Lion of Macedon

by David Gemmell

  ‘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.

  What more could she do? ‘

  Laying her head on the pillow, she put her mouth to his ear.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered. For a moment there was no response, but then he sighed - a soft, almost inaudible escape of breath. Thetis tensed and began to rub her body against him, her fingers stroking the flesh of his inner thighs and loins. ‘I love you,’ she said, louder now. He groaned and she felt his penis swell in her hands.

  ‘Come to me,’ she called. ‘Come to... Derae.’

  His body arched suddenly. ‘Derae?’

  ‘I am here,’ she told him. He rolled to his side, his arms drawing her to him, and kissed her with a passion Thetis had not experienced in a long time. It almost aroused her. His hands roamed across her body... searching... touching. She looked into his eyes; they were open, yet unfocused, and tears were streaming from them.

  ‘I missed you,’ he said. ‘As if they’d torn my heart from me.’

  She drew him on to her-,-swinging her legs over his hips and guiding him home. He slid into her and stopped; there was no sudden thrust, no-pounding. Gently he dipped his head and kissed her, his tongue like moist silk upon her lips. Then he began to niove, slowly, rhythmically. Thetis lost all sense of time passing and, despite herself, arousal came to her like a long-lost friend. Sweat bathed them both and she felt him building to a climax, but he slowed once more and slid from her. She felt his lips upon her breasts, then her belly, his hands on her thighs, his tongue sliding into her, soft and warm and probing. Her back arched, her eyes closed; she began to shudder and moan. Her hands reached down, holding his head to her. The climax came in a series of intense, almost painful spasms. She sank back to the bed and felt the heat of his body as he moved upon her -within her - once more. His lips touched hers, their tongues entwining, then he entered her. Unbelievably Thetis felt a second orgasm welling and her hands pulled at his back, feeling the tension in his muscles as he drove into her with increasing passion. The spasms were even more intense than before and she screamed, but did not hear the sound. She felt the warm rush of his climax, then he slumped over her.

  For a moment Thetis lay still, his dead weight upon her. Gently she pushed him to his back, seeing that his eyes were now closed. For a moment only she wondered if he had died, but his breathing was regular. She felt the pulse at his neck, which was beating strongly.

  Thetis lay quietly beside the sleeping man for some minutes before silently rising from the bed. She dressed and returned to the courtyard where Mothac sat, nursing a goblet of wine.

  ‘Drink?’ he asked, not looking up.

  ‘Yes,’ she
answered softly. Pouring herself a goblet of wine, she sat opposite the Theban. ‘I think he will live,’ she told him, forcing a smile.

  ‘I guessed that from the noise,’ he answered.

  ‘He thought I was Derae,’ she said. ‘I wish I was.’

  ‘But you are not,’ he said harshly, rising and scattering the ten drachms on the table before her.

  She scooped up the money and looked at the Theban. ‘I did what you wanted. Why are you angry with me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ lied Mothac, forcing himself to be civil. ‘But, thank you. I think you should go now.’

  He opened the gate for her and then returned to his wine, which he downed swiftly, pouring another. Then another. But still Elea’s face floated before him.

  The Temple, Asia Minor, 379 BC

  The priestess stared at the open gate and the lush green fields beyond, focusing on the roses which grew up and over the lintelled opening - red and white blooms that filled the air with heady scent.

  This time I will escape, Derae told herself. This time I will concentrate as never before. Steadying herself she walked slowly forward, her mind holding to a single thought.

  Pass the gateway. Walk in the fields.

  Each step was taken with care as her bare feet touched the paved path. Roses were growing on either side of her, beautiful blooms of yellow and pink.

  Don’t think of the flowers! The gate! Concentrate on the gateway.

  Another step.

  Birds flew above her and she glanced up to see their flight. They were eagles, flying together, banking and gliding on the thermal currents. Such grace. The priestess returned her gaze to the roses beneath the gate. Mindful of the thorns, she plucked a bloom and held it to her nose; she stared around the garden, seeing the old man who cared for the plants; he pushed himself wearily to his feet and approached her.

  ‘That one is almost dead,’ he told her. ‘Take a bloom that is still to open. Then, if you put it in water it will fill your room with perfume.’

  ‘Thank you, Naza,’ she said, as he cut two blooms and placed them in her hand. She walked back up the path to the temple, pausing in the doorway.

  Then, as she remembered, Derae closed her eyes and a single tear forced its way through closed lids, spilling to her cheek. There was no escape through the gateway... just as there was no escape from the window of her room. She could lean out and enjoy the sunshine, or see the distant mountains, but as soon as she attempted to climb from the room she would find herself sitting at her bed, her thoughts confused.

  It had been this way for three years, three lonely, soul-aching years.

  She recalled the first day when she had opened her eyes and seen the old woman sitting by her bed. ‘How do you feel, child?’ the woman asked.

  ‘I am well,’ she had answered. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Tamis. I am here to teach you.’

  Derae had sat up, remembering the ship and her hands being bound behind her, men picking her up and throwing her over the side... the sudden shock of the cold water, the terrible struggle to be free of her bonds as she sank beneath the waves. But then there was nothing - save a strange memory of floating high in the night sky towards a bright light.

  ‘What will you teach me?’

  ‘The mysteries,’ answered the woman, touching her brow. And she had slept again.

  She had discovered the spell of the gateway on her third day, as she walked in the garden alone. Approaching it to look at the runes carved in the old stone, she had found herself back in the white-columned temple.

  Twice more she tried, then Tamis had seen her. ‘You cannot leave, my dear. You are the priestess now; you are the heir to Cassandra.’

  ‘I don’t understand - not any of this,’ said Derae.

  ‘You were the victim. The legend says that any girl who successfully survives the sacrifice, and reaches the temple, becomes the priestess until the next victim is similarly successful. You knew that.’

  ‘Yes, but... they bound my hands. I do not remember coming here.’

  ‘But you are here,’ Tamis pointed out. ‘And therefore I will instruct you.’

  Day by day the old woman had tried to teach Derae the mysteries, but the girl seemed incapable of understanding. She could not free the chains of her soul and soar her spirit into the sky, nor could she close her eyes and enter the Healing Trance. Simple tasks like holding a dead rose and willing it to become once more a fresh, budding bloom were beyond her.

  At the end of the first year Tamis took her to a small study at the rear of the temple. ‘I have thought much about your lack of talent,’ said the old woman, ‘and I have researched the origins of the legend. You surrendered a gift a long time ago: you allowed a man to violate you. This has caused your powers to be buried deep. In order to bring them forth, you must now be prepared to give another gift.’

  ‘I do not want to be a priestess,’ protested Derae. ‘I do not have these gifts. Just let me go!’

  But Tamis continued as if she had not heard her, her words striking Derae like sharp knives. ‘I watched you heal Hermias, when his skull was crushed! That is when I knew you were the one to follow me. You can do it, Derae - but only by surrendering another gift. You know what is needed, why do you persevere with this defiance?’

  ‘I will not do it!’ stormed the girl. ‘Never! You will not take my eyes!’

  Tamis had shrugged and had patiently continued with the lessons. By the third year Derae showed small signs of success. She could stand in the garden and will sparrows to fly to her hand; and once she healed Naza of a cut to his arm, placing her fingers over the wound and sealing it so that there was no scar.

  At night she still dreamt of escape - of running into the hills, hiding in the distant woods and somehow finding her way back to Sparta - and Parmenion.

  But it would not be today, she realized, staring at the open gateway and the fields beyond. Slowly she walked between the temple pillars to the open altar where she laid the roses Naza had given her.

  ‘When will you learn, child?’ asked Tamis.

  The girl looked round. ‘I did not know you had returned.’

  The old woman approached the priestess, laying her hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘It must be as it is. Try to accept it: you are Chosen.’

  ‘I don’t want it!’ cried the girl, brushing Tamis’ hand from her shoulder. ‘I never wanted it.’

  ‘You think that I did? Wanting it is not part of the gift. You have it, or you do not.’

  ‘Well, I do not. I speak no prophecies, there are no visions.’

  Tamis took the girl by the arm and led her back into the garden to sit beside a white-walled pool. ‘There are men and women who will die today,’ said the old woman softly. ‘They do not wish to. All of them will have works that are left undone, or children, or husbands or wives. They have no choice - as you have no choice. The days of the Dark God are close, my dear, and I will be dead. Someone must follow me. Someone of courage and spirit. Someone who cares. It was always to be you.’

  ‘Are you deaf, Tamis? I have few gifts!’

  ‘They are there, but they have been pushed deep. You will find them when you give your own gift to the Lord of All Things, when you give up your sight.’

  ‘No!’ said the girl. ‘You cannot force me! I will not do it!’

  ‘No one is going to force you - that would destroy all I have worked for. It must be your own decision.’

  ‘And if I do not?’

  ‘I don’t know, child. I wish that I did.’

  ‘But you can see the future - you are a sorceress.’

  Tamis smiled. Leaning forward, she cupped her hand in the water of the pool and drank. ‘Life is not so simple. There are many futures. The life of a single person is like a great tree: every branch, every twig, every leaf is a possible future. Years ago I looked at my own deaths - it took almost a year to track them all down and at the end I realized there were still thousands to be seen. Now the end is close, an
d I know the day. But, yes, I have seen you take up the challenge and refuse it, and I have seen you both win and lose. But which is it to be?’

  ‘Will I be able to speak to the gods?’ questioned the priestess.

  Tamis was silent for a moment, then she sighed. ‘I am patient, Derae, but time is becoming precious. I have waited three years for you to realize there is no going back. But now is the time for a different course. I may be wrong, but I will tell you the truth - all of it, though it will be painful. Firstly, there are no gods as you think of them. The names we know - Zeus, Apollo, Aphrodite - all were once men and women like you and I. But that is not to say there are no gods at all. For beyond the myths there are real forces of light and darkness, of love and chaos.’

  ‘And which do you serve?’ the priestess asked.

  Tamis chuckled. ‘Do not seek to annoy me, girl. If I served the Chaos Spirit, I would have taken your gift by force!’

  ‘But that is how you hold me here. I am not free to leave.’

  ‘As I said, nothing is simple. But I hold you not out of hate but out of love. You see, my dear, you cannot leave this place - ever. And that is not my doing.’

  ‘Then who is my jailer? Who holds me here?’ asked the priestess.

  ‘Your death,’ Tamis answered.

  ‘What does that mean?’ she asked, suddenly fearful.

  ‘I am sorry, Derae, but you died when they threw you overboard. I found your body by the rocks, I carried you here and brought you back. That is why you cannot leave.’

  ‘You are lying! Tell me you are lying!’

  Tamis took the girl’s hand. ‘If you left this temple your body would decay in seconds, your flesh peeling away, corrupt and worm-filled, and your bleached bones would lie on the grass not ten paces from the gateway.’

  ‘I do not believe you. It is a trick to keep me here!’

  ‘Think back to the day, your hands bound, your lungs filling with salt water, your struggles weakening as you sank.’

  ‘Stop it!’ shouted Derae, covering her face with her hands. ‘Please stop it.’

  ‘I will not apologize, for it cost years of my life and alLmy power to bring you back. Naza helped to carry you here. Speak to him, if you disbelieve me.’