‘Do as I do,’ Parmenion told him. The Spartan turned to the brazier and thrust his sword-blade deep into it; leaving it there, he stood back with arms folded across his chest. Grigery plunged his blade alongside Parmenion’s.
‘Now what?’ the Illyrian asked.
‘Now we wait,’ the Spartan told him, locking his gaze to Grigery’s eyes.
Slowly the minutes passed. The spectators’ eyes flicked from the naked men to the blades, which had begun to glow a deep red.
The leather binding on the grip of Grigery’s blade twisted and cracked, then smouldered, black smoke rising from it. Slowly it peeled away. Parmenion’s sword had a metal grip, bound with fine gold wire over snakeskin. The skin burst into flame, the wire falling loose.
‘When you are ready,’ said Parmenion, ‘take your sword and begin.’
Grigery licked his lips and stared at the smouldering swords.
‘You first,’ he hissed.
‘Perhaps we should do it together. Are you ready?’
Grigery reached out, but the heat close to the hilt was unbearable and his hand flinched back. Gazing around the
crowd, seeing their fascination with the contest, his eyes rested on the King whose features were cold. Grigery knew what was expected of him and he looked back at the red-hot sword.
The longer you wait, the hotter it will become,’ said Parmenion mildly.
‘You miserable whoreson!’ screamed Grigery, his hand grabbing for his sword and wrenching it clear. The agony hit him as his flesh blistered and peeled away, sticking to the sword-hilt. With a terrible cry he hurled the weapon from him. Parmenion reached out his left hand, drew his sword from the flames and walked to Grigery.
The Spartan’s face was without expression, but his breathing was quick and shallow, his teeth clenched and bared. Lifting the sword he wiped the gleaming blade across Grigery’s chest. The sizzling of burning hair and flesh carried to all the listeners and Grigery leapt back, falling to the grass.
Parmenion turned to Philip and bowed, then he raised the red-hot blade and saluted Bardylis. Parmenion’s arm flashed down and the sword plunged into the earth by his feet. The Spartan walked through the crowd to where Theo waited with the honey, which he smeared on the blistered, weeping flesh. ‘The bandages,’ he croaked. Theo lifted them from the shallow wine dish, squeezed the excess liquid from them and carefully wrapped the general’s hand.
‘How did you do that?’ asked Theo.
‘Can’t talk … at … the moment,’ said Parmenion, closing his eyes as the cool bandages drew the heat from his palm. He felt sick and weak and his legs were trembling. Gathering his strength, he looked at Theo. ‘Take the honey and the rest of the bandages to Grigery. Do it now!’
As Theo moved away, Parmenion heard footsteps approaching. He turned to see Bardylis and Philip, followed by a score of officers.
‘You are an interesting man, Parmenion,’ said the old King, ‘and I should have known better than to allow a test of endurance against a Spartan. How is your hand?’
‘It will heal, your majesty.’
‘But you were not sure, were you? That is why you used your left.’
‘Exactly so.’
‘Are you strong enough to dine with us?’
‘Indeed I am, sire. Thank you.’
The pain was indescribable, but Parmenion willed himself to sit through the meal, even to eat, contenting himself with the knowledge that Grigery was nowhere to be seen.
The Temple, Autumn, 359 BC
Life was increasingly difficult for Derae as Tamis’ mental condition deteriorated. The old woman now spent her days sitting in the temple gardens, often talking to herself, and at times it was impossible to communicate with her. Her sense of despair had grown and the duties of the Temple rested on Derae alone. Every day supplicants would arrive – long lines of sick or crippled folk, rich and poor, waiting for the hands of the Healer.
The work exhausted Derae, especially now that the old helper Naza had died, and there was no one to do the work around the garden or to gather the vegetables planted in the spring.
Only occasionally did Derae find the time – and more rarely, the energy – to observe Parmenion.