her eyes a brilliant blue, yet warm and more than friendly. Then the image faded and he saw her skin dry out and sag, her shoulders bow and her waist thicken. His mouth was dry. ‘You are a sorceress!’ he whispered.
Her laugh became a cackle and she sank back to her seat. ‘Of course I am a sorceress,’ she told him, her voice edged with sorrow. ‘But what you saw was once real. There is not one old woman in all the world who would not understand. One day, Parmenion, perhaps you too will be old, your skin dry and mottled, your teeth loose in your jaws. But inside you will be as you always were — except that you will find yourself trapped in a decaying shell.’
‘I have no time for this. What do you want of me?’
‘Is your hatred still strong?’ she asked. ‘Do you still require the death of Sparta?’
‘I desire to see Thebes free of Spartan influence, that is all.’
‘You told Asiron you were the Death of Nations.’
‘How could you know that?’ Suddenly he laughed. ‘A foolish question to ask of a sorceress. Or a Spartan spy. Yes, I told him. But that was years ago. Perhaps your prophecies worried me then. They do not now. Was it you who told Epaminondas he would die at Man tinea? Was that another falsehood?’
‘Yes, it was I. But that is between the great man and myself. Do you love Thetis?’
‘I don’t know why I am bothering to talk to you,’ he said. ‘I am weary. I need sleep.’ He swung away from her and began to walk across the square.
‘Do you love her?’ she called softly. He stopped, the question echoing in his mind, then slowly he turned.
‘Yes, I love her. Though not as I loved – and still love -Derae. Is there a reason for the question? Or are we playing another game?’
‘I asked you once to ride from the city, to seek a destiny at the shrine to Hera in Troy. You did not heed me. You will not heed me now. But yet, I say it to you: Do not go home. Ride from Thebes tonight.’
‘You know I will not.’
‘I know,’ she told him, and in her voice he heard a depth of sadness which struck him worse than a blow. He opened his mouth to speak, to find some gentle words of parting; but she moved away swiftly, pulling her hood over her head.
The sky was brightening with the pre-dawn as he arrived at the gate of his house. He yawned and raised his fist to rap at the wood, knowing that Mothac would awaken instantly and raise the bar. Then he saw that the gate was ajar. Irritation flared. Ever since Clearchus had entered so easily, Parmenion had insisted that at night the gate should be both chained and barred; it was not like Mothac to forget such an order. Parmenion put his hand to the gate, then hesitated. The meeting with Tamis had unsettled him. In all probability Mothac had merely consumed too much wine and had fallen asleep waiting for him.
His unease remained and with a whispered curse he moved to his right until he stood beneath the lowest part of the wall. Hooking his fingers over the edge he hauled himself up, carefully avoiding the pots and jars he had placed along the top for an unwary intruder to send crashing. Silently he moved two of them aside, making room to ease his body on to the wall. Scanning the courtyard below he saw two armed men waiting, one on either side of the gates. Lowering himself back to the alley, he drew his sword. His mouth was dry, his heart hammering, but taking several deep breaths he calmed himself and crept to the gates. He had one advantage, he knew: the assassins expected to surprise their victim. He crashed his shoulder into the left-hand gate, which flew open. The first assassin was smashed to the ground as Parmenion leapt to his right, his sword cleaving through the second man’s neck. The first man rose groggily; his sword had been knocked from his hand, but he scrabbled for a knife. Parmenion’s blade plunged into his chest.