‘I shall go to the Cadmea,’ said Calepios. ‘I shall go and say to the Spartans, Free our friends – and leave this city. For you are not welcome here. And though they drag me to a dungeon, though they flay me with their whips of fine wire, I will continue to oppose them with all the power of my soul and all the courage of a Theban heart.’
‘Kill the Spartans!’ yelled a voice from the crowd.
‘Kill them?’ answered Calepios. ‘Yes, we could. We are thousands and they are few. But you do not kill unwelcome guests; you thank them for coming, and you ask them to leave. I shall go now. Shall I go alone?’
The answer was deafening, the single word rising from the crowd like a rolling peal of thunder. ‘No!’
Calepios walked from the steps, the crowd opening before him and following him as he strode up the long path to the Cadmea.
*
From his hiding-place in the boulders some thirty paces from the Cadmea walls, Norac watched the Spartans push shut the gates. His hands were sweating and he dried them on his tunic. Around him the others waited nervously.
‘Suppose they open the gates before the spikes bite through?’ asked a man to his left.
‘Keep that thought in mind when you wield the hammer,’ advised the smith, ‘and also remember that Epaminondas is in that citadel now, undergoing torture. And he has your name in his head, as well as mine.’
‘I think I can see the crowd,’ whispered another man. Norac risked a glance over the top of the boulder.
‘That’s them,’ he agreed. ‘Now let us do our part.’ The group sprinted out from their hiding-place and ran to the gates. A sentry on the battlements saw them and shouted, but before he could loose a shaft they were safe under the overhang of the gate tower. Norac held the marked spear-haft against the left-hand gate. ‘There!’ he ordered. A spike was held in place. Norac pointed out the second impact point, and the hammer-bearers looked to the smith. ‘Now!’ he shouted, swinging the weapon.
The clanging ring of iron on iron brought a chorus of shouts from beyond the gates. ‘What in Hades is happening?’ someone bellowed.
‘There’s a crowd gathering, sir,’ answered a soldier from the ramparts.
‘Five formation!’ yelled the officer. ‘Prepare to attack. Open the gates!’ Beyond the walls, Norac could hear the pounding feet of the Spartan soldiers as they ran to form a fighting square.
The smith’s hammer thundered into the spike, driving it through the gate and into the crossbar beyond. He ran to his left, barging aside the other wielders whose spike was only half-way through. Stepping back, Norac swung with all his strength, and the head of the spike disappeared into the weathered oak.
‘The bar won’t move, sir,’ shouted a Spartan soldier, and Norac grinned as he heard them heaving at the nailed beam. And the crowd surged up towards the citadel. . . .
*
Calepios marched forward ten paces, lifting his arms to halt the surging mob. On the walls above, a Spartan archer leaned out and loosed a shaft that pierced a man’s shoulder. The crowd moved back.
Calepios’ voice thundered above the noise of the mob. ‘Is this how friends treat one another? Are we armed? Have we offered violence?’
The wounded man was carried back down to the city, but there were no more shafts from the Cadmea. ‘Where is your general?’ shouted Calepios. ‘Fetch him here to answer for this atrocity.’
A Spartan in an iron helm leaned over the battlements. ‘I am Arimanes,’ he called. ‘The soldier who loosed the shaft will be punished for it; but I ask you now to disperse, or I will be forced to send out my men against you.’
‘You will send out no one,’ shouted Calepios, ‘save the Thebans you have locked in your cells.’
‘Who are you to order me?’ called Arimanes.
‘I am the voice of Thebes!’ Calepios replied, to a cheer from the crowd.
Mothac made his way to Parmenion’s side. ‘The western gates are secure,’ he said with a smile. ‘They have no way out.’