A Cup for Parmenio
The Temple of Apollo at Delphi, 330 BC
On Parmenio’s first visit to the Oracle, a stonemason’s crew was chiseling the last of the tall flanking columns to be erected. That day, he’d stood beside Phillip, before Chaeronaea, long before breaking the Persian Empire. They’d gone to return the Oracle’s stolen treasures; reclaimed from the Phokaeans by Phillip’s armies.
The Pythia had come to greet them. She’d had hair a deep and fiery red; her eyes the sickly green of rot, death, and decay. Eyes that may have stared too deeply into what might have been. Eyes Parmenio would never forget.
She and Phillip had spoken; Parmenio stood on the open ground until summoned. Something had felt subtly wrong. Delphi was supposedly neutral ground and men who trusted what was supposed to go to their rest far quicker than Parmenio planned to. He entered the temple only at his master’s command, awaiting an ambush that never came.
A youth had escorted an older and yet very alluring woman from what appeared to be the servant’s section – smoke rose from the building, and the scent of burning wood and cooking meat filled the air. Thinking him a supplicant, the woman came to collect the traditional gift to the Oracle. Her pace was slow, and there was something subtly wrong with her gait. Parmenio had seen that before; the walk of someone who had lost toes. He lived by finding the subtle signs of weakness. His gaze lingered on her feet, shrouded in a soft cloth and shod with stout sandals. Yet it was her long black tresses that lingered in Parmenio’s mind as he and Phillip rode off to the north. If they featured in his dreams, he did not remember.
* * *
The second time Parmenio visited the Oracle, Phillip was dead. His son, Alexander, was now Parmenio’s sovereign and liege. The walls and roof of Apollo’s temple were now complete, the Pythia stood at the top of the steps, not down in the courtyard. She too was different. Her hair was black as obsidian, entwined with an elaborate headdress of purest silver. Something about her hair was familiar – he had seen her before. Had she once kept it long? She stood more aloof, her slim curves against the sky, not deigning to descend to greet them in the courtyard as the last Pythia had. Or was she just of an age when stairs were not to be taken lightly? Or was there something else? She wore thick leather sandals, her feet wrapped in a rich red cloth. They too were familiar – where had he seen a woman with wrapped feet before?
This time they were supplicants – another youth came to obtain the supplicant’s tithe. He too was familiar to Parmenio. Was it the mischief dancing at the corner of his lips? Alexander knocked the boy to the ground in his impatience, taking the stairs two at a time, a peremptory command to deal with the boy. Remaining below suited Parmenio. If the Oracle did not give Alexander the answer he sought, Parmenio did not wish to see the consequence of that failure.
She did not. A woman’s cry of alarm echoed through the mountain air. The boy was on his feet in a flash, dust still on his tunic and in his honey-colored hair, fists clenched, fury in his eyes. Parmenio stopped his foolhardy dash with an outstretched hand – why should yet another fall to his master’s impatience?
The boy resisted; the outstretched hand became a hold. The boy still struggled in his grip. Parmenio was surprised at the youth’s stubbornness and his own strength. He’d thought himself growing old – yet no silver threaded his black hair and his grip had grown no weaker.
Alexander emerged from the temple; the Pythia at his side no worse for wear. Only then did the boy cease his struggles. Parmenio released him, the lad scampering up the temple steps as he and Alexander rode away.
* * *
Parmenio stood at the bottom of the now familiar steps leading to the temple. This was his third visit in fifteen years – his hair still as dark as the first day he’d trod these steps, his beard just as full. He was a man of eighty-odd years, he looked as if he’d seen less than fifty, and he felt as if hundreds had passed. Today he was alone – betrayed by king and country, his son dead, himself an outlaw. By good luck and careful planning, he had escaped the assassins’ knives. Most of them. Though the wound in his side from Polydamas had not proved mortal, it still pained him. Now it drew him here. The Pythia was well known to be versed in the arts of healing.
He took the steps slowly, a lifetime of caution refusing the offer of aid from the all too familiar youth who collected his gift to Phoebus Apollo. He had seen that honey-colored hair, the deep jade eyes, that mix of stubborn determination, devotion, and mischief before. Or perhaps not – he had seen many a young man in his eighty years.
That youth remained three steps behind him, his position growing more ominous with every step. Out of the corner of his eye, Parmenio noticed the tithing box gone from his hands, replaced by an object he dared not turn to identify. Better to keep the enemy ignorant.
He reached the top and passed between the two largest columns. The Pythia stood beside her tripod, beckoning him forward, her head bowed toward the floor, her red hair spilling off her shoulders. As Parmenio stepped into the darkness, their eyes rose.
They had met before. He could not forget those lifeless eyes.
“Priestess Naamah.”
There was no shock on her face – she was far too well-schooled to let her expression show anything she did not wish it to.
“My Lord Parmenio. You are looking well.”
Parmenio did not need his eyes to realize the trailing youth was no longer behind him.
“As well as can be expected, given the circumstances. You are looking remarkably well yourself.” He trolled the bait, waiting for a reaction.
There was none. “It must be the mountain air. Keeps one youthful and healthy.”
Something about the exchange was remarkably familiar, playful, almost comforting. There was a recognition, an awareness that was fleetingly out of reach. “Undoubtedly.”
“You look parched, My Lord Parmenio.”
“It has been a long journey, and I am wearied.”
There was something in those eyes. A lifetime on the battlefield and at the council table taught him to look for the signs of decision, no matter how deeply they were hidden.
“Would you be so kind as to accept the hospitality of our hearth?”
Danger. And opportunity.
“Priestess Naamah, it would do me a great honor to accept.”
As he followed the Pythia, Parmenio knew the youth was behind him once again.
* * *
Parmenio settled comfortably on one of the couches closest to the fire. It placed his back to the door, but that was not where the threat would be. The spider lurked at the center of her web, not the extremity.
Or, in this case, sat gracefully.
“Lillith, dear, please bring wine for our honored guest.”
The serving girl approached, a goblet of wine carried carefully in her hands. Her hair was long again, dark black tresses that had haunted his dreams, once, She walked slowly, as if in great pain. Much as Parmenio had for much of the journey from Media.
Memory flooded back, the woman collecting supplicant tithes his first visit. The Pythia silhouetted against the sky of his second. And now the serving girl of his third. Luxurious black hair, worn long once again, slow rolling gait, feet wrapped in cloth, and stout sandals. One woman, three guises.
“Do drink up, my lord. It is, I trust, to your expectations?” The cup was placed before him.
Now.
“Madam, what sort of fool do you take me for?”
“My lord, whatever do you mean?” Her face was innocent.
“I know a poisoned cup when I see one.”
A womanly laugh, once calculated to be dismissive and place him at ease. “Surely you exaggerate, My Lord Parmenio.”
A smile of his own. “Surely a woman of your . . . talents . . . recognizes that just because one is paranoid, it does not mean there is not someone pursuing you.” The cup shimmered invitingly.
He rose from the couch. “Now, Madam . . . it is Lillith, is it not?”
“It is.”
“Lillith . . . please sit. Your feet must surely hurt.”
From her posture, it was clear that she was no servant girl. One did not live in court with royalty to not recognize the bearing.
“And call the boy in from the hall. I do not make a habit of walking into a room that I do not already know how to walk out of.”
“I doubt that.” The boy now stood inside the doorway, a small bow held low in his hands, ready to be drawn if need be.
“Now then, I do believe that introductions are in order. My ladies, you are both from Persian lands, are you not? Near the coast?”
Naamah raised an eyebrow as Lillith suppressed a smile. “Canaan, actually.”
“And the boy?”
“Phaeton . . . ” He hesitated. Naamah nodded for him to finish. “Phaeton Phoebus Apollo.”
“And you are Greek, and much younger than both of these lovely ladies?”
With another nod from the woman, her authority confirmed. “Yes. And you, sir, are one of us.”
“From your own youthful appearance, our three previous encounters, and my own greater resistance to the ravages of time and human action, that does appear to be the case.”
“So, Parmenio” Naamah was no longer deferential, but a Queen holding court. “You understand why we were concerned.”
“Madam, if you deal with men who merely concern you in such a . . . permanent . . . manner, I would not wish to become your enemy. No, I imagine I could drink your offered cup and die quite pleasantly.
“This places us at a temporary impasse. You have no wish for your . . . longevity . . . to be exposed. Young master Apollo can hide as a deity, at least for now. You two most assuredly cannot.
“On the other hand, I have no wish to die at this present time. I believe we will have to come to another arrangement.”
The reply came not from Naamah, but from Lillith. “And what do you have to offer, Parmenio, other than your silence? A silence that can be obtained far more assuredly and far more irrevocably by yonder cup or Phaeton’s bow?”
“Something far more valuable than my silence, Mistress Lillith.”
“And what would that be?”
“Myself.”
“I do not understand why we would find that commodity of any value,” Naamah lied as easily as she breathed, “having just agreed that you are a threat to us.”
“Ask the boy. If you did not kill him when he proved to be immortal, you most assuredly will not kill me now that you believe me to be the same.”
Neither woman batted an eye. They were too well trained. “Very well, Parmenio. We will accept. Shall we drink to our arrangement?”
“There is one additional condition I wish to add.”
Naamah cocked her head in inquiry. “And what is that condition?”
“That I may place your offered cup before the man who murdered my son.”