Spartans at the Gates (30 page)

He gathered his long, loose hair and tied it into a knot on the top of his head. Then he reached for his dagger, taking it down from the wall where it hung by a metal hook. He strapped it to his waist, then removed his captain's whip from its hook and clutched it in his right hand. He'd had to use the scourge to stop three blood duels in the last week between various tribesmen who made up the five-hundred-man Skythian police force.

It was the Nuri who were causing all the problems.

They'd become cocky, emboldened by the rumors of their tribe's ascendancy back home. The archer called Skandar had been sneering at Osyrus all week—pissing on him with his eyes. Skandar coveted Osyrus's position as a captain of the police. Skandar most likely knew that Osyrus was ill. He was like a dog waiting to attack the wounded leader of a hunting pack.

Osyrus wondered if he could beat the younger man in a knife duel. No. Not in the weakened state he was in now. The only way he could get the upper hand with Skandar would be by surprise.

Osyrus took a few deep breaths to steady himself—to will away the pain in his gut. He strode to the door and opened it. The guards he'd posted there were alert. They were good men. Bindis like himself. But there were only twenty-five of his tribesmen still in Athens. One hundred and fifty Bindis had been sent up north, to help lay siege to Potidaea, because, of course, Bindis were the very best of all the Skythian archers. Those men had been gone a year and Osyrus had no idea when they would return. Until then, he and his brethren were far outnumbered by the other tribes in Athenian employ. And if the bastard king had taken over the throne and massacred their kinsmen back in Skythia, Osyrus and his tribesmen were now in grave danger, even here in Athens. The Athenians had no notion of Skythian laws, and let them govern themselves.

“Bring the boy to the yard,” commanded Osyrus. “And strap him to the whipping posts.”

Osyrus went down to the courtyard and waited. Torches burned in the sconces on the walls, but the sun rose and the sky glowed red. More cocks crowed in the houses nearby the jail, and the hens chattered excitedly. A billow of woodsmoke from the jail's kitchen wafted over his face and before Osyrus knew what was happening he was bent over, retching onto the stones.

“What's this, Osyrus?” asked a voice dripping with mockery. “Can't hold your drink? I guess it's true what they say—‘Bindis are all mare-milkers.'”

Osyrus looked up to see Skandar chewing on a piece of bread. Standing next to him was one of his constant companions—another Nuri. Each had the image of a coiled snake tattooed on their left cheeks and they wore their hair in braided topknots festooned with gold loops. They were the only two Nuri assigned to the jail right now. The rest were on duty guarding the long walls.

Osyrus was astonished at Skandar's insolence. He felt an overpowering urge to stick his dagger into Skandar's brain, but all his strength had left him. He was relieved when the door leading to the underground cells burst open and his men appeared, dragging the frantically squirming boy. They brought him to the X-shaped post and tied him spread-eagle by his wrists and ankles.

“That's the one the Athenian general wanted,” said Skandar. “What are you doing with him?”

“Do not question my actions,” said Osyrus.

Skandar shrugged and remained to the side with his companion, chewing on his bread.

Osyrus walked across the courtyard to the whipping blocks. The gagged boy flailed against his straps, screaming deep in his throat. Osyrus peered deep into the child's blue eyes and said, “Why have you come, little beast? Why did you release the Korinthian? What game do you play?”

The boy's tear-filled eyes opened wide and he shook his head from side to side. Osyrus pulled his dagger from the sheath and held the point close to the boy's right eye and the boy became still.

“I think I'll snatch one of your evil eyes to start,” said Osyrus. “I'll stuff it in your mouth and you can chew on it while I peel the skin off your back.”

The boy shook his head and made a tortured grunting sound. Osyrus grinned. This child was a coward. He was already willing to talk. Osyrus slipped the dagger under the gag and slit it with a quick flick of his wrist, yanking the cloth from the boy's mouth.

Osyrus felt several eyes on his back and glanced around him. There were ten or so Skythians in the courtyard now, chewing on their morning bread, watching the show with interest. They loved a good whipping.

“Speak,” Osyrus commanded.

The boy took in a rattling breath and cleared his throat. “Papa,” he said with a voice full of sorrow. “It's me. Your son. Kolax.”

The Skythians within earshot laughed.

“A fine son too,” said Skandar snidely. “He favors you, Osyrus.”

Osyrus glared at the Skandar. “Did you put this vermin up to this?” he asked.

“Not I,” said Skandar, holding his belly and laughing. “I wish I had, though. It's the best joke ever.”

“Papa,” said the boy faintly, tears streaming from his eyes. “Believe me—”

Osyrus slashed his cheek below the eye. “Don't call me Papa!” he snarled.

The blood dripped down the boy's face and into the corner of his mouth. He licked at the blood and a crazed gleam appeared in his eyes.

And then he spat a huge gob of blood and mucus into Osyrus's face.

Osyrus staggered backward, swiping at his face with his sleeve. He glowered at the boy, but the wicked little goat actually smiled at him, flicking his eyes to the scourge in Osyrus's hand as if to goad him into whipping him. Osyrus lashed out, striking the boy across the face with the handle of the whip—a cruel blow that left a red welt across his cheeks and broke his nose. Blood gushed from his nostrils.

“I'll have every inch of his flesh!” screamed Osyrus. He moved around to the other side and whipped at the boy's bare legs. Once. Twice. Blows that ripped flesh from skin. The boy gasped in agony and Osyrus relished the sound. He paused and looked at the eager faces of the men in the courtyard. He would show them that Osyrus of the Bindi could still wield a captain's lash. That he could be merciless and fierce.

Osyrus heard a strange sound that made his blood run cold. The boy had stopped screaming, and now he was laughing. Laughing!

“Strip him!” bellowed Osyrus. He turned and walked away twenty paces, boiling with rage. The boy wouldn't laugh when he felt the full force of a
running
whip blow that would strip the skin of his spine and rib cage down to the bone.

One of Osyrus's men grabbed the boy's tunic, ripping it from his back with a swift downward movement, and then backed out of the way.

Osyrus focused on the boy's back in the dim light of dawn. He saw a dark pattern there. A tattoo! So the boy
was
a Skythian! A spy sent by the enemy. Perhaps the Nuri were now in league with the Korinthians!

Curiously, he realized that the boy had stopped moving. He was now as still as a statue. Excellent. He would cut the boy so deep his kidneys would spill from his wounds. Osyrus started running with the whip held out in front, snapping it back just before he reached the boy's still torso.

“Ayyeeeee!” screamed Osyrus, flinging the whip from his hand at the last instant and coming to a stop.

Osyrus couldn't breathe. The world seemed to tilt. He placed his hand on the boy's tattoo, ran his trembling fingers over the pattern. A memory came rushing back: the ceremonial tent and the smell of burning hemp, the priests chanting while Osyrus had sat next to the opium-drugged body of his only son, pounding the inked needles into his heir's skin to mark him in this world and the afterlife … so that they would never be separated.

The gryphon of the Bindi!

It was emblazoned on the boy's back in blue ink, just as it had looked when it had first been imprinted into his flesh. It was unmistakable. Tears burst from Osyrus's eyes. He raised his hands skyward and called out, “Goddess of Mares! What is happening?”

Shaking violently and ignoring the mutterings of the men watching him, Osyrus staggered around to face the boy, whose head now drooped down like a poppy heavy with rain. Osyrus placed both hands gently on each side of the boy's head and lifted his face to his own, choking out his name, “Ko—Kolax?”

Kolax smiled wanly and nodded.

“How did you come here?” asked Osyrus.

Kolax's eyelids fluttered, struggling to keep them open. Osyrus put his mouth to Kolax's ear and whispered, “Is Astyanax dead?” then looked at Kolax full in the face to see his reply. Kolax nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Did the Nuri massacre our kin?” breathed Osyrus.

Another nod, and then Kolax let forth a great sigh. “The Snow Dog seized the Grass Throne,” he managed to say. “I was captured and sold to a slaver … and sent to the Oxlands.” His eyes turned inward and he stopped speaking. Osyrus couldn't help himself as sobs ripped from his breast.

“Osyrus has gone mad,” muttered Skandar, stooping to pick up the whip that Osyrus had dropped. He strode forward and prodded the captain in the back with the handle, causing Osyrus's body to tense up. “Step aside. If you're not going to kill the boy, I'll deliver him to General Lukos and—”

There was a blur of movement and then Skandar staggered away from Osyrus, clutching at the side of his neck, scowling in surprise, staring at the bloody dagger now clutched in Osyrus's hand. He sank to his knees, then toppled over, pouring his lifeblood onto the dirty stones from the gash in his neck. Before the other Nuri tribesman in the courtyard could react, Osyrus leapt on him next, stabbing him through the heart. The man dropped dead at his feet.

The other eight Skythians exchanged surprised looks. They'd seen their own kind die before, but this slaughter had occurred without any seeming cause.

“Captain?” asked one Osyrus's men in astonishment.

“Why did you kill the Nuri?” asked another.

Osyrus moved swiftly, cutting Kolax free from his bonds. “Find all the Bindis who would still follow my hoofprints,” said Osyrus as he lifted Kolax's drooping body in his arms. “The rumors are true—Astyanax is dead. Krouspako has taken the throne. This boy here is my son. The goddess has brought him to me. I'm leaving Athens with him now.”

He kissed Kolax on the forehead and his son smiled faintly. Osyrus strode toward the archway that led to the stables. Word would spread quickly about the two Nuri he'd slain, and their brethren would come hunting for his head.

 

ELEVEN

Menesarkus hated that he had to rely on a walking staff now at all times. His wife told him that it made him look venerable—like a wise seer in a play. But Menesarkus felt more like a doddering old man in an absurd comedy. He had no choice but to use the prop, however, with his knee getting worse daily. He could barely put weight on it now, and he could feel bone grinding against bone every time he walked.

He strode across the busy agora toward the closed gates, the metal-capped end of his staff banging on the stones with every step. The crowds of refugees got out of his way, nodding at him with respect, wary not to approach him because of the fierce look in his eye.

He wasn't angry, however. He was in pain. Every step hurt.

The injury to his knee had happened almost fifty years ago, during the Persian Wars. The Persians had burned Athens and its temples to ashes, and then King Xerxes had come north, into the valley of the Oxlands, halting two miles from the small but proud independent city-state of Plataea. There his army of half a million men had constructed the massive earthen redoubt that became known as the Persian Fort. It was four times the area of Plataea and big enough to contain the Persian king's vast retinue of warriors, women, and slaves. The Greek allies had come from all over Greece and assembled around Plataea for a final stand against the invaders.

On the tenth day after their arrival in the Oxlands, Persian heralds—each wearing enough gold to finance the building of a temple—had ridden on their fine black steeds to the Greek allies, demanding that they present a challenger to fight the Persian champion as a prelude to a battle. The Plataean generals had picked a mere lad of sixteen—selected more as a sacrifice to the god of death than as a serious opponent. The “Baby Bull,” as his friends at the gymnasium called Menesarkus back then, had been chosen to fight the biggest and tallest man that Menesarkus had ever seen—Arshaka the Eye-Snatcher, bane of the Greeks, a famous, undefeated Persian pankrator.

This fight of heroes had only one rule: neither opponent could raise his little finger and yield, for it was a fight to the death.

“Hera's jugs,” cursed Menesarkus, wincing in pain.

He came to a halt near the entrance to the citadel—the memory of that long-ago pankration match taking flight from his thoughts. He looked about him and saw that a thousand men were hard at work on a new inner defensive wall that was being built across from the two wooden gates. This “stone barricade” had been Chusor's plan. He'd gotten the idea from the wooden barricade that the Theban invaders had built in front of the gates to trap the Plataeans in their own city on the night of the sneak attack.

“Whoever controls the gates to Plataea controls the city,” Chusor had said to Menesarkus in one of their meetings. And so Menesarkus had agreed to the building of this new wall. Several older structures in the citadel were being pulled down for the stones, their pieces reassembled into this new bastion—a second line of defense in case the Gates of Pausanius were rammed and breached.

Menesarkus entered the tower on the right side of the gate and climbed the steps leading to the top. Climbing stairs hurt even more than walking. He glanced up at the topmost landing and saw the tall figure of Chusor staring down at him with an impassive look. Menesarkus gritted his teeth and willed his body the rest of the way, sweat pouring off his brow despite the cool of dawn.