mothac reached up and grabbed Parmenion's arm. 'I appreciate that you want to move quickly,' he said, forcing a grin. 'But it might be better if you dressed first.'

Parmenion smiled, his face softening. 'You saved my life, Mothac. And almost lost yours. I will not forget it.'

'It was nothing. But you could at least say you'd do the same for me.'

Two hours later, with Mothac asleep, the knife removed, the wound bandaged, Parmenion sat with Argonas, watching the fat man devour a side of ham and four goblets of wine, followed by six sweet honeycakes. Argonas belched, then lay back on the couch, which creaked under his weight.

'An interesting life you lead, young man,' said Argonas. 'Impersonating Spartans, fighting assassins in the dead of night. Is it safe to be around you, I wonder?'

'Mothac will be as he was?' asked Parmenion, ignoring the question.

'The wound passed through the fleshy part of the shoulder, where he is well muscled. It is not a round wound and will therefore heal more easily. I have applied fig-tree sap, which will clot the blood. He will be in some discomfort for several weeks, but the muscles will knit and he should be recovered by the summer.'

'I am very grateful to you. Mothac means much to me.'

'Yes,' agreed Argonas, stroking his oiled beard, 'good servants are hard to come by. I myself had a Thracian body servant, a wonderful man who anticipated my every need moments before I realized the need was there. I have never found another like him.'

'What happened to him?' enquired Parmenion, more from politeness than out of genuine interest.

'He died,' said Argonas sadly. 'He suffered a brain growth — like yours — but he was a man who never spoke of his troubles, and when he finally collapsed it was too late to prevent his death.

Never forget, my friend, to take the sylphium brew. Such deaths are painful to see and worse to suffer. I must say that your servant found a novel cure for you. I would use it myself, but already I am in trouble with my peers.'

'I thought it was the sylphium that healed me,' said Parmenion.

'Indeed it was. But first you had to be brought back in order to drink it. He is a thoughtful man, and a clever one. If ever he should think of leaving your service, I would be delighted to acquire him.'

'Yes, yes, but what did he do?'

'You don't remember?'

'For pity's sake, Argonas! If I remembered, why would I ask you?' snapped Parmenion, his irritation growing.

'He brought your favourite whore to your bed: a priestess. It seems that the will to live is considerably strengthened in a man who is aroused to copulation.'

'No,' whispered Parmenion, 'that is not how it was. It was Derae who came to me.'

Argonas heaved himself upright, his dark eyes showing concern. 'I am sorry, Parmenion,' he said.

'I have not spoken wisely. Put it down to a lack of sleep and an excess of wine. Perhaps it was both women — Derae in the spirit, the priestess in the flesh.'

Parmenion scarcely heard him. He was seeing again the priestess in the doorway, her smile, the smell of her perfume, the anger and sorrow in her eyes, the slamming of the door.

'Have you thought about why assassins should seek to kill you?' asked Argonas.

'What? No, I cannot think of a reason. Perhaps they were merely robbers.'

'Robbers without pockets or sacks? I think not. Well, I must leave. I will come back tomorrow to check Mediae's wound and receive my fee.'

'Yes. Thank you,' said Parmenion absently.

'And walk with care, my friend. Whoever hired these men can always hire more.'

Two days later the senior officer of the city militia visited Parmenion. Menidis was almost seventy years of age and had been a soldier for more than half a century. For the last ten years he had headed the small militia force operating within the city, responsible for patrolling the streets after dark and manning the great gates of Thebes.

'The men were foreigners,' said Menidis, his sharp grey eyes peering at Parmenion from under thick white brows. They arrived in the city four days ago, passing through the Proitian Gates. They said they had recently travelled from Corinth and were interested in purchasing Theban chariots. My belief is that they came from Sparta.' The old soldier waited to see what effect this had on the young man before him, but Parmenion's face was impassive. 'The part you played in freeing us of Spartan domination is well known,' he continued. 'I believe the men were hired to kill you.'

Parmenion shrugged. 'They failed,' he said.

'This time, youngster. But let us assume for a moment that they were paid by a rich nobleman. Such men are easy to find. Sadly, so too are you.'

'You suggest I leave Thebes?'

The old man smiled. 'What you do is a matter for you. I could have men guard you wherever you go, and watch over you while you sleep. The lord Epaminondas has requested — at the very least — we set a sentry outside your gates. But still there will be times when you walk in crowded avenues, or pause at market stalls or shops. A dedicated killer will find you.'

'Indeed,' agreed Parmenion, 'but I am in no mood to run. This is my home. And I do not want your guards here, though I thank you for the offer. If an assassin is to kill me, then so be it. But I will not be an easy victim.'

'Had it not been for your Theban servant,' Menidis pointed out, 'you would have been the simplest victim. A sleeping man offers little resistance. However, it is your choice and you have made it.'

The soldier stood and replaced his bronze helm, securing the strap at the chin.

'Tell me something,' asked Parmenion. 'I sense you do not care much whether they succeed or fail -

why is that?'

'You are very astute, and I believe in honesty at all times, so I will tell you. That you chose to betray your own city and aid Thebes gives me cause to be grateful to you. But you are still a Spartan and I despise Spartans. Good day to you.'

Parmenion watched the old man depart, then shook his head. In a curious way the words of Menidis caused him more concern than the attack. He strolled up to Mothac's room, where the servant was cursing as he tried to nurse his injured arm into a chiton.

'Let me help you,' said Parmenion, 'though Argonas insisted you stay in bed for a week.'

'Two days felt like a week,' Mothac snapped.

'Do you feel up to walking?'

'Of course! Do I look like a cripple?' Parmenion looked into the man's face, reading the anger in his eyes. Mothac's cheeks were flushed almost as red as his beard and he was breathing heavily.

'You are a stubborn man. But let it be as you say; we will walk.' Parmenion armed himself with sword and dagger and slowly they made their way to the gardens at the western slope of the Cadmea, where fountains were placed to cool the breeze and flowers grew all the year. The two men sat close to a shallow stream, beneath a yellowing willow, and Parmenion told the Theban about his conversation with Menidis.

Mothac chuckled. 'He doesn't mellow with age, does he?

Two years ago he arrested two Spartan soldiers, cracking their skulls for them. He claimed they were molesting a Theban woman of quality, which was complete nonsense. Theban women of quality are not allowed on the streets.'

'In that — if in nothing else — you lag behind Sparta,' said Parmenion. 'There women walk as freely as men, with no restrictions.'

'Disgraceful,' Mothac observed. 'How then do you tell them from the whores?'

'There are no whores in Sparta.'

'No whores? Incredible! No wonder they are so anxious to conquer other cities.'

'While we are on the subject of whores, Mothac, tell me about the night you brought one to my bed.'

'How did you find out?'

'It does not matter. Why did you not tell me?'

Mothac shrugged, then winced as his shoulder flared. He rubbed at the wound, but that only made it worse. 'You were convinced it was a miracle. I wanted to tell you the truth, but. . but I didn't. No excuses. I am sorry, it was all I could think of. Yet it worked, didn't it?'

'It worked,' agreed Parmenion.

'Are you angry?'

'Just a little sad. It was good to feel that Derae came back to me — if only in a dream. Perhaps Epaminondas is right, and there are no gods. I hope he is wrong. When I look at the sky, or the sea, or a beautiful horse, I like to believe in gods. I like to feel there is some order, some meaning to existence.'

Mothac nodded. 'I know what you mean — and I do believe. I have to. There is someone waiting for me on the other side; if I didn't believe that, I would cut my throat.'

'She died on the day you came to me,' said Parmenion. 'Her name was Elea.'

'How did you know?'

'I followed you on the first day. I saw the funeral procession. When you went off- as it turned out, to kill Cletus — I walked to the grave to pay my respects.'

'She was a wonderful woman,' said Mothac. 'She never complained. And I still see her face whenever I close my eyes.'

'At least you had more than five days,' whispered Parmenion, rising. 'Let us return. I think you are more tired than you look.'

Suddenly a man stepped from the shadows behind them. Parmenion's sword slashed into the air and the man leapt back, lifting his hands, his mouth hanging open in shock.

'I have no weapon! No weapon!' he screamed. Behind him stood a child of around seven years, clutching his father's cloak.

'I am sorry,' said Parmenion. 'You startled me.' Sheathing his sword he smiled down at the child, but the boy started crying.

'You are more concerned than you look,' said Mothac as the two began the long walk home.

'Yes, it frightens me to know that a knife, or a sword, or an arrow could come from anywhere. Yet, if I leave Thebes I will be as I was when I came here — virtually a pauper. I have money in several merchant ventures, but I have still to pay Epaminondas for the house.'

'Better to be poor and alive,' said Mothac, 'than rich and dead.'

'But better still to be rich and alive.'

'You could join the Sacred Band. Pelopidas would be delighted to have you, and even the doughtiest assassin would have difficulty in getting close to you.'

'That is true,' Parmenion agreed, 'but I will serve under no man — save perhaps Epaminondas. He and I think alike. Pelopidas is too reckless and it does not pay to be reckless when facing the Spartans.'

'You still believe we do not have the strength to go against them?'

'I fenowit, Mothac; it is not a question of belief. No, we must stall them, refuse open battle.

The time will come. But we must have patience.'

Leucion had slept badly, his dreams full of anxiety and frustration. He woke early, his mood foul, while the other nine warriors still slept.

Curse the whore! thought Leucion as he stirred the ashes of the fire, at last finding a glowing ember and adding dry leaves and twigs to bring the blaze to life. She had talked of love, but when his money ran out she had laughed at him, ordering him from her house. Cursed Persian whore! The battles were over, the mercenaries disbanded. We were welcomed by cheering crowds and flowers strewn in our path, he remembered, but dismissed in the night with a handful of coins and not a word of thanks.

They all look down on us, he realized. Persians. Yet where would they be without us, fighting their miserable battles? Barbarians, all of them. He opened the pouch at his side, pulling clear his last coin. It was gold, heavy and warm. On one side was stamped the face of the Great King, on the other a kneeling archer with bow bent. The Persians called them darics, after Darius the Great. But to the Greek mercenaries they were archers, and the single reason why so many Greek warriors fought hi Persian wars.

'No Greek is impervious to Persian archers,' Artabazarnes had told him, during a drinking bout.

Then the Persian had laughed, the sound mocking. He had wanted to smash the leering grin from the Persian's face.

Leucion sat now before the fire, his anger burning brighter than the flames. Pendar awoke and joined him. 'What troubles you?' asked his friend.

'This cursed country,' Leucion told him.

'Your mood was fine yesterday.'

'Well, this is today!' snapped Leucion. 'Wake the men, and let us push on. It is a ten-day ride to the city.'

'You think they'll take us on?'

'Just do as I ask!' roared Leucion. Pendar backed away from him and woke the men as Leucion rubbed his fingers through his short black beard. It was matted now, and he longed for a phial of perfumed oil… and a bath. Lifting his breastplate into place, he settled the shoulder-guards and strode for his horse.

Mounted at last, the men rode across the green hills, their armour glinting in the morning sun.

Topping a rise, they gazed down on a series of small villages and a distant temple with white columns, beyond which lay the shimmering sea.

Leucion tugged on the reins, riding towards the nearest village. His head was pounding now and he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.

Curse you, whore, to a worm-ridden death!

As they neared the village he glanced at the temple. Riding high on the hills, they could see over the white walls of the temple garden. A young woman was walking there, her red-gold hair reflecting the sunlight, her body slim, breasts pressing against the filmy gown she wore.

A scene came to his mind: the woman writhing beneath him, begging him to stop, pleading with him, his knife at her throat, the blade slipping into the skin, the blood gushing from her. .

Kicking his horse into a run, he galloped for the rose-covered gateway.

Even as he approached he realized that the others would never stand for him murdering the girl before they had enjoyed her. No, he would have to be patient. His thoughts surprised him, for he had never before considered there to be pleasure in murder. In fighting, yes; in war, obviously.

How curious, he thought. Dragging on the reins, he leapt from the horse's back and strode through the gateway. The girl was kneeling by a rosebush. Her head came up.

She was blind. For some reason this made his arousal more fierce, his sense of power soaring.

He heard the other men dismounting and halted, watching the girl. Her beauty was considerable, more Greek than Persian, but Leucion did not care what nationality she was.

'Who are you?' she asked, her voice soft yet deeper than he had expected, her accent betraying her Doric origins. Spartan or Corinthian, he thought, which delighted him. He would not have felt as content with the prospect of raping an Athenian woman.

'Why do you not speak?' she asked, no trace of fear yet in her voice. But that would come, he knew. Slowly he drew his knife and advanced towards her.

'What are you doing?' cried Pendar.

Leucion ignored him and moved close to the woman. Even above the scent of the roses, he could smell the perfume of her hair. Reaching out he took hold of her gown at the shoulder and slashed through it, pulling the remnants clear of her body. She stumbled back naked — and now the fear showed.

'Stop this!' Pendar shouted, running forward and grabbing Leucion's arm. Before he could stop himself the warrior swung and plunged his blade into his friend's chest. 'Why?' whispered Pendar, falling against Leucion and sliding to the ground, his blood smearing Leucion's bronze breastplate. For a moment Leucion hesitated, confused; then he shook his head and swung to the other men. 'You want to take her?' he asked them.

'Why not?' answered Boras, a thick-set Thracian. 'She looks tender enough.' The men advanced on the naked girl, Leucion in the lead with his bloody knife raised. The priestess stood her ground.

She lifted her hand and Leucion felt the knife writhe in his grasp. Glancing down, he screamed -

he was holding a viper, whose raised head was drawn back with fangs poised for the strike. He threw it from him, hearing it clatter to the stones.

'What's the matter with you, man?' asked Boras.

'Did you not see it? The snake?'

'Are you mad? You want her first — or not? I'll not wait for long.'

A low growl came from behind them.

A beast stood in their midst. It had the head of a lion, the body of a bear, huge shoulders and taloned paws. Swords flashed into the air as the warriors attacked the creature, which offered no resistance as the blades clove into its massive frame. It fell, covered in blood — and became their comrade, Metrodorus.

'She's a witch!' shouted Boras, moving back from her.

'Yes, a witch,' the blind woman told them, her voice almost a hiss. 'And now you will all die!'

'No!' came another voice, and Leucion saw an old woman struggling along the pathway. Easing past the swordsmen and kneeling beside the dead Metrodorus, she placed her hands on his wounds and began to chant. Clouds seemed to race across the sky, then freeze in place. The wind at first howled but then died, and the silence was eerie. Leucion glanced up to see an eagle hanging motionless in the sky, wings spread. The chanting continued and the men watched as Metrodorus'

wounds closed. A shuddering breath shook his frame, then a groan.

'See to the other one,' the sorceress told the blind girl.

'They are killers! They deserve to die!' she shouted.

But the old woman ignored her and the young priestess moved to the body of Pendar, laying her hand over the chest wound. Leucion watched in silent amazement as the wound closed. Pendar awoke and gazed up at the blind healer.

'Did they harm you?' he asked her. She shook her head. 'Am I dying?'

'No. You are well,' she told him.

Leucion stood dazed and blinking in the sunlight. The wind picked up and the eagle continued its flight as he stumbled to Tamis. 'I don't know… I have never. .' But the words would not come.

Pendar rose and took his friend's arm. 'Are you well now, Leucion?'

Suddenly the leader began to weep. 'You know me, Pendar. I would never… do such a thing.'

Tamis turned to Derae, but said nothing. The young priestess stepped forward, taking Leucion by the hand. 'Go from here to Tyre,' she said coldly. 'There you will find what you seek.'

'I am sorry,' he told her.

'Nothing happened of any importance,' Derae assured him.

Pendar gathered up Derae's dress and wrapped it around her, tying the torn pieces together.

'And you, Pendar, should return to Athens, where your family have need of you.'

'I will, lady,' he promised.

After the men had gone Tamis walked to the pool and splashed cold water to her face. Derae sat beside her.

'Why did you stop me?' asked Derae.

'You touched Leucion, you know why he came. The Chaos Spirit was working within him.'

'But I could have killed him.'

'And who would have won, Derae? Who would gain the victory? The Dark God cares nothing for Leucion. He knew the man could not destroy you, it was you he was seeking to test. We cannot use his weapons. Every small victory gained that way leads to a future defeat. I know, I have killed men. Leucion will find love and happiness in Tyre. He will raise sons, good men, proud men. But he will never forget this day.'

'Nor shall I,' said Derae with a smile. Tamis could sense her pleasure and for a fleeting moment she merged with her, touching her soul like an unheard whisper. The Spartan woman was recalling with satisfaction how the men had fallen upon their comrade. She was relishing the memory of power.

Tamis pushed herself to her feet and returned to her room. She was tired and failed to see the black shadow forming on the wall behind her as she sat down on the bed. As she poured a goblet of water and sipped it, talons slid from the wall at her back — long, and curved. The water touched an edge of rotting tooth and Tamis grunted and rose. The sun moved from behind a cloud and a shaft of light shone through the window, casting the shadow of talons on the bed. Tamis whirled as the claws slashed for her face. Her arm came up, light blazing from her fingers to become a glowing shield of gold. The talons raked across it and the wall shimmered, a huge head pushing clear of it as if the stone were no more solid than smoke. The demon's skin was scaled, its teeth pointed.

Slowly it emerged into the room, its enormous arms and taloned hands reaching for the old seeress.

'Begone!' thundered Tamis, pointing at the creature. But the light was fading from her hands, and she knew that she had used too much of her power on the slain man.

The demon lunged at the shield, which split in two and vanished from sight. Talons hooked into Tamis' robes and she was dragged across the stone floor towards the gaping hole where once the wall had been.

The door opened. .

A blazing shaft of light smote the demon in the chest. Fire and smoke leapt from the beast and a terrible cry filled the room. The talons tore free of Tamis and the creature swung on Derae.

The Spartan woman waited until the demon was upon her, then threw out both arms. Lightning lanced from her fingers. The creature was punched from his feet; he tried to rise, but blue light encircled him, chaining his huge arms and legs.

Derae moved forward, standing over the beast. 'Begone,' she whispered. A wind blew up, sucking the demon back through the wall, which shimmered before becoming stone once more.

'You. . did. . well,' said Tamis, clutching the side of the bed and hauling herself to her feet.

'What was the… thing?'

'A night-hunter. Our enemies have breached the spell I placed over the temple. You must help me form another.'

'Do you know who our enemies are?'

'Of course. The leader of them is Aida.'

'Can we not attack them?'

'You do not listen, Derae. We cannot use their weapons.'

'I am not convinced,' said Derae. 'How can we fight them when all the weapons are theirs?'

'Trust me, child. I have no answers that would convince you. Just trust me.'

Lying back on the bed Tamis closed her eyes, unable to look at the young priestess. Twice today the Spartan had tasted the joys of power. .

And Tamis could almost hear the Dark God's laughter as she fell into an exhausted sleep.

Thetis wandered through the narrow streets to her home in the south of the city, her season at the Temple of Aphrodite completed. Once home, she scrubbed away the paint and the ochre and threw the shimmering gown and bright, filmy chlamys to a corner. Pulling on a white cotton gown, she stretched herself out on a couch and stared at the soiled garments. Tomorrow she would burn them, and would never again visit the Temple of Aphrodite. Unlike many of the other girls Thetis had spent her earnings wisely, investing with three merchants engaged in the spice trade and one from Thespiae who bred and trained war horses.

Thetis was now financially secure. The house had cost nine hundred and eighty drachms, and she had also hired a maidservant, a Thessalian girl of fifteen who lived in a small alcove at the rear of the kitchen.

From now on life would be without care, without sweaty hands groping at her, without the grunts of the worshippers in her ear.

Without Damon, she found herself thinking. She closed her eyes and settled back, hugging an embroidered cushion to her belly.

Without Damon. .

How could someone so young and athletic have died in such a manner, collapsing on a training field after a race? The surgeon said he had a weakness in the heart. Yet he was so strong, his body carrying no fat, his muscles firm and as finely chiselled as those of Heracles. No, he had no weakness of the heart, Thetis knew. He had been struck down by the gods who were jealous of his beauty, and Thetis had been robbed of the only love she would ever know.

For a while she dozed on the couch, then rose and wandered to the kitchen where she ate some bread and cheese, washing it down with cool water. The servant girl, Cleo, was snoring softly in her bed, and Thetis moved silently about the room so as not to wake her.

Her hunger satisfied, she returned to her couch. The clothes on the floor caught her eye and she realized she could not wait to burn them. Taking the small, curved knife she carried for protection she slowly ripped the garments into tiny pieces, until the floor around her couch looked as if it were strewn with flower-petals.

Six years of her life had been spent wearing those garments — six long years filled with faceless, nameless men. Bearded or unbearded, fat or thin, young or old, all desired the same service.

She shook her head as if to dislodge the memories, and Parmenion's face loomed in her mind. She had thought of him often in the months since she had brought him back from the dead. It was the contrast, she realized, between the silent rutting animal he was with her and the caring, considerate lover she had seen on that one night, as he dreamt of… what was her name? Derae?

So physically unlike the powerful Damon, yet possessing the same qualities of tenderness and understanding of her needs. No, not her needs, she reminded herself: Derae's needs.

Taking up the cushion she held it to her and fell asleep once more, waking with the dawn. Beyond the kitchen Cleo had filled a bath with heated water and Thetis climbed in, soaking her skin and washing her short, thickly curled red hair. When she stood Cleo wrapped a warm towel around her, patting her dry. Then the servant smeared perfumed oil on Thetis' body, scraping it clean with a round-edged knife of bone.

Thetis put on an ankle-length chiton of blue-dyed linen and wandered to the courtyard. It was long and narrow, but caught the early-morning sunshine. Beyond the gates she could hear people moving on the streets, and the distant hammering from the forge of Norac the smith. She sat in the sun for an hour and then walked inside, taking up an embroidery she had begun three years before. It was a series of interwoven squares and circles, with shades of green, brown and yellow. Working on it calmed her mind.

Cleo came to her. 'There is a man to see you, mistress.'

'A man. I know no men,' she answered, realizing as she said it that it was the truth. She had coupled with hundreds, perhaps thousands of men, and not one did she know.

'He asks to speak with you.'

'What is his name?'

The girl blushed and ran to the courtyard, returning within moments. Tarmenion, mistress.'

Thetis took a deep breath, composing herself. 'Show him in,' she said, 'then leave us.'

'Leave you, mistress?' queried Cleo, surprised.

Thetis smiled. 'If I need you I will call out.'

Thetis returned to her embroidery as the girl led Parmenion to her. She glanced up, her face stern.

'Please be seated,' she said. 'Cleo, fetch some water for our guest.'

That will not be necessary,' said the man, seating himself on the couch opposite. They sat in silence until Cleo had left, pulling the door shut behind her.

'I do not welcome uninvited guests to my home,' said Thetis. 'So, I would appreciate it if you would state your business swiftly.'

'I came to apologize,' began Parmenion.

'For what?'

The man suddenly smiled sheepishly; it made his face more boyish, less stern, she thought. 'I am not sure; but I know it is necessary. You see, I did not know it was you who brought me back that night.'

'I was paid for it,' she snapped, battling to control an anger she could scarcely understand.

'I know that,' he said gently. 'But I felt. . feel… I have caused you pain. I would not wish that.'

'You would like to be friends?' she asked.

'I would — very much.'

'My friendship cost forty obols,' she told him, rising and tossing aside the embroidery, 'but no longer. Now, please leave. You can find many friends at the Temple, and the price remains the same.'

'That is not what I meant,' he said, pushing himself to his feet. 'But it will be as you say.' He walked to the door and turned to face her. 'I value friendship highly,' he told her. 'Perhaps it is because, in my life, I have very few friends. I know you were paid for what you did, but even so you saved my life. That is a debt I will carry. Should you ever have need of me, I will be there. No question. Whether you wish it or not, I am your friend.'

'I do not need friends, Parmenion, but if ever I am short of forty obols I will think of you.'

After he had gone she sank down to the couch and lifted the embroidery. Cleo came to her, kneeling at her feet. 'Your hands are trembling, mistress.'

'He is not to be allowed in here again. The next time he calls, you will stop him at the gate. Do you understand?'

'At the gate. Yes, mistress.'

But the days passed and Parmenion did not call again, and for some curious reason this only served to make Thetis more angry with the young Spartan.

As spring progressed Thetis found her new life increasingly oppressive. When a priestess she had been able to walk the streets day or night. But no Theban woman of quality would ever be seen unaccompanied save at the market-place, and the house which had been Thetis' dream fast became a comfortable prison. Cleo brought news daily, but mainly her conversation revolved around the latest clothes, or perfumed oils, or jewelled necklaces. The girl took little notice of the movements of the Spartan army as it entered Boeotia. All Thetis could gather was that the Spartan King, Agisaleus — having forced a passage for his troops through the passes of Mount Cithaeron in the south — was ravaging the countryside, and that Epaminondas had fortified a ridge outside Thebes with 5,000 Athenian hoplites and 3,000 Thebans.

Not that it mattered to Thetis whether the Spartans won or lost. It seemed to her that, whatever the city of origin, the grunts in her ear were always the same.

But the war was affecting her investments, the Spartans having confiscated the last shipment of opium as the carts passed through Plataea. Thetis lost almost 600 drachms and was now relying on Asian spices coming in through Macedonia to keep her profits high.

Thoughts of her finances left her thinking of the Temple. Nothing would make her go back to that way of life again, she promised herself.

Then Parmenion's face came to her mind.

Curse him, she thought. Why does he not call?

With Agisaleus unwilling to assault the ridge defended by Athenians and Thebans, and Epaminondas refusing battle on the open plain, the war entered a stalemate — the Spartans marching through Boeotia, sacking small towns and villages and bolstering their garrisons, but leaving Thebes unscathed.

Then Agisaleus, tiring of a war of attrition, marched towards the city. He had in mind to storm the Proitian Gates and raze Thebes to the ground. The less hardy of the city-dwellers fled, packing their belongings into carts or wagons.

One wagon contained the physician Horas with his wife and three children. The eldest child, Symion, complained of a severe headache as the wagon moved on into the night, heading for Thespiae. By dawn the boy had a raging fever, and glands in his throat and armpits had swollen to thrice their size. Red patches formed on his skin and he was dead by noon. That afternoon Horas himself felt the onset of fever and delirium.

An advance scouting party from the Spartan army found the wagon. The officer looked inside, then backed away swiftly.

'The plague,' he whispered to his aide.

'Help me!' croaked Horas, struggling to climb from the wagon. 'My wife and children are sick.'

'Stay where you are,' shouted the officer, signalling a bowman forward. 'Where are you from?'

'Thebes. But we're not traitors, sir. We are sick. Help us — please!'

The officer gave a signal to the bowman, who shot an arrow through Horas' heart. The physician fell back into the wagon.

'Burn it,' the leader ordered.

'But he said there was a woman and children inside,' argued his aide.

The officer rounded on the man. 'Then you climb in and put them out of their misery!'

The soldiers gathered brushwood and piled it around the wagon. Within moments the dry wood roared into flame and, as the screams were beginning, the soldiers marched back to report the encounter to Agisaleus.

The plague started in the poorest quarter of the city, but spread swiftly. Fearing the army would become affected, the councillors ordered the city gates to be shut and barred. No one was allowed out — or into the city. A mob attacked the guards at Electra's Gates, but was turned back by bowmen on the walls commanded by the old warrior, Menidis.

Within a week, more than a fifth of Thebes' 30,000 population endured the symptoms of glandular swelling and ugly, inflamed red swirls which appeared on face and arms. The death toll rose, and scores of carts were pulled through the city streets every night to collect the dead whose bodies had been placed in alleys beyond house gates.

Mothac succumbed to the sickness on the ninth day, and Parmenion helped him to his room before running to the house of Argonas. The physician was not there — his servants told Parmenion he was visiting the sick in the north of the city. The Spartan left a message for him and returned home.

Food was now scarce, but he bought some dried meat and stale bread in the market-place for a sum four times its worth and prepared a broth for Mothac.

Argonas arrived at dusk. The flesh of his face was sagging and his eyes were dark-rimmed. He examined Mothac, then took Parmenion aside.

'The fever will burn strongly for two days. It is important to take the heat from the skin. Bathe him hourly in warm water, but do not dry him. Allow the heat of his body to evaporate the water; this will cool him. He will then suffer intense cold, and he must be wrapped in warm blankets until the fever rises once more. Then repeat the procedure. Make sure he drinks plenty of water.

Add a little salt — not too much, or he will vomit. If the swellings begin, wait until they split and weep, then apply honey.'

'Is that all that can be done?'

'Yes. I ran out of herbs four days ago.'

'Sit down and have some wine,' invited Parmenion, moving to the jug on the kitchen shelf.

'I have no time,' Argonas replied, heaving himself to his feet.

Parmenion took him by the shoulders. 'Listen to me, man. If you go on in this way you will collapse — then you will achieve nothing. Sit down.'

Argonas sank back to the chair. 'Most of the physicians got out before the gates were shut,' he said. 'They recognized the symptoms early. There are too few of us now.'

'Why did you not leave with them?'

Argonas smiled. "That's what everyone would expect. Fat Argonas, who lives for money: look at him run! Well, I do like money, Parmenion. I enjoy a life of pleasure and gluttony. I was born poor, a peasant in a foreign land. And I decided a long time ago that I would taste the good things and revel in luxury. But that does not make me less of a physician. You understand?'

'Drink the wine, my friend, and revel in a little cheap broth.'

'Not cheap any more,' said Argonas. Trices are rising very fast.'

'How bad is the plague?' Parmenion asked, ladling broth into a deep bowl and placing it before the fat man.

'Not as bad as the one that struck Athens. There are probably 8,000 people in Thebes who have the symptoms, but curiously many of them stop short of developing the plague. It is deadly in children and the old, but the young and strong seem able to fight it off. Much depends on the swellings.

Armpits only and there is a chance; if it spreads to the groin, death soon follows.' Argonas spooned the broth into his cavernous mouth, then rose. 'Time to go. I will call on Mothac tomorrow evening.'

Parmenion saw him to the gate and watched the fat man make his way down the narrow alley, stepping over the bodies laid out in rows.

Mothac was sweating heavily when Parmenion returned, but his lips were cracked and dry. Lifting the Theban's head, he forced cool water between his lips and then bathed him as Argonas had directed. For two days Mothac scarcely moved. In his delirium he called out for Elea, and wept. On the third day large swellings appeared in his armpits, and he lapsed into a near coma. Parmenion was exhausted, but still he stayed by day and night at Mothac's bedside. The swelling under the left arm turned purple and, as Argonas had warned, it split, oozing watery pus. Parmenion smeared honey on the wound and covered Mothac with fresh blankets.

The following morning, as he slept in a chair beside the bed, he heard a rattling at his gate.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Parmenion stumbled to the courtyard to see the servant girl, Cleo.

'It is my mistress,' cried Cleo. 'She is dying.'

Parmenion took the girl to Mothac and ordered her to sit by him, instructing Cleo on how to bathe the sleeping man. Then he took his cloak, armed himself with sword and dagger, and carefully made his way to the house of Thetis. Corpses lay everywhere and the market-place was deserted.

Thetis was lying on her bed, lost in a fever sleep. Pulling back the sheets, Parmenion examined the woman's naked body. There were swellings under both armpits and in the groin. Wrapping her in a blanket, he lifted her into his arms and began the slow walk back to his own house.

On the way two men who were pulling a cart piled high with bodies called out to him: 'We'll take her.' He shook his head and staggered on. His muscles were burning with fatigue as he carried her into his courtyard and through to the andron, where he laid her on a couch. Together he and Cleo manhandled his bed down the stairs and into the room alongside Mothac. 'It will be easier to look after them both in the same room,' Parmenion told Cleo. 'Now go back to the house and gather what food there is, and bring it here.'

With the girl gone Parmenion bathed Thetis, applying honey to a seeping sore under her right arm.

He felt her pulse, which was fluttering and weak, then sat beside her holding her hand. After a while her eyes opened.

'Damon?' she whispered through dry lips.

'No, it is Parmenion.'

'Why did you leave me, Damon? Why did you die?'

'It was my time,' he told her, his voice gentle and his hand squeezing hers. 'Rest now. Gather your strength — and live.'

'Why?' came the question, and it cut into him like a jagged blade.

'Because I ask you to,' he told her. 'Because… I want you to be happy. I want to hear you laugh again.'

But she was asleep once more. Soon she began to shiver and Parmenion wrapped her in a warm blanket and hugged her frail body, rubbing her arms and shoulders, willing heat into her.

'I love you, Damon,' she said, her voice suddenly clear. Parmenion wanted to lie, as once she had lied for him. But he could not.

'If you love me, then live,' he said. 'You hear me? Live!'

Time passed swiftly for Derae. Every day she learned new skills, healing the sick of the surrounding villages who were carried into the temple on makeshift stretchers. She mended the broken leg of a fanner, stroked away the weeping, cancerous sore on a child's neck, and gave sight to a blind adolescent girl who had travelled with her father from the city of Tyre. Word spread throughout the Greek cities of Asia that a new healer had come among them, and day by day the queues lengthened outside the temple.

Tamis had been gone for several months, but she returned late one evening to find Derae sitting in the garden, enjoying the cool of the night air. Already there were people sleeping in the fields beyond, waiting for their chance to see the Healer.

'Welcome home,' greeted the younger woman.

'They will be a never-ending source of exhaustion for you,' said Tamis, gesturing to the fields.

'They will come from all over the empire, from Babylon and India, from Egypt and Cappadocia. You will never heal them all.'

'A blind child asked me why I did not heal myself.'

'And what did you tell her?' asked Tamis.

'I told her that I did not need healing. It was true; it surprised me. You look weary, Tamis.'

'I am old,' snapped Tamis. 'One expects to feel weary. But there is something I must do before I leave again. Have you seen Parmenion while I have been away?'

Derae blushed. 'I like to watch him. Is that wrong?'

'Not at all. But as yet you have seen no futures. However, now is the time to walk the many paths.

Take my hand.'

Their souls linked, the two women sped to the city of Thebes and the house of Parmenion. It was shrouded in darkness, and the sound of wailing came from the streets around the dwelling.

'What is happening?' Derae asked.

'The plague has come to the city,' answered Tamis. 'Now watch!'

Time froze, the air shimmered. Derae saw Parmenion staggering out into the courtyard, his face mottled and red, his throat swollen. He collapsed and she tried to go to him, but Tamis held her.

'You cannot interfere here,' she said, 'for this is the future. It has not yet occurred. Just as we cannot change the past, neither can we work in the days yet to be. Keep watching!' The scene blurred, re-forming to show Parmenion dying in his bed, dying in the street, dying at the home of Calepios, dying on a hillside. Finally Tamis returned them both to the temple, groaning as she re-entered her body to find her neck stiff and aching.

'What can we do?' asked Derae.

'I can do nothing at the moment. I am too tired,' said Tamis. 'But tell me, do you feel strong enough to use your power at such a distance?'

'Yes.'

'Good. But first let me ask you this: How would you react to Parmenion taking a wife?'

'A wife? I… I don't know. It hurts me to think of it, but then why should he not? He thinks me dead — as indeed I am. Why do you ask?'

'It is not important. Go to him. Save him if you can. If you cannot deal with the plague, return for me. I will rest now and gather my strength.'

Derae lay back and loosed her soul.

Thebes glistened below her. She flew to Parmenion's home, but he was not there. Mothac lay sick, a young girl beside his bed wiping the sweat from his face with a damp cloth. Derae rose high above the house, her eyes scanning the deserted streets. Then she saw him, staggering under the weight of the woman he carried.

She recognized the whore, Thetis, and watched as Parmenion brought her home and tended her, listened as the woman spoke of her love in a fever sleep. Derae floated close to Parmenion, laying

— her hands within his head, his thoughts flowing into her mind. He was willing the woman to live.

Derae relaxed her mind, merging with Parmenion, flowing with his blood through veins and arteries.

The plague was within him, tiny and weak, but growing even as she observed it. Focusing her concentration, she hunted the pockets of corruption, destroying them until, at last satisfied, she pulled back from him. The woman was dying, huge swellings under her jaws, in her armpits and her groin.

But Parmenion was safe. Derae soared into the night sky — and hovered there, confused and uncertain. Parmenion wanted the woman to live. Did he love her? No, his thoughts were not of love, but of debts unrepaid. Yet if Derae saved her he might grow to love her, and she would lose him a second time.

It is not as if I am killing her, Derae rationalized. She is dying anyway. I am not to blame. She wanted to fly back to the temple — but could not. Instead she returned to the bedroom and merged with Thetis.

The hunt was monumentally more difficult. The plague was everywhere, rampant and deadly. Three times Thetis' heart shuddered and almost failed. Derae revitalized exhausted glands, feeding energy to the woman, then continued her work, battling the disease. For a long time the plague had the better of her, multiplying faster than she could destroy it. She drew back to the heart, cleaning the blood as it pumped through, filling it with power. The danger area, she realized, was in the groin, where the swellings had burst and were oozing poison-filled pus. Here she accelerated the healing powers of the tissue. Hours fled past. Derae was faint with exhaustion as she finally rose from the body.

She began her journey back to the temple, but her mind was groggy and she found herself floating over an unknown palace in which a woman was screaming. Derae tried to concentrate.

'He is born!' someone cried, and a great cheer went up from the army of men outside the palace.

A dark cloud swept up towards her, opening like a colossal mouth. She saw fangs the length of a tall man, and a purple tongue, forked and swollen. She was powerless to resist.

A spear of lightning slashed into the mouth — just as it loomed beneath her.

'Take my hand!' cried Tamis.

But Derae lost consciousness.

She awoke in her own room at the temple, sensing Tamis beside her. 'What was it?' she asked.

'You were lost in the future. You saw the Dark Birth.'

'I am tired, Tamis. So… tired.'

'Then sleep, my child. I will protect you for a little while yet.'

Cleo returned with enough provisions for three frugal days and, combined with the food Parmenion had stored, there was sufficient for a week.

The days dragged by. Argonas no longer called and Parmenion learned from a collector of the dead that the fat man had suffered the fate of thousands — his body consumed by the plague. Mothac grew stronger, the red swirls disappearing, the swellings abating; but he was weak, needing to sleep often. Cleo worked tirelessly, bathing her mistress, changing soiled sheets, cooking and cleaning.

Parmenion scoured the city for food, but even the horses and dogs had long since been slaughtered.

Then, like a spent storm, the plague began to wither away. Fewer and fewer bodies were left for the collectors, and the gates were opened to allow a convoy of food wagons to enter the blighted city. Parmenion fought his way through the mob that surrounded the convoy, and emerged with a haunch of beef and a sack of dried cereal.

At home Cleo cooked some of the meat and spoon-fed it to Thetis, who was now more lucid. The two men carried her bed upstairs to Parmenion's room, to give her more privacy, while Cleo slept on a couch in the andron.

By the end of summer the city had almost returned to normal. More than 4,000 people had perished in the plague but, as Calepios pointed out, this was a fraction of those who would have died or been enslaved had the Spartan army sacked the city. Fearing the plague, the Spartans had marched from Boeotia without a battle, and allied troops had now secured the passes over Mount Cithaeron against them. News also came from Tegyra that Pelopidas and the Sacred Band had routed a Spartan division which outnumbered them two to one, and had killed Phoebidas, the Spartan responsible for the taking of the Cadmea four years earlier. The defeated soldiers were not Spartan regulars but mercenaries from the city of Orchomenus, yet even so a day of celebration was declared in Thebes and the sounds of laughter and song drifted to the room where Thetis lay. She was still very weak, her heartbeat ragged and irregular, but the distant laughter cheered her.

Parmenion entered, bearing a tray of food and drink. Setting it down, he sat beside her. 'You have more colour today,' he said. 'Mothac managed to find some fresh honeycakes. An old friend of mine swore they gave strength to the weary.'

Her green eyes rested on his face, but she said nothing. Instead she reached out and took his hand, tears falling to her cheeks.

'What is wrong?' he asked her.

'Nothing,' she replied.

'Then why are you weeping?'

'Why did you do this for me?' she countered. 'Why did you not let me die?'

'Sometimes there are no answers,' he told her, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her palm.

'You are not Derae, as I am not Damon. But our lives have crossed, the lines of our destinies are now entwined. I no longer have great faith in distant gods, but I believe in the Fates. I believe we were meant to be together.'

'I do not love you,' she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

'Nor I you. But I care for you. You have been on my mind constantly since I discovered the truth about the night you brought me back. Stay with me, Thetis. I cannot promise to make you happy, but I will try.'

'I will not marry you, Parmenion, but I will stay. And if we are happy, so be it, we will remain together. But know this, one day you may awake to find me gone. If that happens, promise me you will never try to find me.'

'I promise,' he said. 'Now eat, and regain your strength.'

The man stood in the moonlight at the gates of Parmenion's house. There was no one in sight as carefully he slid his knife into the crack at the centre of the gates, easing up the wooden bar beyond. The gate opened, the bar sliding at an angle towards the ground, but before it could thud against the stone he rammed his knife-blade into the wood, jamming it in place until he could slip through and lower it carefully to the courtyard. Returning the knife to its sheath, he walked towards the closed door of the andron.

Something cold touched his neck and a hand clamped to his shoulder. 'Were I you, I would stand very still,' warned a voice by his ear.

'I have a message for Parmenion,' whispered the man.

'The knife at your throat is very sharp. Put your hands behind you.'

The man obeyed, standing quietly as his wrists were lashed together. Then he was led into the darkened andron and watched as his red-bearded captor lit three lanterns. 'You would be Mothac?'

'I would. Sit down.' Mothac pushed the man to a couch. 'Parmenion!' he called. Moments later a tall, slender man, thin-faced, with piercing, pale blue eyes, entered the room. He was carrying a gleaming sword.

'Clearchus!' cried Parmenion, tossing aside the sword and smiling broadly.

'The very same,' grunted Xenophon's servant.

'Untie him,' ordered Parmenion. Mothac slashed his knife through the leather thongs binding the man, and Clearchus rubbed at his wrists. His hair was whiter and thinner than the young Spartan remembered, the lines on his face deeper, like knife-cuts in leather. 'An odd time to be calling,'

Parmenion commented.

'My lord asked me to make sure I was unobserved.' Reaching into his thick woollen shirt, Clearchus produced a scroll which he handed to the young Spartan.

Parmenion put it aside and sat facing the older man. 'How does the general fare?'

Clearchus shrugged. 'He's a sad man. He writes now. Many things — horsemanship, tactics, the state of Greece. He spends hours every day with his scribes. I cannot recall the last time he went riding or hunting. And he has grown fat.' Clearchus almost spat the last word, as if even forming it offended his mouth.

Parmenion reached for the scroll, then noticed Mothac still standing by, his knife in his hand.

'It is all right, my friend. This is Clearchus, a companion of the general Xenophon. He is trustworthy.'

'He is a Spartan,' muttered Mothac.

'Beware, child, lest I crack your skull for you,' snapped Clearchus, reddening.

'Once upon a time perhaps, grandfather,' retorted Mothac. Clearchus lurched to his feet.

'Stop this, both of you!' ordered Parmenion. 'We are all friends here — or we should be. How long have you been in Thebes?'

'I arrived this evening,' answered Clearchus, casting a murderous glare at Mothac. 'I visited friends in Corinth, then bought a horse and rode here through Megara and Plataea.'

'It is good to see you. Would you like some food and drink?'

Clearchus shook his head. 'I will be leaving once you have given me an answer for my lord.'

Mothac bade Parmenion goodnight and wandered back to his room, leaving the two Spartans together.

The younger man opened the scroll and sat close to a lantern.

Greetings, friend [he read], the years move on, the seasons gathering pace, the world and its troubles drifting further from me. And yet I see matters more clearly than when young, and with increasing sadness.

There was a young man in Sparta who killed another in a duel over a woman. The dead boy's father still grieves and has hired assassins to seek out the killer, who no longer resides in Sparta. I understand that four assassins were slain by the boy, who is now a man. But others may follow.

I hope that you are well, and that your life is happier than that of the Spartan boy who lives now far from home. I think of that boy often. I think of his courage and his loneliness.

At worst may the gods smile on you, at best may they ignore you.

There was no signature.

Parmenion looked up into the weather-beaten face of the old servant. 'You risked much to bring this to me, Clearchus. I thank you.'

'Do not thank me,' said the old man. 'I did it for the general. I liked you, boy. But that was a long time ago, before you became a traitor. I hope the assassins find you — before you can play any more of your deadly games.'

'None of you will ever see it, will you?' said Parmenion, his voice icy. 'You Spartans think of yourselves as demigods. You take a child and you torment him all his life, telling him he is no Spartan, then accuse him of treachery when he takes you at your word. Well, here is a thought for you, Clearchus, and all your foul breed: after I tricked Sphodrias I was caught by a Sciritai warrior. He had fought for you for years; he had been raised to fight for you. And as we drew swords against one another he told me he had always wanted to kill a Spartan. You are hated not only by Thebes and Athens but by the very people who fight alongside you.'

Clearchus opened his mouth to reply, but Parmenion raised his hand.

'Say nothing, servant!' he hissed. 'You have delivered your message. Now begone!'

For a moment only the old man glowered at him, then backed away and vanished into the darkness.

Mothac stepped into view, still carrying his knife. 'Do not let it concern you,' he said gently.

Parmenion gave a bitter laugh. 'How would you recommend I do that? After the assassins came, Menidis told me he couldn't care less whether I lived or died. That's the Theban view on me, Mothac: I am a Spartan traitor. And it cuts me to the bone to be called so.'

'I think we should get drunk,' Mothac suggested.

'It is not exactly the answer I was looking for,' Parmenion responded.

'It is the best I have.'

'Then it will have to do,' said the Spartan. 'Fetch the jug.'

Thebes, Summer, 371 BC

Thetis awoke early. Her dreams had been good, her sleep restful. She stretched her arms and rolled on one side, gazing at the sleeping man beside her. Reaching out, she gently brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead. He sighed, but did not wake.

The last six years had been good to them both. Parmenion, at 29, was in his prime and had won races in Corinth, Megara, Plataea and even Athens. His face was sharper now, the prominent nose more hawklike, his hair slowly receding. But his smile was still boyish and his touch gentle.

Good years…

In the first he had noticed her discontent at being virtually housebound and had come to her one morning from the market-place, where he had purchased a dark chiton, knee-length sandals, a pair of Persian-style trews in light linen and a felt hat. 'Put these on,' he told her.

She had laughed then. 'You want me to dress as a man? Are we in need of such devices?'

'No,' he replied, with a grin. 'But I will teach you another way to ride.'

It was an adventure she had enjoyed more than she would ever have thought possible. Still weak after the plague, she had sat high upon a chestnut mare and had ridden through the city, her felt hat covering her hair and the loose chiton disguising the curves of her body. Once in the hills she had discovered the joys of the gallop, the wind in her hair, the impossible speed.

They had made love in a high meadow, shaded from the afternoon sun by the branches of a tall cypress, then splashed naked in a cold mountain stream. The recollection of that day shone with clear light in her memories. 'When I am gone,' he said, 'you will be able to send Mothac to fetch the horses and continue to ride. There is freedom here, and no one to question you, or frown at the lack of dignity shown by a woman of quality.'

'Gone?' she queried. 'Where will you go?'

'Epaminondas has decided it is time to set about freeing Boeotia. We will be taking troops to captive cities and aiding their rebellions. We must secure the land against Sparta.'

Early one morning, some five weeks later, Thetis awoke to see Parmenion standing beside the bed.

He was dressed in a bronze helm with baked leather cheek-guards, and a breastplate showing the head of a roaring lion. His sword was strapped to his side, the scabbard resting against a kilt made up of bronze-edged leather strips.

'It is today, then?' she said.

'Yes.'

'You could have told me last night.'

'I did not want to burden you. I will be gone for perhaps a month, maybe two.' She nodded and turned her back to him, closing her eyes and pretending to sleep.

For days she fretted, imagining him riding to his death. 'I will not fall in love with him,' she promised herself. 'I will not cry over his corpse as I did with Damon.'

But her fears grew as the news of skirmishes and sieges reached the city. The Spartan garrison at Thisbe, formed mainly from mercenary units from the city of Orcho-menus, had marched out to confront the Theban force. A short battle had followed, before the mercenaries were routed; it was reported that seventeen Thebans were dead. One by one the cities fell, mostly without bloodshed, the beleaguered Spartan garrisons agreeing to leave after being granted safe conducts back across the Peloponnese. But still there was no news of Parmenion.

Six weeks to the day since she had refused to say goodbye, he walked into the courtyard. She saw him from the upstairs window and stopped herself from running down to meet him. Instead she walked slowly, and they met on the stairs. His helmet was dented in two places, his breastplate gashed, the lion's head showing a deep groove.

'Did you miss me?' he asked, untying the chin-strap and removing the helmet.

'A little,' she conceded. 'Are you home for good?'

'No, I ran out of sylphium. I ride back tomorrow.'

Back in their room she helped him to remove his breastplate and shirt. Only then did she see the vivid red scar on his upper right bicep. 'It did not bleed much,' he said, trying to reassure her.

'It was a mercenary who got too close. Epaminondas killed him.'

'I do not want to know the details,' she snapped. 'I will have a bath prepared.'

They had made love that night, but Thetis could not relax and Parmenion's needs were too urgent.

The following morning he was gone again.

As the months passed, Epaminondas, Calepios and others gradually re-formed the old Boeotian League, launching it in Thebes following a General Assembly attended by councillors from all the freed cities. The meeting was democratic, and hopes were high for the year ahead.

Parmenion, released for the autumn from military duties, was less sure of the future. On one of their rides he confided to Thetis his fears.

'It is less democratic than it appears,' he said, as they sat in the high meadow they had come to consider their own private place. 'Thebes can veto any decision, and directly controls the votes of Thespiae, Plataea and Tanagra.'

'Why is that a problem?' countered Thetis. 'Thebes is a great city, and all our councillors value freedom and care about the rights of others. You heard Calepios' speech. The new federal state of Boeotia will have no dictators.'

'I heard it, and I hope it proves true. But an old friend once told me that society is like a spear-point — wide at the base, pointed at the tip. Democrats believe you can reshape it, removing the point. But, as if by magic, it will grow again. There will always be kings, Thetis, and if not kings then dictators. It is the nature of Man to strive to rise above others, to impose his will on all.'

'There is no one like that in Thebes,' she said. 'Maybe in ancient times, yes, but this is the modern world, Par-menion. It does not have to be like that any more. Epaminondas will never be a dictator, nor Pelopidas. Nor you. I think you worry too much.'

And the years appeared to prove her right. Five years after the retaking of the Cadmea, a peace agreement was reached between Athens and Sparta which allowed Thebes and the Boeotian cities the right of self-government.

Thetis remembered that autumn well. Epaminondas had come to the house, accompanied by Calepios, to discuss with Parmenion the terms of the settlement. Against all tradition the Spartan had stopped Thetis as she was leaving the room and signalled for her to sit beside him.

The two Thebans had looked astonished. 'It saves me going over everything twice,' Parmenion told them. 'She will only insist on hearing it all after you have gone.'

'But. .' stuttered Calepios. 'She… a woman. .'

'Is this the great orator?' asked Parmenion, struggling to look serious. 'Come now, Calepios, you have known Thetis for years. It should not be difficult to speak in front of her.'

'It is not a question of difficulty,' snapped Calepios, 'but one of decorum. I know you Spartans have curious ideas about women, but here in Thebes we prefer to maintain civilized standards. Such matters as we are to discuss would both bore and confuse dear Thetis.'

'I am sure Calepios is right,' said Thetis, rising, 'and I am grateful for his kindness in thinking of me.' She had swallowed her anger and retired to her rooms. Later Parmenion gave her a full account of the meeting, but not before his own anger had been unleashed.

'You should have stayed!' he stormed. 'Your advice would have been valuable.'

'You do not understand, strategos. The meeting would not have gone ahead; Calepios would have left. You cannot flout tradition — not in Thebes. Now tell me how.you view the peace talks.'

'Athens is short of money, and Sparta is all but bankrupt,' Parmenion told her. 'Therefore all we have won is a little breathing space. The war is not over, but we will use the time wisely.'

'How much time?'

He had shrugged. 'Two years, three. But this issue will not be decided without a battle — and that means Thebes against Sparta, for Athens is mainly a sea power.'

'The Spartans are only men, like other men,' she had pointed out.

'Perhaps, but they have never lost a major battle against a foe of equal numbers. And, whatever happens, we cannot yet match their strength.'

'You will think of something, my love; you are the strategos.' She said it lightly, but he had brightened, his smile returning.

Now Thetis shook her head clear of memories and rose from the bed. Parmenion moaned in his sleep, but did not wake as she dressed and moved downstairs where Mothac was preparing breakfast.

The Theban smiled as he saw her. 'Another fine day,' he said as she entered the kitchen. There were grey hairs in Mothac's red beard and his hair was thinning at the crown. Thetis shivered. It was all very well lying in bed reliving memories, but it had the effect of highlighting the passing of time.

Cleo had long since left, wedded to the son of Norac the Smith, and Thetis now helped Mothac in the work of the household.

'You should take a wife,' she said suddenly, as they sat in the courtyard enjoying the early-morning sunshine.

'I had a wife,' replied Mothac. 'I don't want another. But I would have liked a son.'

Thetis found her good mood evaporating and Mothac's hasty apology did nothing to alter the downward slide of her emotions. They finished their breakfast in silence and Mothac went back to the kitchen to prepare Parmenion's daily infusion of sylphium.

A son. The one gift she could never give to Parmenion.

She had long known she was barren, having never suffered the monthly periods of bleeding endured by all other women. But only since she had lived with Parmenion had the knowledge turned to bitterness. Parmenion never spoke of it and this cheered her, but she knew that all men reach a point in their lives where they desire an heir.

She heard Parmenion approaching, but did not turn. His hands touched her shoulders, his lips kissing the back of her neck.

'Good morning, lady,' he said.

She smiled. 'You sleep later and later,' she chided. 'I think you are becoming old and lazy.'

'I was with Calepios until almost dawn.'

She looked into his face. 'Is it war again?'

'I don't know. Epaminondas is going to Sparta to meet with Agisaleus.'

'Is that wise?' she asked.

There is to be a meeting of all the cities. Agisaleus has promised safe conducts and Athens will be represented. It may bring lasting peace.'

'But you do not think so?'

'I cannot make up my mind. My fear is that Athens and Sparta will reach agreement, leaving Thebes standing alone. If that is the case, then Agisaleus will feel free to lead his forces into Boeotia

— and this time we will have to face him.'

'Thebes against Sparta,' she whispered.

'To the death,' he said.

'And is that what you want?' she asked suddenly.

'What do you mean?'

'You hate the Spartans. Would you really desire peace?'

Parmenion smiled. 'You are an astute woman, Thetis. But you are right. I do not want peace. These years have been hard, but I am close now to my dream. One day the Spartans will come — and I will have my vengeance.'

'And then?' she pressed.

'What can I say? I have lived so long with no other dream; I can see nothing beyond the humbling of Sparta. They have taken so much from me, and they shall pay in blood and shame for every moment of it.'

'Either that — or you will die,' she pointed out.

'One or the other,' he agreed. it

Parmenion called a halt to the combat training and the warriors of the Sacred Band sheathed their swords. In full battle armour they were sweating heavily. Some sank to the hard-baked clay of the training ground, others wandering to the shade near the Grave of Hector.

'Do not be so swift to relax, gentlemen,' called Parmenion. 'Ten circuits should be enough to stretch those tired muscles."

A groan went up, but the men began to run. Parmenion was about to join them when he saw a young boy sitting beneath the trees watching the training intently. The youngster was around thirteen years of age, with dark, tightly curled hair and a face that given time would be exceedingly handsome. But it was his expression which touched a chord in Parmenion. The face was still, the emotions masked, and Parmenion remembered his own boyhood long ago, the trials and suffering he had endured in Sparta.

He strolled across to where the boy sat. 'You are studying the art of war?' he asked.

The boy stood and bowed. He was not tall, but sturdily built. His dark eyes fixed to Parmenion's face. 'It is good to study the ways of foreigners,' he said, his voice soft.

'Why is it good?'

'One day we may be enemies. If so, I will know how you fight. If we are friends or allies, I will know whether you can be relied upon.'

'I see,' said Parmenion. 'You are a wise young man. You are a prince, perhaps?'

'Indeed I am. A prince of Macedonia. My name is Philip.'

'I am Parmenion.'

'I know. I have seen you run. Why is it you compete under a Macedonian name?'

Parmenion sat down, beckoning the boy to join him. 'My mother was Macedonian," he told him. 'It is a tribute to her. You are a guest in our city?'

The boy laughed. 'You do not need to be coy, Parmenion. I am a hostage against the good behaviour of Macedonia. But life here is good and Pammenes takes fine care of me. It is better, I think, than being back in Macedonia. There I would probably be killed by an anxious relative.'

'Harsh words, young prince.'

'Harsh but true,' said the boy. 'I am one of many brothers and half-brothers, all of whom have some right to the throne. It is not our way to leave rivals alive. I can see the logic of it, I suppose.'

'You seem to be taking your plight with great calmness, young prince.'

'What else can I do?'

Parmenion smiled. 'That is not a question I can answer. I am not a prince.'

'No,' agreed Philip, 'and I do not wish to be one. Nor would I want to be a King. Certainly not in Macedonia.'

'What is wrong with Macedonia?' queried Parmenion. 'I have heard it is a beautiful land, full of rolling plains and fine forests, mountains and pure streams.'

'So it is, Parmenion. But it is also a land surrounded by strong enemies. To the west there are the Illyrians of King Bardylis: tough, doughty warriors. To the north there are the Paionians: tribesmen who love nothing better than to ride south for plunder. To the east there are the Thracians: good horsemen, fine cavalry. And to the south there are the Thessalians and the Thebans. Who would want to be King of such a country?'

Parmenion did not reply. The boy's eyes were sorrowful, his mood dark, and there was nothing the Spartan could say. In all probability the lad was right. Once back in Macedonia his life would be worth little. The thought depressed Parmenion.

An uncomfortable silence developed and Parmenion rose to leave. The Sacred Band was still toiling round the circuit and the Spartan turned to the young prince. 'I learned a long time ago never to give in to despair. Fortune may be fickle, but she loves a man who tries and tries again. I think you have a strong mind, Philip. You are a thinker, a planner. Most men just react to circumstances, but thinkers create the circumstances. If there are relatives who wish to see you dead, then make them love you. Show them you are no threat. Show them you can be useful. But more than anything, boy, you must become a hard man to kill.'

'How do I do that?'

'By staying alive. By thinking of all the ways your enemies will come at you. By preparing for them. Despair is the brother of defeat, Philip. Never let it touch you.'

The boy nodded, then pointed to the runners who were staggering to a halt on the tenth circuit.

Parmenion strode out to meet them. 'I think that will be all, gentlemen,' he said. 'Be here tomorrow one hour after dawn.'

'Have a heart, Parmenion,' called one youngster. 'Three days in a row?'

'I have no heart,' he said. 'I am a man of stone. One hour after dawn, if you please.'

Turning back to the trees, he saw that the boy had gone. Parmenion sighed. 'May the gods favour you, Philip of Macedon,' he whispered.

For three weeks the peace conference at Sparta seemed likely to end all thoughts of war. Trade agreements were negotiated and signed, border disputes argued over but finally settled.

Epaminondas was treated like an honoured guest, and twice dined with King Agisaleus.

Pelopidas returned to Thebes in the fourth week, regaling Parmenion with stories of the geniality which surrounded the conference.

'I think Agisaleus has resigned himself to losing his power over us,' said Pelopidas. 'There was a representative of the Great King there, a golden-haired Persian with a curled beard. You should have seen the clothes he wore: I swear to Zeus, he had more jewels sewn into his coat than stars in the sky! He positively shimmered whenever he entered the room.'

'Did he speak?' asked Parmenion.

'He opened the conference, bringing us all the greetings and blessings of the Great King. He said the King was happy that his children were to become reconciled, one to the other.'

'Speaking of Kings, what of Cleombrotus?'

'He has not been present," Pelopidas answered. 'It is said he is ill. But I'll tell you this, Sparta is an appalling city. I don't know how you could stand the smell. All the waste flows to the streets and the flies are thicker than smoke. An ugly place — fit for an ugly people.'

'Ill?' queried Parmenion. 'With what?'

'They did not say, but it could not have been very serious for they seemed unconcerned by his absence. You know, when you told me that Spartan women were allowed to walk in the open I really did not believe you. But you were right. They were everywhere. And some of them even stripped part naked and ran in the meadows. I'll say this, I don't know how such an ugly race of men could ever sire such beauties. There was one woman, with hips like. .'

'I know about the women,' said Parmenion patiently. 'I lived there. I am more concerned with Cleombrotus; he is strong as an ox, and would not have missed the conference willingly. What proof did you have that he was in Sparta at all?'

'Where else would he be?'

'What about the army? How many soldiers did you see?'

'Agisaleus ordered the army south for manoeuvres. He said the conference would proceed more amiably without the constant clashing of Spartan shields, which some might take as a covert form of persuasion.'

'So,' said Parmenion. 'We have both the Battle King and the army lost from sight. Does that not suggest something to you, Pelopidas?'

The Theban warrior got up from the couch and walked to the window. Outside the sun was shining in a clear sky. He swung back towards Parmenion and smiled. 'You think they plan some treachery? I doubt it. If they wanted to invade, they could do so without long-drawn-out jabbering and debate, and the endless signing of treaties.'

'I agree,' Parmenion concurred. 'But there is a taste to this that does not sit well pn the tongue. How many men could we muster in, say, two days?'

'Hypothetically? Three thousand from Thebes, maybe a thousand from the Federation.'

'Not enough, if Cleombrotus and the army marched north instead of south. When is the conference now due to end?'

'Ten. . no, nine days from now. It will conclude with the signing of a full agreement between the Athenian Alliance, Sparta and Boeotia. Then there will be two days of celebration.'

'And how many men can we bring to the field in nine days?'

'Gods, Parmenion, are you obsessed with Sparta? We could not consider bringing together an army at this time. If we did, and word reached the conference, how would it be seen? We would be accused of aggressive behaviour and the treaty would come to nothing. Why must you look for treachery at every turn? Perhaps the Spartans have come to terms with the re-emergence of Thebes.'

'How many men?' pressed Parmenion. 'Hypothetically.'

Pelopidas filled his goblet with watered wine and returned to his couch. 'Perhaps 7,000 — if we could get cavalry from Thessaly. But I'll be honest with you, Jason of Pherae is as great a cause for fear as the Spartans — perhaps greater now. His Thessalian cavalry already numbers 20,000 men, and he has at least 12,000 hoplites. I think it is to the north that we must look with trepidation. The Spartans are out of it.'

Parmenion said nothing but sat quietly staring at a point high on the wall, his right hand stroking his chin. After a time he turned his gaze on Pelopidas. 'There are two points to consider here, my friend. If you are right, then we have nothing to fear. If my fears are confirmed, then all we have fought for will be taken away from us. So, let us assume for a moment that I am right and the Spartan army is closer to us than is thought. Where would they be? How would they be planning to enter Boeotia? We still have a force overlooking the passes of Mount Cithaeron. They would see the Spartans and raise the alarm, yet it is unlikely they would try crossing the Corinthian Gulf, since we now have the twelve battle triremes at Creusis. Where then, Pelopidas -

you know the territory?' Parmenion moved to a chest by the far wall, pulling clear a map of central Greece etched on cowhide. He sat beside Pelopidas, dropping the hide into the Theban's lap.

Pelopidas drained his wine. 'I'll play the game with you, Parmenion, though you are wrong this time. But let me think. We hold the southern passes and all entries from the Peleponnese. We could pin down a Spartan army for months. And, as you say, they could not cross the gulf without a sea battle — unless, that is, they crossed much further north, say here at Agion,' he said, stabbing the map. 'Then they would head for Orchomenus and Lake Copais. They would be able to draw allies from the city, strike south-west through Coronea and Thespiae to Thebes herself and, coming from the north, would bar all help from reaching us from Thessaly.'

'Exactly my point,' said Parmenion. 'Most of our troops are south, guarding the passes. But who do we have in the north?'

'Chaireas with 1,000 hoplites, mostly from Megara and Tanagra. Good fighting men. Solid. They are based at Thespiae.'

'Send riders to Chaireas, ordering him north to blockade the passes at Coronea. If I am wrong, we can say that Chaireas was merely taking his troops through manoeuvres.'

'Sometimes,' said Pelopidas, 'I do not enjoy your company. My father used to tell stories about dark demons who stole the souls of little boys. Afterwards I would lie in my bed unable to sleep, even though I knew the bastard was only trying to frighten me. I never liked the man. But now you have made me nervous.' He sighed. 'I will do as you suggest, but — when you are proved to be wrong

— you will give me your new black gelding. How does that sound?'

Parmenion chuckled. 'Agreed. And if I am proved to be right, you will give me your new shield?'

'But I sent to Corinth for that shield. It cost me twice what any reasonable man would pay for a horse.'

'You see,' observed Parmenion, 'already you are beginning to consider I may be right.'

Pelopidas grunted. 'What I will do,' he said, 'is ride your gelding up and down outside your gates every morning. Then you will see the cost of your obsession with Sparta."

A week later came disquieting news, though not from the north, where Chaireas had marched to Coronea and fortified a ridge. Calepios returned from Sparta and went straight to the home of Pelopidas. The Theban general heard him out and both men sought Parmenion. They found him on the race-track, pounding out the miles in an effortless lope. Pelopidas waved, beckoning the runner to them.

Parmenion masked his irritation and joined them; he did not like his daily run to be disturbed or interrupted. Nevertheless he bowed politely to Calepios, the orator returned the bow and the three men sat at the new marble bench by the Grave of Hector.

'There has been an unusual turn of events,' said Calepios. 'We were preparing to sign the Treaty of Peace when Epaminondas noticed that the word Boeotian had been changed to Theban. He asked why this was so, and Agisaleus told him that Thebes — and not the Boeotian League — was currently the power north of the Peleponnese. Epaminondas reminded him that he was the representative of the League, not merely of Thebes. But the Spartans remained firm. Either Epaminondas signed for Thebes — or he did not sign. All others have already signed, Parmenion.

Epaminondas asked for a further three days to consider the matter and report back to the League.

That is why I am here. What is Agisaleus planning? Why would he do such a thing?'

'To separate us from Athens. If all cities sign — save Thebes — then we are outcasts. Sparta could march against us without fear of attack from Athens.'

'The Athenians would never allow it,' said Calepios. 'They have been with us from the start.'

'Not quite,' Parmenion pointed out. 'It needed a Spartan invasion to spur them on. But they must be starting to see the Boeotian League as a possible threat. The Athenians have long coveted the title of leaders of Greece. If they sit back and watch Thebes and Sparta rip each other to shreds, who prospers but them? They can gather the pieces.'

'Therefore,' said Pelopidas, 'we should sign. What difference does it make?'

Parmenion laughed and shook his head. 'A great warrior you may be, Pelopidas, but avoid the area of politics. If Epaminondas signs, it will be a message to all democrats in Boeotia that Thebes has declared herself the ruler of all. It would sunder the League. It is a clever ploy. Agisaleus is as cunning as ever.'

'What then is this all about?' asked Pelopidas. 'Will he sign, or will he not?'

'He cannot,' said Parmenion. 'If he did, it would mean a slow, sure death for the League. Instead we must muster the army. Agisaleus will come now, for sure.'

'We cannot just muster the army,' put in Calepios. 'We are a democracy. First the seven elected Boeotian generals must be summoned; that is part of the constitution. And one of those generals is Epaminondas.'

'A rule devised by idiots,' snapped Parmenion. 'What will you do, Pelopidas? You are one of the Seven.'

'I will order the Sacred Band to re-form, and gather what hoplites I can from Thebes and the surrounding areas. All we can do now is to alert the other cities and request troops. We cannot order them.'

'A wondrous beast is democracy,' said Parmenion.

It was almost dawn when Parmenion left for home, walking the deserted streets and avenues, past the fountains and the moonlit statues. He moved with care, avoiding narrow alleys, his hand on his sword-hilt. As he crossed an open square he saw a dark, hooded figure sitting by a walled pool.

Anxiously he cast his eyes around the square, but there was no one else in sight, nor any hiding-place behind which an assassin could lurk. Parmenion walked on.

'No greetings for an old friend?' came the dry voice of Tamis, as he sought to pass. He stopped and turned; the old woman raised her head and smiled.

'Are you human or spirit?' he asked, feeling the chill of the night breeze on his skin.

'I am Tamis,' she replied.

'What is it you require of me? Why do you haunt me, woman?'

'I require nothing, Parmenion. I am an observer. Are you content?'

'Why should I not be? And give me no more of your false prophecies. Thebes still stands — despite your words.'

'I did not say she would fall in a day,' said Tamis wearily, 'and my prophecies are never false.

Sometimes I wish they were. Look at you, young and in your prime, feeling immortality in your veins. You look at me and you see a walking corpse seeking a suitable grave. You see wrinkled skin and ruined teeth. You think that is me? You think this is Tamis? Look again, Parmenion,' she said, rising and pushing back the hood. For a moment she was bathed in moonlight so bright he could not bear to look upon her, then it cleared. Standing before him now was a young woman of breath-taking beauty, her hair gold, her lips full, her eyes a brilliant blue, yet warm and more than friendly.

Then the image faded and he saw her skin dry out and sag, her shoulders bow and her waist thicken.

His mouth was dry. 'You are a sorceress!' he whispered.

Her laugh became a cackle and she sank back to her seat. 'Of course I am a sorceress,' she told him, her voice edged with sorrow. 'But what you saw was once real. There is not one old woman in all the world who would not understand. One day, Parmenion, perhaps you too will be old, your skin dry and mottled, your teeth loose in your jaws. But inside you will be as you always were — except that you will find yourself trapped in a decaying shell.'

'I have no time for this. What do you want of me?'

'Is your hatred still strong?' she asked. 'Do you still require the death of Sparta?'

'I desire to see Thebes free of Spartan influence, that is all.'

'You told Asiron you were the Death of Nations.'

'How could you know that?' Suddenly he laughed. 'A foolish question to ask of a sorceress. Or a Spartan spy. Yes, I told him. But that was years ago. Perhaps your prophecies worried me then.

They do not now. Was it you who told Epaminondas he would die at Man tinea? Was that another falsehood?'

'Yes, it was I. But that is between the great man and myself. Do you love Thetis?'

'I don't know why I am bothering to talk to you,' he said. 'I am weary. I need sleep.' He swung away from her and began to walk across the square.

'Do you love her?' she called softly. He stopped, the question echoing in his mind, then slowly he turned.

'Yes, I love her. Though not as I loved — and still love — Derae. Is there a reason for the question? Or are we playing another game?'

'I asked you once to ride from the city, to seek a destiny at the shrine to Hera in Troy. You did not heed me. You will not heed me now. But yet, I say it to you: Do not go home. Ride from Thebes tonight.'

'You know I will not.'

'I know,' she told him, and in her voice he heard a depth of sadness which struck him worse than a blow. He opened his mouth to speak, to find some gentle words of parting; but she moved away swiftly, pulling her hood over her head.

The sky was brightening with the pre-dawn as he arrived at the gate of his house. He yawned and raised his fist to rap at the wood, knowing that Mothac would awaken instantly and raise the bar.

Then he saw that the gate was ajar. Irritation flared. Ever since Clearchus had entered so easily, Parmenion had insisted that at night the gate should be both chained and barred; it was not like Mothac to forget such an order. Parmenion put his hand to the gate, then hesitated. The meeting with Tamis had unsettled him. In all probability Mothac had merely consumed too much wine and had fallen asleep waiting for him.

His unease remained and with a whispered curse he moved to his right until he stood beneath the lowest part of the wall. Hooking his fingers over the edge he hauled himself up, carefully avoiding the pots and jars he had placed along the top for an unwary intruder to send crashing.

Silently he moved two of them aside, making room to ease his body on to the wall. Scanning the courtyard below he saw two armed men waiting, one on either side of the gates. Lowering himself back to the alley, he drew his sword. His mouth was dry, his heart hammering, but taking several deep breaths he calmed himself and crept to the gates. He had one advantage, he knew: the assassins expected to surprise their victim. He crashed his shoulder into the left-hand gate, which flew open. The first assassin was smashed to the ground as Parmenion leapt to his right, his sword cleaving through the second man's neck. The first man rose groggily; his sword had been knocked from his hand, but he scrabbled for a knife. Parmenion's blade plunged into his chest.

The assassin sagged against Parmenion who ripped clear his sword, pushing him away. With a groan the man fell face first to the courtyard; his leg twitched and his bowels opened, the stench filling the air. Parmenion ran towards the andron, throwing open the door.

'Welcome,' said a tall Spartan. 'Put down your sword- or the woman dies.' His left hand was on Thetis' throat, but in his right was a short dagger, the point held to the woman's side.

Thetis stood very still. She had awoken in the night to hear a scuffle in the courtyard below.

Seizing a dagger, she had run down to find four men standing over the body of Mothac. Without thinking she hurled herself at them. One of them made a grab for her, but she twisted and rammed the dagger deep into his groin. A fist cracked against her cheek, spinning her to the ground; then they were on her, pinning her arms and tearing the dagger from her hand. The man she stabbed was lying very still, his blood spreading across the courtyard. One man dragged her back into the andron, while the others pulled the bodies into the kitchen.

'You slut!' stormed the man who held her. 'You killed him!' He back-handed 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 upon 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 Par-menion's belly. Parmenion sidestepped to the left, throwing a punch which 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 round 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 blood-stained 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 on to his bed, then Dronicus plugged the wounds, using wool smeared with sap taken from fig-tree leaves. He covered the plugs with woollen 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 me 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 closed her eyelids. 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 asked.

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 12,000 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 camp-fires.

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 12,000 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 of 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 armour 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 12,000. Good odds, don't you think?'

Pelopidas shrugged. 'I do not care how many there are. Tomorrow we crush them.' He hawked and spat 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 centre 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 400 horsemen. At the centre the Sacred Band, and behind them javeliners and archers. Epaminondas himself stood in the fifth rank of the Theban contingent, 4,000 strong, well-armoured 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 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.'

The debate had continued until just before dawn. Bachylides of Megara and Pelopidas had supported him, but it was not until they convinced Ganeus of Plataea that they won a majority.

Now as he marched down the long slope to the plain, Epaminondas could not help but worry at the decision. For many years he had plotted and planned, risking his life to free the city he loved.

But now, if he was wrong, the city would be destroyed — the statues broken, the homes razed — the dust of history-would blow over the deserted Cadmea. His hand was sweating as he gripped his sword, and he could feel rivulets of perspiration running down his back.

A quarter of a mile ahead the Spartans waited silently, their forces spread out in a great crescent. To the right the Spartan Battle King, Cleombrotus, in gold-embossed armour, could be clearly seen surrounded by his bodyguard.

Slowly the distance between the armies closed, until at 200 paces Epaminondas called a halt. The Spartan right was facing him, while in the centre the enemy archers and slingers were preparing their weapons. Glancing nervously to the enemy left, he saw 600 Spartan cavalry galloping along the enemy front to take up a position at the centre, in front of the archers.

Now everything depended on Parmenion. Epaminondas lifted his sword high into the air.

Led by Parmenion, the Theban cavalry kicked their horses into a gallop, heading straight for the enemy left. Dust swirled around them and the thunder of hooves filled the air. But behind the cavalry the Thespians, led by Ictinus, turned and fled from the field. 'Curse you, coward!'

screamed Epaminondas.

'We'll do it without them, general,' said the man alongside him.

'That we will,' Epaminondas agreed, tearing his gaze from the fleeing men and switching it to Parmenion as he galloped at the head of the Theban cavalry.

Parmenion's mind was strangely calm as he led the 400 horsemen. Dust rose in a choking cloud, but he was ahead of it, the black stallion moving at ferocious speed towards the enemy. He had no thought of victory or defeat. In the night he had dreamt of Thetis, and of Derae; and in his haunted sleep had seen Leonidas and endured his mocking laughter. All he desired now was to come face to face with the Spartan, to cleave and cut, to crush and kill.

With the enemy left locking shields and preparing to withstand the charge, Parmenion dragged on the left-hand rein, turning the stallion. Behind him the Theban cavalry also swerved, angling now towards the Spartan horsemen waiting at the centre of the line. Parmenion dipped the point of his lance and located his target, an officer in a long red cloak sitting upon a grey horse.

Too late the Spartan cavalry realized they were to bear the brunt of the first charge. Their officers yelled orders and tried to counter-charge, but the Thebans were upon them — screaming battle-cries, lances smashing men from their mounts. Parmenion's spear glanced from the officer's breastplate to plunge into his jaw and on through his brain. The man was lifted from his horse's back, the weight of his dead body snapping the spear-shaft. Parmenion threw the broken weapon aside and drew the Sword of Leonidas.

All was milling chaos now, the Spartan cavalry forced back into the ranks of archers, slingers and javeliners. Unarmoured men fell beneath the hooves of panicked mounts and the enemy centre fell back in confusion.

A cavalryman slashed his sabre towards Parmenion's head. Parmenion swayed away from the cut and plunged his own sword into the man's neck.

An enormous dust-cloud obscured the front of the battle-lines now, and the air was thick and choking.

At the rear of the Spartan ranks on the right, Leonidas watched the attacking cavalry swerve and strike the centre. At first he was unconcerned, for the javeliners and archers were hardly significant; as always, the battle would be won by the Spartan phalanx. But something stirred deep in his memory, a cold, whispering thought which he could not quite grasp. In some strange way, he felt as if he had fought in this battle before, the enemy cavalry striking the centre. He swung his gaze to the front, and the swirling dust-cloud.

And remembered. .

At that moment the Battle King Cleombrotus saw moving shapes within the dust, and realized that the Thebans were advancing upon him. He was exultant. He had expected the Boeotians to fortify the ridge and dare him to attack them, but for them to have the temerity to advance upon him was a gift he had not anticipated.

'Rear four ranks right spear, right flank!' he bellowed. The warriors, Leonidas among them, moved smoothly to the right, thinning the Spartan line to twelve deep and preparing to encircle the advancing enemy.

In a moment of icy terror Leonidas saw again the sand-pit at the home of Xenophon, the massed ranks of the enemy smashing the thinned Spartan line. 'No!' he screamed. 'Sire!' But his voice was lost as the Theban battle-cry went up, the sound like rolling thunder.

Inside the dust-cloud Pelopidas and the Sacred Band ran in front of the advancing Thebans, taking up a position at the head of the charge. 'Death to the Spartans!' shouted Pelopidas.

'Death! Death! Death!' roared the army, and they began to run.

Eighty shields across and fifty ranks deep, the Thebans smote the Spartan front line like an axe-blade against timber. The first two Spartan ranks buckled and fell beneath the stabbing swords, the phalanx sliced open by the weight of the charge.

The Spartans bravely tried to re-form, but no army twelve deep — no matter how courageous — could hope to contain an enemy with fifty concentrated ranks. Unable to lock shields, Spartan warriors were cut down where they stood.

At the head of the charge Pelopidas powered into the Spartan ranks, Callines beside him. A sword lanced towards Pelopidas' head but Callines blocked it with his shield, stabbing his own sword deep into the Spartan's groin. The phalanx moved on, slowing now but still advancing. Pelopidas was stabbing and hacking, oblivious to the many small cuts which bled freely on his arms and legs.

Behind him Epaminondas — at the centre of the phalanx, and not yet brought into the righting -

peered through the dust, locating the Spartan King, Cleombrotus, who was fighting alongside his bodyguard a little to the right of the main advance.

'Pelopidas!' shouted the Theban general. 'To your right! Your right!'

Pelopidas heard him, even through his bloodlust, and glanced round. He saw Cleombrotus and began to fight his way towards the Spartan King. Callines moved alongside him, the two men protecting one another and fighting as a team. Behind them the Sacred Band also altered the line of advance, homing in on the Spartan Battle King.

On the right Leonidas forced himself to the front of the two Spartan ranks ordered out to encircle the Thebans. Seeing the enemy closing on Cleombrotus, he ordered the men to close ranks. 'The King! The King!' he bellowed. The Spartans surged forward, desperately trying to reach the beleaguered monarch. 'Fall back, sire! Fall back!' yelled Leonidas.

Cleombrotus, realizing the danger, could not bring himself to retreat in the face of Thebans.

'Stand firm,' he told his bodyguard. 'They will break upon us like the sea against stone.'

Parmenion and the cavalry had pushed deep into the enemy centre, the lightly-armoured archers fleeing before them. The Spartan cavalry had been routed. Parmenion swung left to see the Theban battle-line slowing as it sought to turn and crush Cleombrotus. His eyes flickered to the Spartan right, where he saw Leonidas had gathered two ranks to him and was forcing a path to save his King.

'Thebans to me!' shouted Parmenion. There were only fifty riders within hearing distance — the others were chasing down the fleeing archers — but the men galloped to him. 'Follow me!' Parmenion cried, kicking his heels to the stallion and charging the Spartan line.

The Spartans had tried to lock shields against the Theban phalanx, but they were more open on their left and the attacking horsemen clove through the ranks.

The move surprised the Spartans, who tried to turn and defend themselves. But this only weakened the front of the line, allowing Pelopidas and the Sacred Band to hammer through.

Cleombrotus cursed. His sword stabbed out, cleaving through the teeth of an advancing man and piercing him to the brain. Another Theban, then another, fell to the Battle King.

A scream came from beside him and he twisted in time to see his lover and companion, Hermias, fall

— his throat slashed open. A dark-bearded warrior with a death's-head grin leapt at him.

Cleombrotus parried a thrust, then a second. But Pelopidas crashed his shield against the King, forcing him back, then dropped to his knees to ram his blade through Cleombrotus' groin. Still the King tried to fight, but his lifeblood drained away — and with it his strength. His shield arm dropped and the Theban's sword smashed his jaw to shards.

As the King fell, the Spartan centre buckled. Leonidas and his men finally forced their way to the front, gathering up the dead King and fighting a rearguard action back towards the defensive line of their night camp.

At last the battle petered out. Isolated groups of Spartan warriors were surrounded and destroyed, but Leonidas gathered the remnants into a strong defensive position on a nearby ridge. The Spartan allies, seeing the fall of Cleombrotus, fled the field without a fight.

The Thebans gathered around Pelopidas and Epami-nondas, hoisting them to their shoulders and carrying them around the battlefield, their cheers echoing to the Spartan lines.

Parmenion, his horse dead, walked slowly over the battlefield, looking down at the twisted corpses. More than 1,000 Spartiates had died for the loss of 200 Thebans, but at that moment these figures meant nothing to him. He was dazed and emotionless. He had seen the Battle King fall to Pelopidas, but worse he had watched the Theban kill Hermias moments before. Parmenion knelt by the body, looking down at the face of a man and seeing the face of the boy who had befriended him.

He remembered the night when they had sat by the statue of Athena of the Road, when he had learned there would be no victory celebration after winning the Games.

'I will make them all pay!' he had promised. And Hermias had touched his arm.

'Do not hate me too, Savra!'

'Hate you, my friend?' he had answered'. 'How could I ever hate you? You have been a brother to me, and I will never forget that. Never! Brothers we have been, brothers we shall be, all the days of our lives. I promise you.'

He closed the dead eyes and rose to his feet. The surgeons were coming on to the battlefield now, moving to the wounded Thebans. Most of these men would die, Parmenion knew, for physicians with the skills of Argonas or Dronicus were rare. He gazed around him. There to the left lay Callines, the man who had admitted to being a poor swordsman. Further away was the body of Norac the Smith.

Later he would hear of the other dead, like Calepios the orator and Melon the statesman. He looked down at his hands, which were covered in blood, drying now to a dull, scabby brown.

Crows were already circling above the plain.

He recalled the General's Games, the cleanly-carved soldiers in the box of sand. No blood there, no stench of open bowels. Just a child's game, fought without pain in the sunshine of another age.

'I will repay them all,' he had promised Hermias.

And he had. But at what price? Hermias was dead, as Derae and now Thetis were dead.

Sparta was finished, her invincibility gone. Now other cities dominated by Sparta would rise against her and she would fade away, her power a memory. Not immediately, he knew; there would be other Spartan victories. But never again would they rise to rule Greece.

'I am the Death of Nations,' he whispered.

'Or the saviour of them?' suggested Epaminondas.

Parmenion turned. 'I did not hear you. You won, my friend. You won a famous victory. I hope Thebes proves a better ruler than Sparta.'

'We seek to rule no one,' said Epaminondas.

Parmenion rubbed at his tired eyes. 'It will be thrust upon you, general. In order to be safe, you will carry the battle to Sparta and humble her. Then the Athenians and their allies will fear you, and will come against you. Rule or die, they are the choices you have.'

'Do not be so glum, Parmenion. This is a new age, when we do not have to repeat the follies of the past. The Spartans will send an ambassador to ask permission to remove their dead; you will receive him.'

Parmenion shook his head. 'Listen to me,' said Epaminondas softly. 'You have carried your hate for too many years. With this victory you can bury that hate for ever. You can be free. Do this for me.'

'As you will,' agreed the Spartan, his mind empty, his emotions drained. All his adult life he had dreamed of this moment, but now it was here he felt dead inside. Thetis had asked him what he would do once his vengeance was complete. He had no answer then, he could find none now. He gazed around at the silent corpses. Where, he wondered, was the joy of victory? Where was the satisfaction?

Three hours later, with dusk approaching, a Spartan rider cantered into the Theban camp.

Leonidas was led to a tent where Parmenion waited.

'I knew it was your plan,' said Leonidas. 'How does it feel to have defeated the army of your homeland?'

'You are here to concede defeat,' Parmenion told him coldly, 'and to ask permission to remove your dead. I give you that permission.'

. 'You do not wish to gloat?' Leonidas asked. 'I am here, Parmenion. Mock me if you will. Tell me how you promised this. Tell me how fine it makes you feel.'

'I cannot. And if I could, I would not. You almost held us. With a mere twelve ranks you almost turned the battle.

Had Cleombrotus fallen back to link with you, you could have held. There has never been an army so disciplined, or so brave, as that of Sparta. I salute your dead, as I salute the memory of all that was great in Spartan history.' He poured two goblets of wine, passing one to the stunned Spartan. 'A long time ago,' he continued, 'your sister wanted to buy you a gift. I would not sell it. But now is the time for it to be returned.' Unbuckling his sword-belt he passed the legendary blade to Leonidas, who stared down at it disbelievingly.

Then Leonidas sat on the pallet bed and drained his wine at a single swallow. 'What is it that we do to one another?' asked the Spartan. 'You won the Games fairly. I said it then, and I will say it now. I never asked those boys to beat you. Indeed, I did not know it was happening. And I wish that you had married Derae. But events propel us, Par-menion. Our souls are but leaves in a storm, and only the gods know where we will come to rest. We are enemies, you and I; the Fates have decreed that. But you are a man of courage — and you fight like a Spartan. I salute your victory.'

He stood and returned the empty goblet. 'What will you do now?'

'I shall leaves Thebes and travel. I will see the world, Leonidas.'

'As a soldier?'

'It is all that I have — all that I know.'

'Farewell then, Parmenion. If we meet again, I will do my utmost to kill you.'

'I know. May the gods walk with you, Leonidas.'

'And with you. . strategos.'

Tamis was confused as her spirit eyes watched Parmenion return the legendary sword. That was not how it was meant to happen. The hatred between the two men should have been strengthened — all the futures showed it so. For a moment only her confusion threatened to become panic, but she brushed her doubts aside. What did it matter? Three of the Chosen were dead. Only one remained.

And with him there was time. All kinds of accidents could befall a fourteen-year-old hostage living in Thebes.

Surely he would prove less of a threat than Cleombrotus, the mighty Battle King of the Spartans?

The boy was not even from a civilized city, born and bred as he was in the forests and hills of Macedonia.

He would probably be murdered like his father. Such was the fate of those close to the throne in backward nations, the King eliminating all possible rivals.

No, Tamis decided, there was nothing to fear from Philip of Macedon.