Hephaistion clambered up the rocky outcrop to stand and look over the landscape before him, taking comfort in the solitude he found away from his home...that did not feel like home to him anymore. He caught his breath and looked down to his naked chest, running his fingers over the scar there, which was fading already, though his recovery had been slow and he did not feel so fit as he might have been. He stared over at the mountains that held Laconia, embracing the land like a mother might embrace a favoured child and he sighed to feel the way he did now, remembering when life had seemed good.
A cool breeze blew and he wrapped his red cloak around himself and as it lifted in the breeze, the patches sewn on it caught his eye and he looked up towards the heavens and wondered which God had brought shame on him, why the fates had been so cruel. "I always did my best," he murmured to the breeze. He looked to the patches again, knowing they marked him as a coward and he pressed his lips together in anger at the injustice that he felt to have to wear them. He had shunned men who were known as cowards, never thinking that their assumed cowardice might have been misjudged, that they might have had good cause, like he had. Sitting down on the rocks Hephaistion looked over to his home, resting his head upon his right hand, thinking for a moment that his beard needed trimming. He laughed bitterly, nothing mattered anymore.
Yet, still he knew he was better staying where he was than to have to walk the streets below getting disapproving glances and having to yield to everyone before he ate, before he took a place in the theatre. Better he took his dagger and cut through a vein. Better he seek a battle where he could die in a brave act, and be redeemed, be called a hero by his death. Crying was weak. He swallowed back his self pity and sat and let the world go by until it grew dark, then rising to his feet he made his way back to the town, thinking it was a braver act to walk the streets of Sparta with patches on his cloak, than ever to stand in the phalanx or ride in a cavalry charge.
OOXXOO
He sought no company and was glad to find the streets deserted, he knew the city well enough to find his way in the dark. The barracks might still be busy but he knew a way in where he would not be noticed and could find his way to his bed. That way was guarded. Two men, one holding a torch, stood by the doorway talking. Hephaistion recognised them as Laterides and Charilus and wondered what two senior men of the city would be doing there. He came to a halt, his way was barred and he wondered, for a moment, if he was to be denied the comfort of the barracks from now on. "Hephaistion?" Charilus asked, holding up the torch to see more clearly. "It's him, " Laterides, said gruffly, spitting on the ground afterwards. Charilus looked to Laterides, then to him. "Come with us," he said. Hephaistion followed.
No doubt he would have to find another place to sleep. It was no surprise, he should have considered himself lucky not to have been homeless from the start, but he had found his way alone before and he could do it again.
He studied the two men, who said nothing but seemed eager not to be seen out on the street, hurrying along, taking all the backstreets they could find. Eventually, they headed through the gate of a large house, where lamps were lit. Hephaistion had never been inside it before and he did not recognise the three other men who waited there.
"Have you said anything?" one of them asked.
"We were not going to talk on the street," Laterides replied, going over to the table to pour himself a cup of wine.
Hephaistion noted there were no servants about.
"They say you have the blood of Leonidas flowing through your veins," a second man said, his eyes looking to the patches on the cloak. His dark eyes then looked up to appraise the man before him. "And yet you trembled in battle." He sighed loudly and shook his head, rubbing his right hand over his face.
"Leonidas alright," Charilus agreed, "I hear he did so well in training, there were hopes for him."
"And yet he trembled," Laterides said, and spat again.
"Talk to him, Diomache."
Diomache was the second man. He looked around the room, to silently gain the approval of all there. "We have just returned from Delphi, " he began. "And we were told that...'A son of Leonidas will have the lion at his feet, a strike to the heart, he will wear the wreath'."
"You are sure he is the only descendant?" asked the first man.
"The only one left alive," Charilus said.
"A trembler." Diomache shook his head. "Hardly up to the task."
"The oracle can not be wrong," Laterides insisted.
"Is there no other?"
Laterides laughed and looked on Diomache as though he was a fool. "I would have said," he snapped.
There was a silence. Hepaistion looked at each of the men, then around the room. He had nothing to say. Diomache sighed, looked to his friends and then took a gold handled dagger from his belt and placed it on a table beside him, looking on it as if he had not seen it before, as if it were something to revere, a gift from the gods, from Hephaestus himself. Slowly, he looked at Hephaistion, concern showing in his eyes clearly, even by the lamplight. "A son of Leonidas...you, Hephaistion. We want you to take this dagger and strike in to the heart of Alexander of Macedon." He hesitated a moment.
Hephaistion did not allow himself to react. He stood still and upright as if he had heard nothing.
"Kill him and you do the rest of Greece a favour. Sparta can regain its glory...and you, Hephaistion, can regain your honour." "In death," Laterides said. "You sacrifice yourself for Sparta."
Looking at the dagger, Hephaistion thought it had been made for an assassin's hand, too fine for battle, the blade too delicate. "You act as if the grandeur of Sparta still exists, as it did in Leonidas' day," he said. "You cling to the words of gods, try to retain what has long since turned to dust, turn away from the old ways but when it suits you enforce the old laws..."
"Hephaistion!" Laterides snapped.
Hephaistion looked to the man. He had once respected him, now he just saw a bitter old man.
"It has to be a son of Leonidas...it has to be you, Hephaistion."
"And if I refuse?"
"Trembler," Diomache muttered and shook his head.
Hephaistion sighed. He was tired of this life. He stepped forward and reached out for the dagger, lifting it in his hand and studying the hilt. "I never thought myself an assassin, " he said, "but what is this Alexander to me?" He placed the dagger in his belt, accepting what was asked of him. The fates had brought him a way to die and he was glad for it, and if a tyrant would accompany him to Hades, then so be it. "When do we leave?