Parmenion smiled. ‘There will be a better man somewhere, there always is.’ He began to ease his way through more stretching exercises, pulling gently at the muscles of his calves by leaning forward against the stone of the Grave.
‘Are you going to run again?’ Mothac asked.
‘No.’
‘Then why are you exercising?’
‘The muscles are tight from the run. If they are not stretched, they will cramp; then I would not be able to run tomorrow. I was pleased to see no assailants waiting this morning,’ he added, changing the subject.
‘They will be back,’ said Mothac. ‘There are people determined to see you dead.’
‘I do not think I will ever be an easy man to kill,’ answered Parmenion, stretching out on the grass. ‘But that could be arrogance speaking.’
‘You have not asked me who hired me to kill you,’ said Mothac.
‘Would you tell me?’
‘No.’
‘That is why I did not ask.’
‘Also,’ added the red-bearded servant, turning his head away, ‘you had the good grace not to question my tears. For that I thank you.’
‘We all carry grief, my friend. Someone once told me that all the seas are but the Tears of Time, shed for the loss of loved ones. It may not be true, but I like the sentiment. I am glad you came back.’
Mothac smiled ruefully. ‘I am not sure why I did. I had not intended to.’
‘The reason does not matter. Come, let’s get back and enjoy breakfast.’
As they reached the last corner Parmenion held out his arm, stopping Mothac. Leaning out, the Spartan peered down the street. Once more there were armed men at the front of the house and Parmenion’s lips thinned as anger swept over him, but he crushed the rising fury and took a deep breath. ‘Go out to them,’ he told Mothac, ‘and explain that you have just seen me running at the training ground, and that no one else was around. It will not be a lie, after all.’
The red-bearded Theban nodded and then ran out to the waiting men. Parmenion ducked down behind a low wall and waited as they pounded past him; then he rose and walked to where Mothac waited.
‘Let us eat,’ said Parmenion.
Epaminondas had left the house the night before, but had not yet returned. His servants were unable or unwilling to say where he had gone, so Parmenion and Mothac sat down to breakfast without waiting for the master of the house.
‘Should I not be with them?’ asked Mothac, as the servants brought food from the kitchens.
‘Not yet,’ answered Parmenion. ‘We should get to know one another. Have you ever been a servant?’
‘No,’ Mothac admitted.
‘And I have never had one.’
Mothac chuckled suddenly and shook his head.
‘What is amusing you?’ asked Parmenion.
The Theban shrugged. ‘I had servants once. I can probably instruct you in how to care for them.’
Parmenion smiled broadly. ‘I could do with instruction. I have very few belongings, so caring for my clothes will not strain you. My diet is. . . Spartan? My needs are few. But I do need someone I can trust, and someone I can talk to. So let us begin by giving you a better title — you will be my companion. How does that sound?’
‘I have been in your service only one day and already I am promoted. I see the prospects are good with you. But will you allow me one more day before I join you? There is something I must finish.’
‘Of course.’ Parmenion looked at him closely. ‘Is this. . . business . . . something I can help you with?’
‘No. I will settle it.’
The two men finished their breakfast and Mothac left the house and walked back to the main square, and on to the Lane of the Dead. He paid twelve drachms to an elderly man and gave him directions to his home.
‘I will be there at sunset,’ he told the undertaker. ‘Make sure the mourners wail loudly.’
‘They are the best,’ the man promised him.
Mothac returned home and changed into an old chiton: it had once been red, but had faded to the pink of a dawn sky. He waited for an hour before the women arrived. There were three of them, all dressed in mourning grey. He left them to prepare Elea, then strapped on his sword-belt and dagger and strolled back to the square.