Epaminondas suddenly charged at the other three men, who broke and ran. Parmenion knelt by his unconscious opponent. 'Help me get him inside,' he told Epaminondas.
'Why?'
'I like him.'
'This is insane,' said Epaminondas, but together they hauled the body back into the house, laying him on one of the seven couches in the andron.
A servant brought wine and water and the two men waited for the red-bearded man to come round.
After several minutes he stirred.
'Why did you not kill me?' he asked, sitting up.
'I need a servant,' Parmenion answered.
The man's green eyes narrowed. 'Is this some jest?'
'Not at all,' the Spartan assured him. 'I will pay five obols a day, the payment to be made every month. You will also have a room and food.'
'This is madness,' said Epaminondas. 'The man came to kill you.'
'He took money and he tried to earn it. I like that,' said Parmenion. 'How much were you paid?'
'Ten drachms,' the man answered.
Parmenion opened the pouch at his side and counted out thirty-five silver drachms. 'Will you become my servant?' he asked. The man gazed down at the coins on the table; he swallowed, then nodded. 'And what is your name?'
'Mothac. And your friend is right — this is madness.'
Parmenion smiled and scooped up the coins, handing them to Mothac. 'You will return the ten drachms to the man who hired you; the rest is your first month's pay. Get a bath and buy a new tunic. Then gather what possessions you have and return here tonight.'
'You trust me to return? Why?'
'The answer is not difficult. Any man prepared to die for ten drachms ought to be prepared to live for twenty-five a month.'
Mothac said nothing. Turning on his heel, he left the room.
'You will never see him again,' said Epaminondas, shaking his head.
'Would you care to wager on that?'
'I take it the wager is thirty-five drachms. Correct?'
'Correct. Is it acceptable?'
'No,' conceded Epaminondas. 'I bow to your obviously superior understanding of the human species.
But he will make a terrible servant. Tell me, why did you do this?'
'He is not as those others. They were cowardly scum — he at least was prepared to fight. But more than that, when he knew he could not win he came forward to die rather than take money falsely.
That sort of man is rare.'
'We must agree to differ,' said Epaminondas. 'Men who would kill for ten drachms are not rare enough.'
The man called Mothac left the house. He felt dizzy and nauseous, but anger gave him the strength to keep going. He had not eaten in five days, and knew this was the reason the Spartan had defeated him so easily. Give back the ten drachms? He had paid that to the doctor, for the drugs that would nurse Elea back to strength. He wandered into an alley and leaned against a wall, trying to summon up the energy to return home. His legs started to give way, but he grabbed a jutting stone on the wall and hauled himself upright.
'Don't give in!' he told himself. Drawing in a great breath, he started to walk. It took almost half an hour to reach the market-place, where he purchased fruit and dried fish. He sat in the shade and ate, feeling strength soaking into his limbs.
The Spartan was a fool if he expected him to come back. 'I will be no man's servant. Not ever!'
He felt better for the food and pushed himself to his feet. The Spartan had shamed him, making him look weak and foolish. Three miserable blows and he had fallen. That was hard to take for a man who had stood against Arcadians and Thessalians, Chalcideans and Spartans. No man had ever laid him low. But lack of food and rest had conspired to see him humbled.
Still, now he had thirty-four drachms and three obols and with that he could buy food for two months. Surely in that time Elea would recover? Returning to the market-place, he bought provisions and began the long walk home, deep into the northern quarter where the houses were built of sun-dried brick, the floors of hard-packed earth. The stench of sewage flowing in the streets had long since ceased to cause him concern, nor the rats which ran across his path.
You've come down a long way, he told himself, not for the first time.
Mothac. The name had sprung to his lips with an ease he found surprising. It was an old word, from the grey dawn of time. Outcast. It is what you are. It is what you have become.
He turned into the last alley beneath the wall and entered his tiny house. Elea was in the bedroom asleep, her face calm. He glanced in and then unwrapped the food, preparing a platter with pomegranates and sweet honey-cakes.
As he worked he pictured her smile, remembering the first day he had seen her, during the Dance to Hector. She had been wearing a white chiton, ankle-length, her honey-coloured hair held by an ivory comb. He had been smitten in that moment, unable to drag his eyes from her.
Six weeks later they were wed.
But then the Spartans had taken the Cadmea, and pro-Spartan councillors controlled the city. Her family had been arrested and sentenced to death for treason, their estates confiscated. Mothac himself had been named as a wanted man, and had sought the refuge of anonymity in the poor quarter of the city. He had grown his beard thick and changed his name.
With no money and no hope of employment, Mothac had planned to leave Thebes and join a mercenary company. But then Elea had fallen sick. The doctor diagnosed lung fever and bled her regularly; but it seemed only to make her grow weaker.
He carried the platter into her room and laid it beside the bed. He touched her shoulder. . she did not move.
'Oh, blessed Hera, no!' he whispered, turning her on to her back. Elea was dead.
Mothac took her hand and sat with her until the sun set, then stood and left the house. He walked through the city until he reached the main square, his eyes unseeing, his thoughts random, unconnected. A man grabbed his arm. 'What happened, my friend? We thought they had killed you.'
Mothac pulled clear of his grip. 'Killed me? I wish they had. Leave me alone.'
" He walked on, down long avenues, through winding streets and alleyways, with no thought of a destination, until at last he stood before the house of Epaminondas.
With nowhere else to go, he strode up to the wide doors and rapped his fist on the wood.
A servant led him to the Spartan, who was sitting in the courtyard drinking watered wine. Mothac forced himself to bow to his new master. The man looked at him closely, his clear blue eyes seeming to gaze into Mothac's soul.
'What is wrong?' the Spartan asked.
'Nothing. . sir,' replied the Theban. 'I am here. What do you require of me?' His voice was dull and lifeless.
The Spartan poured a goblet of wine and passed it to Mothac. 'Sit down and drink this.'
Mothac dropped to the bench and drained the wine at a single swallow, feeling its warmth spreading through him.
'Talk to me,' said the Spartan.
But Mothac had no words. He dipped his head and the tears fell to his cheeks, running into his beard.
Mothac could not bring himself to speak of Elea, but he would long remember that the Spartan did not force questions upon him. He waited until Mothac's silent tears had passed, then called for food and more wine. They sat together, drinking in silence, until Mothac became drunk.
Then the Spartan had led his new servant to a bedroom at the rear of the building, and here he had left him.
With the dawn Mothac awoke. A new chiton of green linen was laid out on a chair; he rose, washed and dressed, then sought out Parmenion. The Spartan, he was told by another servant, had gone to the training ground to run. Mothac followed him there, and sat by the Grave of Hector watching his new master lope effortlessly round the long circuit. The man moved well, thought Mothac, his feet scarcely seeming to make contact with the earth.