‘An interesting life you lead, young man,’ said Argonas. ‘Impersonating Spartans, fighting assassins in the dead of night. Is it safe to be around you, I wonder?’
‘Mothac will be as he was?’ asked Parmenion, ignoring the question.
‘The wound passed through the fleshy part of the shoulder, where he is well muscled. It is not a round wound and will therefore heal more easily. I have applied fig-tree sap, which will clot the blood. He will be in some discomfort for several weeks, but the muscles will knit and he should be recovered by the summer.’
‘I am very grateful to you. Mothac means much to me.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Argonas, stroking his oiled beard, ‘good servants are hard to come by. I myself had a Thracian body
servant, a wonderful man who anticipated my every need moments before I realized the need was there. I have never found another like him.’
‘What happened to him?’ enquired Parmenion, more from politeness than out of genuine interest.
‘He died,’ said Argonas sadly. ‘He suffered a brain growth – like yours – but he was a man who never spoke of his troubles, and when he finally collapsed it was too late to prevent his death. Never forget, my friend, to take the sylphium brew. Such deaths are painful to see and worse to suffer. I must say that your servant found a novel cure for you. I would use it myself, but already I am in trouble with my peers.’
‘I thought it was the sylphium that healed me,’ said Parmenion.
‘Indeed it was. But first you had to be brought back in order to drink it. He is a thoughtful man, and a clever one. If ever he should think of leaving your service, I would be delighted to acquire him.’
‘Yes, yes, but what did he do?’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘For pity’s sake, Argonas! If I remembered, why would I ask you?’ snapped Parmenion, his irritation growing.
‘He brought your favourite whore to your bed: a priestess. It seems that the will to live is considerably strengthened in a man who is aroused to copulation.’
‘No,’ whispered Parmenion, ‘that is not how it was. It was Derae who came to me.’
Argonas heaved himself upright, his dark eyes showing concern. ‘I am sorry, Parmenion,’ he said. ‘I have not spoken wisely. Put it down to a lack of sleep and an excess of wine. Perhaps it was both women – Derae in the spirit, the priestess in the flesh.’
Parmenion scarcely heard him. He was seeing again the priestess in the doorway, her smile, the smell of her perfume, the anger and sorrow in her eyes, the slamming of the door.
‘Have you thought about why assassins should seek to kill you?’ asked Argonas.
‘What? No, I cannot think of a reason. Perhaps they were merely robbers.’
‘Robbers without pockets or sacks? I think not. Well, I must leave. I will come back tomorrow to check Mediae’s wound and receive my fee.’
‘Yes. Thank you,’ said Parmenion absently.
‘And walk with care, my friend. Whoever hired these men can always hire more.’
*
Two days later the senior officer of the city militia visited Parmenion. Menidis was almost seventy years of age and had been a soldier for more than half a century. For the last ten years he had headed the small militia force operating within the city, responsible for patrolling the streets after dark and manning the great gates of Thebes.
‘The men were foreigners,’ said Menidis, his sharp grey eyes peering at Parmenion from under thick white brows. They arrived in the city four days ago, passing through the Proitian Gates. They said they had recently travelled from Corinth and were interested in purchasing Theban chariots. My belief is that they came from Sparta.’ The old soldier waited to see what effect this had on the young man before him, but Parmenion’s face was impassive. ‘The part you played in freeing us of Spartan domination is well known,’ he continued. ‘I believe the men were hired to kill you.’
Parmenion shrugged. ‘They failed,’ he said.
‘This time, youngster. But let us assume for a moment that they were paid by a rich nobleman. Such men are easy to find. Sadly, so too are you.’