‘You’ll not be able to climb,’ said Parmenion. ‘I’ll have to hide you.’
They’ll search everywhere,’ muttered Polysperchon.
‘Let us hope not,’ Parmenion snapped.
Within the hour the Spartan was once more running alone through the deserted streets. Climbing the rampart steps, he tied his rope to a marble seat and then clambered to the wall.
‘You there!’ shouted a sentry. ‘Stop!’
Parmenion leapt over the ramparts and slid down the rope, his hands burning. Above him the sentry ran to the rope, hacking at it with his sword. It parted and sailed over the wall.
Far below Parmenion grabbed for a handhold, his fingers hooking into a crack just as the rope went slack. Carefully he climbed down and returned to the tent of Calepios.
‘Well?’ asked the orator.
‘They are safe,’ whispered Parmenion.
*
At dawn inside the citadel Arimanes sat doubled over, clutching his belly. He had lost count of the number of times he had vomited during the night, and now only yellow bile filled the bowl at his side. Of more than 780 men under his command, 500 were so stricken they could not walk, and the rest moved around like walking wounded — their faces grey, their eyes lifeless. If the Thebans decided to attack today, he realized, his force would be overpowered within minutes.
An aide knocked at his door and Arimanes struggled to his feet, stifling a groan. ‘Come in,’ he said, the effort of speaking making his stomach tremble.
A young officer entered; he too looked white. ‘We have searched the entire Cadmea. The prisoners must have escaped.’
‘Impossible!’ shouted Arimanes. ‘Epaminondas could hardly walk – let alone climb. And only one man was seen going over the wall.’
‘There is nowhere left to search, sir,’ the man told him.
Arimanes sank back to his couch. Surely the gods had damned him? He had planned to execute the traitors as a warning to the mob that Sparta would not be threatened. Now he had no prisoners, and commanded a force too weak to defend the walls.
A second officer entered the room. ‘Sir, the Thebans want to send a man in to discuss . . . the situation.’
Arimanes tried to think, but logical thought was difficult when bowels and belly were in revolt. ‘Tell them yes,’ he ordered, staggering back into the latrine and squatting over the open pipe.
He felt a little better then, and returned to his couch, stretching himself out on his side with knees drawn up. He had not wanted this commission, hating Thebes and all its depravities, but his father had insisted that it was an honour to command a Spartan garrison – no matter where it was stationed. Arimanes ran a slender hand through his thinning blond hair. What he would not give for a drink of cool, clean water. Damn those Thebans to Hades and the fires therein!
Minutes later the officer returned, ushering in a tall young man with dark hair and close-set blue eyes. Arimanes recognized him as the runner, Leon the Macedonian, by all accounts a mix-blood Spartan. ‘Sit down,’ he whispered.
The man stepped forward, holding out a stone flagon. ‘The water is clean,’ said the messenger.
Arimanes took it and drank. ‘Why did they pick you?’ he asked, holding on to the flagon.
‘I am half-Spartan by birth, sir, as perhaps you know,’ said Parmenion smoothly, ‘but I live in Thebes now. They thought that, perhaps, I could be trusted.’
‘And can you?’
The man shrugged. ‘It seems an easy task. There is no need for deceit.’
‘What are their plans, man? Will they attack?’
‘I do not know, sir. But they have killed all pro-Spartan councillors.’
‘What did they tell you to say?’
‘That they will promise safe conduct for you and your men to the edge of the city. They have set tents there, with fresh food, and a physician who has an antidote to the poison you have taken.’
‘Poison?’ whispered Arimanes. ‘Poison, you say?’
‘Yes. It is a disgusting ploy – typical of Thebans,’ said Parmenion. ‘It is slow-acting but will kill within five days. That is why, I suspect, they have not attacked beforenow.’