David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

'At the gate. Yes, mistress.'

But the days passed and Parmenion did not call again, and for some curious reason this only served to make Thetis more angry with the young Spartan.

As spring progressed Thetis found her new life increasingly oppressive. When a priestess she had been able to walk the streets day or night. But no Theban woman of quality would ever be seen unaccompanied save at the market-place, and the house which had been Thetis' dream fast became a comfortable prison. Cleo brought news daily, but mainly her conversation revolved around the latest clothes, or perfumed oils, or jewelled necklaces. The girl took little notice of the movements of the Spartan army as it entered Boeotia. All Thetis could gather was that the Spartan King, Agisaleus — having forced a passage for his troops through the passes of Mount Cithaeron in the south — was ravaging the countryside, and that Epaminondas had fortified a ridge outside Thebes with 5,000 Athenian hoplites and 3,000 Thebans.

Not that it mattered to Thetis whether the Spartans won or lost. It seemed to her that, whatever the city of origin, the grunts in her ear were always the same.

But the war was affecting her investments, the Spartans having confiscated the last shipment of opium as the carts passed through Plataea. Thetis lost almost 600 drachms and was now relying on Asian spices coming in through Macedonia to keep her profits high.

Thoughts of her finances left her thinking of the Temple. Nothing would make her go back to that way of life again, she promised herself.

Then Parmenion's face came to her mind.

Curse him, she thought. Why does he not call?

With Agisaleus unwilling to assault the ridge defended by Athenians and Thebans, and Epaminondas refusing battle on the open plain, the war entered a stalemate — the Spartans marching through Boeotia, sacking small towns and villages and bolstering their garrisons, but leaving Thebes unscathed.

Then Agisaleus, tiring of a war of attrition, marched towards the city. He had in mind to storm the Proitian Gates and raze Thebes to the ground. The less hardy of the city-dwellers fled, packing their belongings into carts or wagons.

One wagon contained the physician Horas with his wife and three children. The eldest child, Symion, complained of a severe headache as the wagon moved on into the night, heading for Thespiae. By dawn the boy had a raging fever, and glands in his throat and armpits had swollen to thrice their size. Red patches formed on his skin and he was dead by noon. That afternoon Horas himself felt the onset of fever and delirium.

An advance scouting party from the Spartan army found the wagon. The officer looked inside, then backed away swiftly.

'The plague,' he whispered to his aide.

'Help me!' croaked Horas, struggling to climb from the wagon. 'My wife and children are sick.'

'Stay where you are,' shouted the officer, signalling a bowman forward. 'Where are you from?'

'Thebes. But we're not traitors, sir. We are sick. Help us — please!'

The officer gave a signal to the bowman, who shot an arrow through Horas' heart. The physician fell back into the wagon.

'Burn it,' the leader ordered.

'But he said there was a woman and children inside,' argued his aide.

The officer rounded on the man. 'Then you climb in and put them out of their misery!'

The soldiers gathered brushwood and piled it around the wagon. Within moments the dry wood roared into flame and, as the screams were beginning, the soldiers marched back to report the encounter to Agisaleus.

The plague started in the poorest quarter of the city, but spread swiftly. Fearing the army would become affected, the councillors ordered the city gates to be shut and barred. No one was allowed out — or into the city. A mob attacked the guards at Electra's Gates, but was turned back by bowmen on the walls commanded by the old warrior, Menidis.

Within a week, more than a fifth of Thebes' 30,000 population endured the symptoms of glandular swelling and ugly, inflamed red swirls which appeared on face and arms. The death toll rose, and scores of carts were pulled through the city streets every night to collect the dead whose bodies had been placed in alleys beyond house gates.

Mothac succumbed to the sickness on the ninth day, and Parmenion helped him to his room before running to the house of Argonas. The physician was not there — his servants told Parmenion he was visiting the sick in the north of the city. The Spartan left a message for him and returned home.

Food was now scarce, but he bought some dried meat and stale bread in the market-place for a sum four times its worth and prepared a broth for Mothac.

Argonas arrived at dusk. The flesh of his face was sagging and his eyes were dark-rimmed. He examined Mothac, then took Parmenion aside.

'The fever will burn strongly for two days. It is important to take the heat from the skin. Bathe him hourly in warm water, but do not dry him. Allow the heat of his body to evaporate the water; this will cool him. He will then suffer intense cold, and he must be wrapped in warm blankets until the fever rises once more. Then repeat the procedure. Make sure he drinks plenty of water.

Add a little salt — not too much, or he will vomit. If the swellings begin, wait until they split and weep, then apply honey.'

'Is that all that can be done?'

'Yes. I ran out of herbs four days ago.'

'Sit down and have some wine,' invited Parmenion, moving to the jug on the kitchen shelf.

'I have no time,' Argonas replied, heaving himself to his feet.

Parmenion took him by the shoulders. 'Listen to me, man. If you go on in this way you will collapse — then you will achieve nothing. Sit down.'

Argonas sank back to the chair. 'Most of the physicians got out before the gates were shut,' he said. 'They recognized the symptoms early. There are too few of us now.'

'Why did you not leave with them?'

Argonas smiled. "That's what everyone would expect. Fat Argonas, who lives for money: look at him run! Well, I do like money, Parmenion. I enjoy a life of pleasure and gluttony. I was born poor, a peasant in a foreign land. And I decided a long time ago that I would taste the good things and revel in luxury. But that does not make me less of a physician. You understand?'

'Drink the wine, my friend, and revel in a little cheap broth.'

'Not cheap any more,' said Argonas. Trices are rising very fast.'

'How bad is the plague?' Parmenion asked, ladling broth into a deep bowl and placing it before the fat man.

'Not as bad as the one that struck Athens. There are probably 8,000 people in Thebes who have the symptoms, but curiously many of them stop short of developing the plague. It is deadly in children and the old, but the young and strong seem able to fight it off. Much depends on the swellings.

Armpits only and there is a chance; if it spreads to the groin, death soon follows.' Argonas spooned the broth into his cavernous mouth, then rose. 'Time to go. I will call on Mothac tomorrow evening.'

Parmenion saw him to the gate and watched the fat man make his way down the narrow alley, stepping over the bodies laid out in rows.

Mothac was sweating heavily when Parmenion returned, but his lips were cracked and dry. Lifting the Theban's head, he forced cool water between his lips and then bathed him as Argonas had directed. For two days Mothac scarcely moved. In his delirium he called out for Elea, and wept. On the third day large swellings appeared in his armpits, and he lapsed into a near coma. Parmenion was exhausted, but still he stayed by day and night at Mothac's bedside. The swelling under the left arm turned purple and, as Argonas had warned, it split, oozing watery pus. Parmenion smeared honey on the wound and covered Mothac with fresh blankets.