Spartans at the Gates (46 page)

He clenched his jaw.

Then without warning he rolled over, locking his legs around Drako's ankles, twisted over again, and pulled the surprised Spartan into the pit. They landed in a tangled heap on the headless corpses. Drako sprang up like a cat, spitting curses, and clambered out of the hole. But Nikias lay helplessly on his stomach, struggling to free his hands from his bindings, writhing on the Helot corpses. After several minutes he had exhausted himself and lay still, gasping for breath.

“Get him out of there,” said Drako. “It's time to move.”

 

SIXTEEN

Spartans jumped into the pit and dragged Nikias out. Then two warriors, one on either side, half carried, half dragged him through the woods away from the Persian Fort. Ahead Nikias saw a company of Spartans waiting in a clearing—perhaps twenty armored men with spears and shields.

Drako gestured with his hand—a battle sign—and his men started quick marching.

Nikias stared at the ground, moving his legs feebly, wondering where they were taking him now. Were they going to attack Plataea with this small band of warriors? It seemed preposterous. Maybe they were taking him to Thebes. Nikias tried to dig in his heels but Drako was on him in an instant, smashing him in the stomach. Nikias sucked in his breath as a dark mist appeared at the corner of his vision, and he knew that he was blacking out. When he opened his eyes again he was facedown on a hard surface. He had no idea how much time had passed. When he lifted his head he saw a road lined with plane trees stretching out ahead.

“Keep your eyes open,” Drako said to his men.

“What's going on?” asked Nikias in a daze.

“Shut up,” said Drako and lifted Nikias off the ground, putting him in a kneeling position.

Nikias looked around and realized, with surprise, that they were on the Kadmean Way—the road that led from Thebes to Plataea. He squinted into the distance in the direction of his citadel. He saw a cloud of dust on the road. Men were coming toward them. He could see a phalanx of armed warriors bearing Plataean shields a quarter of a mile away. He watched with anticipation as they approached. They stopped just outside of arrow range of the Spartans and stood silently with their shields raised.

“I don't see the prince,” said Drako under his breath, and drawing his sword he held the flat of the blade against Nikias's neck.

“Where is Prince Arkilokus?” shouted Drako.

The Plataean warriors in the front of the phalanx parted and a big man in gleaming armor stepped forward, his face hidden behind a helm with a horsetail crest. He took a few paces forward, walking with a pronounced limp.

“Where is Arkilokus?” shouted Drako again.

The Plataean ignored Drako and stared at Nikias through the slits of his helm. “Nikias?” he asked with undisguised shock in his voice. “What have they done to you?”

Nikias nodded and squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head with shame, hot tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He had recognized his grandfather's armor the instant he had stepped from the phalanx.

“Grandfather,” said Nikias through his sobs. “I'm sorry for what I did. Don't trade me for Arkilokus. Kill him now!”

He felt Drako's blade tense against his throat, the edge cutting through the skin.

“Shut your mouth,” hissed the Spartan.

Menesarkus held up a hand, then took off his helm and put it under one arm, revealing his leonine head of black hair streaked with gray. Even from this distance Nikias could see the stricken look on his face.

“What have you done to Nikias?” Menesarkus asked, his face twisted in wrath.

“I didn't do this to him,” said Drako. “It was Eurymakus the Theban.”

Menesarkus tore his gaze away from Nikias's swollen and blood-spattered face and glared at Drako. “But it was you who mutilated his sword hand,” he said.

“You're lucky I didn't send you the whole hand,” Drako replied in a bored voice.

Menesarkus smiled without mirth, then turned and gestured with one arm at the Plataean phalanx. Nikias watched as a tall, blond, naked man with his arms tied behind his back stepped forth from the mass of warriors. Arkilokus started walking toward Menesarkus with a strange halting gait, as though he had just learned to walk. When he got near to Menesarkus, the Bull grabbed him by the biceps, pulled a dagger from a scabbard at his belt, and held the point to the Spartan prince's abdomen.

“So what do we do now?” asked Menesarkus. “Do we slaughter them in front of each other out of spite?”

“Send Prince Arkilokus over to us,” demanded Drako.

“Let him kill me!” shouted Nikias.

“Silence, Nikias!” commanded Menesarkus. “Do not speak again!”

Nikias clamped his teeth together and sat trembling.

“Come, Menesarkus,” said Drako in a cajoling tone. “This is a foolish game. Send over Prince Arkilokus and then I will set Nikias free.”

Menesarkus threw back his head and burst out with a belly laugh. “Drako, I'm not one of your idiot Helots to kick about. I agreed to your terms. I have met you on the road with my twenty hoplites. I have brought your precious prince. Now let my grandson go and I will release Arkilokus.”

“I cannot trust you, Menesarkus,” said Drako. “You have already proved yourself to be a liar. You told me that Arkilokus was never your prisoner, and yet I see him standing next to you now.”

“He was never my
prisoner,
” said Menesarkus. “He was my
guest
. He'd been injured—a fall from his horse. And he is my own flesh and blood, after all. My own grandson.”

Nikias squinted in confusion at his grandfather. What had he just said?
Flesh and blood? Grandson?
Had the Bull gone mad? He stared at Arkilokus, who gazed back at him with an enigmatic expression.

“And I will take no lessons in trustworthiness,” continued Menesarkus, pointing at Drako, “from a man who allied himself with that Theban goat-raper Eurymakus and plotted to bring down Plataea by means of treachery!” His voice had risen at the end of this speech to a thunderous climax on the word “treachery”—a hateful word that seemed to linger in the air like the stink of death. After a prolonged silence he said, “We helped you defeat the Persians at the Battle of Plataea. We renamed the very gates of our citadel after your General Pausanius—the Spartan who led us to that glorious allied victory. And you and your kindred swore in front of those gates never to invade the Oxlands. You are oath breakers!”

Nikias took a deep and painful breath and shouted, “Grandfather! Krates and Agape are dead! Attacked by Korinthians on the sea—” He stopped as he felt the flat of Drako's sword press against his neck.

Drako said, “Say another word and I'll slit your throat!”

“Take Arkilokus back to Plataea!” continued Nikias, heedless of Drako's warning. “When the time comes, trade him for safe passage for our women and children! Perikles told me they are welcome in Athens! That was the message he ordered me to bring back to Plataea—”

Drako brought the pommel of his sword down on the top of Nikias's head and he pitched forward onto the road, his ears ringing.

“You've just sealed your own fate,” muttered Drako, raising his sword for the kill. But before he could bring it down a man screamed in agony, and a commanding voice in the Spartan tongue cried out:

“Stop!”

Drako hesitated.

“Stop!” repeated Menesarkus in Dorik.

Nikias lifted his head from the dirt and stared down the road. Menesarkus held something in his hand and he threw it in the direction of the Spartans—a bloody finger bearing a signet ring.

Arkilokus's face was constricted in pain, his jaw jutting forward. “My finger!” he howled. Menesarkus held a bloody dagger to the Spartan prince's throat.

Drako stood with his sword still raised, staring back and forth from Arkilokus to Menesarkus with a feral look in his beady eyes.

“Piece by piece!” Menesarkus called out to Drako. “A finger for a finger! And if you kill Nikias now I will slit Arkilokus's throat before my grandson breathes his life into the dust, whether he's my kin or not.”

“You're bluffing,” said Drako.

“Drako, you fool!” Arkilokus shouted with wrath. “He's going to kill me! My father will have your family skinned alive like Helots if you let me die on this road!”

There was a long and tense silence, broken only by the sound of crows crying harshly in the treetops. And above this rose the sound of a voice—a clear voice, singing from somewhere behind the Spartan phalanx, along with the plodding clop of a donkey.

“What is that?” Drako asked with surprise.

Nikias started laughing softly, for he knew the sound of that distinct voice. He was transported back to the Three Thieves in Tanagra … listening to the bard Linos. The singing got louder and soon the old bard came into sight, his face hidden by a hood, leading his ancient donkey by a frayed rope. Nikias was glad to see that Linos had survived the terrible fire at the inn.

Linos, for his part, seemed oblivious to the two groups of armed warriors facing each other across that stretch of empty road. As Linos passed by the Spartans he stopped singing and glanced at Nikias seemingly without recognition, but raised his eyebrows—an expression of baffled curiosity.

“Peace,” he said to Drako by way of greeting.

Drako grunted.

Linos continued on his way in the direction of Plataea. As he went by Menesarkus he waved at him cheerfully as well. “Peace,” he said again.

“Peace,” replied Menesarkus gruffly.

Linos disappeared from Nikias's view behind the Plataean warriors and started up his song again.

After a long silence Drako said, “We send our prisoners at the same time.”

“So be it,” said Menesarkus.

Drako yanked Nikias to his feet. Nikias swayed, hunched with pain. Menesarkus cut Arkilokus's bindings, then he gave the prince a little shove in the back. A moment later Drako sliced through Nikias's ropes.

“Go,” said Drako.

Nikias shuffled down the road. Every step was agony, every breath caused him pain. He saw Arkilokus stop by his severed finger and stoop with difficulty, picking up his digit with his unmutilated hand. Then he straightened and started walking again.

The two men locked eyes as they approached each other at the midpoint in the road between the two packs of warriors. When they were a few feet away they came to a stop, looking each other up and down.

Nikias gaped at the Spartan's face—a face that was so strangely familiar. He could see his grandfather's eyes staring back at him from the same wide brow. He looked so much like a Plataean with his sandy-colored hair, broad shoulders, and high cheekbones. But there was a hardness in the Spartan's eyes that was different from his grandfather's wise gaze. Arkilokus's countenance displayed the haughty and merciless spirit of a Spartan royal.

Nikias drew himself up painfully to his full height.

“Now we both have nine fingers,” he said.

“You don't look good,
cousin,
” said Arkilokus in a taunting voice. “I don't know if the lovely Kallisto will recognize you.”

“What did you say?” asked Nikias, amazed to hear Kallisto's name pass his enemy's lips.

“Once your city is defeated,” said Arkilokus, smiling contemptuously, “I'll take Kallisto back with me to Sparta.”

Nikias reacted without thinking. He threw himself on the Spartan, grappling him with his one good arm, kicking the bigger man's feeble legs out from under him. Arkilokus fought back, and they rolled on the road together, biting and thrashing.

“Enough!” bellowed Menesarkus, grabbing Nikias by the arms and dragging him away. At the same time Drako seized hold of Arkilokus and pulled his writhing body toward the Spartan warriors.

“You have one more day,” Drako shouted at Menesarkus. “And then we attack.”

“We'll kill you all!” screamed Nikias in an insane voice. Then he went limp in his grandfather's arms. The world swam before his eyes.

“I'm sorry, Grandfather,” he mumbled. “I'm … so sorry.”

“Do not speak, my son,” said Menesarkus in a voice choked with emotion.

Nikias couldn't focus on his grandfather's face. He felt as if he were floating. As if he were rising up toward the tops of the trees. A brilliant light engulfed his vision, and then he became still with his eyes wide open.

“Nikias?” asked Menesarkus. “Can you hear me?”

Suddenly Nikias started twitching and Menesarkus quickly set him down on the road. Nikias's body was wracked by spasms—the muscles of his arms and legs became rigid. Plataean warriors rushed forward and surrounded him. One of them pulled off his helm to reveal a pug nose set in an anxious face.

“Is he dying?” Leo asked frantically.

“He's having a seizure,” said Menesarkus. He whipped off his leather belt and jammed it in Nikias's mouth to prevent him from biting off his tongue.

“What did they do to his face?” asked one of the younger warriors with horror.

“You were brave, Nikias,” said another, touching him on the head. “You were brave.”

“Nikias?” asked Menesarkus. “Can you hear me?”

But he made no reply.

Four strong Plataeans lifted Nikias's limp body onto their shoulders and bore him back toward the city in the manner of a corpse carried in honor from the battlefield.

 

SEVENTEEN

Menesarkus followed his men in utter despair down the long road to Plataea. His thoughts were only for his grandson. They had been walking for two miles and still Nikias had not stirred. The lad's arms hung limply at his sides. His chest barely rose as he breathed.

When he had first laid eyes on Nikias today he had not recognized him, so altered was his grandson's face. Menesarkus had seen many pankrators beaten to a pulp. But Nikias had always come through his bouts relatively unscathed, such was his prowess in the arena. He had never seen him look this bad.