Book Two
Thebes, Autumn, 379 BC
Ordering Mothac to stay at the house, Parmenion headed for the west of the city and the home of the councillor Calepios. An elderly servant led him to a small room with three couches and asked him to wait. After several minutes another servant entered, bowed and led the Spartan along a corridor to an elaborately decorated andron, the walls covered with Persian rugs and hangings, the floor boasting a colourful mosaic showing Heracles slaying the Nemean Lion.
There were nine couches set around the room and two servants stood by, holding pitchers of wine and water, as the master of the house reclined, apparently reading from a large scroll. Calepios looked up as Parmenion entered, and adopted the expression of a man pleasantly surprised to see an old friend. Parmenion was not fooled by the scene; there was tension in the air, and Calepios’ eyes showed fear.
‘Welcome to my house, young Leon,’ said the councillor, tossing aside the scroll and rising. He was not a tall man, yet he was imposing in a subtle way. His eyes were deep green under shaggy brows, and his beard was carefully curled in the Persian fashion. But it was his voice which gave him power, deep and vibrant. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘May we talk alone?’ asked Parmenion.
‘We are alone,’ said Calepios, unconsciously betraying
his noble birth. For him, servants were as much a pan of the house as tables and couches.
Parmenion flicked a glance at the wine carriers and Calepios waved the men away. As the doors closed, the councillor beckoned Parmenion to the couch beside him and both men sat.
‘How close are your plans to fruition?’ asked Parmenion.
‘Plans, my boy? What do you mean?’
‘We have little time, sir, for playing games. Polysperchon and Epaminondas have been arrested. But then you know this. You are gambling that they will say nothing of your involvement in the plan to retake the Cadmea. Now I ask again, how close are you?’
Calepios’ green eyes locked to Parmenion’s face, and his own features tightened. ‘Epaminondas trusted you,’ he said softly, ‘but there is no way I can help you. I don’t know what you are talking about.’
Parmenion smiled. ‘Then perhaps the man who was with you a moment ago can offer us some advice.’ He turned his head and looked back over his shoulder to a long, embroidered curtain. ‘Perhaps you would like to come out, sir, and join us.’
The curtains parted and a tall man stepped into view. Broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, his bronzed arms showed many scars. His face was square-cut and darkly handsome, his eyes so deep a brown that they appeared black. He smiled grimly. ‘You are observant, Parmenion,’ commented the newcomer.
‘Even an accomplished drinker does not have two pitchers of wine and two servants by his side,’ said the Spartan. ‘And this couch still retained the heat from your body. You are Pelopidas?’
‘Observant and sharp-witted,’ said Pelopidas, moving to a nearby couch and reclining on his side. He picked up a goblet of wine and sipped it. ‘What would you have us tell you?’
Parmenion looked at the man who had fought side by side with Epaminondas, suffering seven great wounds and yet surviving, the man who with only thirty companions had
fought off 200 Arcadians in a pitched battle. Pelopidas looked exactly what he was: a peerless fighter, a man made for war. ‘A long time ago Epaminondas asked me to prepare a plan to take the Cadmea. I have done so. I was merely waiting for him to announce the time; it can be brought into operation within a day. But it depends upon the resources available.’
‘I take it you mean men,’ said Pelopidas.
‘Exactly. But men who understand discipline and the necessity for timing.’
‘We have more than 400 men in the city, and within minutes of a general insurrection there will be thousands of Thebans on the streets, marching upon the Cadmea. I think we can kill a few hundred Spartans.’
‘My plan involves no killing of Spartans,’ said Par-menion.
‘Are you mad?’ Pelopidas asked. ‘These are Spartan warriors – you think they will give up without a fight?’