‘I can’t,’ sobbed Parmenion. ‘Not yet. Leave me for a while. Please, Rhea!’
‘I need to prepare the … I’ll come back in a while.’ She walked to the door and stopped. ‘I loved her, she was a fine woman and a good friend. I will miss her, Parmenion. There was not an evil thought in her; she deserved better.’
When he heard the door close Parmenion felt the floodgates of his grief give way and he sobbed uncontrollably, his mind awash with images. He could remember his father only dimly as an enormous dark giant moving about the house, but his mother had been with him always. When, as was the Spartan custom, he had been taken at seven to live in a barracks with other boys, she had wept and held him to her as if his life was in danger. He had sneaked out often, climbing over walls and roof-tops to see her.
Now he would see her no more.
‘If you loved me you’d come back,’ he said. ‘You would never have left me.’ He knew the senselessness of the words, but they were torn from him.
He sat with the corpse until the light began to fade. Hearing a door open, he expected Rhea’s hand upon his shoulder.
‘I bring your trophy, general,’ said Xenophon softly. ‘Cover her face and we will talk in the courtyard.’
‘I can’t cover her face!’ protested Parmenion.
Xenophon moved to the other side of the bed. ‘She is not here, boy; she is gone. What you see is the cloak that she wore. It is no terrible thing to cover her.’ His voice was gentle and Parmenion blinked away his tears and stared up at the Athenian.
Tenderly Parmenion lifted the white sheet over the still face.
‘Let us talk for a while,’ said Xenophon, leading the boy into the courtyard and sitting on the stone seat. The Athenian now wore a long cloak of blue-dyed wool over a white linen tunic, and calf-length sandals of the finest leather. Yet still he looked every inch the soldier. He was carrying the sword of Leonidas, which he placed in Parmenion’s hands.
The youth put it to one side without even looking at it. Xenophon nodded.
‘It will mean more to you in days to come. But let it pass. You are young, Parmenion, and life holds many griefs in store. Yet none will ever touch you like this one. But you are a sensible lad, and you know that all people die. I have spoken to your neighbour about your mother; she was in great pain.’
‘I know of her pains. I know of her struggles. I wanted … I wanted to build something for her. A house … I don’t know. But I wanted to make her happy, to give her things she desired. There was a cloth in the market she wanted, edged with gold; a shining cloth to make a dress for a queen, she said. But we could not buy that cloth. I stole it. But she took it back. She had nothing.’
Xenophon shook his head. ‘You see too little: she had a
husband she loved and a son she adored. You think she wanted more? Well, yes she may have. But this is a cruel world, Parmenion. All any man – or woman – can expect is a little happiness. According to your neighbour, your mother was happy. She knew nothing of your . . . troubles . . . with the other youths. She sang, she laughed; she danced at festivals. And yes, she is dead – she will sing no more. But then neither will she feel pain. Nor did she grow old and withered and outlive her son.’
‘Why did you come here?’ asked the boy. ‘You could have sent the sword.’
Xenophon smiled. ‘Indeed I could. Come home with me, Parmenion. We will dine and you will tell me of your mother. It is important that we speak of her, and send our praises after her. Then the gods will know what a fine woman she was, and will greet her with fine wine – and a dress of shining cloth, edged with gold.’