‘Have you nothing to say?’
Anger touched him then, flaring swiftly. ‘Nestus is fortunate to be among the living,’ he told her. ‘And as for your hatred, lady, it will be shortlived. It is likely that we all have but five days to live. If you wish to spend those days with Nestus, go to him; you have my blessing.’
‘Your blessing? That is something I have never had. I served your purpose: you wed me to become King, you stole my happiness - and now you give me your blessing. Well, a curse upon it! I do not need it.’
‘Tell me what you need,’ he said, ‘and, if it is within my power, you shall have it.’
‘There is nothing you can give me,’ she answered, spinning on her heel and striding towards the door.
‘Derae!’ he called and she stopped, but did not turn. ‘I have always loved you,’ he said. ‘Always.’
She faced him then, cheeks crimson and eyes blazing, but her anger died as she saw his expression. Without replying she backed away and fled the room.
Parmenion moved to a couch and sat, his thoughts sombre.
Soon the old servant, Priastes, returned to the King’s quarters and bowed.
‘What will you wear today, sire?’ he asked.
‘I will be garbed for battle,’ answered Parmenion.
‘Which breastplate do you desire?’
‘I do not care,’ he snapped. ‘You choose, Priastes. Just bring it.’
‘Yes, sire. Are you well?’ the old man asked.
‘Fine.’
‘Ah,’ said Priastes knowingly, ‘but the Queen is angry. The world is falling apart, but the Queen is angry. She is always so - why do you not take another wife, boy? Many kings have several wives... and she has given you no sons.’ The old man obviously had a warm relationship with the King and Parmenion found the open friendliness comforting. He answered without thinking.
‘I love the woman,’ he said.
‘You do?’ responded Priastes, astonished. ‘Since when? And why? I’ll grant she has a fine body and good child-bearing hips. But, by Zeus, she has the foulest temper.’
‘How long have you been with me, Priastes?’
‘Sire?’
‘How long? Exactly?’
‘Exactly? You gave me my freedom after the battle at Orchomenus. When was that... the year of the Griffyn? The time has sped by since.’
‘Yes, it has,’ agreed Parmenion, none the wiser. ‘Have I changed much in that time?’
‘No,’ said the old man, chuckling, ‘you are still the same - shy and yet arrogant, both a poet and a warrior. This war has been hard on you, boy, you look older. Tired. Defeat does that to a man.’
‘I’ll try to see that it doesn’t happen again.’
‘And you’ll succeed,’ said Priastes, chuckling. ‘All the oracles said you’d die in that battle, but I didn’t believe them. That’s my Parmenion, I said. There’s no one alive who can beat him. And I know you would have won but for those Kadmians. I hear you dealt with Nestus. About time. How long have I been telling you to do just that? Hmm?’
‘Too long. Now fetch my armour - and then let me know when the ephors arrive.’
Priastes wandered away into a back room, emerging with a cuirass of baked black leather, edged with gold, and a kilt of bronze-reinforced leather strips. ‘Will these suffice?’
‘Yes. Bring me some food while I dress.’
‘May I ask a favour, boy?’
‘Of course.’
‘Leonidas says you are asking every able-bodied man - including slaves - to take up swords in defence of the city. Well, what about me? I’m only seventy-three and I am still strong. I’ll stand beside you.’
‘No,’ answered Parmenion. ‘The older men will be left to defend the city.’
Priastes stood his ground, his expression hardening. ‘I would like to be with you... on the last day.’
Parmenion looked into the old man’s grey eyes. ‘You think I will die?’ he asked softly.
‘No, no,’ answered Priastes, but he would not meet the King’s gaze. ‘I would just like to be there to share the glory of victory. I never had a son, Parmenion, but I’ve looked after you for nearly fifteen years. And I love you, boy. You know that?’
‘I know. Then it will be as you say: you will come with me.’
‘Thank you. Now I’ll find some food for you. Cakes and honey? Or would you prefer some salted meat?’
While Priastes fetched the food Parmenion dressed, then wandered to the balcony. The Parmenion of this world had been a good man, he realized, caring and patient. Why else would he allow his servants to address him so informally? Why else would he have tolerated the insubordination of Nestus? Now an old man wanted nothing more than to die beside the man he loved. Parmenion sighed. ‘You were a better man than I,’ he whispered, staring up at the cloud-streaked sky.
Below the balcony and beyond the palace walls Sparta was beginning to stir. Slaves were moving towards the market-place and shops were opening, merchants displaying their wares on trestle-tables.
So like his own city, he thought. But here there was no Xenophon and no Hermias, he realized suddenly. His only friend in the Sparta of his own world, Hermias, had stood by him when all others felt only hatred and contempt for the mix-blood. Hermias, who had died at Leuctra, fighting on the opposite side.
‘The ephors are ready, sire,’ said Leonidas.
‘Let him eat first,’ snapped Priastes, moving in behind the Spartan officer.
Leonidas grinned. ‘Like a she-wolf with her young,’ he commented.
‘Watch your tongue, boy, lest this old man cut it out for you,’ retorted Priastes, setting a silver tray down before the King. Parmenion ate swiftly, washing down the honey-cakes with heavily-watered wine. Dismissing Priastes, he turned to Leonidas.
‘I will not know the ephors,’ he said, ‘so I want you to greet them by name.’
‘I will. And the men I have chosen are already on their way to the homes of Chirisophus and Soteridas. I will join them once the meeting is under way.’
‘If you find anything incriminating, return to the palace and the discussions. Do not say anything, merely point at the guilty.’
‘It will be as you say.’
‘Good. Now lead me to the meeting.’
The two men walked from the King’s quarters and down the statue-lined staircase to a long corridor. Servants bowed as they passed, and the sentries in the royal gardens stood to attention as the two men strolled across the grounds. They came at last to a set of double doors before which stood two soldiers, armed with spear and shield. Both warriors saluted, then laid aside their spears and pushed open the doors.
Parmenion stepped through into a huge andron. Couches were set around the walls and the floor was decorated with a magnificent mosaic showing the god, Apollo, riding an enormous leopard. The god’s eyes were sapphires, the leopard’s orbs fashioned from emeralds. Twelve columns on each side supported the roof, and the furniture was inlaid with gold. The six ephors rose as Parmenion entered. Leonidas moved among them and Parmenion listened as he spoke their names.
‘Dexipus, I swear you are getting fatter day by day. How long since you attended the training ground, eh?... Ah, Cleander, any news yet of the shipment? I am relying on it to pay my gambling debts... What’s that, Lycon? Nonsense, I was just unlucky with the dice. I will win it back.’
Parmenion said nothing but moved to the large couch at the northern wall, stretching himself out and listening intently to the conversation. A man approached him - tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a simple blue tunic and a belt of black leather edged with silver thread. His hair was iron-grey, his eyes astonishingly blue.
‘I am pleased to see you alive, sire,’ he said, his voice deep and cold.
Leonidas moved alongside the man. ‘We were also more than thankful, Soteridas,’ he said. ‘For had the King not caused the avalanche none of us would be here.’
‘I heard of it,’ said Soteridas, ‘but it was such a small
victory to set against so vast a defeat.’
‘Indeed it was,’ agreed Parmenion softly, locking his gaze to the man’s eyes. ‘But then defeat was assured, was it not, Soteridas?’
‘What do you mean, sire?’
‘Did you not predict it? Did you not claim the omens were against us? Now, enough idle talk, let us begin!’
Parmenion looked around the room and Soteridas moved back to sit alongside Chirisophus, a dark-haired man with a powerful, jutting jaw. He wore robes of shimmering green, and a golden tore gleamed at his throat.
‘Today,’ said Parmenion, ‘we have only one question to answer: What now for Sparta?’
Leonidas bowed and backed away, the doors swinging shut behind him.
‘Surely,’ said Chirisophus, spreading his hands, ‘there is only one response? We seek terms with Philippos. We cannot now stand against him.’
‘I agree,’ put in Soteridas. ‘The Makedones King is unbeatable - as even our own strategos has now found.’
‘It irks me to vote for such a course,’ said Dexipus, a short swarthy warrior, balding and bearded, ‘but I do not see how we can stand against him. On numbers alone he could envelop our flanks, forcing us in to a fighting square and winning merely by using his javeliners and archers.’
‘I say we fight him anyway,’ roared Cleander. Parmenion was surprised that a voice of such power could emanate from so skeletal a frame; Cleander was thin to the point of emaciation, his skin yellow and his eyes rheumy. ‘What else can we do, my brothers? We are not dealing with an enemy King but with a demonic force. Surrender will not save us from the horrors of such a man. Better to die in battle.’
‘With respect, Cleander,’ said Chirisophus, ‘you are dying anyway. All of us regret that, but you have less to lose than others in the city - the women and the children, for example.’
‘Yes, I am dying, but that is not why I say we must fight. Our children will be no more safe than the children of Kadmos. We face the full force of evil here; there can be no compromise.’
‘There is a great deal of exaggeration in any war,’ said Chirisophus. ‘Always the enemy is depicted as a beast. Philippos is a warrior King - unbeaten, invincible - but he is a man, no more than that.’
‘I would disagree,’ said another voice and Parmenion swung to see the speaker. He was Lycon, the youngest of the ephors, a good-looking youth in his mid-twenties, dark-haired and dark-eyed. ‘I have met the Makedones King and I saw what he did at Methone and Plataea. I agree with Cleander: we must fight him.’
An argument began. ‘Enough!’ roared Parmenion. A tall thick-set man with a heavy black beard was sitting at the far end of the room and the King turned to him. ‘You have not spoken yet, Timasion. Do you have nothing to offer?’
Timasion shrugged. ‘I am undecided, sire. My heart says fight, my head says hold. Might I ask what the omens predict?’
Soteridas rose, bowing first to the King and then to the other ephors. ‘Today,’ he said, ‘we sacrificed a goat to All-father Zeus. Its liver was spotted, its belly cancerous. Death and destruction will follow any attempt to make war on Philippos. The gods are against us.’
‘As they were at Mantinea?’ ventured Parmenion.
‘Indeed, sire,’ the chief priest agreed.
‘It was an interesting battle,’ said Parmenion. ‘We broke their attack and almost took their centre. But even three hundred Spartans could not carry the victory. Of course, it is even more interesting to speculate what might have happened had we pushed ahead with five thousand Spartans.’
‘The gods spoke against such a plan,’ Soteridas pointed out.
‘So you informed us. I find it curious that the gods of... Achaea... should choose to side with the Demon King. But then I am not a seer, and it is not for me to question the wisdom of Zeus. Tell me, Chirisophus, how you would appease the Makedones King and save Sparta?’
‘You cannot consider this!’ Cleander stormed.
‘Silence!’ thundered Parmenion. ‘I wish to hear Chirisophus. Your turn will come again, Cleander.’
Chirisophus rose and began to speak, his voice smooth, his words comforting. There would be, he said, an ambassadorial delegation to Philippos offering fraternal friendship and lasting peace. Gifts could be taken. Philippos was known as a great horseman and Chirisophus himself would donate his prize Thracian stallions. War would thus be avoided and Sparta would be allied to the strongest nation in the world. He spoke for some time, finally pointing out that Philippos - being a warrior King - would inevitably lead his armies north and west, seeking to conquer the Etruscans and the Achaean cities of Italia. Further west even than this were the fabled lands of the Gauls, where buildings were constructed of gold and gems, and their Kings were said to be immortal. ‘By suing for peace now,’ Chirisophus ventured, ‘we will in fact rid Achaea of Philippos all the sooner. I will naturally offer myself to lead the delegation,’ he added, settling himself down on his couch.
‘Naturally!’ snorted Cleander.
At that moment Leonidas entered the room. Parmenion, the only man facing the doors, waited for his signal. When he pointed to Chirisophus and Soteridas, Parmenion nodded. Armed men moved into the room, walking slowly to stand behind the couches on which lay the traitors. Chirisophus swallowed hard, his face reddening.
‘What is happening here, sire?’ Cleander asked.
‘Be patient,’ the King told him. ‘We stand at the edge of the abyss. A great evil stalks the land. We had an opportunity to rid the world of this evil, but we were thwarted, for the agents of Philippos are everywhere.’ He paused, allowing his gaze to rest on the two traitors. Parmenion felt rage mounting within him. These men had caused the death of the Spartan King, and thousands of others on the field of Mantinea. He wanted nothing more than to walk across the room and cleave his sword through their foul hearts. Calming himself, he spoke again. ‘It is the nature of Darkness to corrupt, and men of weak will, or men of lust and greed, will always be susceptible. Chirisophus and Soteridas have betrayed their city, their people and their King. They entered into secret negotiation with Philippos and they conspired to see the Demon King victorious at Mantinea. I do not know what they were offered for this treachery. I do not care. They have tried to doom us all and their crimes are written in blood.’
Chirisophus pushed himself to his feet, while Soteridas sat, all colour draining from his face.
‘What I did was for Sparta!’ Chirisophus insisted. ‘There is no question of treachery. Philippos was always the ultimate victor; only a fool would try to deny him. But that is the past and it is foolish to dwell on it. I am the only man who can save the city. Philippos trusts me and will deal with me fairly. Without me you cannot survive. Think on that!’
‘I have thought on it,’ said Parmenion. ‘Sparta will fight - and Sparta will win. But you - and your lickspittle priest - will not live to see it. Leonidas!’
‘Sire?’
‘Remove these... creatures. Take them to a place of execution. Do it at once and see their bodies are left in unmarked graves.’
Chirisophus backed away from the guards behind him and moved out into the mosaic floor. ‘Do not be fools!’ he shouted. ‘I can save you!’
Suddenly he drew a dagger from his robe and rushed at Parmenion.
The King rolled to his feet, his sword snaking from its scabbard and plunging through the shimmering green robe. Chirisophus grunted and fell back. Parmenion tore his sword clear of the dying man, and bright arterial blood soaked through the green silk. Chirisophus fell to his knees, hands clenched to his belly, then his eyes glazed and he toppled to his side. Several soldiers dragged the body back across the mosaic, leaving a trail of blood. Soteridas remained where he was, his face void of expression, until two soldiers took him by the arms and led him away.
‘By the gods, sire!’ whispered Cleander. ‘I cannot believe it. His was a true Spartiate family. A noble house... a line of heroes.’
‘To judge a man purely by his blood-lin
e is folly,’ said Parmenion. ‘I have known the sons of cowards to be valorous, and sons of thieves who could be trusted with the treasure of nations. Such treachery is not of the blood, Cleander, but of the soul.’
‘What now, lord?’ asked Leonidas.
‘Now? We prepare for war.’
Two days ride to the south-west of the city Attalus raised his arm to halt the company, then gazed around at the forbidding landscape - rockstrewn and jagged, thinly wooded and laced with streams. During their travels they had passed few villages in this inhospitable land, but had stopped at several lonely farms where they had been given food and grain for the horses.
Attalus was uneasy: the hunters were closing in. Helm had been the first to spot the pursuers, late the day before, when the setting sun had glinted from the lance-points of a large cavalry unit, perhaps an hour behind them. Through the heat haze Attalus had been unable to make out individual riders, but there were at least fifty.
Ektalis rode alongside the Macedonian, pointing at a dust-cloud to the west. ‘Riders,’ said the Korinthian. ‘Probably Messenians. They serve the Tyrant.’
The company veered east and south, riding long into the night. But the horses were tired, and when the moonlight was lost behind unseasonal clouds Attalus was forced to call a halt. They made cold camp in a cluster of boulders on a hillside, where Ektalis set sentries and most of the company slept. But not Attalus.
Helm found him sitting alone, watching the trail to the north.
‘You should rest,’ the warrior advised.
‘I cannot. Thoughts, plans, fears - they fly around my mind like angry wasps.’
‘How far to the woods of the Enchantment?’ asked Helm, moonlight gleaming eerily from his metal face.
‘Another day - so Brontes told us.’
‘Well, we have two chances,’ said Helm, rising. ‘Succeed or die.’
‘Very comforting,’ snapped Attalus.
‘I find it so,’ answered Helm, smiling and moving back amongst the boulders to sleep.
Silence surrounded the Macedonian, and a cool wind whispered across his face. For an hour he sat alone, miserable and dejected. Then the sound of a walking horse jerked him from his reverie. Rising smoothly, he drew his sword. Why had the sentries not warned them? The horse moved into the boulders and Thena dismounted.