Spartans at the Gates (49 page)

But the third Spartan swung out with his spear, whacking Kolax across the shins and tripping him. He landed hard, his face slamming into the ground. He rolled over but the Spartan who had just knocked him down landed on his chest, pinning him with his knees. The warrior quickly drew his sword, pulling it back to stab Kolax through the face.

“Poison!” shouted Kolax in Greek, pinching the Spartan on his naked buttock with his sharp fingernails. The Spartan bellowed and jumped off him, twisting around and staring with wild eyes at his arse. Kolax pulled his dagger from his belt and flung it. The Spartan sank to his knees, grasping the blade now sticking from his throat, glaring with outrage at the Skythian boy who had just tricked him.

Kolax sauntered over to the choking Spartan, laughing maniacally as he pulled one of his poisoned arrows from his quiver. “As fast as a nighthawk,” he said, and flicked the arrow across the man's cheek, drawing blood, bringing death.

*   *   *

Menesarkus charged down the road to the Persian Fort astride Nikias's horse Photine. The moon had just risen and cast the world in a gray and lustrous glow, as though the entire landscape had been painted in silver.

He wore no armor except for an old-fashioned Oxland helmet—a bronze head covering without a face guard that allowed for the best visibility when on horseback. On his back was strapped a scabbard with a curved Persian blade he had taken as a war prize almost fifty years ago, and he held a javelin under one arm.

And he had never ridden so fast in his life.

His heart beat strong and steady. He felt like a young man again. The skin at the nape of his neck tingled with excitement. Down the road, a quarter of a mile away, he could see Spartans flooding out of the dark entrance to the fortification. The Skythians had done their work. They'd kicked the ant's nest and created chaos.

The Plataean cavalry was nearly to the fort. But first they had to cross the bridge that spanned the Asopus River. Spartans bearing shields were running toward the bridge—a desperate attempt to hold off the onslaught.

He glanced to his left. There rode Zoticus the horse master—going to battle with nothing but an Oxland helm for protection, his exposed face set in a grimace of anticipation. He looked to his right—there was Saeed wearing a shirt of Persian plate armor, and next to him rode Linos the bard, his silver hair flowing in the wind like a horse's mane. Menesarkus's ears were filled with the thunderous noise of six hundred Plataean cavalrymen riding at their backs.

“Look, master!” shouted Saeed.

Twenty or so Spartan hoplites had made it to the opposite side of the bridge, making a shield wall to stop the riders. But the Plataeans were not about to be thwarted by a handful of men. They charged onward like a monstrous and unstoppable force of nature. Menesarkus was the first to cross the bridge, and his javelin slammed through the eye slit of a Spartan's helm, nearly ripping off the man's head. He let go of the javelin as he passed, then quickly drew the sword from the scabbard that was strapped to his back, slashing at the faces of the Spartans. He passed through the small body of hoplites and headed toward the entrance—an open gap that the Spartans, in their hubris, had not even bothered barricading.

Hundreds of the enemy hoplites were now flooding through that open gap, fleeing the fort and the terrible poison of the Skythian arrows. Menesarkus had never seen Spartans panicking before. It was a glorious sight.

“To the entrance!” cried Zoticus, racing past Menesarkus. “Push them back inside!”

“Thanatos!” bellowed Linos, singing out the name of the god of death. The cry was taken up by all the riders in the pack—a breathtaking sound that swelled Menesarkus's heart with joy.

“Thanatos!” roared Menesarkus above the din.

“For Nikias!” yelled Leo's voice from behind.

And then, like a crash of thunder, the lead riders slammed into the Spartan warriors, skewering them with javelins, slicing off arms and heads, trampling them into the dirt, pushing them back on themselves, pinning them against the earthen walls of the Persian Fort. The survivors were driven back inside the fortress.

But a lone Spartan rider charged headlong through the mass of horses and men, escaping from the killing ground. He rode right by Menesarkus, ducking the Bull's sword stroke, and knocked Saeed off his mount with a blow to the chest—a sword stroke that would have cut Saeed in half if he hadn't been wearing armor plating. The slave fell to the ground and lay there, unmoving.

Menesarkus turned Photine and charged after the rider, shouting angrily, “Come back, Drako!”

Drako galloped along the length of the southern wall, away from the chaos of the battle. Menesarkus knew where he was going—a footbridge spanning the river. If Drako made it there he could head into open country and ride straight for the mountains and the protection of the fortress of the Three Heads.

But Menesarkus was not going to let Drako get away. He kicked his heels into Photine's sides and leaned forward. The white mare tore up the earth with her hooves. When Drako reached the southeast corner of the fortress, he turned abruptly and headed toward the river, and so did Menesarkus.

Photine was gaining on the other horse. Her ears were laid back, her neck outstretched. But Drako had almost made it to the bridge. Menesarkus cursed and reached back, pulling his sword from its scabbard and flung it forward. It soared from his hand like a spear and grazed the rump of Drako's mount. The animal neighed in fear and came to a sudden stop. Drako sailed over its head and hit the rocky ground, where he lay still.

Menesarkus reined in Photine and got off her back. He approached Drako warily. But the sound of heavy footsteps coming from behind made him turn. He saw a band of Spartans—hoplites who had managed to escape the fray—running toward the river.

When Menesarkus turned back toward Drako, the Spartan's fist slammed into his nose, followed by another that caught him in the gut, and he reeled.

“Over here!” shouted Drako, waving frantically to his men heading for the river. “This way!” Then he lunged at Menesarkus again.

But Drako's punches had sent a rush of energy coursing through the Bull's veins. It was the ikor of the gods—the blood of the Olympians infusing Menesarkus's body with strength. The old pankrator was ready for the Spartan this time. He dodged Drako's fist and kicked out with the flat of his foot, breaking Drako's kneecap. The Spartan cried out in pain and lurched. Menesarkus threw himself onto the enemy, hitting him on either side of the head with two powerful haymakers. Drako's knees went wobbly. Menesarkus slipped behind him and wrapped his arm around his neck, putting Drako in the dreaded Morpheus hold. The Spartan squirmed and clawed at Menesarkus's face as his larynx was slowly crushed, but he could not stop the champion pankrator.

“Release him!” shouted a voice.

The Spartan warriors Drako had summoned had arrived and now surrounded Menesarkus, coming to a halt a spear's length away and forming a semicircle around him. There were four of them. Two had swords. Two were unarmed. They were completely naked and their long hair was untied and hung about their faces like women's tresses—a strange contrast to their lean and muscular male bodies. Their chests heaved with every breath, and their teeth were bared like feral animals, eyes shining in the moonlight.

“Come any closer and I snap his spine,” threatened Menesarkus, tensing the muscles of his arms.

Drako raised his hand, moving his fingers quickly—speaking in battle sign:

“Kill him.”

With a final effort Drako jerked and trembled and went limp.

Menesarkus let go of Drako's body and the Spartan slid to the dirt—a lifeless heap. Clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, the Bull of the Oxlands braced himself for the final fight of his life.

The Spartans charged. Their swords flashed in the silver light.

“Zeus!” bellowed Menesarkus, raising his right fist to throw a final punch before the enemy swords claimed his flesh.

And then, in the blink of an eye, all four of the Spartan warriors dropped to the ground … dying at Menesarkus's feet. Three of them were writhing and gagging on their own blood as it gushed from their eyes and nostrils, while the fourth clutched a spear point that had been plunged through his stomach, a look of agonized surprise on his face.

“And that was my last poisoned arrow!” called out a voice in Skythian. “Or else I would have killed all four!”

Menesarkus had neither seen nor heard the horse bearing its two riders as it charged down from the Persian Fort to rescue him from certain death. But there they stood: Leo and Kolax astride a single mount. Menesarkus wanted to kiss both of their unlovely faces.

The barbarian pushed himself off the animal's rump, landed spryly on his feet, and dashed over to the Spartan with the spear in his guts. He bent down and swiftly slit the man's throat.

“I claim all four as my kills,” Kolax said to Leo, pointing his bloody dagger at him. “Your poorly aimed spear hadn't killed him yet.”

Leo ignored him and said to Menesarkus, “Are you hurt, Arkon? You're bleeding.”

Menesarkus shook his head. “Just my nose,” he said.

Leo, however, had lost his Oxland helm and had suffered a deep gash that stretched from his left ear to his chin. He seemed oblivious to his wound, however, for he replied with a smile, “Me neither.”

At that moment a wild roar of “Plataea!” erupted near the entrance to the Persian Fort, and Menesarkus knew that the army of fully armored Plataean hoplites who had quick-marched behind the cavalry—two thousand men strong!—had made it to the fortress. The real slaughter of the enemy would now begin in earnest.

Menesarkus wiped the blood from his upper lip and let forth a sigh of relief. Then he knelt cautiously by Drako and put his fingers to his wrist, feeling for a pulse.

“This is the one who stole my horse,” Kolax said, gesturing at Drako. “Ah! There she is!” he declared with relief, pointing to the riverbank where his animal stood eating grass.

“Does Drako still draw breath?” asked Leo.

Menesarkus nodded. “He is harder to kill than the Hydra.”

“May I slay
him
too?” said Kolax hopefully.

“No,” said Menesarkus. “We keep
this
Spartan alive.”

 

EPILOGUE

Never waste new tears over old sorrows.

—
E
URIPIDES OF
A
THENS.

 

“And then what happened?” asked Nikias. He was propped up in bed, squinting through puffy eyes at Kolax and Leo, who sat on either side. Mula was at the foot of the bed.

Leo was about to continue when Kolax raised his hand in a self-important manner and exclaimed, “Let me tell! Leo got the last part all wrong. I felled
six
Spartans who were going to kill Grandfather Arkon, not
four
! And besides, Leo didn't even see what happened next.”

Nikias glanced at Leo, who rolled his eyes and smiled in a good-natured manner. “It's true,” he said. “The Arkon took my horse and left me to tie up Drako and guard him.”

“Menesarkus and I galloped back to the Persian Fort,” said Kolax with enthusiasm, pretending he was astride his mount. “Inside it was a slaughter ground. I wanted to join my people and chase down the enemy who were still fighting, but Grandfather Arkon ordered me to stay by his side. He started shouting that he had captured Drako, calling on the surviving Red Cloaks to throw down their arms. And do you know what those mare-milkers did? They gave up! Curse them to the Barren Lands Below!”

The Skythian looked so comical in his wrath that Nikias laughed, even though doing so caused him immense pain. He touched the wrappings wound around his rib cage and winced.

“Over two thousand of them were killed,” said Leo. “And we only lost thirty men.”

“Only three Skythians were killed,” observed Kolax. “My cousin Jaro was one of them. But he died a glorious death. We buried him with fifteen Spartan heads.”

“A great victory,” said Nikias. “If only I could have ridden with you,” he added faintly.

“And me too,” said Mula morosely. “I'll never get to be in a battle.”

“Don't whine about it,” Kolax said to Mula. “Some are born to be warriors like me and others are born to cook, like you.”

Mula scowled and punched Kolax in the shoulder.

“Ouch!” said Kolax. “I didn't insult your cooking.”

Nikias thought it was amusing that Kolax, the most brutal killer he had ever known, would allow himself to be punched in the arm by a puny slave boy, but the two had escaped from the citadel together on the night of the sneak attack and had formed a brotherly bond that, apparently, would never be broken.

“We should leave you now,” said Chusor from the other side of the chamber where he'd been sitting silently during the entire visit. “Nikias was in Morpheus's arms for three days and has only been awake for two more. We must let him rest and heal.”

“But let me finish!” said Kolax, and speaking very quickly he told how the Helots—those docile sheep-people—had merely sat in their pens during the entire attack. And how the five hundred Spartan survivors were chained together and led back to the citadel. He also described the battering ram that the Spartans had built and how it had taken twenty oxen to pull it back to Plataea. “And I sat on top of it the entire way,” he exclaimed, “laughing at Skunxa the whole time and mocking him for his feeble number of kills. I bested him by ten. And—”

Leo, realizing that Kolax would never stop chattering, started pulling the boy away from the bed.

“—now I'm going to make a drinking cup from one of my enemy's skulls for the Skythian celebration my father is…”

Leo and Mula dragged him out the door and Nikias could hear him babbling all the way down the hall.