'What's that? Speak up, man, I can't hear you!' said Mothac, moving to stand beside the physician.
'It was nothing. Now be silent while I examine him.' For several minutes the fat man stood in silence, his hands gently moving over Parmenion's skull. Then he walked from the room. Mothac followed him to the courtyard.
'He has a cancer,' said Argonas, 'at the centre of his brain.'
'How can you tell, if it is within the skull?'
'That is my skill,' responded Argonas, sitting at the table and refilling his goblet. 'I travelled inside his head and found the growth.'
"Then he will die?' asked Mothac.
'That is by no means certain — but it does look likely. I have a herb with me that will prevent the cancer from growing; it is from the plant sylphium, and he must take an infusion from the herb every day of his life from now on, for the growth will not disappear. But there is something else -
and that I cannot supply.'
'What?' asked Mothac, as the fat man lapsed into silence.
'When you. . travel. . inside a man's head, you see many things — you feel his hopes, his dreams, you suffer his torments. He had a love — a woman called Derae — but she was taken from him. He blames himself for her loss and he is empty inside, living only by clinging to thoughts of revenge. That kind of hope can sustain a man for a while, but revenge is a child of darkness and in darkness there is no sustenance.'
'Can you say it simply, physician?' asked Mothac. 'Just tell me what I can do?'
'I do not believe you can do anything. He needs Derae. . and he cannot have her. However, on the slender chance that it may prove useful — and to earn my fee from Epaminondas — I will prepare the first infusion. You will watch, and observe me closely. Too much sylphium can kill — too little, and the cancer will spread. It may help — but without Derae, I do not think he will survive.'
'If you are the mystic you claim,' sneered Mothac, 'how is it you cannot speak to him, call him back?'
The fat man shook his head. 'I tried,' he said softly, 'but he is in a world he has created for himself, a place of darkness and terror. In it he battles demons and creatures of horror. He could not hear me — or would not.'
'These creatures you speak of- could they kill him?'
'I believe that they could. You see, my red-bearded friend, they are demons he has created. He is fighting the dark side of his own soul.'
The abyss was swirling around him as he slashed the Sword of Leonidas through the throat of a man-sized scaled bat with wings of black leather. The creature spouted blood which drenched Parmenion like lantern oil, making the sword difficult to hold. He backed further up the low hill. The creatures flew around him, keeping away from the shining sword, but the abyss lapped at his feet, swallowing the land. He glanced down to see distant fares within the pit far below, and he felt he could hear the screams of tormented souls.
Parmenion was mortally tired, his head ablaze with pain.
Wings flapped behind him and he swivelled and thrust out his sword, plunging it deep into a furred belly. But the creature was upon him, its serrated teeth tearing at the flesh of his shoulder. He threw himself back, wrenching his sword clear and hacking the head from the demon's neck.
Emptiness swallowed the land beneath his legs and Parmenion slithered to the edge of the abyss.
Rolling to his stomach, he scrambled clear and ran to the brow of the hill.
All around him, like an angry sea, the pit beckoned, closing on him slowly, inexorably.
Above him the bats circled.
Then he heard the voice.
'I love you,' she said. And light streamed from the dark sky, curving into a bridge to heaven.
Mothac stood outside the temple grounds, waiting for the woman. She had two worshippers with her and he knew he would be here for some time. There was a fountain nearby, and he sat watching the starlight in the water of the pool below it.
Finally the men left and he made his way to the temple entrance, cutting left into the corridor where the priestesses rented their rooms. He knocked at the door of the furthest chamber.
'Wait a moment,' came a weary voice, then the door opened. The red-head produced a bright smile from the recesses of memory.
'Welcome,' she said. 'I was hoping a real man would come to worship.'
'I am not here to worship,' he told her, pushing past her. 'I wish to hire you.'
'You contradict yourself,' she said, the painted smile fading.
'Not at all,' he rejoined, sitting down on the broad bed and trying to ignore the smell of the soiled sheet. 'I have a friend-who is dying. .'
'I'll not bed anyone diseased,' she snapped.
'He is not diseased — and you will not have to bed him.' Swiftly Mothac told her of Parmenion's illness and the fears outlined by Argonas.
'And what do you expect me to do?' she asked, 'I am no healer.'
'He comes to you each week, sometimes more than that. You may have seen him at the training ground. His name is Parmenion, but he runs as Leon the Macedonian.'
'I know him,' she said. 'He never speaks — not even to say hello. He walks in, hands me money, uses me and leaves. What could I do for him?'
'I don't know,' admitted Mothac. 'I thought perhaps he was fond of you.'
She laughed then. 'I think you should forget him,' she said, moving to sit beside him, her hand resting on his thigh. 'Your muscles are tense and your eyes are showing exhaustion. It is you who need what I can give.' Her hand slid higher, but he grabbed her wrist.
'I have no other plan, woman. Now I will pay you for this service. Will you do it?'
'You still have not said what you require,' she answered.
He looked into her painted eyes and took a deep breath. 'I want you to wash the lead and ochre from your face. I want you to bathe. Then we will go to the house.'
'It will cost you twenty drachms,' she said, holding out her hand.
He reached into his pouch and counted out ten drachms. 'The rest when you have completed the task,' he said.
An hour later, with the moon high over the city, Mothac and the priestess entered the house. She now wore a simple white ankle-length chiton, a blue chlamys around her shoulders. Her face was scrubbed clean, and to Mothac she looked almost pretty. He led her to the bedroom and took her hand. 'Do your best, woman,' he whispered, 'for he means much to me.'
'My name is Thetis,' she said. 'I prefer it to woman.'
'As you wish, Thetis.'
He closed the door behind him and Thetis walked to the bedside and let her chiton and shawl slip to the floor. Pulling back the sheet, she slid alongside the dying man. His body was cold.
Reaching up, she touched the pulse point at his neck; the heart was still beating, but the pulse was erratic and weak. She snuggled in close to him, lifting her right leg across his thighs, her hand stroking his chest. She felt warmth being drawn from her, but still he did not stir. Her lips touched his cheek and her hand moved further down his body, caressing his skin. Her fingers curled around his penis, but there was no response. She kissed his lips softly, touching them with her tongue.
There was little more she could do now. Thetis was weary after a long day and she considered dressing and claiming her ten drachms. But she gazed down once more at the pale, gaunt face, the hawk-nose and the sunken eyes. What had the servant said? That Parmenion had lost his love and could not forget her? You fool, she thought. We all suffer lost loves. But we learn to forget, we teach ourselves to ignore the pain.