At home Cleo cooked some of the meat and spoon-fed it to Thetis, who was now more lucid. The two men carried her bed upstairs to Parmenion’s room, to give her more privacy, while Cleo slept on a couch in the andron.
By the end of summer the city had almost returned to normal. More than 4,000 people had perished in the plague but, as Calepios pointed out, this was a fraction of those who would have died or been enslaved had the Spartan army sacked the city. Fearing the plague, the Spartans had marched from Boeotia without a battle, and allied troops had now secured the passes over Mount Cithaeron against them. News also came from Tegyra that Pelopidas and the Sacred Band had routed a Spartan division which outnumbered them two to one, and had killed Phoebidas, the Spartan responsible for the taking of the Cadmea four years earlier. The defeated soldiers were not Spartan regulars but mercenaries from the city of Orchomenus, yet even so a day of celebration was declared in Thebes and the sounds of laughter and song drifted to the room where Thetis lay. She was still very weak, her heartbeat ragged and irregular, but the distant laughter cheered her.
Parmenion entered, bearing a tray of food and drink. Setting it down, he sat beside her. ‘You have more colour today,’ he said. ‘Mothac managed to find some fresh honeycakes. An old friend of mine swore they gave strength to the weary.’
Her green eyes rested on his face, but she said nothing. Instead she reached out and took his hand, tears falling to her cheeks.
‘What is wrong?’ he asked her.
‘Nothing,’ she replied.
‘Then why are you weeping?’
‘Why did you do this for me?’ she countered. ‘Why did you not let me die?’
‘Sometimes there are no answers,’ he told her, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her palm. ‘You are not Derae, as I am not Damon. But our lives have crossed, the lines of our destinies are now entwined. I no longer have great faith in distant gods, but I believe in the Fates. I believe we were meant to be together.’
‘I do not love you,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
‘Nor I you. But I care for you. You have been on my mind constantly since I discovered the truth about the night you brought me back. Stay with me, Thetis. I cannot promise to make you happy, but I will try.’
‘I will not marry you, Parmenion, but I will stay. And if we are happy, so be it, we will remain together. But know this, one day you may awake to find me gone. If that happens, promise me you will never try to find me.’
‘I promise,’ he said. ‘Now eat, and regain your strength.’
*
The man stood in the moonlight at the gates of Parmenion’s house. There was no one in sight as carefully he slid his knife into the crack at the centre of the gates, easing up the wooden bar beyond. The gate opened, the bar sliding at an angle towards the ground, but before it could thud against the stone he rammed his knife-blade into the wood,
jamming it in place until he could slip through and lower it carefully to the courtyard. Returning the knife to its sheath, he walked towards the closed door of the andron.
Something cold touched his neck and a hand clamped to his shoulder. ‘Were I you, I would stand very still,’ warned a voice by his ear.
‘I have a message for Parmenion,’ whispered the man.
‘The knife at your throat is very sharp. Put your hands behind you.’
The man obeyed, standing quietly as his wrists were lashed together. Then he was led into the darkened andron and watched as his red-bearded captor lit three lanterns. ‘You would be Mothac?’
‘I would. Sit down.’ Mothac pushed the man to a couch. ‘Parmenion!’ he called. Moments later a tall, slender man, thin-faced, with piercing, pale blue eyes, entered the room. He was carrying a gleaming sword.
‘Clearchus!’ cried Parmenion, tossing aside the sword and smiling broadly.
‘The very same,’ grunted Xenophon’s servant.