‘She died on the day you came to me,’ said Parmenion. ‘Her name was Elea.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I followed you on the first day. I saw the funeral procession. When you went off- as it turned out, to kill Cletus -I walked to the grave to pay my respects.’
‘She was a wonderful woman,’ said Mothac. ‘She never
complained. And I still see her face whenever I close my eyes.’
‘At least you had more than five days,’ whispered Parmenion, rising. ‘Let us return. I think you are more tired than you look.’
Suddenly a man stepped from the shadows behind them. Parmenion’s sword slashed into the air and the man leapt back, lifting his hands, his mouth hanging open in shock.
‘I have no weapon! No weapon!’ he screamed. Behind him stood a child of around seven years, clutching his father’s cloak.
‘I am sorry,’ said Parmenion. ‘You startled me.’ Sheathing his sword he smiled down at the child, but the boy started crying.
‘You are more concerned than you look,’ said Mothac as the two began the long walk home.
‘Yes, it frightens me to know that a knife, or a sword, or an arrow could come from anywhere. Yet, if I leave Thebes I will be as I was when I came here – virtually a pauper. I have money in several merchant ventures, but I have still to pay Epaminondas for the house.’
‘Better to be poor and alive,’ said Mothac, ‘than rich and dead.’
‘But better still to be rich and alive.’
‘You could join the Sacred Band. Pelopidas would be delighted to have you, and even the doughtiest assassin would have difficulty in getting close to you.’
‘That is true,’ Parmenion agreed, ‘but I will serve under no man – save perhaps Epaminondas. He and I think alike. Pelopidas is too reckless and it does not pay to be reckless when facing the Spartans.’
‘You still believe we do not have the strength to go against them?’
‘I fenowit, Mothac; it is not a question of belief. No, we must stall them, refuse open battle. The time will come. But we must have patience.’
*
Leucion had slept badly, his dreams full of anxiety and frustration. He woke early, his mood foul, while the other nine warriors still slept.
Curse the whore! thought Leucion as he stirred the ashes of the fire, at last finding a glowing ember and adding dry leaves and twigs to bring the blaze to life. She had talked of love, but when his money ran out she had laughed at him, ordering him from her house. Cursed Persian whore! The battles were over, the mercenaries disbanded. We were welcomed by cheering crowds and flowers strewn in our path, he remembered, but dismissed in the night with a handful of coins and not a word of thanks.
They all look down on us, he realized. Persians. Yet where would they be without us, fighting their miserable battles? Barbarians, all of them. He opened the pouch at his side, pulling clear his last coin. It was gold, heavy and warm. On one side was stamped the face of the Great King, on the other a kneeling archer with bow bent. The Persians called them darics, after Darius the Great. But to the Greek mercenaries they were archers, and the single reason why so many Greek warriors fought hi Persian wars.
‘No Greek is impervious to Persian archers,’ Artabazarnes had told him, during a drinking bout. Then the Persian had laughed, the sound mocking. He had wanted to smash the leering grin from the Persian’s face.
Leucion sat now before the fire, his anger burning brighter than the flames. Pendar awoke and joined him. ‘What troubles you?’ asked his friend.
‘This cursed country,’ Leucion told him.
‘Your mood was fine yesterday.’
‘Well, this is today!’ snapped Leucion. ‘Wake the men, and let us push on. It is a ten-day ride to the city.’
‘You think they’ll take us on?’
‘Just do as I ask!’ roared Leucion. Pendar backed away from him and woke the men as Leucion rubbed his fingers through his short black beard. It was matted now, and he longed for a phial of perfumed oil… and a bath. Lifting his breastplate into place, he settled the shoulder-guards and strode for his horse.