Spartans at the Gates (20 page)

“I'm not going that way,” he said to the boy when he saw the slave was moving away from the sea and into the darkness in the other direction.

The boy shrugged. “Timarkos said you might be afraid.”

“I'm not afraid,” said Nikias. “It stinks.”

“You get used to it,” said the boy.

“Isn't there another way?” he asked.

“Timarkos told me to bring you this way,” said the boy. He smiled, showing a mouthful of broken teeth. “It's not far.”

Nikias covered his nose with his hand and tried not to gag on the smell of the fetid wastewater. He had to crouch as they moved along a raised walkway, pressing his wounded shoulder to the clammy and slimy wall to keep from stepping off into the sewage. After a short distance they came to a small opening. He peered into it and saw the boy crawling down a dimly lit horizontal shaft.

“Zeus's balls,” said Nikias, getting on his one good hand and knees. He inched his way down the shaft. After twenty feet he emerged into a small undercroft lit by torchlight. Somebody moved in the darkness and Nikias tensed. “Who's there?” he asked, clenching his left hand into a fist.

A man moved into the light and squinted at Nikias with weary eyes. “It's me, Timarkos,” replied the wiry, goat-bearded Athenian spy. “Welcome to Athens, you sheep-brained fool.”

 

NINETEEN

Timarkos went to the opening of the shaft and shut a metal grate, then fastened it with a lock. “Climb,” he ordered, pointing to a wooden ladder at the end of the chamber. The nimble slave boy was already ascending.

Nikias went slowly up the ladder—no easy task with one arm—and came up through the hole and onto a floor made of planks. He stood up and looked around. They were in a small room furnished with nothing more than a table and two chairs. There was a door at the end—locked with an iron bar—and two small square openings at the top of the opposite wall made to provide light.

“Sit,” said Timarkos.

Nikias sat down on one of the chairs and glanced to the corner of the room where the slave boy was already curled up, staring at him like a little one-eyed bug. Timarkos took the chair across from Nikias, rubbed a hand across his face, and looked at him with an expression of contained exasperation. Finally he said, “You certainly have made things difficult for me.”

Nikias smiled wryly. “Oh? The last time I saw you in Plataea you handed me an assassin's pig-sticker blade and sent me off to murder Nauklydes in the Assembly Hall. I would have been killed on the spot even if I
had
succeeded.”

Timarkos raised his eyebrows. “You would have been remembered as a hero.”

Nikias thought back to the terrifying moment. He had been about to run onto the floor of the Hall to stab Nauklydes in front of every citizen in Plataea. Fortunately his grandfather had arrived just in time. The Bull had exposed Nauklydes as a traitor without resorting to violence.

“My grandfather's way was better,” said Nikias. “Nauklydes was executed by the people, not slaughtered by an individual.”

Timarkos scratched the scraggly whiskers on his neck. “At the time I sent you to kill Nauklydes I did not know your grandfather was still alive. But everything worked out in the end, did it not? Nauklydes was given a stone tunic, as he well deserved.”

“Do you know who drugged me last night?” Nikias asked.

“One of Kleon's whisperers,” said Timarkos.

“Why did they dump me outside the city and order me to leave?”

“Athens is a snake pit of factions. But there are two main rivals vying for control of the empire. On one side there are men who will follow Perikles to Hades and back. And on the other are those who would gladly send his shade there forthwith, never to return.”

“And which one are you?” asked Nikias. “Because that man who works for Kleon told me that
you
serve several masters.”

“I do not serve any ruler or public official,” said Timarkos proudly. “I am an agent of the Delian League and an enemy to all who would thwart its dominance. And I have eyes and ears in both camps—the supporters of Perikles as well as his enemies. You were stupid, yesterday, to create that ruckus in that theatre and have your things stolen. A bag of darics and a letter to Kleon's late concubine?” he added with an arch look. “I warned you not to trust Chusor.”

“Who
is
Kleon?” asked Nikias. “What is his story?”

“He's a wealthy and powerful citizen,” said Timarkos, “who hates Perikles and the other nobles and wants them all removed from power. Possibly even ostracized. He has started spreading rumors that Perikles has misused public funds—an offense that brings exile if proven!”

“How did
you
know about the gold?” said Nikias. “And the letter?”

“I told you already,” replied Timarkos. “I have my sources in Kleon's inner circle.”

“Is Kleon the one who tried to have Chusor murdered years ago?” asked Nikias. “Because Chusor was having an affair with the hetaera Sophia?”

Timarkos waved his hand in the air—a gesture of annoyance. “That is irrelevant. Your friend Chusor is a liar and a scoundrel. I warned you about him before.”

Nikias glared at the spy. “Chusor risked his life to save Plataeans during the Theban sneak attack. We owe him a great debt.”

“I wager Chusor had some other reason for being in Plataea,” said Timarkos. “And I'll also bet he's long gone by now. Now, you must tell me something. Where did the Persian gold come from?”

Nikias quickly told him the story of finding the gold in the strongbox in Nauklydes's office.

“And what did you plan to do with the gold?” asked the spy.

“Hire mercenaries and bring them back to Plataea.”

Timarkos smiled without mirth. “You've got balls, lad,” he said. “Foolhardy idea, however. No mercenary in Athens would be stupid enough to walk into the middle of a Spartan siege, no matter how much gold you offered them. None of this has import, though. Kleon has the gold now and he'll be able to finance a pretty bit of espionage using those funds. Excellent work, young Oxlander.”

“It was bad luck,” said Nikias, burning with irritation at Timarkos's sarcasm. “Why is Kleon afraid of me?”

Timarkos burst out laughing. “
Afraid
of you? He's not
afraid
of you. He milked you for all of the information he wanted and cast you aside like a scooped-out pomegranate. You're nothing to him. An annoyance—a horsefly. But Kleon is the type of man who crushes those who displeasure him, like you or I would swat a bug.”

Nikias sat back and sighed. He felt like an imbecile. He'd wasted an opportunity—squandered the Persian gold and accomplished nothing to help Plataea. “How goes it with the Plataean emissary?” he asked, hoping for some good news. Several days before he had left Plataea, his grandfather had sent two aged generals to Athens on a mission: to beg Perikles's permission to allow the Plataeans to sign a peace accord with the Spartans.

Timarkos's face looked truly sad when he said, “The two honorable generals have failed to sway Perikles, even with your city's promise of neutrality in the event Sparta and Athens go to war.”

“But why?” asked Nikias. “What good can come if Plataea is besieged and destroyed by Sparta?”

“If Plataea is allowed to exit the Delian League,” said Timarkos, “other city-states who are pressured by the Spartans will have no reason to resist. They will jump ship. If Plataea stands firm, however, then your city will be seen as a shining example of loyalty to the League. That is why Perikles cannot allow the peace treaty with Plataea and Sparta.”

“And will Perikles give us no help at all?” asked Nikias. “No warriors or cavalry?”

“It goes against his policy,” said Timarkos. “He believes that we Athenians can outlast the Spartans behind the walls of
our
citadel. That same strategy applies to you Plataeans.”

“Perikles seems more like the enemy of Plataea than Kleon,” said Nikias bitterly. “Maybe I should hope Kleon comes to power. Maybe then my city will get some warriors.”

“It's not as simple as that, lad. The beating heart of the Athenian Empire is to the east of Athens: the islands and colonies under our control are where the real wealth comes from. The Spartans can't touch the islands because their navy is worthless. And all the treasure from those places can be shipped here to the Piraeus port and fed safely up the Long Walls to the citadel—grain to feed the people of Athens, and silver to fill our coffers. The Oxlands are merely an afterthought. It doesn't matter if Plataea falls, in the grand scheme of the empire. Even Kleon knows this to be true.”

Nikias shook his head. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Plataea an
afterthought
? We stood by you at Marathon. And against Xerxes. We've fought in a dozen wars for Athens since the Persian invasions. My own father died at Koronea helping the Athenians fight Thebes and the other Oxland rebels. Yet we're merely an afterthought?”

“This coming war with the Spartans will be won or lost on the seas,” said Timarkos. “We cannot defeat the Spartans on land. And so we must sacrifice that which we cannot afford to hold. That is Perikles's plan—to let the Spartans ravage the regions around Attika while we wait them out inside the citadel of Athens. The Long Walls will enable us to keep Athens fed from the sea.”

Nikias thought of something his grandfather had told him a year ago: that if Sparta and Athens ever did go to war, Plataea would be caught between them like an olive crushed between two grinding stones. He felt like that olive now—flattened … utterly demoralized.

“Why were you even in Plataea spying on Nauklydes the traitor?” asked Nikias. “Why concern yourself with my city—why talk to me now—if what happens in the Oxlands is meaningless?”

Timarkos leaned forward and for the first time Nikias saw him drop his haughty mask. “I am not Perikles. Nor am I Kleon. And I think they are both wrong in regards to Plataea. I believe your city-state is crucial to this coming war. I am of the opinion that the Spartans will dash themselves to pieces on the rock of your high walls. If anything their siege will buy us more time to build up our fleet and make an attack into the heart of Spartan territory. The Spartans will gather their forces in Plataea and leave their back door wide open. There are no walled cities in Sparta, as I'm sure you know. An invasion force could wipe out their meager defenders and raise a second Helot revolt from which the Spartans would never recover.”

“A new Helot revolt?” said Nikias, stirred by this notion. “So you see Plataea as a trap for the Spartans?”

“Yes,” said Timarkos. “And I will do everything in my power to help prevent your city from falling. But things hang by a thread, Nikias. Athens is teeming with Persian spies. They are the ones financing the Spartan campaign in the Oxlands. You must take this message back to your grandfather—” He stopped midsentence, looking frantically around the room. “Where's the boy?” he asked.

Nikias looked to the corner of the room where the one-eyed boy had been sitting. But he was gone.

A moment later they heard the sound of metal crashing on metal from below—from the place where Nikias had followed the boy up to this chamber.

“The grate is open! The boy has betrayed me,” said Timarkos. He turned toward the door that led to the street just as something heavy slammed against it from the outside.

“We're trapped!” said Nikias.

“Not quite,” said Timarkos. “Let me get on your shoulders. Quickly!”

He scrambled onto Nikias's back and got into a standing position on his shoulders. Nikias craned his head and saw that there was a wooden trapdoor in the center of the ten-foot-high ceiling. Timarkos reached for a metal ring and yanked open the door. A knotted rope fell down into the room. Timarkos scrambled up the rope like a monkey. When he had climbed through the hole in the top he shouted down, “Come on!”

“I can only use one arm!” said Nikias. He glanced at the door in the wall—the top hinge broke away from the brick as the barred portal was pounded again.

“Grab on!” commanded Timarkos from the trapdoor. “I'll pull you up.”

Nikias grabbed the rope with his one good arm and wrapped his feet around the end. Timarkos tried to pull Nikias up but he was too heavy. The spy let go of the rope and disappeared from the hole above.

“Timarkos!” Nikias shouted urgently.

The portal cracked and slammed to the floor. At the same time a man rushed up the ladder from the undercroft. Nikias kicked the man in the face, then spun around and smashed his fist into the nose of the first man bulling his way through the door.

But more men came.

Nikias crushed a man's nose. Dislocated another's jaw. Teeth and blood flew. But it was no use. There were too many of them. Five strong men pinned him down. They tied his wrists behind his back and he screamed from the pain in his wounded shoulder.

A hand grabbed him by the hair, yanked back his head, and forced him to stare into a familiar face. “Hello, lad,” said the friendly bearlike man he'd met while talking to the recruiter in the shipyard marketplace.

“You?” gasped Nikias.

The man glanced up at the trapdoor in the ceiling, then he stared at Nikias with a wicked look—an expression that was entirely different from the cheerful fellow he'd been pretending to be a short while ago out in the marketplace.

“You were much easier to catch than they said you'd be,” sneered the man, leaning in and breathing his rank breath into Nikias's face. “There's a ship waiting to take you on a little voyage to Sparta.”

He crammed a wad of sailcloth into Nikias's mouth and tied a piece of rope around his jaw to hold the gag, muffling the young fighter's desperate screams.