The words cut into Parmenion like knives, and he reeled back from the blazing anger in Leonidas’ eyes. Cassandra’s victim! Every year a young, unmarried woman was sent from Sparta as a sacrifice to the gods, to drown off the coast of Troy. It was a penance for the murder of the priestess
Cassandra after the Trojan War hundreds of years before. All major cities of Greece were obliged to send victims.
The girls were taken by ship to within a mile of the coastline of Asia, then their hands were tied behind their backs and they were thrown from the deck. There was no hope for Derae; even if she got her hands free and managed to swim to the shore, the local villagers would pursue and kill her. That was part of the ritual.
‘Well, what have you to say?’ hissed Leonidas, but Parmenion did not reply. He walked out into the sunshine and drew his sword, hefting it for weight. He could not answer his enemy: all feelings had vanished from him. He felt curiously light-headed and free of torment. They had taken from him the only light in his life, and he would not live in darkness again. Better for Nestus to kill him.
Xenophon approached him after a while and called Nestus to the flat ground before the house. ‘I have sent for the surgeon. I think it advisable to wait until he arrives before this battle commences.’
‘Doctors cannot help dead men,’ Nestus observed.
‘Very true, but it is likely that the victor will also receive wounds. I would not want a second man to bleed to death.’
‘I do not wish to wait,’ declared Nestus. ‘Soon the sun will be down. Let us begin.’
‘I agree,’ said Parmenion. Xenophon looked at him closely.
‘Very well, you both have swords, and the required number of witnesses are present. I suggest you salute one another, and then begin.’
Nestus drew his blade and glared at Parmenion. ‘There will be no salute to you, mix-blood.’
‘As you wish,’ Parmenion answered calmly. ‘But before we fight, I want you to know that I love Derae – even as you must.’
‘Love? What would you know of it? I shall remember her with great fondness – and I shall especially remember the moment when I told her father, in her presence, the price he would have to pay for my shame. She did not look pretty
then, half-breed, not as she fell to her knees begging her father not to let her die.’
‘You asked for her death?’
‘I demanded her death – as I demanded yours.’
‘Well,’ said Parmenion, feeling the heat of rising fury but holding it in check, ‘you had your way with her. Now let us see if you can fight as well as you can hate.’
Nestus suddenly lunged. The Sword of Leonidas flashed up, iron clashing on iron as Parmenion parried the thrust. Nestus slashed a backhand cut, but Parmenion blocked it.
The watchers spread out around the fighters. Xenophon had walked back to the shade of the roof, where he sat hunched forward with his chin on his hands, watching every move. Nestus, he saw, had the strength, but Parmenion was more swift. Their swords rang together and for several minutes they circled, testing one another’s skill, then Parmenion’s blade slashed down to open a shallow cut at the top of Nestus’ right shoulder. Blood sprayed out, staining the young man’s blue tunic. Xenophon rose and rejoined the watching group, who were cheering Nestus on and shouting advice. Nestus launched an attack, sending a stabbing lunge towards Parmenion’s throat, but Parmenion sidestepped and lanced his blade into his opponent’s side, the sword ripping the skin and glancing from his ribs. Grunting with pain, Nestus backed away. Blood was now flowing from two wounds and the watching men fell silent. Parmenion feinted a cut to the head but dropped the blade down, hammering it into his opponent’s left side. A rib snapped under the impact and Nestus screamed in pain, only partly parrying a second lunge which opened the wound further. Blood now drenched his blue tunic and was coursing down his leg.