At last the battle petered out. Isolated groups of Spartan warriors were surrounded and destroyed, but Leonidas gathered the remnants into a strong defensive position on a nearby ridge. The Spartan allies, seeing the fall of Cleombrotus, fled the field without a fight.
The Thebans gathered around Pelopidas and Epami-nondas, hoisting them to their shoulders and carrying them around the battlefield, their cheers echoing to the Spartan lines.
Parmenion, his horse dead, walked slowly over the battlefield, looking down at the twisted corpses. More than 1,000 Spartiates had died for the loss of 200 Thebans, but at that moment these figures meant nothing to him. He was dazed and emotionless. He had seen the Battle King fall to
Pelopidas, but worse he had watched the Theban kill Hermias moments before. Parmenion knelt by the body, looking down at the face of a man and seeing the face of the boy who had befriended him.
He remembered the night when they had sat by the statue of Athena of the Road, when he had learned there would be no victory celebration after winning the Games.
‘/ will make them all pay!’ he had promised. And Hermias had touched his arm.
‘Do not hate me too, Savra!’
‘Hate you, my friend?’ he had answered’. ‘How could I ever hate you? You have been a brother to me, and I will never forget that. Never! Brothers we have been, brothers we shall be, all the days of our lives. I promise you.’
He closed the dead eyes and rose to his feet. The surgeons were coming on to the battlefield now, moving to the wounded Thebans. Most of these men would die, Parmenion knew, for physicians with the skills of Argonas or Dronicus were rare. He gazed around him. There to the left lay Callines, the man who had admitted to being a poor swordsman. Further away was the body of Norac the Smith. Later he would hear of the other dead, like Calepios the orator and Melon the statesman. He looked down at his hands, which were covered in blood, drying now to a dull, scabby brown.
Crows were already circling above the plain.
He recalled the General’s Games, the cleanly-carved soldiers in the box of sand. No blood there, no stench of open bowels. Just a child’s game, fought without pain in the sunshine of another age.
‘I will repay them all,’ he had promised Hermias.
And he had. But at what price? Hermias was dead, as Derae and now Thetis were dead.
Sparta was finished, her invincibility gone. Now other cities dominated by Sparta would rise against her and she would fade away, her power a memory. Not immediately, he knew; there would be other Spartan victories. But never again would they rise to rule Greece.
‘I am the Death of Nations,’ he whispered.
‘Or the saviour of them?’ suggested Epaminondas.
Parmenion turned. ‘I did not hear you. You won, my friend. You won a famous victory. I hope Thebes proves a better ruler than Sparta.’
‘We seek to rule no one,’ said Epaminondas.
Parmenion rubbed at his tired eyes. ‘It will be thrust upon you, general. In order to be safe, you will carry the battle to Sparta and humble her. Then the Athenians and their allies will fear you, and will come against you. Rule or die, they are the choices you have.’
‘Do not be so glum, Parmenion. This is a new age, when we do not have to repeat the follies of the past. The Spartans will send an ambassador to ask permission to remove their dead; you will receive him.’
Parmenion shook his head. ‘Listen to me,’ said Epaminondas softly. ‘You have carried your hate for too many years. With this victory you can bury that hate for ever. You can be free. Do this for me.’
‘As you will,’ agreed the Spartan, his mind empty, his emotions drained. All his adult life he had dreamed of this moment, but now it was here he felt dead inside. Thetis had asked him what he would do once his vengeance was complete. He had no answer then, he could find none now. He gazed around at the silent corpses. Where, he wondered, was the joy of victory? Where was the satisfaction?