‘You suggest I leave Thebes?’
The old man smiled. ‘What you do is a matter for you. I could have men guard you wherever you go, and watch over you while you sleep. The lord Epaminondas has requested -at the very least – we set a sentry outside your gates. But still there will be times when you walk in crowded avenues, or
pause at market stalls or shops. A dedicated killer will find you.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Parmenion, ‘but I am in no mood to run. This is my home. And I do not want your guards here, though I thank you for the offer. If an assassin is to kill me, then so be it. But I will not be an easy victim.’
‘Had it not been for your Theban servant,’ Menidis pointed out, ‘you would have been the simplest victim. A sleeping man offers little resistance. However, it is your choice and you have made it.’ The soldier stood and replaced his bronze helm, securing the strap at the chin.
‘Tell me something,’ asked Parmenion. ‘I sense you do not care much whether they succeed or fail – why is that?’
‘You are very astute, and I believe in honesty at all times, so I will tell you. That you chose to betray your own city and aid Thebes gives me cause to be grateful to you. But you are still a Spartan and I despise Spartans. Good day to you.’
Parmenion watched the old man depart, then shook his head. In a curious way the words of Menidis caused him more concern than the attack. He strolled up to Mothac’s room, where the servant was cursing as he tried to nurse his injured arm into a chiton.
‘Let me help you,’ said Parmenion, ‘though Argonas insisted you stay in bed for a week.’
‘Two days felt like a week,’ Mothac snapped.
‘Do you feel up to walking?’
‘Of course! Do I look like a cripple?’ Parmenion looked into the man’s face, reading the anger in his eyes. Mothac’s cheeks were flushed almost as red as his beard and he was breathing heavily.
‘You are a stubborn man. But let it be as you say; we will walk.’ Parmenion armed himself with sword and dagger and slowly they made their way to the gardens at the western slope of the Cadmea, where fountains were placed to cool the breeze and flowers grew all the year. The two men sat close to a shallow stream, beneath a yellowing willow, and Parmenion told the Theban about his conversation with Menidis.
Mothac chuckled. ‘He doesn’t mellow with age, does he?
Two years ago he arrested two Spartan soldiers, cracking their skulls for them. He claimed they were molesting a Theban woman of quality, which was complete nonsense. Theban women of quality are not allowed on the streets.’
‘In that – if in nothing else – you lag behind Sparta,’ said Parmenion. ‘There women walk as freely as men, with no restrictions.’
‘Disgraceful,’ Mothac observed. ‘How then do you tell them from the whores?’
‘There are no whores in Sparta.’
‘No whores? Incredible! No wonder they are so anxious to conquer other cities.’
‘While we are on the subject of whores, Mothac, tell me about the night you brought one to my bed.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘It does not matter. Why did you not tell me?’
Mothac shrugged, then winced as his shoulder flared. He rubbed at the wound, but that only made it worse. ‘You were convinced it was a miracle. I wanted to tell you the truth, but. . . but I didn’t. No excuses. I am sorry, it was all I could think of. Yet it worked, didn’t it?’
‘It worked,’ agreed Parmenion.
‘Are you angry?’
‘Just a little sad. It was good to feel that Derae came back to me – if only in a dream. Perhaps Epaminondas is right, and there are no gods. I hope he is wrong. When I look at the sky, or the sea, or a beautiful horse, I like to believe in gods. I like to feel there is some order, some meaning to existence.’
Mothac nodded. ‘I know what you mean – and I do believe. I have to. There is someone waiting for me on the other side; if I didn’t believe that, I would cut my throat.’