Spartans at the Gates (28 page)

Nikias did as he was told, slowly pulling his arm out of the bandage with his left hand, grimacing with pain. Akilles felt roughly under his armpit, and then, satisfied there was nothing dangerous concealed there, helped Nikias put his arm back in the sling with the efficient ease of someone familiar with the care of battlefield injuries.

“I know you,” said Akilles, giving Nikias a steely look. “I fought you in the Oxlands. Two years ago. At the Festival of Demeter.”

Nikias suddenly remembered. He'd only been sixteen at the time. He'd broken Akilles's thumb before getting him into a stranglehold and burying his face in the sand, whereupon the older athlete had raised his littlest finger in the sign of defeat. “Good match,” said Nikias.

“Good for you,” said Akilles. “You nearly broke my neck. I'd never been beaten before I fought you.” He pointed at the marble stairs gleaming in the moonlight. “Proceed.”

“We're meeting him up there?” Nikias asked Phoenix in surprise.

“The chief's office is up there,” said Phoenix. “In the armory.” He mounted the steps, taking them two at a time.

Nikias followed. He'd climbed much steeper and longer places in the mountains back home, but by the time he'd got halfway he was already winded. Fatigue. Not enough food or sleep. It wore him down. He glanced back and saw Akilles a few steps behind. The big man's eyes bored into him.

Phoenix waited for Nikias at the top by some wooden construction equipment—huge hoists with gears and pulleys, and a large crane.

Two Skythian archers stood nearby, eyeing them distrustfully, and Nikias could see several more of the barbarians patrolling the area higher up where the Temple of Athena stood.

“This entrance that's being built,” said Phoenix proudly, “is the final building to grace the Akropolis.” He swept his arm across the unfinished structure in front of them. “The Propylae Gates. We Athenians turn everything into something divine, cousin. At least that's what Perikles is always saying. He has a flair for the dramatic, our Perikles does.”

“I haven't been here since I was a boy,” said Nikias in wonder, turning his gaze from building to building. “And they had just begun the construction then. That was less than ten years ago.”

“Wait until Perikles has his way with the rest of the city,” declared Phoenix. He gazed out over the shimmering sea with a faint smile on his face. “The wealth we're bringing in from the other islands will turn Athens into a city that will last until the end of the world.”

“Hmphh,” muttered Akilles.

Phoenix nodded at Akilles and said to Nikias, “Akilles here is the chief's personal guard. We've been on a few voyages together, haven't we, Akilles?”

“I haven't counted,” said Akilles in a monotone.

Before Phoenix could come up with a proper retort, a young clerk scurried from a nearby building and gestured for Nikias and Phoenix to follow. “Come,” said the clerk impatiently. “You're late. Come, come.” They followed him through an archway and past two lightly armored Greek guards, stopping at the threshold of a rectangular room. Nikias saw Akilles take up a position in the shadows, leaning against a wall, eyeing him with a blank face.

Inside the room was a long table—the longest Nikias had ever seen—almost entirely covered with papyrus rolls and scale models of machinery and buildings. The room was lit by several oil lanterns that hung by chains from the ceiling, casting the chamber in a flickering glow. Along one wall was a row of orange-and-black vases decorated with images of warriors engaged in combat.

A man stood at the end of the table wearing a plain robe wrapped over his shoulders against the chill of night. His palms rested on the tabletop, bare arms locked straight in an attitude of deep concentration as he stared down at a diagram on the table. He was in his sixties, but still had the muscular arms of an athlete in his prime. His pate, however, was completely bald, revealing an oddly shaped skull that reminded Nikias of the onion-like bulb on a bullwhip kelp.

Nikias reckoned this man must be an architect, studying his plans for the next day's work. But then Phoenix said, “Peace, General Perikles,” and Nikias flinched, standing up a little straighter.

“So this is the man himself?” he thought.

Perikles. The leader of the Athenian Empire. The general who'd driven the last vestiges of barbarians from Greek territory and sacked any city that rebelled against the Delian League. The politician who'd brazenly moved the League's treasury from the island of Delos to Athens. The visionary who made no qualms about turning Athens into the seat of the empire and pouring tax money into its temples and public buildings.…

Perikles looked up from his work to reveal a long face with a thick beard streaked with gray. He had a full lower lip that jutted forward slightly, giving him a shrewd and contemplative look. His intelligent eyes flicked from Phoenix to Nikias.

“Peace, Phoenix,” replied Perikles.

“My cousin,” said Phoenix, gesturing for Nikias to step forward. “Nikias, son of Aristo of Plataea.”

Perikles regarded Nikias for a long moment, then strode around the table with his right arm outstretched. Nikias stepped forward.

“I tore my shoulder ligament,” he blurted. “An injury.” He offered his left hand awkwardly. Perikles—a big, well-built man who towered over Nikias once they stood face-to-face—took his left hand and clasped it. The general took in the scars and scabs on Nikias's face with a raise of his eyebrows.

“I have heard the report of the battle,” said Perikles. “The emissary from Plataea singled you out as one of the heroes in the defeat of the Thebans. But I had no idea you'd come with them from Plataea. I would have asked to meet you earlier. I am an old acquaintance of your grandfather, whom I hold in great esteem, and I would have heard of the battle from your perspective—from the young man who led the cavalry charge against the Theban phalanx and routed it.”

Nikias could not help the feeling of pride swelling his heart. To have a renowned man such as Perikles praise his deeds! He noticed that Perikles spoke with the refined accent of an Athenian nobleman, but there was a toughness in his voice and his face that Nikias immediately liked. None of the perfumed hair or stuck-up airs of the other Athenians he'd met in the city.

“I didn't come with the emissaries,” Nikias said guiltily. “I came to Athens on my own.”

“I'll wager you've got an interesting story to tell,” said Perikles, clearly intrigued yet puzzled. He held a forearm across his chest, resting his other elbow on this shelf of an arm, and stroked his beard with his other hand—a calculating expression. “When I heard you were in the city I assumed your grandfather had sent you with a message for my ears alone. A message differing from the one I received from the official Plataean emissaries.”

The way that he said this gave Nikias the distinct impression that Perikles had not been pleased at all with the message his grandfather had sent with the emissaries.

“And who could he trust more than his own heir?” continued Perikles with the slightest arching of his eyebrows.

Phoenix shot Nikias an angry glance as if to say, “Speak up, you idiot.” Nikias clenched his teeth and glared at Phoenix. He wished his cousin would leave so he could talk to Perikles alone.

“I came to find men,” said Nikias. “To raise an army of fighters to return with me to help defend Plataea.” The instant he uttered the words they sounded so foolish to his own ears that he felt himself turning scarlet. But Perikles did not scoff. Rather he regarded Nikias with an even more serious expression.

“Did your grandfather give you leave to come here?” asked Perikles, staring at Nikias's long hair. “You're still underage.”

“He did not,” said Nikias, meeting his eyes again. “I came of my own accord. And I just turned eighteen. But I have yet to shear my hair and burn it. The ceremony was interrupted by the invasion.” It was a bit of a lie, he knew. But he didn't want to tell Perikles he'd been in jail at the time of the ceremony of manhood, accused of murdering Kallisto's brother.

“You came alone? Through Megarian territory?” asked Perikles.

“Yes.”

“A dangerous journey.”

“A risk worth taking,” replied Nikias.

Perikles turned to Phoenix and said, “Please wait outside. I need to speak with your cousin alone.”

Phoenix nodded and bowed slightly. As he turned and passed Nikias he gave him a look that said, “You're on your own now. Good luck.”

 

NINE

Perikles stared into Nikias's face for the longest time, nodding his head slightly and smiling faintly. Nikias stared back, not knowing whether he should speak or not.

“You resemble your mother,” said Perikles at last.

“So I am told,” said Nikias. “You knew her?”

“
Knew?
” replied Perikles with a frown. “Then she is dead?”

“Killed by Theban raiders,” said Nikias, his throat constricting as he spoke the hated words.

Perikles put a hand on Nikias's shoulder and dropped his head. “Yes, I knew her,” he said with a note of deep sadness in his voice. “She was a famous beauty in Athens. My nephew wished to marry her, but she was carried away like Helen by a young Oxlander—a poet as I recall.”

“My father
was
a poet,” said Nikias. “He was killed at a battle near Koronea.”

“That battle was a failure,” said Perikles, removing his hand from Nikias's shoulder. “But your father's death was no less glorious than any warrior killed at Marathon.”

Nikias felt his eyes welling up. He looked away from Perikles, ashamed that he couldn't control his feelings in front of this man, his gaze searching the room for something to focus on, to keep himself from bursting into tears. He felt like a child. He wanted to tell Perikles that his father hadn't died a glorious death. He'd been speared in the groin, and had perished in agony, amidst the carnage of a defeated army. What did his father's death mean?

Nothing but humiliation and horror.

His gaze passed along the row of painted vases showing scenes of warriors engaged in combat. The shifting light from the hanging lamps seemed to give movement to the painted figures: men from Homer's day, jabbing at each other with spears or riding war chariots pulled by galloping steeds. His eyes alighted on a vase showing a dead warrior carted from a battlefield by two smiling combatants. “They're grinning because they're still alive,” thought Nikias. The corpse they carried hung limp and slack-jawed, his eye staring at the sky as dead as a fish's.

“Honorable,” replied Nikias at last. “But not glorious.”

Perikles's lower lip jutted forward. “The two go hand in hand.”

“Do they?” asked Nikias.

Perikles peered into Nikias's eyes. “Why have you come here, lad?” he asked.

“I told you—”

“To raise an army? Ridiculous. Tell me the
real
reason. Why did you want to see me?”

Nikias took a deep breath. The words he wished to speak were bitter on his tongue. “If Athens will not help Plataea with warriors,” he forced himself to say, “then we must be allowed to break our oath. Otherwise we will be destroyed.”

Nikias had expected Perikles to react in disgust or rage. But Perikles merely nodded and said in a bemused tone, “That is impossible, you cannot break your oath,” as though Nikias had suggested something absurd—that the citadel of Plataea should grow giant legs and march out of the Oxlands!

Nikias replied, “What good is Plataea to Athens if we're wiped off the earth?”

“No good at all.”

“But—”

“Follow me,” said Perikles. He turned and strode to the other side of the room, pausing to pick up a bronze oil lamp from the long table, and then he passed through a doorway at the end of the room into another chamber. Nikias followed. This anteroom was darker than the other. It took Nikias's eyes a while to adjust to the dim light. He saw at least twenty square tables. Each tabletop was covered with earth and rocks to simulate different kinds of terrain. And each table had a model of … what were they? It was hard to tell in this shadowy room.

Perikles set the lamp down upon the table in front of them and Nikias saw, illuminated in the lamplight, a model of a citadel. And then recognition came to him. It was as if he were standing on a familiar cliff top, gazing down into the Oxlands.

“Plataea,” said Nikias with a tone of wonder, staring at the model of his city that had been meticulously constructed on this diorama. Everything was there. He could see the walls complete with each tower, and the Temple of Zeus, the Assembly Hall, the agora!

“As you can see,” explained Perikles, “your home weighs heavily in my thoughts. I've stood on the heights of the Kithaeron Mountains several times in my life, gazing down on the plains of the Oxlands, and I've seen your citadel down below, at the foot of the mountain, rising up from the ground as though it had sprung from the earth itself. Strong! Like a hoplite in the best armor and shield—an Ajax ready to face down any foe.”

“I fear the Spartans are too great an enemy,” murmured Nikias. He glanced at Perikles, who frowned as if Nikias had said something distasteful. Or unmanly. And Nikias felt ashamed again.

“You think the Spartans can storm the mighty walls of Plataea?” asked Perikles. “They've never defeated a city-state in a siege. It is not in their nature. They haven't the mental faculties for such a campaign. They're bluffing. The walls of Plataea are twenty feet thick.”

“They'll starve us out, like the Helots of Mount Ithome,” said Nikias.

“A possibility,” said Perikles. “Something my generals and I have contemplated. And that is why we have decided”—here he paused briefly, nodding his head sagely—“that you must bring all of the women and children to Athens immediately.”