The knife plunged into Learchus’ belly, ripping up into the lungs. Parmenion stepped inside, his face inches from the astonished, wide-eyed features of Learchus. ‘This is what death feels like, you Spartan whoreson.’
‘Oh, Gods . . .’ cried Learchus, sagging back into the wall. Parmenion grabbed him by the hair and hauled him back to his feet.
‘Prayers will not help you now.’
The breath rattled from Learchus’ throat and his eyes closed. Parmenion let the body fall, his anger disappearing. He gazed down at the corpse, then let slip the bloody dagger. Hearing Hermias groan, he ran to his side. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘My head . . . hurts …
‘Let me help you.’
‘Your hand is injured,’ said Hermias, touching the blood.
‘It is not mine,’ muttered Parmenion, pointing to the dead Learchus.
‘You killed him? I don’t believe it. Oh, Parmenion!’
‘Let me get you inside – then I’ll find the officer of the watch.’
Within the hour the body had been removed and Parmenion was escorted by Lepidus to the barracks where the elderly general stood waiting in the dormitory doorway. Without a word the general turned and stalked up the stairs to a room overlooking the central courtyard. He sat down at a bench table and gestured to Lepidus to seat himself. Parmenion was left standing before the men. He stared at their faces in the flickering lamp-light. Lepidus he knew well; the man was tough, but not unfair. The general he knew only by sight as an iron-haired disciplinarian, a veteran of a score of battles. The old man glared at him.
‘What do you have to say?’ he asked, his voice rasping like a sword dragged from its sheath.
‘Five hooded men attacked a friend of mine,’ said Parmenion. ‘What would you have me do? I went to his aid.’
‘You killed a fellow Spartan – a youth of good family.’
‘I killed a cowardly attacker who with a group of friends, armed with clubs, set about an unarmed youth.’
‘Do not be insolent with me, boy!’
‘Then do not patronize me, sir!’
The general blinked. His powerful fists clenched and Parmenion felt he was about to rise and strike him down, but the old man took a deep breath and calmed himself. ‘Describe to me all that happened.’ Parmenion did so, without including his final conversation with Learchus.
‘Is it true,’ asked the general, ‘that you are unpopular with the other boys?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it also true that you have been a victim of their . . . sport before now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you knew when you attacked them that they were probably hunting you – that your friend was struck by mistake?’
‘Of course. Hermias is very well liked.’
‘So, then, had you waited until they recognized their error there would have been no battle. They would have left. You agree?’
‘I did not think of that then – though I can see you are correct, general. But I saw my friend struck and I went to his aid.’
‘You leapt upon one boy, breaking his shoulder, hit another with a club, breaking his arm, and stabbed the last, killing him. It is your fault, half-breed. You understand that? A fine boy lies dead because you did not think. Only a savage can use the excuse of lack of thought. Left to me I would see you die for this. Now get out of my sight.’
Lepidus waited until they could hear the boy padding down the stairs. Then he rose and walked to the door, pushing it closed.
‘He is a disgrace,’ said the old man.
‘No, general,’ said Lepidus sadly. ‘What happened in this room tonight was a disgrace.’
‘You dare to criticize me?’
Lepidus stared at the man. ‘As a Spartan it is my right. He went to the aid of a friend, risking himself. But he did not hesitate. You, of all men, should see that. There will be no judgement against him tomorrow. If there is, I shall speak out.’
Lepidus turned and left the room. He walked out into the night and found himself drawn back to the scene of the fight. A lamp was burning in the window of Parmenion’s house and Lepidus tapped at the gatepost.