Sword of Apollo (13 page)

Telemakos replied proudly, “But I got right back up and scaled that ladder again. And I killed that Median with his own club.”

“That you did,” said Menesarkus. He recalled the fury with which the Greeks had slain the people who had defended Sardis … and the terrible aftermath in which they had raped the women and slaughtered the men. A cold hand seemed to clutch his heart as he thought of the Spartans breaking through the walls of Plataea.…

The faint smell of wood smoke filled his nostrils, and he recalled the hideous stench of burning human flesh from the blazing homes of Sardis. He gazed into space for a long while, then started when he realized that Telemakos was prying apart the door frame, trying to make it wider so that he could get his crate through the opening.

“Leave it, friend,” said Menesarkus. “You must come with me to the agora now. I can smell the smoke from the forest fire. Soon our people will have to travel under its protective mantle. You are a craftsman, and your name is already known in Athens. A man of your reputation need not burden himself with a box of samples, nor even tools of his trade. You will be like a great warrior who shows up at a battle naked and unarmed. Men will know your worth and provide you with gear. So leave anything behind that might encumber you on this desperate journey. Bring only your sword, bow and quiver, and a little food, and leave everything else behind. Your home and its belongings will be safe as long as we hold the walls, and I promise you we will not give them up to the enemy.”

Telemakos dropped his chin to his chest and began to weep. Then he nodded his head submissively. He pushed the crate back inside the house, then shut the door and headed toward the agora.

Menesarkus took a shortcut through the center of the citadel and wended his way back to the house where he slept when he was away from the farm. He needed to get some wine and food before he faced the crowd in the agora—before he gave them a final speech and sent them on their way into peril and exile.

When he got to the house he saw a mule cart out front—the cart from the farm. He knew in that instant that something was wrong. The women were supposed to wait at the farm and join the exodus as it passed on the road going east. Why had they brought the cart back to the city?

Saeed dashed from the front door of the house and started running in the opposite way from him, evidently on some urgent errand in the direction of the agora.

“Where are you going?” Menesarkus called.

Saeed stopped abruptly and ran back to him. “It's Kallisto,” he said. “She's bleeding worse now. My mistress said that we had to bring her to the citadel. She cannot make the journey to Athens.”

Menesarkus found Eudoxia and Kallisto in one of the upstairs bedchambers. Kallisto lay on her side, taking quick short breaths, eyes half closed. Her forehead was beaded with sweat. Eudoxia sat by her side, stirring something in a bowl. She looked up as he entered and shook her head of silver hair slightly—a familiar look that said, “Do not say anything rash, husband.”

“Is she unwell?” asked Menesarkus.

“Kallisto is staying in Plataea,” said Eudoxia firmly. “Otherwise she will lose the child for certain. And perhaps her own life as well. I am staying with her,” she added, even more forcefully. “The two of us would only slow down the travelers. We're staying and there is nothing to argue about.” She spooned some of the potion into Kallisto's mouth, who swallowed it with a great effort.

Menesarkus lowered himself into a chair in the corner of the room, brooding silently. He knew that Eudoxia was right—Kallisto could not make the journey to Athens in this condition. But he dreaded the thought of his wife and Kallisto trapped inside the walls of the citadel during a siege, like rats in a box. They might starve to death before it was over. Or worse … if the Spartans defeated Plataea and overran the walls, then the women would be raped without mercy—defiled with such violence that their bodies would be ruined forever. And Kallisto's baby, if it was still alive, would have its brains dashed out against the walls in front of its own mother's eyes. Eudoxia would live the rest of her short and miserable life as the lowest kind of laboring slave, and Kallisto would spend the rest of hers on her back in a brothel.

It was too horrible to imagine.

If only they could go with the others! What god had brought this evil upon his family? Upon his unborn great-grandchild? Plataea was so vulnerable now. But the walls of Athens were unassailable.
That
mighty stronghold—a city that could fit almost all of Plataea in its agora—was a refuge from war that he had hoped would protect all of those whom he loved. His head felt heavy all of a sudden, as though it were filled with lead. He wanted to roar with rage and punch the wall out of frustration.

“But where are the twins?” he asked abruptly.

“They are still at the farm with Phile,” said Eudoxia. “They will go to Athens.”

“And Nikias,” said Kallisto, speaking for the first time, her voice barely audible. “Nikias will protect them. But you cannot let him know I am here. Otherwise he will stay by my side. He is foolish that way. He loves me more than our children.”

Menesarkus left the chamber and went downstairs to the kitchen, where he forced himself to eat some bread, cheese, and a handful of olives. He didn't have to give his speech until dawn. He washed down his food with two cups of uncut wine. Then he became drowsy and sat by the fire, drifting in and out of a fitful slumber. He dreamt that he was on the rooftop of the farm on the night of the Theban invasion, when Eurymakus had trapped everyone in the house and set it on fire. In the dream Eurymakus knelt before him, cradling the body of his brother Damos—the fighter that Menesarkus had killed in the pankration championship. “Murderer,” said Eurymakus, and then he pulled apart his dead brother's jaws and a writhing mass of black smoke issued from his gaping maw. The smoke turned into worms, beetles, and maggots that gushed forth, filling the room with a murky and churning chaos, like a ship swamped with bilgewater.…

He awoke with a cry. A cock crowed in the distance. The room reeked of smoke.

Hesiod entered, breathing hard, his eyes red with tears. “Arkon,” he said in a funereal tone. “The fire starters have returned from the mountain and have assembled with the citizens. Zoticus and his cavalry wait outside the walls to lead them. Dawn approaches. The smoke is heavy and covers the entire valley. Our people only wait on your command to depart for Athens.”

“And what will I say to my people?” thought Menesarkus. “What words of wisdom can I impart upon them before they head off to Athens? Before they leave their homes, perhaps forever?”

“Arkon…” began Hesiod, then stopped and dropped his head, wiping away tears.

“Why do you weep?” asked Menesarkus. He realized, with a sinking in his guts, that Hesiod was not crying because of the stinging smoke. “Is Kallisto dead?”

Hesiod frowned. “Kallisto? No. It's Nikias. He did not return from the summit. Neither did my brother or Leo or the barbarian boy. It's been two hours and more since they lit their fire.”

Menesarkus felt as if a hand clutched his throat. He forced himself to swallow and practically gagged on his spit. He cleared his throat and said, “Hand me my staff. I must send our brothers and sisters into hateful exile with what well-meaning words I can muster.”

 

SIXTEEN

“Leave me to die,” moaned Baklydes. “Just leave me to die.”

“We're not going to leave you,” said Nikias in a voice raspy from smoke.

“And you're not going to die,” added Leo, and cleared his throat, spitting onto the ground. “You've got a broken ankle, not a gut wound. So quit crying.”

Baklydes had an arm draped over Nikias's shoulder and the other around Leo as they helped him hop across the rocky escarpment on the southern slope of Mount Kithaeron. It was an hour after dawn and the air was thick with haze. The sun appeared as a dull glowing disk behind the veil of smoke, reminding Nikias of a silver coin that had been rubbed smooth of all its features.

Baklydes had broken his ankle in their wild flight down from the summit, stepping into a small depression a mile from the top and snapping the bone. The three took refuge in a gully surrounded by a thick pine forest, hiding out from the Dog Raiders who had been swarming about on this side of the mountain. But after the wind shifted from the northwest with the coming of the sun, smoke wafted down the southern slopes, blanketing the forest in a choking vapor, and the Dog Raiders vanished, most likely riding back to their fortress. And so the three companions set out for their destination as fast as they could manage.

“Do you think everyone from the citadel has made it to the Three Heads by now?” asked Leo.

“They should have,” said Nikias. He thought of Kallisto and his little girls riding in the cart and prayed that the journey over the pass from the Oxlands had gone well.

“How far are we from the fort, do you reckon?” asked Baklydes.

“A couple of miles by the flight of a crow,” said Nikias. “But it's hard to tell in this smoke.”

“Look,” said Leo. “A stream.”

Nikias and Leo lowered Baklydes by the edge of the stream, then all three plunged their faces into the water, washing the grime from their eyes and gulping water down their parched throats.

“I've never tasted any water better,” said Baklydes.

“It's probably filled with goat piss,” said Leo.

“I don't care.”

“What do you think happened to Kolax and Mula?” Leo asked, rubbing his eyes with such force it looked as though he might dig them from his skull.

“I don't know,” said Nikias. “They're both fast runners. And Kolax can take care of himself.” The last he'd seen, they were being chased down the mountain back toward Plataea by at least twenty Dog Raiders. If they'd made it to the second line of fire, they might have found other Plataeans to help them, but he didn't hold out too much hope. Poor Mula. He seemed to be born under an unlucky star. He hoped the little boy hadn't been captured alive. He shuddered to think of what the Dog Raiders would do to him.

“Why do you think there were so many Dog Raiders on the mountain?” asked Baklydes. He pulled some broken barley cakes from his pack and offered them to the others. Leo took one and ate it greedily, but Nikias declined.

“I'm starving,” said Leo, his mouth full of food.

Nikias splashed his face with some water, then said, “I think that Spartan king has brought the Dog Raiders into his service. They were probably just on patrol, guarding against a sneak attack from us on the Spartan camp. Arkidamos is no fool. He knows that my grandfather is wily and capable of anything.”

Leo raised both hands in the air. “And he would be right. Look at what the Arkon has brought about. He's like Zeus the Storm Bringer.”

“Zeus the Smoke Bringer, more like it,” said Baklydes, shoving the cake into his mouth.

They laughed hard at this lame joke. More laughter than was justified by Baklydes's attempt at wit. But they were exhausted and had been on edge for hours. Baklydes lifted up his tunic and sent a stream of urine into the gurgling water.

“What are you three doing here?” a voice demanded from the other side of the stream, and they stopped laughing abruptly. An old man stood on the opposite bank, leaning on a staff and squinting at them. He wore a ragged robe and his beard and hair were greasy.

“Hermit,” said Leo under his breath.

“Peace, father,” said Nikias, getting to his feet.

“Would you like a barley cake?” offered Baklydes.

“I'm not your father, you Megarian goat-rapers,” said the old man with a sneer. “And this is a sacred stream. Stop that! And stuff your cake up your arses!”

“I can't,” said Baklydes, turning his jet of urine away from the water.

Leo got up and whispered in Nikias's ear, “He thinks we're Megarian.”

Nikias chewed on this for a moment, watching the old man as he stood scowling at Baklydes. Megarian territory was several miles south of here, across the mountains. This was Dog Raider territory. Why would there be Megarians here? And then it hit him: there must be a Megarian force nearby. “Stranger,” said Nikias in a cajoling tone, “we got separated from the others in the smoke. Could you tell me where they are?”

“Just follow the stream,” said the old man. “They're camped in the flats.”

“Peace,” said Nikias.

The old man gave him a black look, then headed up the escarpment and disappeared into the smoke.

“You two stay here,” said Nikias. “I'm going to go down and have a look.”

“I'm coming with you,” said Leo.

“You need to stay with Baklydes,” said Nikias. “He's helpless without you.”

“I'm not helpless,” said Baklydes.

“What are you going to do?” asked Nikias. “Piss on the enemy?”

“I have my sling,” said Baklydes, holding up a leather thong.

“Give me that,” said Nikias, snatching the thong from Baklydes.

“Well, if you're going to take that, then here's my bag of shots,” said Baklydes as he removed a bulging pouch from his belt. “Those shots were made by Chusor and they cost me an amphora of wine. The
good
stuff, mind you.”

Nikias strapped the pouch to his belt and took out one of the egg-shaped lead shots, slipping it into the sling. Chusor's shots were the best in Plataea: hurled by a skilled peltast, one could blast a hole through a man's face and out the back of his skull from thirty feet away. And Nikias was an expert with the sling.

“If I'm not back in half an hour, make for the Three Heads,” he said to Leo.

“How are we supposed to do that?” asked Leo. “I can't carry Baklydes on my back.”

“You'll find a way,” said Nikias.

He followed the stream down the hill. He could only see a few feet in front of his face because of the smoke, so he stared at the ground, walking carefully so as not to injure himself on the uneven terrain. He didn't want to end up helpless like Baklydes. That would be a death sentence here in enemy territory. After a mile he heard noises in the distance—the unmistakable din of an encampment … a large force of men, by the sound of it. He heard occasional good-natured shouts, the neighing of horses, the clank of arms and armor.