‘He finished last, I believe,’ said Xenophon.
‘He was first – in sight of the city. And I have nothing to give him. No possessions. No coin. But I will pay my debt, Xenophon, by claiming another. Twice I saved your life. Will you honour my debt?’
‘You know I will – as I hope you know that, had I been in Persia with Agisaleus, I would have come for you.’
Pasian nodded. ‘I do not doubt it, general. I understand the boy is a mix-blood, with little money and less influence. Help him, Xenophon.’
‘I shall, I promise you.’
Pasian smiled and walked away, stopping for one last look at the sand-pit. ‘I enjoyed the battle,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘Nice to see the Spartans humbled.’
* Parmenion raced out through the gates and into the noon-
deserted streets. He did not feel the intensity of the sun on his skin, nor the pain of his bruises. He did not see the houses as he passed them, nor hear the yapping dogs that snapped at his heels.
His head was full of the roaring of anguish, and all he could see was his mother’s face floating before his mind’s eye – soft and smiling, calm and understanding.
She was dying.
Dying. . . .
The word hammered at him over and over, and his vision blurred, yet still he ran. He knew then that he had always known. When the weight fell away from her once beautiful face, when her limbs had become skeletal and her eyes had grown dull. And all the other signs of blood and pain. Yet he could not face what he knew, and had turned his eyes and his mind away.
He came to Leaving Street and cut off through the poorer quarter, cannoning into a fat trader and knocking him from his feet. The man’s curses followed him.
The doorway of his house was blocked by neighbours, standing silently. He pushed his way through them and found Rhea sitting by the bedside. The doctor, Astion, was standing in the small courtyard with his back to the room. Parmenion stood in the doorway, his heart pounding as Rhea turned to him.
‘She has gone,’ said the woman, rising and moving to Parmenion, her plump arms circling him. ‘There is no more pain.’
Tears flowed to Parmenion’s cheeks as he stared at the slender body on the bed. ‘She did not wait for me,’ he whispered.
Rhea hugged hurt for a moment and then moved to the door, gently pushing back the neighbours and friends, closing the door on them. Then she returned to the bed and sat, taking Artema’s small hand in hers. ‘Come,’ she told Parmenion. ‘Sit by her on the other side. Say farewell.’ Parmenion stumbled forward and took his mother’s right hand, and together they sat in silence for a while. Astion entered, but they did not see him and he left quietly.
‘She talked of you at the end,’ said Rhea. ‘She spoke of her pride. She wanted to wait, to see you, to know how you fared.’
‘I won, Mother,’ said Parmenion, gripping the lifeless fingers. ‘I won before them all.’ He gazed down at Artema’s face. The eyes were closed, the features still.
‘She looks peaceful,’ Rhea whispered.
Parmenion shook his head. He could not see the peace, only the terrible finality of death, the total stillness, the separation. Yet her hand was warm and the fingers supple. How many times had she stroked away his pains, or patted his face with these hands? He felt a terrible knotting in his stomach and a swelling in his throat. Tears fell more freely, coursing down his face and splashing against his mother’s hand.
‘She talked of a white horse,’ said Rhea. ‘She could see it on a hillside. It was coming for her and she said she was going to ride it all the way back to Macedonia. I do not know if that is a comfort. She also said she could see your father, waiting for her.’
Parmenion could not speak but, reaching out, he touched the skin of his mother’s face.
‘Say goodbye,’ whispered Rhea. ‘Tell her goodbye.’