Authors: David Gemmell
“You honestly believe we can win?” asked Leonidas.
“I don’t believe it, I know it! We are Spartans. They will not break us. No. They will break upon us. Their cavalry will skirt us. They will ride for the city, for they will know that every man in the ranks will see them and fear for the lives of his wife and children, his mother, his sisters. Then their infantry will attack, outnumbering us by perhaps three to one. The battle will be won or lost in the next hour.”
“How can you be sure that the cavalry will pass us by?” asked Lycon.
“I saw his methods at Mantinea. Philippos is not a cavalryman; he uses his infantry for all major thrusts. And he wants
the city taken. He wants it all, and he has no patience. But more important than this, he would not wish to push us back in a fighting retreat only to have us defending Sparta. He will want us isolated, the city destroyed behind us.”
“And if you are wrong?” put in Timasion. “How, then, can we survive?”
Parmenion forced a smile. “I am not wrong, but if his cavalry does not attack the city, then Cleander will march out with all his men and join us on the field of battle. One other matter. The slaves must not be issued with red cloaks; only the Spartans must wear them.”
“But why?” Cleander asked. “Surely the object is to make the recruits feel like Spartans.”
“I want the Spartan regiments to stand out. I want the enemy to see them clearly.”
“It will be a day long remembered,” muttered Timasion. “Five thousand Spartans against forty thousand barbarians!”
“It will be a day the Makedones will never forget,” promised Parmenion.
Nestus lay awake in the narrow pallet bed listening to the snoring of the soldiers. Forty men slept in this long room, forty nonranking Spartan soldiers, none of whom would speak to the giant. He was a man alone, and bitterness swamped him.
His own father had refused to receive him, and word of his shame had swept through the city. Friends shunned him in the streets, turning their faces away and pretending not to see him.
His mouth was dry, and he rose from the bed and padded through to the empty dining area, where he poured himself a goblet of water. A cold breeze touched his bare back, and he shivered.
Life had been so full of promise a mere two years before. He had loved Derae, and a splendid wedding had been planned. His father had been so proud. A link with the royal house—brother-in-law to the future king. Everyone knew that Leonidas was the heir apparent, and Nestus was his closest friend. Oh, how bright the future, how golden! It even outshone
his frustration at having to serve the mix-blood who had become Sparta’s first general.
Parmenion …
Now more than ever the mere thought of the name made bile rise in his throat, left his heart hammering.
The day had been burned into his memory, never to be erased: Agisaleus dead, Leonidas to be king. Summoned to see his friend at the Cattle Price Palace, he had joyed in the options before him. Was he to be promoted? Which regiment would he command in the new order? But no. He had learned that the wedding was canceled and that his bride—his love—was to wed Parmenion in order that the half-breed could become Sparta’s king.
“I should have killed him then,” whispered Nestus. He pictured his sword blade sliding through Parmenion’s ribs, the light of life fading from the bastard’s eyes.
Slumping down at a long table, Nestus poured another goblet of water.
And what is there now? he asked himself. Death to follow his dishonor. The destruction of Sparta, the massacre of its people. His thoughts swung to Derae, and he pictured her being dragged from the palace, raped and then butchered by the barbarians.
The curse of the gods was upon the city for allowing a half-breed to sit upon the throne!
The room grew colder, but Nestus scarcely noticed it.
Why should you stay?
The thought leapt unbidden to his mind, shocking him with its clarity. “Where else could I go?”
Creta. You have friends on the island … and you have coin
.
“I couldn’t desert my friends, my family.”
They have deserted you. They shun you in the street
.
“I did wrong. I drew a sword upon the king.”
The half-blood? A man who used dark sorcery to win his throne and steal your woman?
Sorcery? The thought had not occurred to him before. Of course, that was it. Leonidas had been bewitched. What other
reason could there be for a noble-born Spartan to relinquish his rights to the throne?
Kill him
.
“No. No, I couldn’t.”
Like the heroes of old, kill the man who stole your pride. Take back what is rightfully yours. Derae loves you. Save her. Take her from the city to safety in Creta
.
“To safety, yes! I could rescue her. She loves me; she would come. We could be happy there. A short ride to Gytheum, then a ship. Yes! Kill the half-blood and reclaim what is mine! Yes!”
The cold disappeared, and the room became clammy and hot. The sudden change made Nestus shiver, and he rose, making his way back to his bed. Silently he dressed in a gray
chiton
tunic and calf-length sandals. Then, taking up his cloak and sword, he walked from the barracks.
His father’s house was dark and quiet, and he climbed through a ground floor window, moving stealthily through the rooms until he came to his father’s study. Here, hidden behind a carved oak chest, was a niche in the stone of the wall; in it were five large leather pouches, heavy with gold. Taking two, he left the house, making his way to the stables. A groom sleeping in a bed of hay by the door awoke as Nestus entered. The giant’s fist crashed into the man’s face, splintering his cheekbone; the groom sagged back unconscious.
Nestus put bridles and reins on two of the fastest horses, then bound their hooves with cloth before leading them out into the moonlit street and on to the Cattle Price Palace. There were only two sentries at the main doors, and both men were known to him. Leaving the horses tethered out of sight beyond the main wall, Nestus strode through the great gates and approached the men.
“What do you want here?” hissed the first. Nestus’ fist cracked against the man’s jaw, spinning him unconscious to the ground. Then he leapt at the second, seizing him by the throat and savagely wrenching the soldier from his feet. The man’s neck snapped with a loud crack. Nestus had not meant to kill him, and he dropped the body, stepping back horrified.
Kill the other
, came the thought. Nestus drew his sword and, without hesitation, plunged it through the helpless warrior’s throat.
Pushing open the doors of the palace, he ran inside and up the long stairs to the third floor, making his way along the cold corridor to the queen’s apartments. His heart was beating fast now, and his mouth was dry. The door to the queen’s rooms was ajar, and he opened it just enough to slip inside. The moon shone brightly through the balcony window, and the first thing he saw was a shimmering green robe tossed carelessly to a couch. Moving to it, he lifted it to his face, smelling the perfume upon it. Arousal flared within him, and he padded to the bedroom, where Derae lay on top of the sheets. Nestus stood in the doorway gazing at her moonlit form. The queen was naked and lying on her side, her legs drawn up and her head resting on her left arm. Sweat broke out on Nestus’ brow. Her golden skin seemed whiter than ivory in the moonlight yet soft and warm, glowing with health. He swallowed hard and moved to the bedside, laying his blood-covered sword on the sheet. His hand moved to her arm, sliding over the skin, then down to her waist and up over the curve of her hips. She moaned in her sleep and rolled to her back.
Nestus smiled, thoughts of future joy flashing through his mind: a home by the sea, servants, children …
She awoke and screamed, scrambling to get away. Instinctively he grabbed for her, his fingers curling into her hair and dragging her back.
“Stop it! It is I, Nestus. I have come for you. To rescue you!”
She ceased her struggles, green eyes focusing on his face. “What do you mean, rescue me? Are you mad? If you are found here, you will die.”
“I don’t care. I have killed two men tonight, and I’ll kill any others who try to stop me. I have a plan, Derae. We’ll go to Creta. I have friends there, and we will be happy. But first you must dress. There is little time. I will explain all when we are on our way.”
“You are insane!”
“No! Listen to me. The city is doomed—nothing will save it. It is our only chance at happiness. Don’t you see? We will be together.”
Glancing down, she saw the bloodied sword. “What have you done?”
“What I had to do,” he answered, his hand reaching up, his fingers stroking her breast.
She pulled away from him. “Parmenion will kill you for this,” she whispered.
“He is alone here. And he has never seen the day when he could defeat me in combat. No one has. I am the best.”
Suddenly she rolled from the bed. He lunged at her, but she was clear and running for the door. Seizing his sword, he ran after her, but she had reached the corridor and was shouting at the top of her voice: “Parmenion! Parmenion!”
He sprinted after her, catching her at the top of the stairs and hauling her back by her hair. “You slut! You said you loved me, and now you betray me!”
“I never loved you!” she answered him, her hand snaking out and cracking against his cheek. Flinging her from him, he raised his sword.
“I’ll kill you!” he shouted. Ducking away from him, she fled for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He ran after her but tripped and fell headlong, his sword clattering away from him. Dazed, he rose and gathered it from where it had fallen on an embroidered rug at the foot of the stairs. He swung around, seeking Derae.
“You have your sword,” said Parmenion softly. “Now use it!”
The king was standing naked in the corridor, Derae behind him. “You will die now, mix-blood,” Nestus told him.
Parmenion smiled and raised his own blade. Nestus ran forward, sword drawn back for the belly thrust, but Parmenion stepped aside, parrying the blade and hooking his foot around the charging man’s leg. Nestus hit the floor hard but rose swiftly. “Be more cautious,” advised Parmenion, his voice cold. “Anger makes a man careless.” Again Nestus charged,
this time slashing his blade in a sweeping cut toward Parmenion’s throat. The king dropped to one knee, the sword slicing the air above his head, his own blade ramming into Nestus’ groin. The giant screamed. Parmenion tore his sword clear and rose. Nestus stumbled forward several steps and then slumped to his knees with blood gushing from the severed artery. The warrior struggled to rise, but all strength was seeping from him and he fell forward, his face against the cold stone of the corridor floor.
His fury seemed to flow from him with his lifeblood.
What am I doing here? he thought.
He heard the sound of running footsteps and a voice shouting: “Someone tried to kill the king!”
That must be it, he thought. I was here to save the king from his enemies.
Yes. Relieved, he closed his eyes. Father will be so proud of me, he thought.
Parmenion stepped back from the body and ushered the naked Derae into his rooms, pushing shut the door and letting the sword fall to the floor.
“He was possessed,” said Derae, moving forward with her arms opening to him. He held her gently, his hands in the small of her back, and neither of them heard the door open or saw Leonidas enter. The Spartan warrior said nothing for a moment, then cleared his throat.
Parmenion turned but did not release his hold on Derae. “What is it, Leonidas?”
“I wanted to see that you were unhurt … sire.”
“Oh, Leon, it was awful,” said Derae. “You should have seen his eyes. I have never known Nestus to be like that.”
“He killed two sentries,” Leonidas told her, his voice cool. “But I see that you are well, sire. I shall leave you … both. We will be ready to march in the morning. Five days, if you recall.” He bowed and left the room.
“His mood was strange,” whispered Derae, moving in close to her husband. Parmenion felt the warmth of her skin
against his breast. Not strange, he thought; Leonidas has just seen his sister being embraced by an impostor.
“I love you,” said Derae. “Promise me you will come back.”
“How can I make such a promise?” he answered huskily.
“You just say the words. I do not believe that you will be defeated. You are Parmenion, the king of Sparta. You are my Parmenion.”
He smiled and held her tightly. “A wise man once told me to plan as if you were going to live forever but to live as if this were your last day on earth. Let us do that, lady. Let us treat tonight as if it were the last.”
He led her to his bedroom and lay down beside her, drawing her to him. They made love gently, slowly, for he felt no passion, only a desperate need to feel her skin against his, to be inside her, part of her. He felt himself building to a climax but slowed and withdrew.
“Why are you stopping?” she asked him, reaching out to stroke the skin of his cheek.
“I don’t want it to end. Not now, not tonight … not ever.”
“You said that so sadly, my dear. There should be no sadness. Not tonight … not for us.”
Her fingers slid along the surface of his chest, over the ridged muscle of his belly, and down to his still-erect penis, circling it. He groaned.
“Does that hurt?” she asked him, her tone serious but her eyes mocking.
“You are a wanton,” he told her, pushing her to her back and rolling on top of her. “And I shall treat you like one.”
Sliding down the bed, he bit lightly at the inside of her thigh. She cried out, opening her legs to escape him, but he turned his head, his mouth brushing across her soft pubic hair, his tongue slipping into her. She cried out again, but he ignored her. She struggled under him, but his hands held her firm. Then suddenly she relaxed and began to moan, her body arching violently, her legs tensing. This time her cries were not of pain or outrage but arose from the shuddering, violent release of tension that only orgasm could bring. Finally she slumped back to the bed, her arms outstretched.