Gemmell, David – Lion of Macedon 01

‘Do not tempt the gods,’ advised Mothac.

Epaminondas laughed aloud. ‘A long time ago I was told I would die at a battle in Man tinea. This frightened me greatly, for the seer was the renowned Tamis and beloved of the gods. So you can imagine how I felt when, with Pelopidas, I found myself fighting at Mantinea against the Arcadians. We were surrounded and Pelopidas went down. I stood my ground, ready to die. But I did not die. And why? Because there are no gods, and all prophecies can be twisted to mean anything the hearer desires. Tempt the gods, Mothac? I defy them. And even if they do exist, they are far too interested in changing their shapes and rutting with anything that moves to care what a lonely mortal thinks of them. And now I think I should collect Pelopidas and guide him home.’ He took Parmenion’s arm suddenly, the smile fading from his face.

‘Once more you are our saviour, my Spartan friend. I cannot tell you how grateful I am. One day I will find a way to repay you.’

Pelopidas was asleep on the couch but Epaminondas shook him, hauling him to his feet and steering him to the gates. Immediately the drunken Theban launched into a marching song and the two men walked off into the darkness.

During the months that followed Parmenion settled back into private life, spending his time training hoplites, running and reading. Occasionally he would attend parties or celebrations as a guest of Epaminondas, or Calepios who had returned in triumph from Athens. But mostly he kept to himself, taking his horse and riding into the countryside, exploring the hills and valleys surrounding Thebes.

By the spring of the following year hopes were high in the city that the Spartan menace had been overcome, and that the old Boeotian League could be reformed. Pelopidas and the Sacred Band had been instrumental in helping the rebels of Tanagra and Plataea to expel the Spartan garrisons, and there was even talk of the Great King of Persia granting the Theban request for autonomy from Sparta.

Then came fearful news. Agisaleus had gathered an army of 11,000 hoplites and 2,000 cavalry and was marching to crush the rebellion. The next night Mothac returned from visiting the grave of Elea, tending the flowers planted there. It was late and he walked home in darkness, his thoughts sombre. As he reached the narrow street before the house of Parmenion, he saw a figure in the shadows leap and scale the wall. He blinked and focused his eyes on the spot, but there was nothing to be seen. Then a second figure scrambled over the wall to Parmenion’s home.

Mothac felt a chill sweep over him. Swiftly he ran for the gate, pushing it open. ‘Parmenion!’ he bellowed. As he raced across the courtyard a dark figure leapt from the shadows, cannoning into him. Moonlight glinted on a knife blade that slashed by his face. Mothac rolled and came to his feet, blocking a thrust and hammering his fist into the man’s face. The assassin fell back. Mothac threw himself at the man, making a wild grab for the knife wrist. He missed, and the blade plunged home into his left shoulder. His knee jerked up into the man’s groin, bringing a grunt of pain, then Mothac’s hands were on the assassin’s throat. Hurling himself forward, he cracked the man’s skull against the courtyard wall. The assassin went limp, but three times more Mothac smashed the man’s head to the stone. Blood

and brains fell on to his hands and he let the corpse sink to the ground.

Tarmenion!’ he shouted again.

*

The assassin Gleamus cursed softly as he heard the servant call out, then ran up the steps to the upper floor bedroom where the traitor slept. Pausing outside the door, he listened, but there was no sound from within. Was it possible that the Spartan had not heard the cry?

Perhaps, but Gleamus had practised his trade for almost twenty years, in Egypt and Persia, Athens and Illyria, and he had survived by always using his wits, leaving nothing to chance.

For days now he had watched the house, observing the movements of the traitor, gauging the man. His prey was a warrior. He moved well, smoothly, his eyes alert. But the weakness was in the house. There was only one exit from the bedroom – unless the man wished to leap to the courtyard below, where he would surely break bones.

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