David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

You've come down a long way, he told himself, not for the first time.

Mothac. The name had sprung to his lips with an ease he found surprising. It was an old word, from the grey dawn of time. Outcast. It is what you are. It is what you have become.

He turned into the last alley beneath the wall and entered his tiny house. Elea was in the bedroom asleep, her face calm. He glanced in and then unwrapped the food, preparing a platter with pomegranates and sweet honey-cakes.

As he worked he pictured her smile, remembering the first day he had seen her, during the Dance to Hector. She had been wearing a white chiton, ankle-length, her honey-coloured hair held by an ivory comb. He had been smitten in that moment, unable to drag his eyes from her.

Six weeks later they were wed.

But then the Spartans had taken the Cadmea, and pro-Spartan councillors controlled the city. Her family had been arrested and sentenced to death for treason, their estates confiscated. Mothac himself had been named as a wanted man, and had sought the refuge of anonymity in the poor quarter of the city. He had grown his beard thick and changed his name.

With no money and no hope of employment, Mothac had planned to leave Thebes and join a mercenary company. But then Elea had fallen sick. The doctor diagnosed lung fever and bled her regularly; but it seemed only to make her grow weaker.

He carried the platter into her room and laid it beside the bed. He touched her shoulder. . she did not move.

'Oh, blessed Hera, no!' he whispered, turning her on to her back. Elea was dead.

Mothac took her hand and sat with her until the sun set, then stood and left the house. He walked through the city until he reached the main square, his eyes unseeing, his thoughts random, unconnected. A man grabbed his arm. 'What happened, my friend? We thought they had killed you.'

Mothac pulled clear of his grip. 'Killed me? I wish they had. Leave me alone.'

" He walked on, down long avenues, through winding streets and alleyways, with no thought of a destination, until at last he stood before the house of Epaminondas.

With nowhere else to go, he strode up to the wide doors and rapped his fist on the wood.

A servant led him to the Spartan, who was sitting in the courtyard drinking watered wine. Mothac forced himself to bow to his new master. The man looked at him closely, his clear blue eyes seeming to gaze into Mothac's soul.

'What is wrong?' the Spartan asked.

'Nothing. . sir,' replied the Theban. 'I am here. What do you require of me?' His voice was dull and lifeless.

The Spartan poured a goblet of wine and passed it to Mothac. 'Sit down and drink this.'

Mothac dropped to the bench and drained the wine at a single swallow, feeling its warmth spreading through him.

'Talk to me,' said the Spartan.

But Mothac had no words. He dipped his head and the tears fell to his cheeks, running into his beard.

Mothac could not bring himself to speak of Elea, but he would long remember that the Spartan did not force questions upon him. He waited until Mothac's silent tears had passed, then called for food and more wine. They sat together, drinking in silence, until Mothac became drunk.

Then the Spartan had led his new servant to a bedroom at the rear of the building, and here he had left him.

With the dawn Mothac awoke. A new chiton of green linen was laid out on a chair; he rose, washed and dressed, then sought out Parmenion. The Spartan, he was told by another servant, had gone to the training ground to run. Mothac followed him there, and sat by the Grave of Hector watching his new master lope effortlessly round the long circuit. The man moved well, thought Mothac, his feet scarcely seeming to make contact with the earth.

For more than an hour Parmenion continued to run, until sweat bathed his body and his calf muscles burned with fatigue. Then he slowed and jogged to the Grave, waving to Mothac and smiling broadly.

'You slept well?' he asked.

Mothac nodded. 'It was a good bed, and there is nothing like wine for bringing a man sweet dreams.'

'Were they sweet?' asked Parmenion softly.

'No. You are a fine runner. I never saw a better.'

Parmenion smiled. 'There will be a better man somewhere, there always is.' He began to ease his way through more stretching exercises, pulling gently at the muscles of his calves by leaning forward against the stone of the Grave.

'Are you going to run again?' Mothac asked.

'No.'

'Then why are you exercising?'

'The muscles are tight from the run. If they are not stretched, they will cramp; then I would not be able to run tomorrow. I was pleased to see no assailants waiting this morning,' he added, changing the subject.

'They will be back,' said Mothac. 'There are people determined to see you dead.'

'I do not think I will ever be an easy man to kill,' answered Parmenion, stretching out on the grass. 'But that could be arrogance speaking.'

'You have not asked me who hired me to kill you,' said Mothac.

'Would you tell me?'

'No.'

'That is why I did not ask.'

'Also,' added the red-bearded servant, turning his head away, 'you had the good grace not to question my tears. For that I thank you.'

'We all carry grief, my friend. Someone once told me that all the seas are but the Tears of Time, shed for the loss of loved ones. It may not be true, but I like the sentiment. I am glad you came back.'

Mothac smiled ruefully. 'I am not sure why I did. I had not intended to.'

'The reason does not matter. Come, let's get back and enjoy breakfast.'

As they reached the last corner Parmenion held out his arm, stopping Mothac. Leaning out, the Spartan peered down the street. Once more there were armed men at the front of the house and Parmenion's lips thinned as anger swept over him, but he crushed the rising fury and took a deep breath. 'Go out to them,' he told Mothac, 'and explain that you have just seen me running at the training ground, and that no one else was around. It will not be a lie, after all.'

The red-bearded Theban nodded and then ran out to the waiting men. Parmenion ducked down behind a low wall and waited as they pounded past him; then he rose and walked to where Mothac waited.

'Let us eat,' said Parmenion.

Epaminondas had left the house the night before, but had not yet returned. His servants were unable or unwilling to say where he had gone, so Parmenion and Mothac sat down to breakfast without waiting for the master of the house.

'Should I not be with them?' asked Mothac, as the servants brought food from the kitchens.

'Not yet,' answered Parmenion. 'We should get to know one another. Have you ever been a servant?'

'No,' Mothac admitted.

'And I have never had one.'

Mothac chuckled suddenly and shook his head.

'What is amusing you?' asked Parmenion.

The Theban shrugged. 'I had servants once. I can probably instruct you in how to care for them.'

Parmenion smiled broadly. 'I could do with instruction. I have very few belongings, so caring for my clothes will not strain you. My diet is. . Spartan? My needs are few. But I do need someone I can trust, and someone I can talk to. So let us begin by giving you a better title — you will be my companion. How does that sound?'

'I have been in your service only one day and already I am promoted. I see the prospects are good with you. But will you allow me one more day before I join you? There is something I must finish.'

'Of course.' Parmenion looked at him closely. 'Is this. . business. . something I can help you with?'

'No. I will settle it.'

The two men finished their breakfast and Mothac left the house and walked back to the main square, and on to the Lane of the Dead. He paid twelve drachms to an elderly man and gave him directions to his home.