Greek Series 01 - Lion of Macedon by David Gemmell Read Free Book Online Page B

Parmenion.
    'It is too late, she has already gone. Now they must prepare her for burial, and it is not fitting that a man sees a woman's mysteries. Come.'
    Parmenion followed the general out of the house, and they walked in silence along Leaving Street and on beyond the market to the larger houses of the nobility.
    Xenophon's house looked different without the crowds and with the sand-pit removed. The scent from the purple flowers on the walls was everywhere, and a servant brought several lamps to light the courtyard. The night was warm, the air heavy, and Xenophon listened as Parmenion told the story of his mother's life.
    Servants brought watered wine and sweetmeats and the two men sat together long into the night. At last Xenophon led Parmenion to a small room at the rear of the house.
    'Sleep well, my friend,' said the general. 'Tomorrow we will see to your affairs.' Xenophon paused in the doorway. Tell me, young man,' he asked suddenly, 'why did you finish last in the Great Race?'
    'I made a mistake,' answered Parmenion.
    'Is it one you regret?'
    Parmenion saw again the old man's face, the despair in his eyes. 'No,' he said. 'Some things are more important than winning.'
    'Try to remember that,' the Athenian told him.

*
    Tamis sat by the dying fire, watching the fading shadows dance upon the white, rough-hewn walls of the small room. The night was silent, save for the dry rustling of leaves as the night wind whispered through the trees.
    The old woman waited, listening.
    I was not wrong, she told herself, defiantly. A branch clattered against her window as the breeze grew stronger, the fire flickering into a brief blaze, then dying down. She added dry sticks to the flames and pulled her thin shawl around her shoulders.

    Her eyelids drooped, fatigue washing over her, yet still she sat, her breathing shallow, her heartbeat ragged.
    As the night deepened she heard the sounds of a walking horse, the slow, rhythmic thudding of hooves on hard-baked earth. With a sigh Tamis pushed herself to her feet, gathering up her staff and moving to the open doorway, where she stood watching the shadow-haunted trees.
    The sound was closer now, yet no horse was in sight. Closing the eyes of her body, she opened the eyes of her spirit and saw the tall, white stallion cross the clearing to stand before her. It was a huge beast of almost eighteen hands, with eyes the colour of opals.
    Tamis sighed and put aside her shawl, taking up instead a cloak of grey wool, which she fastened to her shoulders with a brooch of turquoise. Leaving the door open, she walked out into the night towards the city, the ghostly horse following behind.
    Her thoughts were sombre as she made her slow way through the near-deserted market square, her staff tapping against the flagstones. Parmenion's mother had been a good woman, kind and thoughtful. And you killed her, whispered a voice in her mind.
    'No, I did not,' she said, aloud.
    You let her die. Is that not the same?
    'Many people die. Am I responsible for all deaths?'
    You wanted her dead. You wanted the child to suffer alone.
    'To make him strong. He is the hope of the world. He is the one destined to defy the Dark God. He must be a man of power.'
    The voice was stilled, but Tamis knew she was unconvinced. You are getting old, she told herself.
    There is no voice. You are talking to yourself, and such debates are meaningless. 'I speak with the voice of reason,' said Tamis. 'She speaks with the voice of the heart.'
    Is there no place now within you for such a voice?
    'Leave me be! I do what must be done!'
    A group of men were sitting close by in the moonlight, dicing with knuckle-bones. Several of them looked up as she passed, one surreptitiously making the sign of the Circle to ward off evil. Tamis smiled at that, then put the men from her mind.
    Arriving at the house of Parmenion, she closed her eyes, her spirit moving inside, hovering within the death room where Artema lay swathed in burial linen. But what