Gemmell, David – Lion of Macedon 01

Just then the crowd parted and a group of Theban soldiers marched into sight. In their midst were eight Spartans, bruised and bloody, their hands bound.

Pelopidas greeted the Theban officer with a salute. ‘Take them to the Cadmea wall,’ he ordered. The officer bowed and waved his men on.

Calepios strode forward. ‘Take back your soldiers,’ he yelled to Arimanes, ‘for if they remain here I fear for their lives.’

‘Open the gates!’ shouted the Spartan leader as the crowd roared with laughter.

‘I think you should lower some ropes,’ Calepios told him. Beyond the walls the crowd could hear the sounds of men still battling to move the crossbar, and they laughed and jeered at the unseen Spartans.

‘By the gods, you will pay for this, you scoundrel!’ bellowed Arimanes.

‘I think the gods are with us,’ replied Calepios. ‘By the way, I understand there is sickness within the garrison. Can we offer you the services of a physician?’

Arimanes replied with an obscene curse and then disappeared from view. Minutes later, ropes were lowered from the walls and the captured Spartan soldiers climbed to the ramparts. The crowd remained until dusk, then most of them returned to their homes. But Pelopidas had organized a hard core of rebels to remain stationed before the gates, and Calepios had a tent pitched where, he told the joyous mob, he would wait until the Spartans accepted his invitation to leave.

Parmenion, Mothac and Pelopidas waited with him. ‘So far it has all gone as you said, strategos,’ Calepios told Parmenion. ‘But what now?’

‘Tomorrow you will offer to send a conciliator into the Cadmea. But we will discuss that later tonight – if I return.’

‘You do not need to do this,’ Mothac pointed out. ‘The risk is top great.’

‘The Spartans do not like surrendering prisoners,’ said Parmenion. ‘They may decide to kill Epaminondas – I cannot take the risk. Meanwhile, my friends, bring up more timber and order Norac to seal the gates tight. They could saw through those crossbars in less than an hour.’

‘You really believe you can rescue Epaminondas? How?’ asked Pelopidas.

‘In Sparta I had another name; they called me Savra. And tonight we will see if the lizard can still climb walls!’

*

Dressed in a black full-sleeved shirt and dark Persian trews, and with a coiled rope over one shoulder, Parmenion waited until a cloud obscured the moon before running

silently to stand below the walls. His face blackened with earth, he edged along the wall to the east, where the ground fell away and the wall towered over a sheer drop of more than 200 feet.

At this point, he reasoned, the walls could not be scaled by a besieging force and therefore were unlikely to be as well patrolled. Reaching up, he found the first of the narrow cracks between the four-foot-square blocks of grey stone and hooked his fingers into it.

Are you still the lizard? he wondered.

The cracks between the blocks were tiny and shallow but Parmenion hauled himself up, his bare feet seeking out footholds, his fingers tracing the blocks – finding points where the ancient stone had worn away leaving grooves and projections.

Inch by inch he scaled the wall, his fingers tired, his feet sore. Only once did he glance down: the ground far below shimmered in the moonlight and his stomach heaved. There had been no buildings this high in Sparta, and he realized with a sudden burst of panic that he feared heights. Transferring his gaze to the stone of the wall, he took several deep breaths and then looked up. The parapet was still some thirty feet above him.

His foot slipped!

Like steel pins his fingers dug into the stone as he scrabbled for a foothold.

Calm yourself, his mind told him. But his heart was hammering as he hung above the awesome drop. Letting his body go limp, he slowly eased his right foot on to the stones, carefully seeking a crack. His arms were aching now, but he was calm once more. Levering himself up, he advanced with care until he hung just below the parapet.

He closed his eyes, listening for any sound: a soldier’s breathing, or the light footfalls of a patrolling sentry. But there was nothing. Hooking his hand over the parapet, he swiftly hauled himself to the battlements and crouched in the shadows. Twenty paces to his left a Spartan soldier was leaning over the wall, staring but at the mob. To his right was a stairway, leading down to the courtyard.

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