The plan had already gone awry, but there was still time to collect the bounty offered by Agisaleus. Gleamus considered his next move. The man beyond the door could be awake. If so, where would he be? Yesterday, while no one was present, Gleamus had searched the building, memorizing the details of the bedroom. There was nowhere to hide. The room was small. So then there were few options for the man within. If awake he would be standing either to the left of the door, or the right. Behind him Aris and Sturma were moving up the stairs. But he would not need them. This was a kill he could make alone. It would show them he was still the master.
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.