Spartans at the Gates (47 page)

But Eurymakus had tortured him. Broken his body. There were black bruises all over Nikias's torso. He had livid bruises on his forehead. Menesarkus knew that serious head wounds could cause seizures. Had his brain been affected?

What would Eudoxia say when she saw her poor grandson?

When he was in the Temple of Zeus yesterday he had begged the Stormbringer to forgive him for making the decision to save Nikias, for he had realized what his wildly palpitating heart had been trying to tell him. He wondered if Zeus would take away his protection from the citadel and its people because Menesarkus had made such a selfish act.

They passed the old man leading the donkey: he walked with fast strides that were at odds with his withered legs. He had thrown back his hood to reveal his features and he was still singing softly to himself, a smile fixed on his weather-beaten face. All of a sudden Menesarkus recognized him: the old man was Linos, a famous bard with whom his son Aristo had studied in his youth. Linos was a Plataean who had departed the citadel soon after the Persian Wars had ended, and had returned every now and then over the last fifty years. Menesarkus had not seen him in the Oxlands since Nikias was a little boy.

Linos glanced at Menesarkus and smiled genially without recognition. “Peace,” he said again. Menesarkus nodded back. He suspected Linos had become senile.

They were a quarter mile from the closed gates of the citadel of Plataea when Menesarkus heard the sudden thunder of horses in the distance, followed by warning cries from the lookouts on the tops of the walls.

“Dog Raiders!”

Menesarkus ordered his men to stop and peered south. He could clearly see the horsemen—a troop of over twenty raiders in black cloaks—charging down the foothills of the Kithaeron Mountains, heading straight toward the citadel. The enemy would cut off Menesarkus's armored men before they could run to the gates. And they were out of range of the protection of archers from the walls.

Better to stand and fight than be ridden down by riders, he mused.

“Make a wheel,” Menesarkus said in a loud but calm voice. “Lay my grandson by my side,” he said to the men bearing Nikias. He glanced over at Linos, who was a hundred paces behind them. The old man looked about him with a bewildered expression. “Leave your donkey, Linos!” Menesarkus ordered. “Come here now!”

Linos seemed torn. His head moved back and forth from the approaching Dog Raiders to his animal. Finally, and very reluctantly, he dropped the animal's lead and dashed over to the warriors, who had formed an orderly circle of shields around Menesarkus and Nikias. He squeezed through the ranks and gave Menesarkus a mystified look.

“I don't have a spear,” said Linos with a sheepish smile.

“Here.” Menesarkus drew his sword and handed it to Linos.

Linos took the leaf-bladed sword and gripped it in his gnarled hand, screwing up his lined face.

The Plataean warriors raised their left arms bearing their shields and planted the butt spikes of their long spears in the ground.

Menesarkus clenched his teeth. The military part of his mind raced. Dog Raiders had never been so bold as to come this close to the citadel in daylight, preferring to lurk in the mountains or attack farms at night. Perhaps these horsemen were a decoy—an advance force of a much larger army attacking the other side of the citadel. Had Drako used the prisoner exchange as a way of distracting Menesarkus from his duty? An army of Spartan warriors might already be sneaking around to the western walls with scaling ladders.

He cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted up to the walls, “Keep the gates shut! Do you hear me? This might be a trick! Do not open the gates, even if we are overwhelmed!”

“Yes!” the guards on the wall shouted back. “We understand, Arkon!”

Menesarkus realized that his heart beat regularly now. It had been churning inside his breast during the confrontation with Drako, but now it felt surprisingly normal and this filled him with a sense of calm. He was actually looking forward to this fight. He stared down at Nikias, who lay dead to the world with half-closed lids and mouth slightly agape, but his mutilated hand twitched slightly. Was he dreaming now?

A fearsome battle cry from the horsemen shook Menesarkus from his thoughts. The Dog Raiders turned away from the city walls and charged straight at them—a mass of riders that split apart and rode in a circle around the Plataeans. Menesarkus perceived that each carried some sort of strange weapon in his hand—a black rope attached to a roundish shape.

Menesarkus gripped his shield and raised his spear, his body tensed for battle.

Suddenly the lead horseman threw one of the objects at his shield. It hit with a dull thud and fell at his feet. He glanced down and saw a black-bearded decapitated head with its tongue sticking out. A barrage of heads hit the shields, one after the other, until each of the riders was empty-handed.

“What are they doing?” called out Leo. “Are they trying to kill us with severed heads?”

The Dog Raiders stopped all at once and tore off their helms to reveal red hair tied in topknots. They cast off their black cloaks and threw them on the ground, baring their muscular arms painted with tattoos.

“They're Skythians,” said Linos with a dumbfounded laugh.

Menesarkus glanced at the old bard who grinned back.

“Greetings!” said Linos in the Skythian tongue, smiling and handing Menesarkus's sword back to him. “May your ewes never come out arse first.”

The lead rider bowed to Linos and addressed him, speaking in halting Greek, “Elder one, I am Osyrus of the Bindi. I have come to offer my services to the city of Plataea.”

Menesarkus and the Plataeans stared back at the Skythians in astonishment. Osyrus and the other Bindis exchanged tense glances.

“We bring these Dog Raider heads as a sign of our skills,” said Osyrus. “We—”

“We've come to kill the Red Cloaks!” interrupted a croaking voice. Menesarkus recognized the boy Kolax as he drove a white horse forward past the other riders until he was next to the leader. Osyrus tried to clap a hand over Kolax's mouth, but the young barbarian ducked and looked directly at Menesarkus, “Peace, Arkon! Forgive me. But I lost Nikias in Athens. I found his mare, though.”

“Photine!” exclaimed Leo with sudden recognition.

Menesarkus gazed at the tempestuous animal. He hadn't seen her since the day she had appeared outside the citadel, streaked with blood. “Where did you find her?” he asked, bewildered by the arrival of Kolax and his kin.

“I found her wandering in the olive groves above your farm,” Kolax said. “I reckoned Nikias had come back to Plataea and had fallen off her again! Where is he? He'll be happy to see I caught her.”

Menesarkus dropped his chin to his chest.

Leo took off his helm and held it under one arm. He caught Kolax's eye and gestured toward the center of the ring of men. “He is there,” said Leo in a funereal tone.

Kolax frowned and slid off Photine, elbowing his way through the armored Plataean warriors, leading Photine to the center of the wheel formation. When he saw Nikias he let forth a cry and knelt by his body.

“Ah, Sky-Father Papaeus! What happened to him?” he said in Skythian, tears pouring from his eyes. “Who did this to him?”

Menesarkus put a hand on Kolax's shoulder and turned to Osyrus.

“I am Menesarkus, Arkon of Plataea. You are welcome here,” he said. “The boy Kolax is known to us. He is accounted a hero in my city.”

Osyrus nodded and translated Menesarkus's words for those of his men who did not speak Greek. The Skythians who had doubted Kolax before now stared at him in wonder.

Menesarkus heard the sound of a dagger being unsheathed and turned. He saw Kolax slicing a deep cut across his own palm, then the boy held the wound to Nikias's lips.

“My blood is a healing potion,” Kolax intoned. “I bear the blood of the gryphon of Skythia in my veins. I will save him from death.”

Photine dropped her head and sniffed Nikias's head, then ever so gently she nudged him with her nose. But he did not move. The horse pawed the ground as if in anger, then threw back her head and let forth a bloodcurdling neigh.

“She's calling the Horse God for help,” said Kolax with a sigh. “All will be well.”

 

EIGHTEEN

Menesarkus stood in the doorway to a bedchamber at his house in Plataea watching his wife, granddaughter, and Kallisto caring for Nikias. They had cocooned him in blankets and were chanting a hymn to Demeter as they rocked him back and forth—an old method for curing a fever.

The room smelled of dried rosemary and mint mingled with the musky scent of poppy resin. They had clipped all of Nikias's long golden hair to tend to his several head wounds.

Kallisto knelt by Nikias's side holding a bowl of water and a sponge. Every now and then she put the sponge to Nikias's lips and squeezed in a little bit of water. She gazed at him with eyes full of concern, but she did not look faint of heart. None of the women had reacted in the way that Menesarkus had thought they would when he brought the unconscious Nikias back to the house. They had been grief-stricken, of course, but they had conducted themselves swiftly and efficiently, setting up the room for the wounded lad—covering the window to block out the light and administering opium and other medicines while cleaning his wounds and applying poultices.

Kallisto glanced over at him and smiled. “He is in our care now,” she said.

Menesarkus chided himself for being so hard on her—for telling Nikias he would never let him marry this brave and strong girl.

Eudoxia whispered something to Phile, then got up from the bedside and walked over to the doorway.

“You should go eat something, husband,” said Eudoxia. “There's no use for you to stand there for hours on end. This is going to take time.”

“Will he live?” whispered Menesarkus.

Eudoxia put a hand on Menesarkus's chest. “He clings to life. Have you sent for Chusor? He saved Kallisto—”

“Nobody can find him or his companion, Diokles,” broke in Menesarkus. “His smithy is empty and the forge fire is dead. One of the city guards, Damon, said he saw them heading up into the mountains—toward the Cave of Nymphs. I sent riders up there but they found nothing except the remains of an extinguished campfire. I offered the man citizenship if he stayed in Plataea,” he said, grinding a fist into his palm. “I thought I knew how to work on a creature like him. I was wrong.”

“Strange,” said Eudoxia, rubbing her eyes with fatigue. “Chusor loved Nikias like a brother.”

“Did you save Nikias's hair?” asked Menesarkus.

“Yes, of course,” said Eudoxia.

“He can burn it on the altar of Zeus when he is able,” said Menesarkus.

He went downstairs to the kitchen and found his Persian slave Saeed cooking the evening meal with his ten-year-old boy, Mula. The two had taken over the domestic duties so that the women of the household could tend to Nikias. All of Menesarkus's other slaves had been butchered by Eurymakus when he and his Theban killers attacked Menesarkus's farm on the night of the sneak attack. But Saeed was more of a member of the family than a mere slave. He had been with Menesarkus since he was Mula's age. Menesarkus had captured Saeed in the Persian Fort nearly fifty years ago, killing the groom's ruthless master and thus gaining Saeed's loyalty for life. Saeed had gone to battle with Menesarkus countless times and had helped raise the wild Nikias after his father had been killed.

“How is Young Master?” asked Mula in a quavering voice. The frail boy was recovering from an arrow wound suffered during the Theban attack, and he stared at Menesarkus with a woeful look on his ashen face.

“His life is in the balance,” said Menesarkus, putting his hand on the boy's head of curly dark hair. He knew that Mula worshipped Nikias.

“He will live,” said Saeed with a confident tone. “I'm making him a new Sargatian whip for the one that he lost in Athens. The silly lad. Always losing things. Losing weapons. Losing his horse.” He pretended to wipe his face of sweat, but Menesarkus knew that he was wiping away his tears.

Menesarkus tore off a piece of bread from a round loaf sitting on the table, then went to the courtyard and sat on a bench, stretching out his aching knee. He tried to chew a mouthful of the bread but it stuck in his throat. He tossed the bread aside and it was immediately set upon by some house sparrows, fighting beak and talon to possess it. He watched them numbly. He had never felt so useless in his life. He did not know what to do. He should be in his offices right now, preparing for the Spartan siege, but it was as if his spirit had been plucked from his chest and cast down the deepest well.

He heard the sound of Saeed clearing his throat.

“What is it?” Menesarkus asked.

“A visitor to see you, Arkon,” said Saeed.

Menesarkus stood slowly, grunting with pain as his bad knee locked up. Linos, the bard, entered the courtyard. The old man walked over and stood in front of him, smiling. He held his sandals in one hand.

“Linos,” said Menesarkus.

“My sandals,” said Linos with a laugh, holding up his dirty footwear. “I stepped in horseshit. There are horses everywhere in the citadel!”

“Have you recovered from your fright outside the walls?” Menesarkus asked.

“An adventurous return to Plataea,” said Linos with a grin. “I am invigorated by it.”

There was an awkward silence and then Menesarkus asked, “Have you a place to stay?”

“With my cousin Kallinikos,” said Linos, naming the ancient priest from the Temple of Zeus. He glanced toward the doorway where Saeed stood watching them. The bard cleared his throat as if to say, “May I speak with you alone?”

“You can leave us, Saeed,” Menesarkus said. The Persian slave bowed and disappeared. He looked at Linos and raised his eyebrows. “Speak freely.”