David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

Lifting the catch, he hurled open the door, which crashed against the left wall. In that moment he saw the bed was empty, and with a savage cry he leapt forward, his knife slashing to the right where the traitor had to be. The blade slammed against the wall.

Momentarily stunned, Gleamus stood still, his gaze scanning the moonlit room. The traitor was gone! It was impossible. He had seen the man enter. There was nowhere else for him to be!

A shadow moved above him. He spun, his blade coming up. But he was too late. The traitor's sword slammed down past his collar bone, plunging deep into his lungs. Gleamus grunted and fell back, his dagger clattering to the floor. Even as life fled from him, his assassin's mind could not help but admire the ploy. The Spartan had climbed to the lintel stone above the door.

So simple, thought Gleamus.

The wood of the floorboards was cool against his face, and his mind wandered. He saw again his father's house on the isle of Crete, his brothers playing on the hillsides, his mother singing them to sleep with songs of gods and men.

Blood bubbled into his throat, and his last thoughts returned to the Spartan. So clever. So cle.

.

Parmenion dragged his sword clear of the corpse and stepped from the doorway. A blade sliced towards his face. The Spartan's sword flashed up, blocking the cut, his left fist cracking into the man's chin, sending him back into a third assassin on the stairs. Both men stumbled. Feet first, Parmenion leapt at them, his right foot thundering against the first man's chin. The two assassins were hurled to the foot of the stairs. Parmenion vaulted over the balcony, dropping to the andron below. Both assassins regained their feet and advanced on him.

'You are dead now, mix-blood,' muttered the first.

The two men moved apart, coming at the Spartan from both sides. Parmenion launched a sudden attack at the man on the right, then spun on his heel, his sword cleaving through the throat of the man on the left, as he darted in. The assassin fell, blood gouting to the Persian rugs covering the stone floor. The last assassin moved warily now and sweat shone on his bearded face.

'I am not easy to kill,' said Parmenion, his voice soft.

The man edged back towards the door. Mothac loomed up behind him, ramming a dagger through his lungs.

The assassin crumpled to the floor.

Mothac staggered in the doorway then stumbled outside to sit at the courtyard table, the bronze hilt of a knife jutting from his shoulder. Parmenion lit two lanterns and examined the wound.

'Pull the cursed thing out,' grunted Mothac.

'No. It is best where it is for the moment. It will prevent excessive bleeding until we get a physician.' He poured Mothac a goblet of unwatered wine. 'Do not move around,' he ordered. 'I will come back with Argonas.'

Mothac reached up and grabbed Parmenion's arm. 'I appreciate that you want to move quickly,' he said, forcing a grin. 'But it might be better if you dressed first.'

Parmenion smiled, his face softening. 'You saved my life, Mothac. And almost lost yours. I will not forget it.'

'It was nothing. But you could at least say you'd do the same for me.'

Two hours later, with Mothac asleep, the knife removed, the wound bandaged, Parmenion sat with Argonas, watching the fat man devour a side of ham and four goblets of wine, followed by six sweet honeycakes. Argonas belched, then lay back on the couch, which creaked under his weight.

'An interesting life you lead, young man,' said Argonas. 'Impersonating Spartans, fighting assassins in the dead of night. Is it safe to be around you, I wonder?'

'Mothac will be as he was?' asked Parmenion, ignoring the question.

'The wound passed through the fleshy part of the shoulder, where he is well muscled. It is not a round wound and will therefore heal more easily. I have applied fig-tree sap, which will clot the blood. He will be in some discomfort for several weeks, but the muscles will knit and he should be recovered by the summer.'

'I am very grateful to you. Mothac means much to me.'

'Yes,' agreed Argonas, stroking his oiled beard, 'good servants are hard to come by. I myself had a Thracian body servant, a wonderful man who anticipated my every need moments before I realized the need was there. I have never found another like him.'

'What happened to him?' enquired Parmenion, more from politeness than out of genuine interest.

'He died,' said Argonas sadly. 'He suffered a brain growth — like yours — but he was a man who never spoke of his troubles, and when he finally collapsed it was too late to prevent his death.

Never forget, my friend, to take the sylphium brew. Such deaths are painful to see and worse to suffer. I must say that your servant found a novel cure for you. I would use it myself, but already I am in trouble with my peers.'

'I thought it was the sylphium that healed me,' said Parmenion.

'Indeed it was. But first you had to be brought back in order to drink it. He is a thoughtful man, and a clever one. If ever he should think of leaving your service, I would be delighted to acquire him.'

'Yes, yes, but what did he do?'

'You don't remember?'

'For pity's sake, Argonas! If I remembered, why would I ask you?' snapped Parmenion, his irritation growing.

'He brought your favourite whore to your bed: a priestess. It seems that the will to live is considerably strengthened in a man who is aroused to copulation.'

'No,' whispered Parmenion, 'that is not how it was. It was Derae who came to me.'

Argonas heaved himself upright, his dark eyes showing concern. 'I am sorry, Parmenion,' he said.

'I have not spoken wisely. Put it down to a lack of sleep and an excess of wine. Perhaps it was both women — Derae in the spirit, the priestess in the flesh.'

Parmenion scarcely heard him. He was seeing again the priestess in the doorway, her smile, the smell of her perfume, the anger and sorrow in her eyes, the slamming of the door.

'Have you thought about why assassins should seek to kill you?' asked Argonas.

'What? No, I cannot think of a reason. Perhaps they were merely robbers.'

'Robbers without pockets or sacks? I think not. Well, I must leave. I will come back tomorrow to check Mediae's wound and receive my fee.'

'Yes. Thank you,' said Parmenion absently.

'And walk with care, my friend. Whoever hired these men can always hire more.'

Two days later the senior officer of the city militia visited Parmenion. Menidis was almost seventy years of age and had been a soldier for more than half a century. For the last ten years he had headed the small militia force operating within the city, responsible for patrolling the streets after dark and manning the great gates of Thebes.

'The men were foreigners,' said Menidis, his sharp grey eyes peering at Parmenion from under thick white brows. They arrived in the city four days ago, passing through the Proitian Gates. They said they had recently travelled from Corinth and were interested in purchasing Theban chariots. My belief is that they came from Sparta.' The old soldier waited to see what effect this had on the young man before him, but Parmenion's face was impassive. 'The part you played in freeing us of Spartan domination is well known,' he continued. 'I believe the men were hired to kill you.'

Parmenion shrugged. 'They failed,' he said.

'This time, youngster. But let us assume for a moment that they were paid by a rich nobleman. Such men are easy to find. Sadly, so too are you.'

'You suggest I leave Thebes?'

The old man smiled. 'What you do is a matter for you. I could have men guard you wherever you go, and watch over you while you sleep. The lord Epaminondas has requested — at the very least — we set a sentry outside your gates. But still there will be times when you walk in crowded avenues, or pause at market stalls or shops. A dedicated killer will find you.'