*
Epaminondas sat alone on the ridge, gazing down at the Spartan army camped on the plain of Leuctra, a day’s march east of Thebes. Slowly he undid the chin-strap on his simple iron helmet and removed it, laying it on the stony slope as he sat watching the distant camp-fires.
As the breeze gusted and veered he could hear laughter from the Spartan camp, and hear the whinnying of their horses picketed beyond the fires.
Tomorrow loomed in his mind like the half-remembered monsters of his childhood dreams. For more than fifteen of his thirty-seven years Epaminondas had worked, conspired, risked his life in the service of Thebes, to free the city he loved from Spartan rule. And he had come so close.
So close. …
Now he faced an army of 12,000 men – twice the combined Boeotian force – and the future of Thebes hung like a fragile jewel, suspended over a fiery abyss.
In Sparta he had .allowed himself to dream of golden days. Agisaleus had been convivial – even friendly – and the negotiations had moved smoothly ahead . . . until that bitter moment when he had seen the change to the Treaty of Peace. And then Epaminondas had been caught like a fish in the net. To sign would mean the end of Boeotia. Not to sign would herald a new invasion.
Drawing in a deep breath he closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the advice of his generals, but all he could see was the Spartan army, the finest fighting men in all of Greece – all of the world.
He thought of Parmenion’s plan, but dismissed it from his mind.
Hearing a sound from behind he looked up to see the Thespian general, Ictinus. The man was young and slender, his iron armour polished to shine like silver. Epaminondas said nothing. Ictinus irritated him, but as the elected representative of Thespiae he had to be tolerated.
‘We will not engage them in open battle, will we, Epaminondas?’ asked Ictinus. ‘My men are concerned. Not for their lives, of course, which they would willingly give . . . willingly give. But… it would be folly. Tell me you are not considering this course?’
‘I am considering all possibilities, sir, and I shall present my views to the Seven at the agreed time. Now, if you will leave me to think?’
‘Yes, yes. But we could hold the ridge? Yes. That would be good, sound strategy. I think . . .’
‘I will see you in an hour, Ictinus – with the other Boeotarchs,’ snapped Epaminondas. The man bowed and walked away, but almost immediately the Theban general thought he heard him return. ‘For the sake of the Gods!’ he stormed. ‘Will you leave me alone?’
‘You need a drink,’ said Pelopidas, smiling broadly and thumping the back of Epaminondas’ breastplate.
‘I am sorry. I thought it was that fool, Ictinus.’
‘Whatever happens tomorrow, my friend, I think your strategy should ignore the Thespians. They will run if the Spartans so much as shout at them.’
‘Which leaves us with around five-and-a-half thousand fighting men – against 12,000. Good odds, don’t you think?’
Pelopidas shrugged. ‘I do not care how many there are. Tomorrow we crush them.’ He hawked and spat on the rocks. ‘I like Parmenion’s plan.’
Epaminondas closed his eyes for a moment. ‘He has been deranged since Thetis was murdered. I cannot consider it. To gamble all we have on a single move; to risk annihilation? Do not take this wrongly, Pelopidas, but would you attack a lion with a brooch-pin?’
‘Why would a lion have a brooch-pin?’ asked Pelopidas, grinning.
Epaminondas chuckled. ‘If all the men were like you, I would not hesitate to follow Parmenion’s advice. But they are not, Pelopidas. You are . . . special – perhaps even unique. I cannot take the risk.’
‘Ask yourself why,’ Pelopidas suggested.
‘You know why. All we have worked for is at risk.’
‘That is not an answer, and you know it. Either the strategy is a good one or it is not. You cannot plan a battle on anything else. Are you saying that if nothing rested on the outcome you would try the plan?’