‘My servants can be trusted, but I take your point. I have no choice, however. We must meet to plan.’
‘Then meet in daylight,’ Parmenion suggested.
The two friends walked back along the avenue by Electra’s Gates but Epaminondas, instead of walking on to his house, turned left down a shaded alley, stopping by an iron gate. He pushed it open and beckoned Parmenion inside. There was a narrow courtyard with high walls
festooned with purple blooms. Beyond this was a paved section, roofed by climbing plants growing between crisscrossed twine. Epaminondas led the Spartan into the house beyond. There was a small, split-level andron containing six couches and with two doors, one leading to a kitchen and bathroom, the other to a corridor with three bedrooms.
‘Whose house is this?’ asked Parmenion.
‘Yours,’ the Theban answered with a broad grin. ‘I placed 3,000 drachms on your race. This house was a mere 900 – I felt it would suit you.’
‘Indeed it does – but such a gift? I cannot accept it.’
‘Of course you can – and you must. I won ten times what this building cost me. Also,’ he added, his smile fading, ‘these are dangerous times. If I am arrested, and you are still my house guest, then they will take you also.’
Parmenion lounged on a couch, enjoying the breeze from the main window and the scent of flowers growing in the courtyard. ‘I accept,’ he said, ‘but only as a loan. You must allow me to pay for the house – as and when I can.’
‘If that is what you desire, then I agree,’ said Epaminondas.
Parmenion and Mothac moved in the following morning. The Theban bought provisions in the market and the two men sat in the courtyard, enjoying the early morning sunshine.
‘Were you seen when you killed Cletus?’ asked Parmenion suddenly.
Mothac looked into his master’s blue eyes and considered lying. Then he shook his head. ‘There was no one nearby.’
‘Good – but you will never again take such an action without speaking to me first. Is that understood?’
‘Yes . . . sir.’
‘And I do not require you to call me that. My name is Parmenion.’
‘It was necessary, Parmenion. He ordered your death. As long as he lived you were in danger.’
‘I accept that – and do not take my criticism as ingratitude. But I am the master of my own fate. I neither want – nor expect – any man to act for me.’
‘It will not happen again.’
During the next eight months Parmenion raced twice and won both times, once against the Corinthian champion, the second time against a runner from Athens. He still competed under the name Leon, and few wagered against him, which meant that his winnings were not huge. For his last race he had wagered 200 drachms to win SO.
That night, as usual after a tough race, Parmenion stretched his tired legs with a gentle midnight run on the moonlit race-track. As well as easing his muscles he found, in this quiet time, a sense of peace – almost contentment. His hatred of Sparta was no less powerful now but it was controlled, held in chains. The day of his vengeance was coming closer, and he had no wish to hurry it.
As he passed the Grave of Hector a shadow moved from the trees. Parmenion leapt back, his hand clawing for the dagger in the sheath by his side.
‘It is I, Parmenion,’ called Epaminondas. The Theban stepped back into the shadows of the trees. Parmenion walked to the Grave and sat down on the marble seat.
‘What is wrong, my friend?’ he whispered.
‘I am being followed again, though for now I have lost them. I know you come here after races, and I need your help.’
‘What can I do?’
‘It is only a matter of time before I am taken. I want you to prepare a strategy to retake the Cadmea. But also there are letters I need carried to friends in other Boeotian cities. You are Spartan, you can travel without scrutiny. You have business interests across Boeotia. No one will think it strange if you travel to Thespiae, or Megara. Will you help?’