There by the bed stood a pale figure, white and ethereal, like sculptured mist, featureless and glowing. Tamis felt the overpowering emotions within the room, love and loss, and harrowing heartbreak. Parmenion’s dreams made him groan aloud, and the figure shimmered. Now Tamis sensed confusion and pain. A pale arm reached towards the boy, but could not touch him. ‘It is time,’ whispered Tamis.
‘No.’ The single word hung in the air, not a denial, but an entreaty.
‘He could not see you, even were he awake. Come away. I shall lead you.’
‘Where?’
‘To a place of rest.’
The figure turned back to the bed. ‘My son.’
‘He will be a great man. He will save the world from darkness.’
‘My son,’ said the wraith, as if she had not heard.
‘You are no longer of his world,’ said Tamis. ‘Say your farewells swiftly, for soon it will be the dawn.’
‘He seems so lost,’ whispered the wraith. ‘I must stay to comfort him.’ The mist hardened, the features of Artema shining through. She turned to Tamis. ‘I know you. You are the seeress.’
‘I am.’
‘Why do you want to take me from my son?’
‘You are no longer of his world,’ repeated Tamis. ‘You . . . died.’
‘Died? Oh yes, I remember.’ Tamis steeled herself against the grief born of knowledge that emanated from the ghost. ‘And now I will never hold him again. I cannot bear it!’ Tamis swung away from the anguish in Artema’s eyes.
‘Follow me,’ she commanded, and returned to her body. For a while she stood in silence beyond the gates until, at last, the ghostly figure moved out into the courtyard.
‘You say he will be a great man,’ said Artema. ‘But will he be happy?’
‘Yes,’ lied Tamis.
Then I must be content. Will I be reunited with his father?’
‘I cannot say. For where you will ride I cannot go. But I pray it will be as you desire it. Mount the horse, for he alone knows the Paths of the Dead, and he will carry you safely.’
The figure of mist flowed to the stallion’s back. ‘Will you look after my son?’ asked Artema. ‘Will you be his friend?’
‘I will look after him,’ promised Tamis. ‘I will see that he has all he needs to meet his destiny. Now go!’
The stallion lifted its head and began to walk towards the burial hill. Tamis watched until it was out of sight, then sank back to sit on a marble bench.
But will he be happy?
The question gnawed at her, changing her mood from sorrow to anger.
‘The strong do not need happiness. He will have glory and fame, and his name will be whispered in awe by men of all nations. Generations will know happiness because of him. Surely that is enough?’
She glanced up at the window of Parmenion’s room. ‘It will have to be enough, strategos, because it is all I can give you.’
*
Parmenion awoke in the night, his mind hazy and uncertain. He sat up, unsure of where he was. Moonlight was streaming through the open window. He looked up at the moon and saw again his mother’s face, cold in death. Reality struck him worse than any blow he had received from Gryllus or the others, hammering home into his heart. He rolled from the bed and moved to the window which opened out on to the courtyard. He stared down at the empty square and saw that the sand-pit had been removed, the scene of his triumph once more merely cobbled stone. He thought of his victory, but it was as nothing against the enormity of his loss. A child’s game – how could it have meant so much? He glanced back at the bed, wondering what had awoken him. Then he remembered.
He had been dreaming of a white horse, galloping over green hills.
He looked up at the moon and the stars. So far away. Unreachable, untouchable.
Like his mother. …
The sense of separation was unbearable. He sat down on a high-backed chair and felt the cool night breeze bathing his skin. What did it matter now that he was despised? The one person who loved him was gone.