'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.