Gemmell, David – Lion of Macedon 01

‘Is that all that can be done?’

‘Yes. I ran out of herbs four days ago.’

‘Sit down and have some wine,’ invited Parmenion, moving to the jug on the kitchen shelf.

‘I have no time,’ Argonas replied, heaving himself to his feet.

Parmenion took him by the shoulders. ‘Listen to me, man. If you go on in this way you will collapse – then you will achieve nothing. Sit down.’

Argonas sank back to the chair. ‘Most of the physicians got out before the gates were shut,’ he said. ‘They recognized the symptoms early. There are too few of us now.’

‘Why did you not leave with them?’

Argonas smiled. That’s what everyone would expect. Fat Argonas, who lives for money: look at him run! Well, I do like money, Parmenion. I enjoy a life of pleasure and gluttony. I was born poor, a peasant in a foreign land. And I decided a long time ago that I would taste the good things and revel in luxury. But that does not make me less of a physician. You understand?’

‘Drink the wine, my friend, and revel in a little cheap broth.’

‘Not cheap any more,’ said Argonas. Trices are rising very fast.’

‘How bad is the plague?’ Parmenion asked, ladling broth into a deep bowl and placing it before the fat man.

‘Not as bad as the one that struck Athens. There are probably 8,000 people in Thebes who have the symptoms, but curiously many of them stop short of developing the

plague. It is deadly in children and the old, but the young and strong seem able to fight it off. Much depends on the swellings. Armpits only and there is a chance; if it spreads to the groin, death soon follows.’ Argonas spooned the broth into his cavernous mouth, then rose. ‘Time to go. I will call on Mothac tomorrow evening.’

Parmenion saw him to the gate and watched the fat man make his way down the narrow alley, stepping over the bodies laid out in rows.

Mothac was sweating heavily when Parmenion returned, but his lips were cracked and dry. Lifting the Theban’s head, he forced cool water between his lips and then bathed him as Argonas had directed. For two days Mothac scarcely moved. In his delirium he called out for Elea, and wept. On the third day large swellings appeared in his armpits, and he lapsed into a near coma. Parmenion was exhausted, but still he stayed by day and night at Mothac’s bedside. The swelling under the left arm turned purple and, as Argonas had warned, it split, oozing watery pus. Parmenion smeared honey on the wound and covered Mothac with fresh blankets.

The following morning, as he slept in a chair beside the bed, he heard a rattling at his gate. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Parmenion stumbled to the courtyard to see the servant girl, Cleo.

‘It is my mistress,’ cried Cleo. ‘She is dying.’

Parmenion took the girl to Mothac and ordered her to sit by him, instructing Cleo on how to bathe the sleeping man. Then he took his cloak, armed himself with sword and dagger, and carefully made his way to the house of Thetis. Corpses lay everywhere and the market-place was deserted.

Thetis was lying on her bed, lost in a fever sleep. Pulling back the sheets, Parmenion examined the woman’s naked body. There were swellings under both armpits and in the groin. Wrapping her in a blanket, he lifted her into his arms and began the slow walk back to his own house.

On the way two men who were pulling a cart piled high with bodies called out to him: ‘We’ll take her.’ He shook his head and staggered on. His muscles were burning with

fatigue as he carried her into his courtyard and through to the andron, where he laid her on a couch. Together he and Cleo manhandled his bed down the stairs and into the room alongside Mothac. ‘It will be easier to look after them both in the same room,’ Parmenion told Cleo. ‘Now go back to the house and gather what food there is, and bring it here.’

With the girl gone Parmenion bathed Thetis, applying honey to a seeping sore under her right arm. He felt her pulse, which was fluttering and weak, then sat beside her holding her hand. After a while her eyes opened.