Gemmell, David – Lion of Macedon 01

Learchus had died – killed by Parmenion. Tamis had not actively sought his death, though she knew part of the blame rested on her increasingly frail shoulders. All men die, she told herself. And was it not Learchus who had hidden in the alleyway ready to attack an unarmed boy? He had brought his doom upon himself.

Still the doubts nagged at her. Her prayers now were largely unanswered and she felt alone against the servants of Chaos. She could no longer summon Cassandra, nor any spirit of the past. The Ways were no longer open to her. It is just a test, she assured herself. The Source is still with me. I know it!

Surely it is better for a few to die out of their time, than for many -for multitudes – to suffer?

How many times had she told herself this, repeating it like a spell against her fears? Too many, she realized. But I have gone too far to falter now.

When Learchus died the Dark God’s servants had turned their eyes on Sparta, weaving their spells around the survivors Nestus and Cleombrotus, watching over them. It was harder now for Tamis to manipulate their emotions secretly, encouraging them to be reckless, to risk their lives.

Yet the Watchers could not oversee everything and Tamis had waited patiently, ready to exploit even a momentary lapse. Now it had come. The girl Derae had been publicly denounced, her nance Nestus filled with righteous anger and a truly Spartan lust for revenge. Only the death of the man who had shamed him would satisfy his warrior’s heart.

The Watchers were furious, Tamis knew. She could feel their anger and frustration like flames in the night. Tamis opened the shutters of her single window and stared out over the distant acropolis.

The first of many perils faced Parmenion now, and she was unable to help him, just as the Watchers were unable to protect Nestus. Now would be a time of swords, of strength and of skill. And the Watchers were closing in. Soon they would locate her, and then would come the onslaught, demons in the night tearing at her soul, or assassins in the daylight with sharp blades to rip into frail flesh.

Turning, she gazed around the squalid room that had been her home for so many, lonely years. She would not miss it, nor Sparta, nor even Greece, the home of her spirit.

Opening the door, she stepped out into the sunlight. ‘For the moment, Parmenion,’ she said, ‘you are alone. Only your own strength and courage can aid you now.’

Leaning on a staff, a tattered grey cloak around her shoulders, Tamis walked slowly from Sparta. Not once did she look back, nor allow a single moment of regret to touch her heart.

Back at the dwelling the temperature plummeted as a dark shadow formed on the wall opposite the window, growing, spreading, forming into the semi-translucent shape of a tall woman, hooded and veiled in black.

For several moments she moved around the room, her spirit eyes searching. Then the dark woman vanished. . .

. . . opening the eyes of her body in a palace across the sea. ‘I will find you, Tamis,’ she whispered, her voice low and cold. ‘I will bring you to despair.’

*

Three days before the end of his stay in Olympia, Parmenion was surprised to see Hermias riding across the long meadow to the house. His friend usually journeyed south to the sea with his family for the hottest part of the summer, and their summer home was several hundred leagues from Olympia.

During the last year Parmenion had seen little of Hermias, for his friend had become close with the young King, Cleombrotus, and the two were often seen together in the city or riding in the Taygetus mountains.

Parmenion strode out to meet Hermias. He too had changed during their time at Menelaus and at nineteen he was strikingly beautiful, with no trace yet of a beard. Once a fine runner, he no longer had the inclination to exercise hard and was rarely seen at the training ground. Hermias had grown his hair long, and Parmenion could smell the perfumed Persian oil which adorned it even before his friend jumped to the ground.