Lion of Macedon

'What do you require?' asked Calepios.

'First, a doctor, or a herbalist, and also the name of the man who supplies provisions to the Spartans. Next, you must prepare a speech, to be delivered in the main square tomorrow an hour before dusk.'

'And what of me?' Pelopidas asked.

'You will kill every pro-Spartan councillor,' said Par-menion, dropping his voice.

'Sweet Zeus!' whispered Calepios. 'Murder? Is there no other way?'

'There are five of them,' Parmenion said. 'Two are good orators. Leave them alive and Sparta will use them as the lever to bring down the insurrection. After the Cadmea is taken, the city must be seen to be united. They must die.'

'But one of them, Cascus, is my cousin. I grew up with him,' said Calepios. 'He is not a bad man.'

'He has chosen the wrong side,' stated Parmenion, shrugging his shoulders, 'and that makes him bad. For Thebes to be free the five must die. But all Spartan soldiers outside the citadel must be taken alive and brought to the Cadmea.'

'What then?' asked Pelopidas.

'Then we will free them,' answered the Spartan.

* * *

Mothac was awakened by a hand pushing at his shoulder. 'What in Hades?' he grumbled as he sat up, pushing away the insistent hand.

'I need you,' said Parmenion.

Mothac glanced out of the window. 'But it is not dawn yet.' He scratched at his red beard, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Swinging his legs from the bed, he rose unsteadily and reached for his chiton. 'What is happening?'

'Freedom,' answered Parmenion. 'I will await you in the andran.'

Mothac dressed and splashed his face with cold water. He had downed several goblets of unwatered wine before retiring, and now they were reminding him of his stupidity. He belched, took a deep breath, then joined Parmenion in the small andron. The Spartan looked tired; dark rings were showing under his eyes.

'We are going to free Epaminondas today, but first there are many matters to be resolved. Do you know the man Amta?'

'The meat merchant in the south-western quarter. What of him?'

'You will go to the surgeon, Horas, and collect from him a package of herbs. You will take them to Amta; there you will be met by a tall warrior, dark-bearded. He will tell you what must be done.'

'Herbs? Meat merchants? What has this to do with freeing Epaminondas?'

Parmenion ignored the question. 'When you have accomplished your task you will accompany the warrior. He is a known and wanted man. He must not be taken, therefore he will use you — and others — to take messages across the city. Do as he bids — whatever the request.'

'You are talking of revolt," said Mothac, his voice dropping to a whisper.

'Yes. Exactly that.'

'What of the officers of the watch? There are more than 200 soldiers patrolling the city.'

'Theban soldiers. Let us hope they remember that. Now go. We have little time and there are people I must see.'

Mothac took his dark green cloak and swung it round his shoulders. 'Take a sword and a dagger,'

Parmenion advised him, and he nodded.

Minutes later he was at the house of Horas the physician, where a man was waiting in the shadowed doorway. He was tall, and skeletally thin. Mothac approached him and bowed. 'Greetings, doctor.

You have a package for me?'

The man glanced nervously at the darkened street, his eyes flicking from side to side. 'There is no one but me, I assure you,' said Mothac.

'This package did not come from me. You understand that?'

'Of course.'

'Now use it sparingly. Sprinkle it carefully over the meat. Try not to get it on your fingers, but if you do then wash them with care.'

'It is poison then?' whispered Mothac, surprised.

'Of course it is not poison!' snapped the physician. 'You think I became a doctor so that I could kill people? It is what the lords asked for: purgatives and vomiting powders. Now get you gone from here. And remember, I have no part in this!'

Mothac took the package and headed towards the north of the city. As he turned a corner near the agora, a soldier stepped out in his path.

'Where are you going, friend?' he asked. Three other soldiers of the watch came into view.

'I am heading home, sir,' answered Mothac, smiling. 'Is there trouble?'

'You are well armed for an evening's stroll,' the man observed.

'It pays to be careful,' Mothac told him.

The soldier nodded. 'Pass on,' he said.

When Mothac arrived at the home of Amta the Butcher-a large building set close to the slaughter-yard and warehouse — he halted at the main gates, searching the shadows for the man he was to meet.

'You are Mothac?' came a voice from behind him. Mothac dropped the package and whirled, scrabbling for his sword. Cold iron touched his throat.

'I am,' he replied. 'And you?'

'I? I am none of your concern. Pick up the package and let us awaken our friend.'

The gate was not locked and the tall warrior eased it open, then the two men crept across the courtyard and into the house beyond. All was in darkness, but moonlight was shining through an open window and they could make out the staircase by the eastern wall. Mothac followed his nameless companion up into the second storey to a bedroom facing east, where the man opened the door and stepped inside. In a broad bed on a raised platform lay a fat man, snoring heavily. The warrior moved alongside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. The snoring ceased and Mothac saw Amta's eyes flick open. The warrior's knife rested on the fat man's quivering jowls. 'Good morning,' said the warrior, with a smile. 'It will be a fine day.'

'What do you want?'

'I want you to show that you love Thebes.'

'I do. All men know that.'

'And yet you supply food to the Spartan garrison?' 'I am a merchant. I cannot refuse to sell my merchandise. I would be arrested, called a traitor.'

'It is all a question of perspectives, dear Amta. You see, we are going to free Thebes. And then we will call you a traitor.'

The fat man eased himself to a sitting position, trying not to look at the knife poised above his throat. 'That would be unfair,' he protested, his voice regaining composure. 'You could not accuse every man who deals with Spartans, or all shop-owners and merchants — yes, and even whores would be under sentence. Who are you?' 'I am Pelopidas.'

'What do you require of me?' the fat man asked, fear returning with the sweat that suddenly appeared on his face.

'What time do you prepare the meat for the garrison?' 'An hour before dawn. Then my lads pull it up to the Cadmea on a cart.'

'Then let us be about our business,' said Pelopidas, sheathing his dagger.

'What has my meat to do with freeing Thebes?' 'We have some herbs with us, to add to the flavour.'

'But if you poison them I'll get the blame. You can't!' 'It is not poison, fool!' hissed Pelopidas. 'Would that it were! Now get out of that bed and take us to your storeroom.'

* * *

Three hours after dawn Parmenion still had not slept. He waited at the entrance to the smithy, his mind whirling with thoughts which became problems and problems which became fears.

What if?

What if the Spartans saw that the meat was doctored? What if Pelopidas was caught salting the water? What if the news of the plot leaked out?

Parmenion's head was pounding, and the early-morning sunshine hurt his eyes; feeling nauseous and unsteady, he sat down in the roadside. Ever since the day he had rescued Derae he had suffered periodic head pain, but during the last two years the bouts had increased — in both regularity and intensity. At times even his Spartan training could not help him overcome the agony, and he had taken to drinking poppy juice when the attacks became unbearable. But today there was no time for the sleep of opium and he tried to ignore the pain.