‘I need you,’ said Parmenion.
Mothac glanced out of the window. ‘But it is not dawn yet.’ He scratched at his red beard, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Swinging his legs from the bed, he rose unsteadily and reached for his chiton. ‘What is happening?’
‘Freedom,’ answered Parmenion. ‘I will await you in the andran.’
Mothac dressed and splashed his face with cold water. He had downed several goblets of unwatered wine before retiring, and now they were reminding him of his stupidity. He belched, took a deep breath, then joined Parmenion in the small andron. The Spartan looked tired; dark rings were showing under his eyes.
‘We are going to free Epaminondas today, but first there are many matters to be resolved. Do you know the man Amta?’
‘The meat merchant in the south-western quarter. What of him?’
‘You will go to the surgeon, Horas, and collect from him a package of herbs. You will take them to Amta; there you will be met by a tall warrior, dark-bearded. He will tell you what must be done.’
‘Herbs? Meat merchants? What has this to do with freeing Epaminondas?’
Parmenion ignored the question. ‘When you have accomplished your task you will accompany the warrior. He is a known and wanted man. He must not be taken, therefore he will use you – and others – to take messages across the city. Do as he bids – whatever the request.’
‘You are talking of revolt, said Mothac, his voice dropping to a whisper.
‘Yes. Exactly that.’
‘What of the officers of the watch? There are more than 200 soldiers patrolling the city.’
‘Theban soldiers. Let us hope they remember that. Now go. We have little time and there are people I must see.’
Mothac took his dark green cloak and swung it round his shoulders. ‘Take a sword and a dagger,’ Parmenion advised him, and he nodded.
Minutes later he was at the house of Horas the physician, where a man was waiting in the shadowed doorway. He was tall, and skeletally thin. Mothac approached him and bowed. ‘Greetings, doctor. You have a package for me?’
The man glanced nervously at the darkened street, his eyes flicking from side to side. ‘There is no one but me, I assure you,’ said Mothac.
‘This package did not come from me. You understand that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Now use it sparingly. Sprinkle it carefully over the meat. Try not to get it on your fingers, but if you do then wash them with care.’
‘It is poison then?’ whispered Mothac, surprised.
‘Of course it is not poison!’ snapped the physician. ‘You think I became a doctor so that I could kill people? It is what
the lords asked for: purgatives and vomiting powders. Now get you gone from here. And remember, I have no part in this!’
Mothac took the package and headed towards the north of the city. As he turned a corner near the agora, a soldier stepped out in his path.
‘Where are you going, friend?’ he asked. Three other soldiers of the watch came into view.
‘I am heading home, sir,’ answered Mothac, smiling. ‘Is there trouble?’
‘You are well armed for an evening’s stroll,’ the man observed.
‘It pays to be careful,’ Mothac told him.
The soldier nodded. ‘Pass on,’ he said.
When Mothac arrived at the home of Amta the Butcher-a large building set close to the slaughter-yard and warehouse — he halted at the main gates, searching the shadows for the man he was to meet.
‘You are Mothac?’ came a voice from behind him. Mothac dropped the package and whirled, scrabbling for his sword. Cold iron touched his throat.
‘I am,’ he replied. ‘And you?’
‘I? I am none of your concern. Pick up the package and let us awaken our friend.’
The gate was not locked and the tall warrior eased it open, then the two men crept across the courtyard and into the house beyond. All was in darkness, but moonlight was shining through an open window and they could make out the staircase by the eastern wall. Mothac followed his nameless companion up into the second storey to a bedroom facing east, where the man opened the door and stepped inside. In a broad bed on a raised platform lay a fat man, snoring heavily. The warrior moved alongside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. The snoring ceased and Mothac saw Amta’s eyes flick open. The warrior’s knife rested on the fat man’s quivering jowls. ‘Good morning,’ said the warrior, with a smile. ‘It will be a fine day.’