David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

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?'