Gemmell, David – Lion of Macedon 01

‘Untie him,’ ordered Parmenion. Mothac slashed his knife through the leather thongs binding the man, and Clearchus rubbed at his wrists. His hair was whiter and thinner than the young Spartan remembered, the lines on his face deeper, like knife-cuts in leather. ‘An odd time to be calling,’ Parmenion commented.

‘My lord asked me to make sure I was unobserved.’ Reaching into his thick woollen shirt, Clearchus produced a scroll which he handed to the young Spartan.

Parmenion put it aside and sat facing the older man. ‘How does the general fare?’

Clearchus shrugged. ‘He’s a sad man. He writes now. Many things – horsemanship, tactics, the state of Greece. He spends hours every day with his scribes. I cannot recall the last time he went riding or hunting. And he has grown fat.’ Clearchus almost spat the last word, as if even forming it offended his mouth.

Parmenion reached for the scroll, then noticed Mothac still standing by, his knife in his hand. ‘It is all right, my

friend. This is Clearchus, a companion of the general Xenophon. He is trustworthy.’

‘He is a Spartan,’ muttered Mothac.

‘Beware, child, lest I crack your skull for you,’ snapped Clearchus, reddening.

‘Once upon a time perhaps, grandfather,’ retorted Mothac. Clearchus lurched to his feet.

‘Stop this, both of you!’ ordered Parmenion. ‘We are all friends here – or we should be. How long have you been in Thebes?’

‘I arrived this evening,’ answered Clearchus, casting a murderous glare at Mothac. ‘I visited friends in Corinth, then bought a horse and rode here through Megara and Plataea.’

‘It is good to see you. Would you like some food and drink?’

Clearchus shook his head. ‘I will be leaving once you have given me an answer for my lord.’

Mothac bade Parmenion goodnight and wandered back to his room, leaving the two Spartans together. The younger man opened the scroll and sat close to a lantern.

Greetings, friend [he read], the years move on, the seasons gathering pace, the world and its troubles drifting further from me. And yet I see matters more clearly than when young, and with increasing sadness.

There was a young man in Sparta who killed another in a duel over a woman. The dead boy’s father still grieves and has hired assassins to seek out the killer, who no longer resides in Sparta. I understand that four assassins were slain by the boy, who is now a man. But others may follow.

I hope that you are well, and that your life is happier than that of the Spartan boy who lives now far from home. I think of that boy often. I think of his courage and his loneliness.

At worst may the gods smile on you, at best may they ignore you.

There was no signature.

Parmenion looked up into the weather-beaten face of the old servant. ‘You risked much to bring this to me, Clearchus. I thank you.’

‘Do not thank me,’ said the old man. ‘I did it for the general. I liked you, boy. But that was a long time ago, before you became a traitor. I hope the assassins find you -before you can play any more of your deadly games.’

‘None of you will ever see it, will you?’ said Parmenion, his voice icy. ‘You Spartans think of yourselves as demigods. You take a child and you torment him all his life, telling him he is no Spartan, then accuse him of treachery when he takes you at your word. Well, here is a thought for you, Clearchus, and all your foul breed: after I tricked Sphodrias I was caught by a Sciritai warrior. He had fought for you for years; he had been raised to fight for you. And as we drew swords against one another he told me he had always wanted to kill a Spartan. You are hated not only by Thebes and Athens but by the very people who fight alongside you.’

Clearchus opened his mouth to reply, but Parmenion raised his hand.

‘Say nothing, servant!’ he hissed. ‘You have delivered your message. Now begone!’

For a moment only the old man glowered at him, then backed away and vanished into the darkness.