Lion of Macedon

by David Gemmell

  Curse you, whore, to a worm-ridden death!

  As they neared the village he glanced at the temple. Riding high on the hills, they could see over the white walls of the temple garden. A young woman was walking there, her red-gold hair reflecting the sunlight, her body slim, breasts pressing against the filmy gown she wore.

  A scene came to his mind: the woman writhing beneath him, begging him to stop, pleading with him, his knife at her throat, the blade slipping into the skin, the blood gushing from her... .

  Kicking his horse into a run, he galloped for the rose-covered gateway.

  Even as he approached he realized that the others would never stand for him murdering the girl before they had enjoyed her. No, he would have to be patient. His thoughts surprised him, for he had never before considered there to be pleasure in murder. In fighting, yes; in war, obviously. How curious, he thought. Dragging on the reins, he leapt from the horse’s back and strode through the gateway. The girl was kneeling by a rosebush. Her head came up.

  She was blind. For some reason this made his arousal more fierce, his sense of power soaring.

  He heard the other men dismounting and halted, watching the girl. Her beauty was considerable, more Greek than Persian, but Leucion did not care what nationality she was.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked, her voice soft yet deeper than he had expected, her accent betraying her Doric origins. Spartan or Corinthian, he thought, which delighted him. He would not have felt as content with the prospect of raping an Athenian woman.

  ‘Why do you not speak?’ she asked, no trace of fear yet in her voice. But that would come, he knew. Slowly he drew his knife and advanced towards her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ cried Pendar.

  Leucion ignored him and moved close to the woman. Even above the scent of the roses, he could smell the perfume of her hair. Reaching out he took hold of her gown at the shoulder and slashed through it, pulling the remnants clear of her body. She stumbled back naked - and now the fear showed.

  ‘Stop this!’ Pendar shouted, running forward and grabbing Leucion’s arm. Before he could stop himself the warrior swung and plunged his blade into his friend’s chest. ‘Why?’ whispered Pendar, falling against Leucion and sliding to the ground, his blood smearing Leucion’s bronze breastplate. For a moment Leucion hesitated, confused; then he shook his head and swung to the other men. ‘You want to take her?’ he asked them.

  ‘Why not?’ answered Boras, a thick-set Thracian. ‘She looks tender enough.’ The men advanced on the naked girl, Leucion in the lead with his bloody knife raised. The priestess stood her ground. She lifted her hand and Leucion felt the knife writhe in his grasp. Glancing down, he screamed - he was holding a viper, whose raised head was drawn back with fangs poised for the strike. He threw it from him, hearing it clatter to the stones.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, man?’ asked Boras.

  ‘Did you not see it? The snake?’

  ‘Are you mad? You want her first - or not? I’ll not wait for long.’

  A low growl came from behind them.

  A beast stood in their midst. It had the head of a lion, the body of a bear, huge shoulders and taloned paws. Swords flashed into the air as the warriors attacked the creature, which offered no resistance as the blades clove into its massive frame. It fell, covered in blood - and became their comrade, Metrodorus.

  ‘She’s a witch!’ shouted Boras, moving back from her.

  ‘Yes, a witch,’ the blind woman told them, her voice almost a hiss. ‘And now you will all die!’

  ‘No!’ came another voice, and Leucion saw an old woman struggling along the pathway. Easing past the swordsmen and kneeling beside the dead Metrodorus, she placed her hands on his wounds and began to chant. Clouds seemed to race across the sky, then freeze in place. The wind at first howled but then died, and the silence was eerie. Leucion glanced up to see an eagle hanging motionless in the sky, wings spread. The chanting continued and the men watched as Metrodorus’ wounds closed. A shuddering breath shook his frame, then a groan.

  ‘See to the other one,’ the sorceress told the blind girl.

  ‘They are killers! They deserve to die!’ she shouted.

  But the old woman ignored her and the young priestess moved to the body of Pendar, laying her hand over the chest wound. Leucion watched in silent amazement as the wound closed. Pendar awoke and gazed up at the blind healer.

  ‘Did they harm you?’ he asked her. She shook her head. ‘Am I dying?’

  ‘No. You are well,’ she told him.

  Leucion stood dazed and blinking in the sunlight. The wind picked up and the eagle continued its flight as he stumbled to Tamis. ‘I don’t know... I have never...’ But the words would not come.

  Pendar rose and took his friend’s arm. ‘Are you well now, Leucion?’

  Suddenly the leader began to weep. ‘You know me, Pendar. I would never... do such a thing.’

  Tamis turned to Derae, but said nothing. The young priestess stepped forward, taking Leucion by the hand. ‘Go from here to Tyre,’ she said coldly. ‘There you will find what you seek.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ he told her.

  ‘Nothing happened of any importance,’ Derae assured him.

  Pendar gathered up Derae’s dress and wrapped it around her, tying the torn pieces together.

  ‘And you, Pendar, should return to Athens, where your family have need of you.’

  ‘I will, lady,’ he promised.

  After the men had gone Tamis walked to the pool and splashed cold water to her face. Derae sat beside her.

  ‘Why did you stop me?’ asked Derae.

  ‘You touched Leucion, you know why he came. The Chaos Spirit was working within him.’

  ‘But I could have killed him.’

  ‘And who would have won, Derae? Who would gain the victory? The Dark God cares nothing for Leucion. He knew the man could not destroy you, it was you he was seeking to test. We cannot use his weapons. Every small victory gained that way leads to a future defeat. I know, I have killed men. Leucion will find love and happiness in Tyre. He will raise sons, good men, proud men. But he will never forget this day.’

  ‘Nor shall I,’ said Derae with a smile. Tamis could sense her pleasure and for a fleeting moment she merged with her, touching her soul like an unheard whisper. The Spartan woman was recalling with satisfaction how the men had fallen upon their comrade. She was relishing the memory of power.

  Tamis pushed herself to her feet and returned to her room. She was tired and failed to see the black shadow forming on the wall behind her as she sat down on the bed. As she poured a goblet of water and sipped it, talons slid from the wall at her back - long, and curved. The water touched an edge of rotting tooth and Tamis grunted and rose. The sun moved from behind a cloud and a shaft of light shone through the window, casting the shadow of talons on the bed. Tamis whirled as the claws slashed for her face. Her arm came up, light blazing from her fingers to become a glowing shield of gold. The talons raked across it and the wall shimmered, a huge head pushing clear of it as if the stone were no more solid than smoke. The demon’s skin was scaled, its teeth pointed. Slowly it emerged into the room, its enormous arms and taloned hands reaching for the old seeress.

  ‘Begone!’ thundered Tamis, pointing at the creature. But the light was fading from her hands, and she knew that she had used too much of her power on the slain man.

  The demon lunged at the shield, which split in two and vanished from sight. Talons hooked into Tamis’ robes and she was dragged across the stone floor towards the gaping hole where once the wall had been.

  The door opened....

  A blazing shaft of light smote the demon in the chest. Fire and smoke leapt from the beast and a terrible cry filled the room. The talons tore free of Tamis and the creature swung on Derae.

  The Spartan woman waited until the demon was upon her, then threw out both arms. Lightning lanced from her fingers. The creature was punched from his feet; he tried to rise,
but blue light encircled him, chaining his huge arms and legs.

  Derae moved forward, standing over the beast. ‘Begone,’ she whispered. A wind blew up, sucking the demon back through the wall, which shimmered before becoming stone once more.

  ‘You... did... well,’ said Tamis, clutching the side of the bed and hauling herself to her feet.

  ‘What was the... thing?’

  ‘A night-hunter. Our enemies have breached the spell I placed over the temple. You must help me form another.’

  ‘Do you know who our enemies are?’

  ‘Of course. The leader of them is Aida.’

  ‘Can we not attack them?’

  ‘You do not listen, Derae. We cannot use their weapons.’

  ‘I am not convinced,’ said Derae. ‘How can we fight them when all the weapons are theirs?’

  ‘Trust me, child. I have no answers that would convince you. Just trust me.’

  Lying back on the bed Tamis closed her eyes, unable to look at the young priestess. Twice today the Spartan had tasted the joys of power....

  And Tamis could almost hear the Dark God’s laughter as she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Thetis wandered through the narrow streets to her home in the south of the city, her season at the Temple of Aphrodite completed. Once home, she scrubbed away the paint and the ochre and threw the shimmering gown and bright, filmy chlamys to a corner. Pulling on a white cotton gown, she stretched herself out on a couch and stared at the soiled garments. Tomorrow she would burn them, and would never again visit the Temple of Aphrodite. Unlike many of the other girls Thetis had spent her earnings wisely, investing with three merchants engaged in the spice trade and one from Thespiae who bred and trained war horses.

  Thetis was now financially secure. The house had cost nine hundred and eighty drachms, and she had also hired a maidservant, a Thessalian girl of fifteen who lived in a small alcove at the rear of the kitchen.

  From now on life would be without care, without sweaty hands groping at her, without the grunts of the worshippers in her ear.

  Without Damon, she found herself thinking. She closed her eyes and settled back, hugging an embroidered cushion to her belly.

  Without Damon....

  How could someone so young and athletic have died in such a manner, collapsing on a training field after a race? The surgeon said he had a weakness in the heart. Yet he was so strong, his body carrying no fat, his muscles firm and as finely chiselled as those of Heracles. No, he had no weakness of the heart, Thetis knew. He had been struck down by the gods who were jealous of his beauty, and Thetis had been robbed of the only love she would ever know.

  For a while she dozed on the couch, then rose and wandered to the kitchen where she ate some bread and cheese, washing it down with cool water. The servant girl, Cleo, was snoring softly in her bed, and Thetis moved silently about the room so as not to wake her.

  Her hunger satisfied, she returned to her couch. The clothes on the floor caught her eye and she realized she could not wait to burn them. Taking the small, curved knife she carried for protection she slowly ripped the garments into tiny pieces, until the floor around her couch looked as if it were strewn with flower-petals.

  Six years of her life had been spent wearing those garments - six long years filled with faceless, nameless men. Bearded or unbearded, fat or thin, young or old, all desired the same service.

  She shook her head as if to dislodge the memories, and Parmenion’s face loomed in her mind. She had thought of him often in the months since she had brought him back from the dead. It was the contrast, she realized, between the silent rutting animal he was with her and the caring, considerate lover she had seen on that one night, as he dreamt of... what was her name? Derae?

  So physically unlike the powerful Damon, yet possessing the same qualities of tenderness and understanding of her needs. No, not her needs, she reminded herself: Derae’s needs.

  Taking up the cushion she held it to her and fell asleep once more, waking with the dawn. Beyond the kitchen Cleo had filled a bath with heated water and Thetis climbed in, soaking her skin and washing her short, thickly curled red hair. When she stood Cleo wrapped a warm towel around her, patting her dry. Then the servant smeared perfumed oil on Thetis’ body, scraping it clean with a round-edged knife of bone.

  Thetis put on an ankle-length chiton of blue-dyed linen and wandered to the courtyard. It was long and narrow, but caught the early-morning sunshine. Beyond the gates she could hear people moving on the streets, and the distant hammering from the forge of Norac the smith. She sat in the sun for an hour and then walked inside, taking up an embroidery she had begun three years before. It was a series of interwoven squares and circles, with shades of green, brown and yellow. Working on it calmed her mind.

  Cleo came to her. ‘There is a man to see you, mistress.’

  ‘A man. I know no men,’ she answered, realizing as she said it that it was the truth. She had coupled with hundreds, perhaps thousands of men, and not one did she know.

  ‘He asks to speak with you.’

  ‘What is his name?’

  The girl blushed and ran to the courtyard, returning within moments. Tarmenion, mistress.’

  Thetis took a deep breath, composing herself. ‘Show him in,’ she said, ‘then leave us.’

  ‘Leave you, mistress?’ queried Cleo, surprised.

  Thetis smiled. ‘If I need you I will call out.’

  Thetis returned to her embroidery as the girl led Parmenion to her. She glanced up, her face stern.

  ‘Please be seated,’ she said. ‘Cleo, fetch some water for our guest.’

  That will not be necessary,’ said the man, seating himself on the couch opposite. They sat in silence until Cleo had left, pulling the door shut behind her.

  ‘I do not welcome uninvited guests to my home,’ said Thetis. ‘So, I would appreciate it if you would state your business swiftly.’

  ‘I came to apologize,’ began Parmenion.

  ‘For what?’

  The man suddenly smiled sheepishly; it made his face more boyish, less stern, she thought. ‘I am not sure; but I know it is necessary. You see, I did not know it was you who brought me back that night.’

  ‘I was paid for it,’ she snapped, battling to control an anger she could scarcely understand.

  ‘I know that,’ he said gently. ‘But I felt . .. feel... I have caused you pain. I would not wish that.’

  ‘You would like to be friends?’ she asked.

  ‘I would - very much.’

  ‘My friendship cost forty obols,’ she told him, rising and tossing aside the embroidery, ‘but no longer. Now, please leave. You can find many friends at the Temple, and the price remains the same.’

  ‘That is not what I meant,’ he said, pushing himself to his feet. ‘But it will be as you say.’ He walked to the door and turned to face her. ‘I value friendship highly,’ he told her. ‘Perhaps it is because, in my life, I have very few friends. I know you were paid for what you did, but even so you saved my life. That is a debt I will carry. Should you ever have need of me, I will be there. No question. Whether you wish it or not, I am your friend.’

  ‘I do not need friends, Parmenion, but if ever I am short of forty obols I will think of you.’

  After he had gone she sank down to the couch and lifted the embroidery. Cleo came to her, kneeling at her feet. ‘Your hands are trembling, mistress.’

  ‘He is not to be allowed in here again. The next time he calls, you will stop him at the gate. Do you understand?’

  ‘At the gate. Yes, mistress.’

  But the days passed and Parmenion did not call again, and for some curious reason this only served to make Thetis more angry with the young Spartan.

  As spring progressed Thetis found her new life increasingly oppressive. When a priestess she had been able to walk the streets day or night. But no Theban woman of quality would ever be seen unaccompanied save at the market-place, and the house which had been Thetis’ dr
eam fast became a comfortable prison. Cleo brought news daily, but mainly her conversation revolved around the latest clothes, or perfumed oils, or jewelled necklaces. The girl took little notice of the movements of the Spartan army as it entered Boeotia. All Thetis could gather was that the Spartan King, Agisaleus - having forced a passage for his troops through the passes of Mount Cithaeron in the south -was ravaging the countryside, and that Epaminondas had fortified a ridge outside Thebes with 5,000 Athenian hoplites and 3,000 Thebans.

  Not that it mattered to Thetis whether the Spartans won or lost. It seemed to her that, whatever the city of origin, the grunts in her ear were always the same.

  But the war was affecting her investments, the Spartans having confiscated the last shipment of opium as the carts passed through Plataea. Thetis lost almost 600 drachms and was now relying on Asian spices coming in through Macedonia to keep her profits high.

  Thoughts of her finances left her thinking of the Temple. Nothing would make her go back to that way of life again, she promised herself.

  Then Parmenion’s face came to her mind.

  Curse him, she thought. Why does he not call?

  With Agisaleus unwilling to assault the ridge defended by Athenians and Thebans, and Epaminondas refusing battle on the open plain, the war entered a stalemate - the Spartans marching through Boeotia, sacking small towns and villages and bolstering their garrisons, but leaving Thebes unscathed.

  Then Agisaleus, tiring of a war of attrition, marched towards the city. He had in mind to storm the Proitian Gates and raze Thebes to the ground. The less hardy of the city-dwellers fled, packing their belongings into carts or wagons.

  One wagon contained the physician Horas with his wife and three children. The eldest child, Symion, complained of a severe headache as the wagon moved on into the night, heading for Thespiae. By dawn the boy had a raging fever, and glands in his throat and armpits had swollen to thrice their size. Red patches formed on his skin and he was dead by noon. That afternoon Horas himself felt the onset of fever and delirium.