Spartans at the Gates (23 page)

“You must release everything,” Andros went on. “Love, wealth, even happiness itself. Only then will you find peace of mind. For peace of mind is greater than any earthly glory, whether it be wealth or conquest.”

This last idiocy made Kolax burst out laughing. He laughed so hard that he started to choke. His throat was still sore from where the slave-hunter had tried to strangle him with the whip.

“Gods!” exclaimed Andros. “Poor lad! Your face is turning as purple as a grape.”

Andros led him to a nearby public fountain and encouraged him to drink. Kolax cupped his hands and held the cool water to his lips, gulping it down.

The raven flew over to them and landed on the edge of the fountain, and took a sip from the water pouring from the mouth of a stone satyr. The bird eyed Kolax, then let forth a low
carrrrock
sound. Andros reacted as though the raven had spoken an understandable word.

“Yes,” said the bard. “You're right, Telemakos. Some leaf would be a good idea.” He took the leather pouch from around his neck and emptied the contents onto the marble seat in front of the fountain—a clay pipe, a flint, and another, smaller pouch filled with dried hemp, the sight of which made Kolax's eyes grow wide with delight.

The bard filled the pipe and got the leaves smoldering. “Something I discovered in your country,” he said and gave a rueful smile.

Kolax eagerly took the offered pipe from Andros's hand, sucking in the vapor. It was strong leaf and within a short time he felt his body start to change … as though he were made of arrow strings pulled taut and then loosened by the hand of a god.

Andros inhaled a long draft from the pipe and held the air in his lungs. “Good Skythian leaf,” he said in the back of his throat.

Kolax grinned, then took several more puffs from the pipe. After a while he closed his eyes and imagined riding across a grassy plain with the sound of the horse's hooves thundering on the ground like war drums. He could smell the wet Skythian grass … and hear his mother's voice calling to him—“Come, child, come, my darling horseman. Your dinner is on the spit. Your skull cup is full.” But no matter where he rode, he could not track her down.

A giant arrow—as tall as an ancient pine—slammed into the earth in front of him, blocking his path. The shaft was painted with black-and-white stripes to signify the arrowhead had been laced with poison.

Kolax's father had taught him how to make Skythian poison when he was a small boy. After trapping grass vipers in special baskets on the ends of poles, the snakes were subdued with hemp smoke, then the venom “milked” from their fangs. This whitish poison was mixed with human feces in a leather pouch and steeped underground for the cycle of one moon. A tiny scratch from a weapon tainted with this poison could send the mightiest warrior into paroxysms of agonizing pain followed soon after by death.

Kolax got on his knees and dug in the earth beneath the arrow and found a leather pouch. He carefully untied the drawstring's knots. When he pulled open the bag he could see nothing inside except an inky blackness. He put his face close to the opening. A viper leapt from the bag and bit him on the cheek.

He opened his eyes and looked around anxiously. He was lying down in front of the fountain. The bard and the raven were gone. He felt an ache in his guts and a powerful thirst. He glanced up at the position of the sun and reckoned he'd been there for over an hour. He'd never experienced that kind of vision while smoking hemp before, and wondered if the bard had mixed it with some other drug.

He drank some more water, then got to his feet and continued walking on the tree-lined road that led back to the agora. But no matter where he looked he couldn't find the bard. He felt lonely and chided himself for missing the foolish man. Andros had been kind to him, though. And he needed a friend in this huge city, especially one who spoke his language. He couldn't figure out why the bard had left him there by the fountain.

He sat down on a stone sidewalk in front of a crowded wineshop and rested his face in his hands. Hunger gnawed his guts. He still had the darics Nikias had given him for safekeeping, but he reckoned that using Persian gold in the market of Athens would draw suspicion. He pulled out the pouch that he wore around his neck. Then he opened it and started swallowing the gold pieces, one by one. That would keep his stomach from growling. And his guts were a much safer place to hide the gold.

He thought of the girl Iphigenia and wondered if she was still up in the tree where he'd left her. She had had enough food and water for only a few days. How would he ever get back to her and save her from her master? He wished the spear he'd thrown had found its mark in the Athenian warrior's chest, rather than slaying his pretty horse.

An old white-haired slave was sweeping off the sidewalk and he nudged Kolax with a tattered broom, saying, “Move on, my son,” before giving him another gentle push.

Kolax got up and walked back into the packed agora, his heart as heavy as a lead ball for a sling. He thought of Andros's raven and looked to the sky, but all he saw were seagulls circling overhead and a few noisy crows in a treetop. He turned his gaze to the Akropolis. If the raven was flying anywhere in the city, he would be able to spot the bird from up there.

He sprinted all the way back and stood on the steps of the Temple of Athena, keeping an eye out for the Skythian archer who had struck him. He scanned the city below with his eagle's eyes. His father had always told him he could spot a flea on a fox's arse from five hundred paces.

But he saw only gulls—their white bodies and gray wings sailing the skies.

He walked over to the temple and stared up at the painted statues carved into the pediments. What impressed him most was a marble frieze showing a line of cavalry. The horses seemed about to leap right off the roof. Whoever had carved those animals knew his horses.

The wind shifted just then and he heard a sound that made the skin on the back of his neck tingle. It was the faint but unmistakable call of a raven. He ran around to the other side of the temple and gazed down.

Kolax smiled. He saw a raven, five bowshots away to the west. There was no mistaking the eagle-sized bird. Telemakos was flying in a wide circle over a cluster of brick buildings that were surrounded by a wall. It looked like an old fort of some kind—a stronghold built within the walls of Athens.

Kolax could see Skythian archers going in and out of the complex as well as Athenian guardsmen standing on top of its flat roof. He watched as Telemakos dove into a courtyard of the fort and disappeared. He wondered what the raven was doing there. Was Andros in some kind of trouble? He had to find out.

He flew down the steps of the Akropolis as though his feet had sprouted wings.

 

FOUR

Phoenix and Nikias sat together at a table in the back corner of the Golden Fleece. The wineshop was packed with customers, all of them mariners from the
Sea Nymph
and other ships loyal to Perikles, and the space throbbed with the din of boisterous talk and laughter.

Nikias wanted more than anything to eat, but his jaw ached from the punches he'd taken—and one molar felt loose—so he sipped his wine and told his cousin the tale of the Theban sneak attack on Plataea while Phoenix, unnerved by the story, picked at his food.

The mariner listened attentively for over an hour, stopping Nikias now and again to ask about particular details, or to exclaim with sorrow or wonder at the harrowing narrative. He was particularly shaken by the news that Nikias's mother had been murdered by the Theban invaders, and did not attempt to hide his tears for his dead aunt.

Nikias finished up with a short description of why he had come to Athens, and how he had run afoul of Kleon's whisperers. After he was done Phoenix poured his cousin another cup of wine and ordered him to drink up.

“How many Thebans do you think you killed in the invasion?” asked Phoenix.

Nikias shook his head wearily. “I don't know. Twenty, perhaps.”

Phoenix blew out his cheeks. “Gods, Nikias! Those are respectable numbers!”

“It's the Theban who I
didn't
kill that matters most of all,” said Nikias.

“The spy Eurymakus?”

“Yes. I'm afraid that grass viper will come back to bite Plataea again.”

“Any man,” said Phoenix, “who has the stomach to cut off his own arm to save his life is dangerous.”

Nikias took a piece of bread and sopped up the oil on his plate, chewing gingerly with one side of his mouth, brooding. “I have to get an audience with Perikles,” he said after a while. “I know it sounds foolish. But I must leave the Piraeus and get back to Athens.”

“You've killed one of Kleon's hirelings,” said Phoenix. “He'll not stop until you're on a spit.” He slid a chunk of roasted meat off of a skewer and popped it in his mouth. “You're in bilgewater up to your chin, cousin, and that's no lie. And you can't just walk up to Perikles's house and knock on the door like some peddler.”

“What do I do?” asked Nikias.

“The first thing we have to do is to get you back into the city.”

“It's a six-mile walk from the Piraeus to the first gate of Athens,” said Nikias. “Kleon's men will be able to catch me anywhere along the road.”

“We'll simply walk along the Bulkheads,” said Phoenix.

The Bulkheads, Nikias knew, was the name Athenian mariners used for the Long Walls—two parallel bulwarks with a narrow road in between, running all the way from the bastions of the Piraeus to the southeastern gates of Athens. Even in the event of a prolonged siege, the Athenians would be able to use the Long Walls to get supplies from the port of Piraeus. The construction of this fortification, with its thirty-foot-high walls, had infuriated the Spartans back when they were Athenian allies. It was the first sign to the Spartans that the Athenians were planning ahead for a potential war with them.

“I'll be recognized,” said Nikias.

“That's easy enough to fix,” said Phoenix. He grinned and looked around the room. He caught sight of the mariner he was looking for, put two fingers to his lips, and let forth a piercing whistle. “Ho, there! Bion. Come here.”

A handsome young oarsman not much older than Nikias, but almost his exact same height and build, darted across the room and stood before his leader.

“Yes, Captain?” he asked.

“Take off your tunic,” ordered Phoenix.

“Here?” asked Bion with a surprised voice.

“Don't get excited,” said Phoenix. “We're not going to make love in a wineshop. Just take off your tunic.”

“Switching clothes isn't going to fool anybody,” said Nikias, annoyed.

“Just shut up,” snapped Phoenix. “My cunning plan will be revealed shortly. Come on, man! Take it off!”

The young mariner pulled off his clothes and stood there naked, waiting for more instructions.

“Now, Nikias,” said Phoenix. “Switch your tunic for Bion's.”

The young oarsman stared with disgust at Nikias's blood- and dirt-stained clothes. Nikias stood up and gave Bion an apologetic look. He took off his tunic, then put on the clean one—an outfit cut in the distinctive style worn by mariners, with blue trim on the sleeves. He put his own belt back on and tightened it around his waist.

“I'll pay you back,” Nikias said to Bion.

“You'll do no such thing,” said Phoenix. He took a drachma from his purse and flipped it to Bion. “Get yourself a new rig.” The young mariner smiled and tossed Nikias's tunic on the floor, then walked naked into the street to buy himself some new clothes.

“Don't worry about Bion,” said Phoenix. “He's just a bottom decker. Great in bed—he could suck the rust right off a bronze doorknocker—but not much of a brain. Now wait here for a moment.” He got up and whispered into the ear of one of his men—a short and swarthy heap of muscles who reminded Nikias of Diokles the Helot. The oarsman listened to Phoenix's instructions, took a proffered handful of silver coins, glanced at Nikias, then nodded and departed the wineshop.

Phoenix came back to the table and sat down, smiling smugly and signaling for a server. “We'll leave shortly,” he said.

“I don't want you to get in trouble on my account,” said Nikias.

“Don't worry,” said Phoenix. “Kleon's men will never know.”

“I don't see how wearing a mariner's tunic is going to fool anybody,” said Nikias, picking at his sleeve and sighing.

Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “Just have patience,” he said. “All will be revealed.”

A server brought Phoenix a plate of chicken and the mariner dug into his meal with vigor. Nikias sipped his wine, wondering how his cousin was going to sneak him past Kleon's henchmen. When he started to ask him for an explanation Phoenix held up a hand for silence, humming in a self-satisfied way as he tore the meat from the bones with his teeth.

Nikias glanced at one of the wineshop walls. It was hung with battered Korinthian shields—trophies captured from the enemy in battles at sea. He'd heard descriptions of galley fights before. Two ships would come together side by side, grappling like wrestlers, and the mariners on board would toss aside their wooden oars for spears and shields. “It's just like a phalanx battle except that instead of good, solid earth beneath your feet, you're wobbling on the waves like some sort of drunken fool,” was how his grandfather had described such an action.

Nikias studied his cousin's face. Phoenix had changed dramatically over the years. The last time Nikias had seen Phoenix he'd been a smooth-skinned, handsome rake with the elongated muscles of a swimmer. Now his chin was covered with a thick beard, his skin tanned the color of ancient oak, and his eyes creased with crow's-feet. His muscles were so massive they looked like the absurd pictures in the Athenian public gallery of Atlas holding up the world. The dashing, arrogant teenager had morphed into a stony-faced leader of men. He realized the man must possess tremendous skills as a seaman and a warrior to have become captain of the
Sea Nymph
at the age of twenty-seven. His grandfather had been a famous general, though, just like Nikias's grandfather. Fighting was in their blood.