‘You know that I will. You must bring the letters here, wrapped in oilskin. You can leave them behind this seat, covered with stones. No one will see them. I run here almost every day. I will find them.’
‘You are a good friend, Parmenion. I will not forget this.’
Epaminondas faded back into the shadows and was gone.
Eleven times during the next four months Parmenion
rode across Boeotia, carrying letters to rebels in Tanagra, Plataea, Thespiae and Heraclea. During this time he saw little of Epaminondas but heard, through Mothac, of increasing unrest among Thebans. In late summer two Spartan soldiers were stoned by a mob, close to the marketplace, and were rescued only when a contingent of armoured warriors ran to their aid from the Cadmea.
The crowd backed away as the soldiers arrived, but the mood was still ugly. Drawing their swords the Spartans charged the mob, their blades slicing into those unfortunates at the front. Blind panic overtook the Thebans and they scattered in terror. Parmenion, at the market-place to purchase new sandals, saw women and children trampled as the crowd fled. One young woman tripped and fell directly in front of the advancing Spartan line. Sprinting from the shop doorway, Parmenion hauled the woman to her feet and carried her back to the relative safety of the shop. Two Spartan soldiers ran after him.
‘I am a Spartan,’ said Parmenion as their swords came up. Blood was dripping from the blades and battle-lust shone in the eyes of the warriors, but Parmenion stood his ground, meeting their gaze.
‘What statue overlooks Leaving Street?’ asked one of the soldiers, touching his bloodied blade to Parmenion’s chest.
‘The statue of Athena,’ he answered, pushing aside the sword. ‘Now ask me how many bricks there are in the Cattle Price Palace.’
‘You keep bad company,’ the soldier said. ‘Make sure you know where your loyalties lie.’
‘I know where they lie, brother, have no fear of that.’
The soldiers ran back to the street and Parmenion turned to the woman. Her lips were stained blood-red, her eyelids painted in the three colours of Aphrodite, red, blue and gold. ‘You are a priestess?’ he asked.
‘No, I am a shepherd boy,’ she snapped.
‘I am sorry. It was a foolish question.’
Stepping forward she pressed herself against him. ‘Do not be sorry. For forty obols I can make you very happy.’ Her hand slid under his tunic, but he pushed her away and
left the shop. Bodies lay hi the street, but the troops had moved on.
That night he thought again of the priestess, of her warm hand on his thigh. As the moon rose high over the city he made his way to the temple, finally finding her in a small room on the second floor. She smiled wearily when she saw him, and was about to speak when his hand came up and gently touched her lips.
‘Say nothing,’ he said coldly. ‘I require your body – not your voice.’
As the months passed he made many visits to the young priestess with the red hair. But his passions were soon spent, and usually he left feeling sad and ashamed. It seemed to him that sex with any woman was a betrayal of the love he had known with Derae. Yet he returned week after week to the red-head, whose name he never bothered to ask.
His money dwindled as the odds on his races shortened, but at the start of his third year in Thebes he won against a Thessalian named Coranus, the middle-race victor of the Olympic Games where he had narrowly beaten Leonidas of Sparta. The odds against Parmenion were five to one, and he wagered all he had. The race was close, Parmenion finishing a mere arm’s length in front of the Thessalian -and then only because his opponent stumbled in the powdery dust at the last bend. It was a lesson well learned. Never again would he wager everything on a single gamble.
Two days later came the news Parmenion had feared for almost three years. Mothac ran into the courtyard. ‘Epaminondas has been arrested, along with Polysperchon. They have been taken to the Cadmea for torture.’