He turned into the last alley beneath the wall and entered his tiny house. Elea was in the bedroom asleep, her face calm. He glanced in and then unwrapped the food, preparing a platter with pomegranates and sweet honey-cakes.
As he worked he pictured her smile, remembering the first day he had seen her, during the Dance to Hector. She had been wearing a white chiton, ankle-length, her honey-coloured hair held by an ivory comb. He had been smitten in that moment, unable to drag his eyes from her.
Six weeks later they were wed.
But then the Spartans had taken the Cadmea, and pro-Spartan councillors controlled the city. Her family had been arrested and sentenced to death for treason, their estates confiscated. Mothac himself had been named as a wanted man, and had sought the refuge of anonymity in the poor quarter of the city. He had grown his beard thick and changed his name.
With no money and no hope of employment, Mothac had planned to leave Thebes and join a mercenary company. But then Elea had fallen sick. The doctor diagnosed lung fever and bled her regularly; but it seemed only to make her grow weaker.
He carried the platter into her room and laid it beside the bed. He touched her shoulder . . . she did not move.
‘Oh, blessed Hera, no!’ he whispered, turning her on to her back. Elea was dead.
Mothac took her hand and sat with her until the sun set, then stood and left the house. He walked through the city until he reached the main square, his eyes unseeing, his thoughts random, unconnected. A man grabbed his arm. ‘What happened, my friend? We thought they had killed you.’
Mothac pulled clear of his grip. ‘Killed me? I wish they had. Leave me alone.’
He walked on, down long avenues, through winding streets and alleyways, with no thought of a destination, until at last he stood before the house of Epaminondas.
With nowhere else to go, he strode up to the wide doors and rapped his fist on the wood.
A servant led him to the Spartan, who was sitting in the courtyard drinking watered wine. Mothac forced himself to bow to his new master. The man looked at him closely, his clear blue eyes seeming to gaze into Mothac’s soul.
‘What is wrong?’ the Spartan asked.
‘Nothing . . . sir,’ replied the Theban. ‘I am here. What do you require of me?’ His voice was dull and lifeless.
The Spartan poured a goblet of wine and passed it to Mothac. ‘Sit down and drink this.’
Mothac dropped to the bench and drained the wine at a single swallow, feeling its warmth spreading through him.
‘Talk to me,’ said the Spartan.
But Mothac had no words. He dipped his head and the tears fell to his cheeks, running into his beard.
*
Mothac could not bring himself to speak of Elea, but he would long remember that the Spartan did not force questions upon him. He waited until Mothac’s silent tears had passed, then called for food and more wine. They sat together, drinking in silence, until Mothac became drunk.
Then the Spartan had led his new servant to a bedroom at the rear of the building, and here he had left him.
With the dawn Mothac awoke. A new chiton of green linen was laid out on a chair; he rose, washed and dressed, then sought out Parmenion. The Spartan, he was told by another servant, had gone to the training ground to run. Mothac followed him there, and sat by the Grave of Hector watching his new master lope effortlessly round the long circuit. The man moved well, thought Mothac, his feet scarcely seeming to make contact with the earth.
For more than an hour Parmenion continued to run, until sweat bathed his body and his calf muscles burned with fatigue. Then he slowed and jogged to the Grave, waving to Mothac and smiling broadly.
‘You slept well?’ he asked.
Mothac nodded. ‘It was a good bed, and there is nothing like wine for bringing a man sweet dreams.’
‘Were they sweet?’ asked Parmenion softly.
‘No. You are a fine runner. I never saw a better.’