'Take my horse to the woods,' she commanded. 'I will be there by dusk.'
'You cannot stay here. They will kill you.'
'No, they will not see me. When you reach the woods strip the body and bury it. Then put on his armour. Go now!'
Parmenion tugged the reins and the gelding began to walk away to the west. 'Wait!' called Thena. Gathering up the King's fallen sword and helm, she passed them to Parmenion. 'Now ride — for time is short.'
The ground was rock-strewn and hard-packed, the gelding's hooves leaving little sign as the Spartan rode away. Now and again he glanced back to see Thena sitting quietly, awaiting the Makedones. He tried not to look at the body, but his eyes were drawn to it. It was no longer leaking blood, but the bowels had opened and the stench was strong.
There is no dignity in death, thought Parmenion as he angled the horse up to the tree-line and into the woods.
Once there he followed Thena's instructions, stripping the body, digging out a shallow grave in the loam and rolling the corpse into it. The body fell to its back — dead eyes staring up at the Spartan, dead mouth sagging open.
'I have no coin for the ferryman,' Parmenion told the dead King. 'But you were a man of courage and I believe you will find the Elysian Fields without it.'
Swiftly he pushed the dark earth over the body, then sat back trembling.
After a while he picked up the King's sword, and was not surprised to find it the same blade he himself had won more than thirty years ago in another Sparta. It was the legendary blade of Leonidas, the Sword King, beautifully crafted and wondrously sharp.
Leonidas! A glorious name from the past yet also the name of Parmenion's first enemy, the brother of Derae, in whose name Parmenion had suffered taunts and beatings, hatred and dark violence.
That era had come to an end at Leuctra when Parmenion's battle plan had smashed the Spartan line, killing their King and freeing the city of Thebes from Spartan dictatorship. When the battle ended, so too had Spartan power in Greece.
Parmenion remembered well the day he had won the sword. It was the final of the General's Games where the young men of Sparta, using carved model armies, engaged in battles of tactics and strategy. The final was contested at the house of Xenophon, the renegade Athenian general who had become a close friend of the Spartan King Agisaleus.
Agisaleus, believing his nephew Leonidas would win the final, had offered the legendary blade as a prize. But Leonidas had not won. He had been crushed by the hated' mix-blood, humiliated in front of his peers and his King.
And the sword came to Parmenion.
Yet at Leuctra, with Sparta crushed, it had been Leonidas who had come to discuss the recovery from the battlefield of the Spartan dead, and it was Parmenion to whom he had come.
Leonidas had been dignified in defeat, strong and proud, and — in a moment he had never quite understood -
Parmenion had given him the sword, ending for ever their enmity.
Yet now he sat in an alien forest with the twin of the blade in his hand.
What now, he asked himself? But the answer was inescapable. Parmenion the King had been slain, leaving his enemy triumphant and the Spartan army leaderless.
The Demon King had won.
Derae watched until Parmenion was no longer in sight, then she relaxed, calming her mind, honing her powers, reaching out to seek the Makedones riders who were coming to claim the body of their enemy.
They were still half a mile distant and she focused on the leader, Theoparlis — a stocky, dark-eyed man, strong and fearless, his heart darkened by bitter memories of slavery and torture in the early years of his life. Derae floated within his subconscious, silently preparing him. Then she moved on to the others, one by one.
When at last she opened her eyes they were riding towards the rocks, fanning out, their eyes scanning the boulders.
Drawing rein they dismounted and began to search.
Derae took a deep breath. Not a man had noticed her. Now she stood.
'He is not here,' she said softly. The nearest man gasped and staggered back. He did not see a tall, bony woman in an ill-fitting chiton. His eyes widened in awe as he drank in the sight of a regal warrior woman, a doric helm pushed back on her head, a golden breastplate adorning her torso. An owl sat upon her shoulder, its bright eyes blinking in the sunlight.
The twenty warriors stood silently before Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and War. In her hand was a golden spear, and this she raised to point at Theoparlis. 'Return to your King,' she said, her voice ringing with authority, 'and tell him that Parmenion lives.'
'He will kill us all, lady, and brand us liars,' Theoparlis protested.
'Draw your swords,' she said softly. They did so. 'Now gaze upon them.'
The blades writhed in their hands, becoming serpents. With cries of shock and horror the men flung the weapons aside… all but Theoparlis. 'It is still a sword,' he said, his face white, his hand trembling.
The serpent blade stiffened, the snake disappearing. 'Indeed it is, Theoparlis; you are a strong man,' said Derae. 'But then the magic was not wrought to harm you but to allow you to go to your King and convince him. Has he not the Eye to read a man's mind? He will know you do not lie.'
'How could the Spartan have survived such a fall?' he asked.
Derae pointed to the man beside Theoparlis. 'Take up your sword,' she ordered. The man obeyed. 'Draw the blade across your palm.'
'No!' shouted the man, but the sword rose of its own accord, his left hand opening to receive it. 'No!' he screamed again, but the sharp iron cut into his flesh and blood welled from the wound.
'Hold up the hand so that all may see,' Derae ordered. 'This is no illusion. Theoparlis, touch the blood.' The Makedones obeyed. 'Is it real?'
'Yes, lady.'
'Now watch. . and learn.'
Derae closed her eyes. The cut was shallow and even and it was a matter of moments to accelerate the tissue bond, producing ten days of healing in as many heartbeats. When she opened her eyes the men had gathered around the injured warrior and were staring at his blood-covered hand. 'Wipe clear the blood,' said Derae. Using the edge of his black cloak the man did so. Only a faint scar remained.
'Now you know how the King survived,' she told them. 'I healed him. And I tell you this, he is beloved of the gods.
The next time you see him will be on the day of your deaths — if he should so choose.'
'His army is destroyed,' said Theoparlis.
'You have yet to face the might of Sparta.'
'Five thousand men cannot stand against the forces of Makedon.'
'We shall see. Go now. Report what I have said to Philippos. And tell him the words of Athena — if he marches against Sparta he will die.'
Theoparlis bowed and backed away to his horse, his men following.
Derae let fall the illusion, and it seemed to the warriors as if the goddess had suddenly disappeared from view.
Unnoticed, the priestess walked away to the west and the distant woods.
She found Parmenion sitting by the freshly-covered grave. 'You will take his place?' she asked.
'I don't know, Thena,' he answered. 'We were heading for Sparta because we thought it would be safe and Aristotle could meet us there. But now? Now the Spartans have no war leader and the Makedones could march all the way to the city.'
'What choices are there?'
He shrugged. 'We could make for the Gateway and allow Alexander his destiny — if such it be… and hope Aristotle is there to bring us home before the Makedones arrive.'
'And the Demon King?'
'He is not my problem, Thena. This is not my world.' His words lacked conviction and his gaze strayed to the grave.