‘No better?’ he asked Mothac.
The servant sheathed his blade, ‘No. I stopped the physician bleeding him; he has threatened to go to the justices.’
Epaminondas eased his tortured body into a chair. ‘Calepios tells me that Parmenion suffered terrible pains in the head.’
‘It happens sometimes,’ Mothac told him, ‘especially after races. The pain was intense, and on occasions he would almost lose his sight. Parmenion told me only a month ago that the attacks were increasing.’
Epaminondas nodded. ‘I had a letter from a friend in Sparta; his name is Xenophon. He was Parmenion’s mentor for several years and he witnessed the first attack. The physician then believed there was some growth in Parmenion’s skull. I hope he does not die. I would like to thank him. I could not have taken much more . . . punishment.’
‘He won’t die,’ said Mothac.
Epaminondas said nothing for a while, then he looked up
at the servant. ‘I was wrong about you, my friend,’ he admitted.
‘It does not matter. Do you know of anyone who could help him?’
Epaminondas rose. ‘There is a healer, a herbalist named Argonas. Last year the Guild of Physicians sought to have him expelled from the city; they say he is a fraud. But a friend of mine swears Argonas saved his life. And I know of a man, blinded in the right eye, who can now see again. I will send the physician here, tonight.’
‘I have heard of the man,’ said Mothac. ‘His fees are huge. He is fat and wealthy, and treats his servants worse than slaves.’
‘I did not say he was pleasant company. But let us be honest, Mothac. Parmenion is dying: I cannot see him lasting another night. But do not concern yourself with thoughts of fees; I will settle them. I owe him much – all of Thebes owes him more than we can repay.’
Mothac gave a dry, humourless laugh. ‘Yes, I have noted how often Calepios and Pelopidas have come to see how he fares.’
‘Calepios has obeyed Parmenion’s last instruction,’ Epaminondas told him. ‘He has gone to Athens to seek their aid against Spartan vengeance. And Pelopidas is training hoplites, trying to build an army in case Cleombrotus comes against us. Stay here, with Parmenion. I will send Argonas. And, Mothac … get some food inside you and rest awhile. It will not help your master if you fall sick.’
‘I am as strong as an ox. But you are right. I will get some sleep.’
It was dusk before Argonas arrived at the small house. Mothac had fallen asleep in the courtyard and he awoke to see an enormous figure, swathed in a red and yellow cloak, looming over him.
‘Well, fellow, where is the dying man?’ Argonas asked, his voice deep, seeming to echo from within the vastness of his chest.
Mothac rose. ‘He’s in the bedroom upstairs. Follow me.’
‘I need to eat something first,’ said Argonas. ‘Fetch me
some bread and cheese. I’m famished.’ The fat man sat down at the courtyard table. For a moment Mothac stood and stared, then he turned and strode to the kitchen. He sat and watched as Argonas devoured a large loaf and a selection of cheese and dried meat that would have fed a family of five for a full day. The food simply disappeared, with little evidence of chewing. At last the doctor belched and leaned back, stroking crumbs from his glistening black beard. ‘And now a little wine,’ he said. Mothac poured a goblet and passed it across the table. As Argonas reached out, his pudgy fingers curling round the goblet, Mothac noted that each finger boasted a golden ring set with a gem.
The doctor drained the wine at a single swallow and then rose ponderously. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I am ready.’
Following Mothac to the bedroom, he stood looking down at Parmenion in the lantern light. Mothac was standing in the doorway, watching the scene. Argonas had brought no knives, and that at least was a blessing. The physician bent over the bed and reached down to touch Parmenion’s brow; as his fingers brushed against the burning skin, Argonas cried out and stumbled back.