David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

'As you will.'

'Let a brazier be prepared,' said Parmenion, 'with hot coals to the depth of a man's forearm.'

Bardylis ordered two servants to fetch the brazier. Parmenion walked some distance from the table, and Philip and the others joined him there.

'What in Hades is happening here?' Philip asked.

'I had no choice, sire. I promised you no Macedonian and Illyrian would fight. Whatever happens here will be seen to be between a Spartan and a warrior of Bardylis.' He swung to Theo. 'There is honey on the table. Fetch it — and some red wine. Find bandages and soak them in the wine.'

'What is this manner of fighting?' asked Antipater.

'It is something new,' Parmenion told him.

'You lied to Bardylis?' the King whispered.

'Yes. You need not worry, sire; he cannot read minds.'

Four servants, using crossbars of thick wood, carried a burning brazier out into the field.

Parmenion removed his breastplate and helm, tunic and greaves and, drawing his sword, walked out to stand before the brazier. Nonplussed, Grigery also stripped himself and moved to stand opposite him. The King and his officers formed a circle around the warriors and waited for the battle to begin.

'You need a fire to keep you warm, old man?' asked Grigery.

'Do as I do,' Parmenion told him. The Spartan turned to the brazier and thrust his sword-blade deep into it; leaving it there, he stood back with arms folded across his chest. Grigery plunged his blade alongside Parmenion's.

'Now what?' the Illyrian asked.

'Now we wait,' the Spartan told him, locking his gaze to Grigery's eyes.

Slowly the minutes passed. The spectators' eyes flicked from the naked men to the blades, which had begun to glow a deep red.

The leather binding on the grip of Grigery's blade twisted and cracked, then smouldered, black smoke rising from it. Slowly it peeled away. Parmenion's sword had a metal grip, bound with fine gold wire over snakeskin. The skin burst into flame, the wire falling loose.

'When you are ready,' said Parmenion, 'take your sword and begin.'

Grigery licked his lips and stared at the smouldering swords.

'You first,' he hissed.

'Perhaps we should do it together. Are you ready?'

Grigery reached out, but the heat close to the hilt was unbearable and his hand flinched back.

Gazing around the crowd, seeing their fascination with the contest, his eyes rested on the King whose features were cold. Grigery knew what was expected of him and he looked back at the red-hot sword.

The longer you wait, the hotter it will become,' said Parmenion mildly.

'You miserable whoreson!' screamed Grigery, his hand grabbing for his sword and wrenching it clear. The agony hit him as his flesh blistered and peeled away, sticking to the sword-hilt. With a terrible cry he hurled the weapon from him. Parmenion reached out his left hand, drew his sword from the flames and walked to Grigery.

The Spartan's face was without expression, but his breathing was quick and shallow, his teeth clenched and bared. Lifting the sword he wiped the gleaming blade across Grigery's chest. The sizzling of burning hair and flesh carried to all the listeners and Grigery leapt back, falling to the grass.

Parmenion turned to Philip and bowed, then he raised the red-hot blade and saluted Bardylis.

Parmenion's arm flashed down and the sword plunged into the earth by his feet. The Spartan walked through the crowd to where Theo waited with the honey, which he smeared on the blistered, weeping flesh. 'The bandages,' he croaked. Theo lifted them from the shallow wine dish, squeezed the excess liquid from them and carefully wrapped the general's hand.

'How did you do that?' asked Theo.

'Can't talk… at… the moment,' said Parmenion, closing his eyes as the cool bandages drew the heat from his palm. He felt sick and weak and his legs were trembling. Gathering his strength, he looked at Theo. 'Take the honey and the rest of the bandages to Grigery. Do it now!'

As Theo moved away, Parmenion heard footsteps approaching. He turned to see Bardylis and Philip, followed by a score of officers.

'You are an interesting man, Parmenion,' said the old King, 'and I should have known better than to allow a test of endurance against a Spartan. How is your hand?'

'It will heal, your majesty.'

'But you were not sure, were you? That is why you used your left.'

'Exactly so.'

'Are you strong enough to dine with us?'

'Indeed I am, sire. Thank you.'

The pain was indescribable, but Parmenion willed himself to sit through the meal, even to eat, contenting himself with the knowledge that Grigery was nowhere to be seen.

Life was increasingly difficult for Derae as Tamis' mental condition deteriorated. The old woman now spent her days sitting in the temple gardens, often talking to herself, and at times it was impossible to communicate with her. Her sense of despair had grown and the duties of the Temple rested on Derae alone. Every day supplicants would arrive — long lines of sick or crippled folk, rich and poor, waiting for the hands of the Healer.

The work exhausted Derae, especially now that the old helper Naza had died, and there was no one to do the work around the garden or to gather the vegetables planted in the spring.

Only occasionally did Derae find the time — and more rarely, the energy — to observe Parmenion.

Day by day she laboured on.

Then she herself fell sick, a fever coming upon her swiftly, leaving her legs weak and her mind hazy. Despite her powers she could not heal herself, nor tend to the sick who waited in vain outside the closed gates. Tamis was no help, for when Derae called out to her the old woman seemed not to hear.

For eleven days Derae lay sick and exhausted, floating between strange dreams and confused awakenings. Once she awoke to see, with her spirit eyes, a man beside her bed.

He had part lifted her and was spooning a broth into her mouth. Then she slept again.

Finally she awoke and felt the sunlight coming through the open window. With no sense of the passing of time, she knew only that she was tired but no longer sick. Her bedroom door opened and a man entered. Tall and grey-bearded, dressed in a runic of faded red, he carried a dish of water to her bedside and helped her to drink.

'You are feeling better, priestess?' he asked.

'Yes. Thank you. I know your voice, don't I? But I don't remember. .'

'My name is Leucion. I came here a long time ago and you advised me to go to Tyre. I took that advice. There I found love and a good wife, and we reared fine sons and two daughters.'

Derae lay back and spirit-gazed upon the man, remembering the look in his eyes as he had tried to rape her. 'I remember. Why did you come back?'

'My wife died, priestess, and my eldest son now sits at the head of the table. But I never forgot you. I wanted… I wanted to see you again. To apologize. But when I came here you were ill, and there was no help. So I stayed.'

'How long have I been in bed?'

'Twelve days,' said Leucion. 'At first I thought you would die, but I managed to get you to eat. I fed the old woman too, but I do not think she even knows I am here.'

'Eleven days? How is it that my bedclothes are so clean?'

'I changed them for you, and washed the others. When you are well again I shall leave.'

Derae took the man's hand. 'I thank you for your help, and I am glad you came back. I am glad also that your life has been happy. And if you are seeking forgiveness — I gave that a long time ago, Leucion.'

'There are many people waiting for you. What shall I tell them?'

'Tell them I shall be with them tomorrow.' Derae pushed back the covers and stood; her legs were unsteady, but she could feel her strength returning. Leucion brought her clothes and offered to help her dress. 'It is all right,