Mothac sat beside the bed, looking down at the pale face of his unconscious master. Against the advice of the physician, the Theban had opened the shutters of the window to see Parmenion’s features more clearly. The Spartan looked grey under his tan, his eyes sunken and his cheeks hollow. When Mothac placed his hand on Parmenion’s chest, the heartbeat was fluttering and weak.
During the first two days that Parmenion had slept, Mothac was unconcerned. Each day he assisted the physician, Horas, to bleed the Spartan – trusting in Horas, who explained that the retaking of the Cadmea had drained Parmenion of strength and he was merely resting.
But now, on the fourth day, Mothac no longer believed it.
The flesh was melting away from Parmenion’s face and there was no sign of a return to consciousness. Filling a goblet with cool water Mothac lifted Parmenion’s head, holding the goblet to his lips. The water dribbled from the sleeping man’s mouth and the Theban gave up.
Hearing the gate below creak open, he walked to the door. Horas entered the house, climbing the stairs to the bedroom where he unrolled his pack of knives. Mothac
looked hard at the tall, thin physician; he did not like surgeons, but envied them their knowledge. Never would he hav believed he would ever defy such a skilled and clever man. But today he knew there would be no further blood-letting, and he stepped over to the physician.
‘Put away your knife,’ he said.
‘What’s this?’ enquired Horas. ‘He needs bleeding. Without it he will die.’
‘He’s dying anyway,’ said Mothac. ‘Leave him be.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Horas, lifting a skeletal hand and attempting to push Mothac aside. But the servant stood his ground, his face reddening.
‘I had a wife, master physician. She too was bled daily -until she died. I’ll not see Parmenion follow her. You said he was resting, recovering his strength. But you were wrong. Now you can go.’ He glanced down at the doctor’s hand, which still rested against his chest.
Horas hastily removed his hand, replaced his knife and rolled his pack. ‘You are interfering in matters you do not understand,’ he said. ‘I shall go to the justices and have you forcibly removed from this room.’
Mothac grabbed the man’s blue tunic, hauling him close. All colour drained from his face and his eyes shone like green fire – Horas blanched as he gazed into them.
‘What you will do, doctor, is go away from here. If you take any action which results in the death of Parmenion, I will hunt you down and cut out your heart. Do you understand me?’
‘You are insane,’ Horas whispered.
‘No, I am not. I am merely a man who keeps his promises. Now go!’ And Mothac hurled the physician towards the door.
After the man had gone Mothac settled down in the chair beside the bed. He had no idea what to do, and a sense of rising panic set his hands trembling.
Surprised by his reaction, he looked down at Par-menion’s face -aware for the first time how much he loved the man he served. How curious, he thought. Parmenion was in many ways a distant man, his thoughts and dreams a
mystery to Mothac; they rarely talked of deep matters, never joked with one another, never discussed their secret longings. Mothac leaned back and gazed out of the window, remembering the first night he had come to the house of Epaminondas, the death of Elea like a hot knife in his heart. Parmenion had sat with him, silently, and he had felt his companionship, felt his caring without the need for words.
The three years he had served Parmenion had been happy ones, to his amazement. Thoughts of Elea remained, but the jagged sharp edges of hurt had rounded, allowing him at least to recall the times of joy.
The creaking gate cut through his thoughts and he rose, drawing his dagger. If the doctor had brought back officers of the watch, then he would see what it meant when Mothac made a promise!
The door opened and Epaminondas entered. The Theban’s face was swollen, his eyes dark and bruised. He walked slowly to the bedside and looked down at the sleeping man.