Revenge. The word stirred in him like a living thing -writhing, growing, dissolving the memories of the dream and the calm that followed it. Revenge will be neither simple nor swift, he told himself. I must bide my time, learn the ways of this new city, seek out the rebels who hate the Spartans as I do. But I must act with care. His thoughts turned to Epaminondas. Here was a man to cultivate – a great warrior, but also a thinker. Parmenion rose from the bed and drew the Sword of Leonidas from its scabbard, the moonlight reflecting on the blade and turning it to silver. A longing began in him then to plunge the blade again and again into the hearts of his enemies, to see it dripping with their blood. Do I have the patience? he asked himself. How long can I wait?
Xenophon’s words echoed in his mind: ‘The good general – if he has a choice – does not engage in battle until
he is sure he can win, no more than a warrior will charge into the fight with a piece of iron ore. He will wait until the armourer has forged from it a blade with a killing edge.’
Parmenion drew in a deep, calming breath and sheathed the sword. ‘You are right as always, Xenophon. And I miss you. I will bide my time.’ Returning toJu’s bed he dozed for a while, cascading images flowing through his mind. The General’s Games, his mother’s death, Derae running on the training ground, Derae lying beneath him in the oak grove, Nestus dying, drowning in his own blood.
*
And he dreamt he VMS walking on a dark hillside beneath a crimson sky. A white tree was growing there, its trunk made up of gaping skulls obscenely wedged together. Swords and spears, gripped by skeletal hands, were its branches, and the fruits of the tree were severed heads, dripping blood to the ground. Where the gore touched the earth dark flowers grew, the blooms in the shape of faces. A cold wind moaned across the flowers and Parmenion seemed to hear a thousand distant whispers sighing, ‘Spare me! Spare me!’
A shadow moved upon the hillside and the Spartan swung to see a hooded figure rise up before the tree. ‘What do you wish for, young warrior?’ came a woman’s voice from within the hood.
‘Blood and vengeance,’ he replied.
‘You shall have it,’ she told him.
*
Parmenion awoke to the dawn and joined Epaminondas on the lower terrace for breakfast. The Theban was wearing a simple tunic of grey-green which made his pale, pockmarked face seem sallow and unhealthy. But his dark eyes were bright and his smile open and friendly as Parmenion joined him.
‘You mentioned a run, Parmenion. Are you an athlete?’ ‘I am fast, and should have represented Sparta in the Olympics. But I made a mistake in the final race and was edged out by Leonidas.’
‘Interesting. There is a man in Thebes who runs with great speed. He is a Spartan from the citadel: his name is Meleager.’
‘I have heard of him. Leonidas beat him by ten paces a year ago.’
‘You think you could beat him?’
Parmenion broke bread and dipped it into a bowl of onions, soft cheese and oil. ‘Unless he has grown wings.’
‘How much money do you have?’ Epaminondas asked.
‘I signed over my house to Xenophon, in return for which he gave me a hundred and eighty drachms and the bay mare. It will not last long.’
‘Indeed it will not. Does Meleager know of you?’
Parmenion shrugged. ‘He will know of my name, but what has this to do with the money I hold?’
‘Here in Thebes we wager on races. If you could beat Meleager – and no one else has – you could treble, perhaps quadruple your money.’
Parmenion leaned back in his chair. No one wagered in Sparta, it was considered vulgar. But it would be a fine way to extend his finances. At present he had barely enough money to see him through to the spring. If he did quadruple the amount, he would be able to eke out a careful existence for at least two years. But what if you lose? he asked himself. Races were tough, the runners using elbows and shoulders to barge their way through. Then there was the danger of being tripped, or falling. Nothing was certain in competition.