‘It happens when a man gets old,’ Parmenion told him. The moon emerged from behind the clouds and the Spartan recognized Cleiton, a young soldier from eastern Macedonia who had joined the army the previous autumn.
‘It is a quiet night, sir,’ said Cleiton. ‘Were you praying?’
‘After a fashion. I was thinking about a girl I used to know.’
‘Was she beautiful?’ asked the young man, laying his spear against a rock and sitting opposite the general.
‘She was very beautiful . . . But she died. Are you married?’
‘Yes, sir. I have a wife and two sons in Crousia. They are moving to Pella as soon as I can afford to rent a house.’
‘That may be some time.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, sir. There’ll be another war soon. With fighting wages, I should see Lacia again within six months.’
‘You want a war then?’ Parmenion asked.
‘Of course, sir. It is our time. The Illyrians are destroyed, the Paionians also. Soon it will be to the east in Thrace, or south against Pherai. Or maybe Olynthus. Philip is a warrior King. He will see the army is looked after.’
‘I expect that he will,’ agreed Parmenion, rising. ‘And I hope you get your house.’
‘Thank you, sir. Good night.’
‘Good night, Cleiton.’ The general returned to his blankets, but his sleep was haunted by dreams. Derae was running on a green hillside, her eyes wide with fear. He tried to go to her, to explain that all was well, but as he approached she screamed and sped away. He could not catch her and stopped by a stream where he gazed down at his reflection. Pale eyes in the bronze mask of Chaos stared back-at him. Pulling the helm from his head, he called out to her.
‘Stop! It is I, Parmenion.’
But she did not hear him, and vanished from sight.
He awoke with a start and sat up. His back was aching and a slow, painful pounding hammered within his skull. ‘You fool,’ he told himself, ‘you forgot your sylphium.’ There was water heating on a fire. Dipping a cup into the pot he almost scalded his fingers. Then adding his dried herbs to the liquid, he stirred it with his dagger, waited for it to cool and then drained the infusion. Almost at once the pain departed.
Bernios approached. ‘You look dreadful, my friend,’ said the surgeon. ‘Do you ever sleep?’
‘When I need it.’
‘Well, you need it now. You are not a young man any more. Your body needs rest.’
‘I am forty-three years old,’ Parmenion snapped. ‘That is hardly ancient. And I can still run twenty miles, should I so choose.’
‘I did not say you were decrepit, I merely pointed out that you are no longer young. You are very sharp this morning -that also is a sign of age.’
‘My back aches – and do not tell me it is because I am old. There is an iron spear-point lodged under my shoulder-blade. But what of you? Why do you not sleep?’
‘Another man died in the night. I sat with him,’ said Bernios. ‘No one should die alone. He was stabbed through the belly; there is no worse pain than that. But he didn’t complain – save at the end.’
‘Who was he?’
‘I did not ask – and don’t lecture me about it. I know the importance you place on such details, but I cannot remember all the faces.’
‘What did you give him?’
‘The gift of poppies,’ answered Bernios. ‘A lethal dose.’
‘That is against the law. I wish you would not tell me these things.’
‘Then don’t damn well ask!’ responded the surgeon. He was instantly contrite. ‘I am sorry, Parmenion; I also am weary. But you are beginning to worry me. You have been tense now for days. Is something troubling you?’
‘It is nothing of importance.’
‘Nonsense. You are too intelligent to concern yourself over trifles. Do you want to talk of it?’
‘No.’
‘You are ashamed of it?’
‘Yes,’ admitted the Spartan.
‘Then keep it to yourself. It is often said that confession is a healing process. Do not believe that, Parmenion; it is the mother of all pain. How many know of your . . . shame?’