David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

'He is born!' someone cried, and a great cheer went up from the army of men outside the palace.

A dark cloud swept up towards her, opening like a colossal mouth. She saw fangs the length of a tall man, and a purple tongue, forked and swollen. She was powerless to resist.

A spear of lightning slashed into the mouth — just as it loomed beneath her.

'Take my hand!' cried Tamis.

But Derae lost consciousness.

She awoke in her own room at the temple, sensing Tamis beside her. 'What was it?' she asked.

'You were lost in the future. You saw the Dark Birth.'

'I am tired, Tamis. So… tired.'

'Then sleep, my child. I will protect you for a little while yet.'

Cleo returned with enough provisions for three frugal days and, combined with the food Parmenion had stored, there was sufficient for a week.

The days dragged by. Argonas no longer called and Parmenion learned from a collector of the dead that the fat man had suffered the fate of thousands — his body consumed by the plague. Mothac grew stronger, the red swirls disappearing, the swellings abating; but he was weak, needing to sleep often. Cleo worked tirelessly, bathing her mistress, changing soiled sheets, cooking and cleaning.

Parmenion scoured the city for food, but even the horses and dogs had long since been slaughtered.

Then, like a spent storm, the plague began to wither away. Fewer and fewer bodies were left for the collectors, and the gates were opened to allow a convoy of food wagons to enter the blighted city. Parmenion fought his way through the mob that surrounded the convoy, and emerged with a haunch of beef and a sack of dried cereal.

At home Cleo cooked some of the meat and spoon-fed it to Thetis, who was now more lucid. The two men carried her bed upstairs to Parmenion's room, to give her more privacy, while Cleo slept on a couch in the andron.

By the end of summer the city had almost returned to normal. More than 4,000 people had perished in the plague but, as Calepios pointed out, this was a fraction of those who would have died or been enslaved had the Spartan army sacked the city. Fearing the plague, the Spartans had marched from Boeotia without a battle, and allied troops had now secured the passes over Mount Cithaeron against them. News also came from Tegyra that Pelopidas and the Sacred Band had routed a Spartan division which outnumbered them two to one, and had killed Phoebidas, the Spartan responsible for the taking of the Cadmea four years earlier. The defeated soldiers were not Spartan regulars but mercenaries from the city of Orchomenus, yet even so a day of celebration was declared in Thebes and the sounds of laughter and song drifted to the room where Thetis lay. She was still very weak, her heartbeat ragged and irregular, but the distant laughter cheered her.

Parmenion entered, bearing a tray of food and drink. Setting it down, he sat beside her. 'You have more colour today,' he said. 'Mothac managed to find some fresh honeycakes. An old friend of mine swore they gave strength to the weary.'

Her green eyes rested on his face, but she said nothing. Instead she reached out and took his hand, tears falling to her cheeks.

'What is wrong?' he asked her.

'Nothing,' she replied.

'Then why are you weeping?'

'Why did you do this for me?' she countered. 'Why did you not let me die?'

'Sometimes there are no answers,' he told her, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her palm.

'You are not Derae, as I am not Damon. But our lives have crossed, the lines of our destinies are now entwined. I no longer have great faith in distant gods, but I believe in the Fates. I believe we were meant to be together.'

'I do not love you,' she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

'Nor I you. But I care for you. You have been on my mind constantly since I discovered the truth about the night you brought me back. Stay with me, Thetis. I cannot promise to make you happy, but I will try.'

'I will not marry you, Parmenion, but I will stay. And if we are happy, so be it, we will remain together. But know this, one day you may awake to find me gone. If that happens, promise me you will never try to find me.'

'I promise,' he said. 'Now eat, and regain your strength.'

The man stood in the moonlight at the gates of Parmenion's house. There was no one in sight as carefully he slid his knife into the crack at the centre of the gates, easing up the wooden bar beyond. The gate opened, the bar sliding at an angle towards the ground, but before it could thud against the stone he rammed his knife-blade into the wood, jamming it in place until he could slip through and lower it carefully to the courtyard. Returning the knife to its sheath, he walked towards the closed door of the andron.

Something cold touched his neck and a hand clamped to his shoulder. 'Were I you, I would stand very still,' warned a voice by his ear.

'I have a message for Parmenion,' whispered the man.

'The knife at your throat is very sharp. Put your hands behind you.'

The man obeyed, standing quietly as his wrists were lashed together. Then he was led into the darkened andron and watched as his red-bearded captor lit three lanterns. 'You would be Mothac?'

'I would. Sit down.' Mothac pushed the man to a couch. 'Parmenion!' he called. Moments later a tall, slender man, thin-faced, with piercing, pale blue eyes, entered the room. He was carrying a gleaming sword.

'Clearchus!' cried Parmenion, tossing aside the sword and smiling broadly.

'The very same,' grunted Xenophon's servant.

'Untie him,' ordered Parmenion. Mothac slashed his knife through the leather thongs binding the man, and Clearchus rubbed at his wrists. His hair was whiter and thinner than the young Spartan remembered, the lines on his face deeper, like knife-cuts in leather. 'An odd time to be calling,'

Parmenion commented.

'My lord asked me to make sure I was unobserved.' Reaching into his thick woollen shirt, Clearchus produced a scroll which he handed to the young Spartan.

Parmenion put it aside and sat facing the older man. 'How does the general fare?'

Clearchus shrugged. 'He's a sad man. He writes now. Many things — horsemanship, tactics, the state of Greece. He spends hours every day with his scribes. I cannot recall the last time he went riding or hunting. And he has grown fat.' Clearchus almost spat the last word, as if even forming it offended his mouth.

Parmenion reached for the scroll, then noticed Mothac still standing by, his knife in his hand.

'It is all right, my friend. This is Clearchus, a companion of the general Xenophon. He is trustworthy.'

'He is a Spartan,' muttered Mothac.

'Beware, child, lest I crack your skull for you,' snapped Clearchus, reddening.

'Once upon a time perhaps, grandfather,' retorted Mothac. Clearchus lurched to his feet.

'Stop this, both of you!' ordered Parmenion. 'We are all friends here — or we should be. How long have you been in Thebes?'

'I arrived this evening,' answered Clearchus, casting a murderous glare at Mothac. 'I visited friends in Corinth, then bought a horse and rode here through Megara and Plataea.'

'It is good to see you. Would you like some food and drink?'

Clearchus shook his head. 'I will be leaving once you have given me an answer for my lord.'

Mothac bade Parmenion goodnight and wandered back to his room, leaving the two Spartans together.

The younger man opened the scroll and sat close to a lantern.

Greetings, friend [he read], the years move on, the seasons gathering pace, the world and its troubles drifting further from me. And yet I see matters more clearly than when young, and with increasing sadness.

There was a young man in Sparta who killed another in a duel over a woman. The dead boy's father still grieves and has hired assassins to seek out the killer, who no longer resides in Sparta. I understand that four assassins were slain by the boy, who is now a man. But others may follow.