‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to show that you love Thebes.’
‘I do. All men know that.’
‘And yet you supply food to the Spartan garrison?’ ‘I am a merchant. I cannot refuse to sell my merchandise. I would be arrested, called a traitor.’
‘It is all a question of perspectives, dear Amta. You see, we are going to free Thebes. And then we will call you a traitor.’
The fat man eased himself to a sitting position, trying not to look at the knife poised above his throat. ‘That would be unfair,’ he protested, his voice regaining composure. ‘You could not accuse every man who deals with Spartans, or all shop-owners and merchants – yes, and even whores would be under sentence. Who are you?’ ‘I am Pelopidas.’
‘What do you require of me?’ the fat man asked, fear returning with the sweat that suddenly appeared on his face.
‘What time do you prepare the meat for the garrison?’ ‘An hour before dawn. Then my lads pull it up to the Cadmea on a cart.’
‘Then let us be about our business,’ said Pelopidas, sheathing his dagger.
‘What has my meat to do with freeing Thebes?’ ‘We have some herbs with us, to add to the flavour.’ ‘But if you poison them I’ll get the blame. You can’t!’ ‘It is not poison, fool!’ hissed Pelopidas. ‘Would that it were! Now get out of that bed and take us to your storeroom.’
*
Three hours after dawn Parmenion still had not slept. He waited at the entrance to the smithy, his mind whirling with thoughts which became problems and problems which became fears.
What if?
What if the Spartans saw that the meat was doctored? What if Pelopidas was caught salting the water? What if the news of the plot leaked out?
Parmenion’s head was pounding, and the early-morning sunshine hurt his eyes; feeling nauseous and unsteady, he sat down in the roadside. Ever since the day he had rescued Derae he had suffered periodic head pain, but during the last two years the bouts had increased – in both regularity and intensity. At times even his Spartan training could not help him overcome the agony, and he had taken to drinking poppy juice when the attacks became unbearable. But today there was no time for the sleep of opium and he tried to ignore the pain.
The smith, Norac, came walking into the street minutes later. He was a huge man, wide-shouldered and bull-necked. Parmenion rose to greet him. ‘You’re early, young man,’ said Norac, ‘but if you think to arrange speedy work, forget it. I have a full order book.’
‘I need twenty iron spikes by midday, each one the length of a man’s forearm,’ Parmenion told him.
‘You are not listening, my young friend. I cannot take any more work for this week.’
Parmenion stared into the man’s deep-set brown eyes. ‘Listen to me, Norac, you are said to be a man who can be trusted. I am sent by Pelopidas. You understand? The watchword is Heracles.’
The smith’s eyes narrowed. ‘For what purpose do you need the spikes?’
‘To nail shut the Cadmea gates. We also need men to wield the hammers.’
‘Hera’s tits, boy! You are not asking much, are you! You’d better come inside.’
The smithy was deserted. Norac walked to the forge, adding tinder to the hot ashes inside and blowing the flames to life. ‘The spikes will be no problem,’ he said. ‘But how do we hammer them home without the Spartans falling upon us?’
‘Speed and skill. Once the crossbar is in place, six men will run to the gates.’ Parmenion walked to the far wall, lifting a spear-haft from a stack awaiting iron heads. Standing the haft on its end he drew his dagger, slashing two cuts into the wood. ‘That is the height and thickness of
the crossbar. The gates are oak, old, weathered and thick as the length of a man’s hand. Could you pierce one in six strikes?’
Norac flexed his prodigious muscles. ‘Aye, boy, I could. But most others will need seven or eight.’
Parmenion nodded. ‘You can double the speed by having four men with hammers at each gate. But the timing is vital. The moment of greatest danger will come when the crowd is marching upon the Cadmea – it is then that the commander will consider sending out an armed force.’