Spartans at the Gates (29 page)

Nikias looked at Perikles in amazement. “Now?”

“Any loyal friend of Athens is a citizen of Athens,” explained Perikles. “The people of Plataea can live in the citadel for one year with the stores you have accumulated. Your grandfather's own report told me as much. If your city were occupied by warriors alone, you could hold out for several years. The Spartans would never stay in the Oxlands for more than a season. They are stepping into bilge-water as it is. Soon they'll be up to their necks in it. We've had word that there have been more Helot uprisings in Sparta.”

Nikias contemplated everything that Perikles said. It all sounded so reasonable. He imagined his grandmother, Kallisto, and his sister Phile protected by the high walls of Athens. Safe and well fed. He saw Plataea's warriors—inspired by the Athenian generosity—standing firm against an inept Spartan onslaught, the red-cloaked warriors attacking the high walls of Plataea like a gang of children attempting to break down a stone wall with nothing more than sticks and rocks.

Perikles said, “You can either submit to the Spartans and become their slaves, or stand up to them with the hope of survival. Which would you have?” he asked in a challenging tone.

“I would stand up to them,” replied Nikias. And once he had said these words out loud—words uttered with passion—he knew that he could never question Plataea's path again. It was as if the Fates had, at his birth, woven a golden thread leading straight to the Spartan army camped outside of Plataea. And now that thread had been revealed to him. All that Nikias had to do was follow this thread to his destiny. Victory or defeat. There was no other choice. No middle path. “I fear slavery more than death,” he said.

Perikles smiled. “And that's the kind of man with whom I would choose to be friends. Far better to die a glorious and honorable death than to skulk away like a whipped dog. The Spartans live wretched lives, Nikias, and so it is easy for them to face death. For those of us who have been blessed to be citizens of a democracy like Plataea or Athens—where the good things in life are revered and savored and enjoyed—dying in battle for us is … well … it's even
more
of a sacrifice. And that's why our deaths are held even higher in the eyes of the gods.”

Nikias thought of all those he knew who had died in the Theban sneak attack. Did the gods really consider their deaths to be more honorable? It made perfect sense. The Thebans had broken the rules of war. The Plataeans, however, had died to save everything that they held dear—their family and friends and their beloved city-state. He wondered why his grandfather had never inspired him like Perikles. Never made him feel like he could take on an entire phalanx of the enemy all by himself. Perikles was a great man, just like everyone said. A kind and generous man. A thinking warrior. A builder of cities.

“What can I do?” asked Nikias, overcome with emotion. “How can I serve you, General Perikles?”

Perikles beamed at Nikias. “I would keep you here by my side and have you serve as my shield man if I could,” said Perikles. “But I must send you back to your grandfather. You will return with the emissaries and deliver my message to Arkon Menesarkus with your own voice.”

“And what is the message?” asked Nikias.

“Stand firm,” said Perikles. “And give me your wives and children to look after. I will be their shepherd, their guardian, until the enemy is driven from the Oxlands.”

His head swimming, Nikias followed Perikles out of the anteroom into the chamber containing the long table and the vases. As he passed the table he glanced at it and saw what Perikles had been looking at when he and Phoenix had first entered the room: it was a large map, spread out on the table. And on the map was a drawing of a narrow isthmus with the name
POTIDAEA
written above it. A small bronze warship had been positioned on the map next to Potidaea. Nikias remembered that this was the “shit-pot” that Phoenix had mentioned at the inn. The place the Athenians now had under siege. And to the northeast of Potidaea on this map was drawn another walled citadel. A model trireme advanced toward it menacingly. It was a city-state that Nikias had never heard of called Skione.

Perikles led him through the chamber and outside—into the cool night air and courtyard in front of the building. Here a gathering of men waited for Perikles: the armed guards, two clerks, and Phoenix, who had somehow procured a mug of wine and a chunk of bread. Nikias spotted the bodyguard Akilles as well, still standing in the shadows like a statue.

“Wait here,” Perikles said to Nikias. “We're not done yet.”

Perikles took one of his clerks aside and began a whispered conversation. Phoenix sauntered over to Nikias and offered him his cup. Nikias took it and drained the contents.

“What happened in there?” asked Phoenix.

“I don't rightly know,” said Nikias.

“The chief has that effect on people.”

Nikias noticed the clerk who Perikles was talking to shoot a curious glance his way, and then the man bowed slightly to the general before turning and dashing away into the armory, reaching for a ring of keys on his belt as he ran.

“Come,” said Perikles, gesturing to Phoenix and Nikias. “To the Temple of Athena now. To beg the goddess's blessing for your journey home.”

Nikias fell in behind Perikles. They walked through the half-built gates, and then up another flight of stairs to where the temple stood, and then up the steps of the temple itself. Now they were passing between the tall painted pillars that seemed so perfectly proportioned. Nikias remembered something Chusor had told him about the design of these pillars, but he couldn't remember exactly what his friend had said because his mind was in a whirl. He could see the gigantic statue of Athena up ahead, the gold shining in the torchlight, and he felt the skin on the back of his neck tingle with excitement. Perikles led them up to the base of the statue and stopped, holding up his hands.

“Bright-eyed goddess,” intoned Perikles in a deep voice, “inventive, pure, savior of Athens, mother of arts, warlike, born from the wise head of Zeus himself wearing armor glinting of gold, the gods themselves were in awe when they gazed upon your beautiful form.…”

Nikias craned his neck, staring up at the ivory face of the goddess, the droning voice of Perikles lulling him into a trance. Nikias had no idea how much time had passed. He might have even dozed off, standing on his feet. For when he looked up he saw Perikles unsheathing a sword—the sheath held by the clerk who'd been sent off to the armory just before they'd come up to the temple.

“This sword has served me well in many battles,” said Perikles. He walked directly to Nikias and handed him the weapon. “It is yours now, Nikias of Plataea. Yours to use in the defense of your citadel—our friend and ally until the end of time, blessed by warlike Pallas Athena, under her gaze, all-victorious, goddess of good fortune.”

Nikias took the sword with his trembling left hand. It was beautifully made. He held up the double-edged, leaf-shaped blade and looked upon his own face reflected in the polished surface. He saw tears streaming down his cheeks and was surprised. He wondered how long he'd been crying.

*   *   *

“Plow an oar in my arse,” exclaimed Phoenix after he and Nikias were alone again, walking down the steep steps of the Akropolis. “I think the chief likes you.”

Nikias smiled. He grasped the sword in its scabbard with a fierce pride. He glanced over his shoulder to where Akilles followed a few steps behind them. The bodyguard had the faintest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth yet a venomous gleam was in his eyes.

“Perfect conditions,” said Phoenix.

“Huh?” asked Nikias.

“The water,” said Phoenix, pointing down the length of the Long Walls toward the port of Piraeus four miles away. The bay was nearly flat. There was no breeze. “We leave after dawn.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Nikias, confused.

“You and the Plataean emissaries,” said Phoenix. “We're taking you back to Plataea via Delphinium, to the east of Thebes. I'm to captain the chief's own dispatch ship. After we drop you off you'll be given horses in Delphinium. You'll have to ride from there.”

“But that will take us three times as long,” said Nikias. “It's so much faster to just go back on the northern road to the fortress of the Three Heads at the pass.”

“The Spartans have taken the Three Heads,” cut in Phoenix. “Word came last night. One of our men who was at the stronghold escaped and fled to Athens on horseback with the news.”

Nikias felt the world spin. The Three Heads was the fortress guarding the narrow pass through the Kithaeron Mountains to the Oxlands. It had never been taken by the enemy—not in the two hundred years since it had been built.

“How was it captured?” he asked incredulously.

“How am I to know?” replied Phoenix. “But the Spartans control the pass, and there's no other way back over the Kithaeron Mountains now. It's the water road for you, cousin.”

 

TEN

Osyrus the Skythian strode toward a great
kargon
burial mound built on the top of a treeless hill. The wind howled in his ears and a vast black cloud hung in the sky overhead. He saw flashes of lightning, but strangely heard no thunder. The world was grim and dark.

As he slowly climbed the hill and got closer to the
kargon
he was struck with awe: the mound was the biggest he'd ever seen—fit for a king of Skythia. It rose like a firm breast from the crown of the hill, and surrounding it was a ring of dead horses. These animals had been gutted and stuffed with chaff, then affixed to poles that were stuck into the ground. An offering to the dead man buried beneath this heap of sod.

Osyrus perceived that on each of the horses was mounted a human corpse that had been prepared in the same way as the steeds. And they were positioned in the customary way so that they appeared to be riding at full gallop, both hands on the reins, heads bent down and leaning over the horses' manes, racing into the afterlife with their dead eyes wide open.

This was an exceptional offering, considered Osyrus, and he felt a thrill of wonder. What an honor! If only he might be so lucky one day to receive such a
kargon
. But then the lightning flashed directly overhead, and he clearly saw the nearest faces and he cried out, for he had recognized the corpses of his mother and father mounted on two of the horses.

Osyrus ran from horse to horse, peering at each dead rider, seeing his aunts and uncles and cousins and childhood friends … even a priest of Papaeus. All of his kin had been killed and positioned on the dead steeds. He looked down and saw, with horror, that his own torso had been ripped open and stuffed with chaff.

And then he noticed there was one riderless horse waiting for him.

The dead began to hiss a whispered chorus. The riders were calling to him.

Osyrus forced himself to look away from the
kargon
. In the distance he saw a red-haired boy riding across the grasslands, chased by a band of enemy Nuri.

“Kolax!” he tried to scream, but his voice made no sound. His lungs had been stolen from his breast. The bloody organs lay at his feet, glistening on the dark grass.

Osyrus awoke in the dark with a gasping breath, clutching his aching stomach. He lay very still for a while, lost in a haze of nightmarish images that were slowly fading back to the world of dreams from which they'd come to torment him, as they did on most nights.

For a while he had absolutely no idea where he was. The hemp did that to him sometimes. He'd been smoking more and more of it to ease the terrible pain that had been growing inside his belly for the last year. It burned in the pit of his stomach like a hot coal.

He stood up, swaying precariously, then reached out probing hands for the shutters that he knew were there, somewhere on the wall. He found the wooden panels and opened them, leaning on the sill and breathing in the cool air. The light from the stars still shined brightly. He could see the constellation of the Archer and the three bright stars in a row that made up the god's belt; but a dim glow to the east told him the great god Papaeus would soon show his bright face to the world, riding his fiery chariot across the sky and covering the stars with his multicolored cloak.

The nightmare came rushing back into his memory. The same nightmare he had had for months.

A message from the horse goddess!

Last week a grain ship had come to the port of Piraeus from Skythia with a disturbing tale: old King Astyanax had died and his bastard son had usurped the throne, supported by the Nuri, who had taken this opportunity to massacre their enemies, ending the decades-long truce between the tribes.

The Bindis, Osyrus's tribe, would be the first to suffer at the hands of this new regime.

A cock crowed in one of the courtyards near the jail. The smell of woodsmoke wafted across his face and made him feel queasy. He cursed himself for this weakness. Smells had never made him sick before. Something evil was working on him in this city of the Athenians. Six years he'd lived here, seeking gold to bring back to Skythia. Six long years he'd paced the tops of the citadel's stone walls—a dull job without a single enemy skull to show for it. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd ridden a horse.

He clutched at his stomach as a stabbing sensation nearly caused him to double over in agony. He knew he was dying. He'd seen this before—the wasting disease that turned a strong man into a living corpse. He didn't have much time. If the tales of Astyanax's death and the Skythian massacres were found to be true, there was only one thing he could do. He must take a ship back to Skythia and try to find his son. He would be nine seasons now. The Horse Goddess had let him know that Kolax was still alive by showing him the red-haired boy in his dream—the one chased by the Nuri.