Dark Prince by David Gemmell Page A

see him ride Titan. He will fall very hard.”
    “Perhaps,” agreed Mothac, “but on the day you would be wise to consider placing a different bet. Now finish your grooming—and remember what I said about the Persian.”
    Parmenion was mildly drunk and at ease for the first time in months. The wide doors of the
andron
were open to the north winds, and a gentle breeze filtered through the hangings, leaving the room pleasantly cool. It was not a large room, with only three couches, and the walls were bare of ornament or paintings. Mothac liked to live simply and never entertained,yet there was a warmth about his home that Parmenion missed when away from the estate.
    “Are you happy?” asked the Spartan suddenly.
    “Are you talking to me or yourself?” Mothac countered.
    “By the gods, you are sharp tonight. I was talking to you.”
    “Happy enough. This is life, Parmenion. I watch things grow, the barley and the grain, the horses and the cattle. It makes me part of the land. Yes, I am content.”
    Parmenion nodded, his expression grave. “That must be a good feeling.” He grinned and sat up. “Do you still miss Persia and the palace?”
    “No. This is my home.” The Theban leaned forward, gripping the Spartan’s shoulder. “We have been friends for a lifetime, Parmenion. Can you not tell me what is troubling you?”
    Parmenion’s hand came up to grip Mothac’s arm. “It is because we are friends that I do not. Five years ago I had a cancer in my brain. That was healed. But now there is a different kind of cancer in my heart—no, not a real one, my friend,” he said swiftly, seeing the concern in the old Theban’s eyes. “But I dare not talk of it—even to you—for it would put a heavy burden on you. Trust me in this, Mothac. You are my dearest friend, and I would die for you. But do not ask me to share my … my sorrow.”
    Mothac said nothing for a moment, then he refilled their goblets. “Then let us get drunk and talk nonsense,” he said, forcing a smile.
    “That would be good. What duties have you set yourself for tomorrow?”
    “I have two lame horses I will be taking to the lake. Swimming helps strengthen their muscles. After that I shall be horse trading with a Persian named Parzalamis.”
    “I will see you by the lake at noon,” said the Spartan.
    The two men walked out into the night, and Mothac saw a lantern burning in the foaling stable. Cursing softly, he walked across to the building, Parmenion following. Inside Croni, Orsin, and three other Thessalians were sitting around the body of the mare Larina. The pure black foal was lying beside its dead mother.
    “Why did you not call me?” thundered Mothac. Croni stood and bowed low.
    “The bleeding stopped, master. She only collapsed a short while ago.”
    “We must get the foal another milk mare.”
    “Terias has gone to fetch one, master,” Orsin told him.
    “Mothac moved past the dark-haired boy and knelt by the mare, laying his huge hand on her neck. “You were a fine dam, Larina. The best,” he said.
    Croni sidled forward. “It is the curse of Titan,” he said. “He is a demon beast, and the son will be the same.”
    “Nonsense!” said Parmenion, his voice harsh. “Have Titan in the riding circle tomorrow. I shall tame him.”
    “Yes, lord,” answered Croni miserably. “It will be as you say.”
    Turning on his heel Parmenion strode from the stable. Mothac caught up with him, grabbing his arm. “You should not have said that,” he whispered. “The Thessalians know their horseflesh. The beast is insane—and so are you if you attempt to ride him.”
    “I have said what I will do,” Parmenion muttered. “I have not seen a horse I cannot ride.”
    “I hope you can say that tomorrow,” grunted Mothac.
    The great house was silent as Parmenion rode through the cypress grove toward the main doors. Not a light showed at any window, yet as he reached the front of the house, his manservant, Peris, ran forward to take