Spartans at the Gates (32 page)

General Agape had been talking nonstop since Nikias had met up with the Plataean emissaries at the port half an hour ago. Back in Plataea the young people referred to the man as “General Windbag” because he never seemed to stop talking or offering advice.

Nikias was relieved that Krates, the other emissary whom his grandfather had sent to Athens, had virtually ignored him since they had come face-to-face on the beach. Agape had been flabbergasted but pleasantly surprised to find Nikias in Athens, but Krates had been furious and scornful, promising him that Nikias's grandfather, the Arkon, would flay his hide for running away from Plataea and interfering with the mission. Nikias and the weather-beaten stonemason had never gotten along. Even when Nikias was a little boy Krates had treated him with disdain, calling Nikias arrogant and a bad influence on his friends.

“Ah, the triple-decker's crew is all assembled now,” said Agape. “Observe this maneuver now, lad. It's a thing of beauty.”

Nikias watched as a crew of three hundred oarsmen moved into position on either side of one of the ships, gripping the hull along the waterline and pushing it the two hundred feet into the bay with a magnificent ease and efficiency. The noise of the wood scraping on stones cut through the air, and then the ship was in the water with a great splash. The crew climbed on board, swarming over the sides like insects, moving to their seats along the three decks and taking hold of the oars. Within thirty seconds of the warship moving onto the water the oars stroked backward in unison and the ship moved away from the shore.

Nikias turned his gaze farther up the beach to where a smaller crew carried a fifty-man dispatch vessel to the water. Nikias could see Phoenix standing on the ship, barking out orders.

“That one is a scrupulous captain,” said Agape, pointing at Phoenix. “You'll notice his men are carrying the boat so the hull does not get a single scrape.”

“That's my cousin Phoenix,” said Nikias.

“And he is the one who introduced you to General Perikles?” asked Krates with disdain.

“Yes,” said Nikias. “He's the captain of Perikles's own ship—the
Sea Nymph.
”

“Hmmph,” said Krates under his breath. Nikias reckoned Krates must be fuming that their mission to Perikles had failed. The Athenian general had refused to give the Plataeans permission to parlay with the Spartans, and then he'd sent them packing.

“Your meeting was illuminating, then?” asked the old man.

“Perikles is a great leader,” Nikias said.

“He told you nothing of import? Anything you would like to share with us?”

“No.”

“And yet we are to be delivered to Delphinium with such urgency,” said Krates in a scoffing tone. “In Perikles's own personal dispatch vessel? This is such a high honor for a pair of old emissaries who were given no more than ten minutes of the general's precious time and sent away like naughty schoolboys.”

Nikias shrugged. He wasn't about to reveal to Krates the message that Perikles had given him to deliver to his grandfather. He felt proud that he had been selected by the Athenian general to bring this information—a message that Perikles had entrusted to him and not to the emissaries.

“We were told this dispatch vessel can make seventy sea miles per day,” said Agape. “It's one of the fastest in the fleet.”

“It's two and a half days of hard rowing to Delphinium if we're lucky,” said Krates. “If this weather holds. And then we'll have two days of hard riding to Plataea near enemy territory.”

“Nikias is a good rider,” said Agape. “He won't slow us down, I'm sure. Even with one arm in a sling.”

“That's not the point I was getting at,” fumed Krates.

Nikias glanced behind him where the six Plataean cavalrymen who had escorted Agape and Krates to Athens stood. They were dressed in tunics, holding their light armor and weapons in leather sacks. He was glad these warriors were with them. He'd known all of them his entire life and they were battle-hardened hoplites and good riders. Nikias would not have relished the notion of riding near Theban territory with just Agape and Krates. They had both been capable warriors in their primes, though Agape was a little stout to be a fast rider, and Krates was in his late eighties and becoming feeble.

“We can go now,” said Agape, pointing at the dock that stretched into the bay. The dispatch vessel had rowed over to the dock and waited for the Plataeans to board.

Krates walked quickly on his bandy old legs toward the dock, followed by General Agape. Nikias fell in line with the cavalrymen. One of them, a man in his early thirties named Teuker, flashed a smile at Nikias behind his black beard.

“So what happened to your arm, Nik?” he asked.

“Photine,” said Nikias, shamefaced. The other riders laughed.

“That white mare of yours will get you killed one day,” replied Teuker.

“But she's the fastest thing in the Oxlands,” said another one of the cavalrymen. “I couldn't keep up with you when you charged the Thebans!”

A big warrior named Alexandros slapped Nikias on the back. “I'm glad you're with us,” he said. “Nikias brought us luck against the Thebans,” he announced to the others, “and he'll bring us luck on
this
journey back home.”

Nikias was pleased. Krates might be scornful of his presence in Athens, but these warriors were glad to have him.

“Why did you come to Athens, anyway?” asked Teuker under his breath. “Did your grandfather send you on a special mission?”

“Long story,” said Nikias. “I'm just glad to be going home.”

“Have you ever been on a lengthy sea voyage?” asked Teuker.

“No,” said Nikias. “Just on a little sailboat in the Bay of Korinth. Like that one,” he added, pointing to a small, dilapidated sailboat an old fisherman was pushing from the shore into the water.

“You might not be so glad an hour from now,” replied Teuker.

As Nikias walked across the gangplank with the others Phoenix grabbed him by the arm and hissed in his ear, “Stay out of the way, cousin. And don't fall overboard.”

Nikias made his way down the aisle between the two sides of the
Sea Nymph
's oarsmen. He recognized most of the men—Phoenix's crew from the inn. They stared straight ahead, sitting stone-faced, as if steeling themselves for a long fight. He noticed that every mariner had his cushion under his arse and this made him smile.

Shields were stowed next to each bench and held fast to the wall of the ship with leather straps. Nikias knew that shields used to be attached to the bulwarks of ships in the olden days—to protect the rowers from enemy arrows. But the Athenians had come up with the clever idea of raising the bulwarks high enough to shield the oarsmen, protecting them within the walls of the ship itself. Weapons such as bows and quivers and boarding axes were stowed under the benches.

The ship felt like a safe place. A phalanx that moved upon the sea.

Nikias joined Krates, Agape, and the Plataean cavalrymen at the stern, where his cousin stood by the man at the tiller. Phoenix cried out, “Oars down!” The oarsmen reacted as one, dropping their oars into the water and flexing their muscled backs. “Pull easy, now!” commanded Phoenix. The poles squeaked as they pivoted against the rope oarlocks.

The ship eased forward, moving away from the dock, gaining speed with every unified sweep of the oars. Nikias turned and stared at the Parthenon, shining in the morning sun atop the Akropolis. He thought of the impromptu ceremony in the temple led by Perikles. The Athenian general's prayer echoed in his mind. He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to picture the ivory face of the statue of Athena, but instead he saw Helena. He felt a surge of longing, like a fist digging into the pit of his stomach. Would he ever see her again? Hold her in his arms? Feel her body? Take her? But then he thought of Kallisto—pictured her lying on a bed, so frail and frightened after she had awoken from her unconscious state—and he felt a rush of guilt.

The ship hit some choppy waves and started to rock back and forth. Nikias opened his eyes and frowned. He saw Teuker staring at him.

“I think Nikias needs to be near the side,” announced Teuker. “In case he has to feed the fish.”

Nikias swallowed slowly and realized that something wasn't right in his gut. He moved to the edge of the boat and gripped the side with a white hand, feeling his breakfast churn in his stomach. The strong scent of pine pitch and brine mingled in the stultifying air with the smell of greasy sheep tallow used to coat the oarlocks; the reek clawed at his nostrils.

Krates stared at Nikias and smiled cruelly. “It's going to be a long journey,” he said. “Oh, yes. A
long
journey for young Nikias.”

Nikias glanced behind the ship and saw, in its wake, the tiny sailboat the old man had pushed off from the beach. It had unfurled its sail and was tacking into the wind. Watching the sailboat made him feel even queasier, so he looked up above and saw a black bird hovering near the top of the dispatch vessel's mast. The bird was too big to be a crow, Nikias mused. It must be a raven. It seemed strange that such a creature would be flying over the sea—the realm of gulls and other seabirds. He took it as a good sign: the gods were telling him that an Oxlander like himself, unused to ships and waves, would be safe upon the water.

He realized his heart was beating quickly and that he had broken out in a clammy sweat all over his face and armpits. He was overcome by a strange panic the likes of which he'd never felt before. It was as though he were intoxicated—a sensation of spinning—but without the pleasurable feeling that came from being drunk.

“The fried squid was good this morning,” said Krates in an affected offhand manner. “You can say one thing about the Athenians: they know how to cook. I can still taste that fermented fish sauce on my tongue.”

Nikias tried to drown out Krates's voice and think of anything but the smell of fried squid and fish sauce, and the sound of that hateful old man's smacking tongue. But it didn't work. He felt the boat veer in another direction, and his stomach lurched. He let forth a groan, then jerked forward, leaning over the side of the boat to be sick into the sea as laughter erupted from behind him.

The ship passed through the narrow gap in the stone sea walls that guarded the entrance to the harbors of the Piraeus, and a shrill horn sounded from one of the towers, signaling to the god of the sea that an Athenian ship was leaving the safety of the port and heading into his realm.

“Poseidon … have mercy on me,” moaned Nikias.

*   *   *

As the Athenian dispatch vessel headed south—its oars sweeping powerfully and rhythmically, propelling it onward into the Saronik gulf—the little sailboat that had been following in its wake wore sails, catching the increasing wind, and turned fast, sweeping around and heading westward toward the island of Salamis.

To all eyes it appeared to be a shabby fishing boat laden with nets, guided at the tiller by a weather-beaten old fisherman. But in reality it was a speedy craft of Phoenician design, disguised to hide its sleek hull and sophisticated rigging. And the old man was no fisherman, although his face was as dark brown and wrinkled as anyone who'd spent his entire life on the sea.

The raven that had been hovering over the dispatch vessel veered back toward the sailboat, as though responding to a call. It flew over to the small craft, hovering there on the wind, staring down with its intelligent eyes. Then the black bird tucked its wings and dove, landing on the pile of nets in the prow, cawing and stabbing at the netting.

The netting stirred, and slowly a man extricated himself from where he hid under the meshwork. Andros could barely move from the torture he'd suffered at the jail, and his face was swollen nearly beyond recognition. But he was so happy to be alive that he didn't care if he were crippled for life. The odd little Skythian boy had saved him from excruciating torture and a certain death.

The Fates wove strange threads and cast curious nets.

After escaping from the jail, Andros had made his way to the port without being spotted. There, in a building owned by a Lydian silk merchant in the employ of the Persians, he'd been reunited with his fellow conspirators, who had just received new information from their highly placed man in Perikles's inner circle. Andros had been briefed on the situation, and then he'd written coded messages, sending them via homing pigeons to the city of Korinth to the west and, most importantly, north to the island of Euboea, where the Athenian vessel was headed. The speedy pigeons could fly fifty miles in an hour. In a few hours they would be at their destinations.…

The raven hopped onto Andros's shoulder and rubbed its beak against his ear. Andros found a fish head on the bottom of the boat and handed it to the bird, who took it gently from his fingers. “Good Telemakos,” said Andros, smiling. “Smart bird.”

“Who was on that Athenian galley?” asked the old man.

“The Plataean emissaries,” said Andros. “And orders for the generals at the siege of Potidaea, including the most recent code key.”

The wind picked up and filled the sail, making it taut. This wind would be in the faces of the Athenian ship, Andros mused. The old sailor pulled on a rope and sent up a second, smaller sail. The ship jumped and moved forward even faster.

Andros realized he would never be able to return to Athens after what had happened. It was too dangerous for him there now. But that didn't matter anymore. He had accomplished much in his two years pretending to be a bard in the enemy citadel. And there were many other men in place to carry on his work. Now he could shift his efforts to the forthcoming siege of Plataea.

He pictured the two fifty-oared attack ships that were beached in a deserted cove on the west side of the island of Euboea. The sleek, long-keeled boats were manned by the strongest Korinthian oarsmen and outfitted with a complement of archers and hoplites. The spy in Perikles's employ had given the silk merchant the latest shield signals, and Andros had sent these along with the message borne by the carrier pigeon. The Korinthian ships would be able to intercept the Athenian galley in the Straits of Euboea by luring the sailors with the signals, then attack miles before it reached the safety of the harbor of Delphinium.