Spartans at the Gates (41 page)

Diokles had asked his father if the Helots had ever been free of the Spartans. His father hadn't known. But he had said that the Spartans were good masters. His father had told him a story. “Long ago, when the beasts could talk, a sheep said to her master: ‘We sheep do so much for you. We give you wool, lambs, and cheese. But we get nothing except what comes from the land. Yet you share your house and home with your dog who gives you none of the things we give you.' The dog heard this and replied: ‘Stupid sheep! The master and I protect you from thieves and wolves. Without us you would not even be able to graze for fear of being killed.'”

As he had grown into manhood Diokles had come to realize that, not only were his people exactly like the sheep in the story, but the Spartans were the
wolves
. The word “Helot” in the Spartan tongue meant “the captured ones.” Each year at the summer harvest, Master Drako would come to the village with his small army of soldiers and read from a scroll: “As we have done every year since conquering this land, we the Spartan people declare our everlasting war upon the captured ones.” This “war” was enforced with the
krypteria
—the Spartan initiation into manhood. Every so often a Helot man would be taken from the village and marched high into the mountains, where he was released … and then hunted down by a Spartan boy. Diokles's father had been one of these butchered men. Diokles was ten years old at the time.

Over the years he had heard rumors of some Helot slaves who had run away during a great earthquake that had shaken Sparta. It was said they had started their own city on the top of a volcano, and had beaten back an army of Spartans who had come to take them back. He vowed to find that city one day.

Perhaps his Spartan masters had known how to read his mind. For when he had entered the breeding age, they had picked him out as a troublemaker and sold him off to a slaver. And that's how he'd ended up in a Spartan mine, where twenty thousand men pounded the earth to bring up the ore to make iron. Somehow he'd survived the agonizing labor, the cave-ins, the beatings, the poor diet. The guards at the mines had given him the name “the beetle” because he was so short and squat, dark-skinned and sturdy. His body was suited to crawling into tight crevices to search for ore. It was as if the weight of the earth he toiled under had compressed him, packed him together.

He had worked in shafts so deep, the only light came from sooty lamps, the only smells the ore dust and the smoke of burning wicks. He had pounded holes in the solid rock for hours on end. He had fantasized about killing himself many times. All he would have had to do was anchor the digging spike into the rock and impale his neck on it. But he hadn't been able to stand the thought of dying underground, in the darkness.…

“And how did you finally escape?” asked Ajax and Teleos at the same time.

Diokles stopped hammering for a moment and glanced at the faces of the brothers staring back at him, illuminated by the lamplight of the dark tunnel. He had been telling them his story as they dug under the streets of Plataea in the tunnel entrance beneath the ancient marker called Zeus's Thumb—the place where Barka had told them that the treasure was sure to be found. The eunuch had come to the tunnel an hour ago to inspect their work, and then he had disappeared. But where had his pretty Lylit gone?

“Diokles?” urged Teleos.

“Eh?”

Diokles had become so lost in his own tale that he'd forgotten he had been speaking his thoughts aloud to the brothers.

“What happened next?” asked Ajax.

“Earthquake come,” said Diokles. “Biggest earthquake ever. Wall around slave quarters split open. And we run. All of us. I don't know how many make it to the sea. Maybe I the only one. I find a ship on a beach in a little cove. A pretty ship full of pirates. They getting water from a spring. I beg them to take me on board. I cry at them. Big tears.”

“And that was Chusor's ship?” asked Ajax.

“
Zana's
ship,” replied Diokles and started hammering a spike in between two rocks. The first blow made a strange hollow sound and he cocked his head to the side. He struck the spike again and frowned. This was a wall. A wall of stacked stones.

“But Chusor was there,” said Teleos. “Right? He brought you on board.”

“Chusor was one of the sailors,” said Diokles. “Barka who kept them from killing me. My Lylit ask Zana to take me on ship.”

“Why?” asked Ajax.

Diokles pounded the spike several more times, driving it into the rocks. The blockage crumbled suddenly and filled the tunnel with debris. For an instant Diokles thought the roof of the tunnel might collapse, but the wooden supports they had installed held. Once the dust cleared he held up the lamp and thrust it into the darkness. He wiped the sweat and dirt from his face and said under his breath, “Barka tell me I going to save her life one day.”

“And did you?” asked Teleos.

Diokles ignored the question. “Clear this,” he ordered.

The boys went to work, hauling the mound of debris up the tunnel and out of the way.

Gripping a large stone that jutted from the floor of the tunnel, Diokles pulled on it with all his might and it came from the earth like a rotten tooth. Now there was enough room for him to squeeze into the dark space on the other side. He held the lamp out in front of him and crawled on one hand and his knees into some sort of man-made chamber.

“What do you see in there?” said Teleos from the tunnel.

“Stay out,” said Diokles.

On the other side of the chamber, leaning against the wall, was a decayed wooden shield and a rusted bronze corselet.

“Diokles?” said Ajax. “Can we come in too?”

“Stay out,” said Diokles. “Not enough room for you monkeys.”

“Did you find the treasure?”

He ignored the boys as he crawled around the chamber. He found the skeleton of a dog, curled up as though in eternal sleep. And stone boxes. Diokles pulled off the top of one of these and held up the lamp to peer inside. He couldn't tell what was contained in it. A black substance. He reached inside and took out a clump of something and sniffed it.

Grain. To sow in the afterlife.

At the other end of the chamber he found a narrow alcove with a body stretched out on the floor, and skeletal hands clutching a sword in a rotting wooden scabbard. On the dead man's head was a helm fashioned from the curved tusks of boars. A shelf had been carved into the alcove, and on it were arrayed dusty objects that reflected the lamp flame with a pale yellow gleam.

He put the lamp next to the corpse's head and saw a metallic face smiling back.

“Forgive me for disturbing your sleep, warrior,” said Diokles, and reached for the golden mask with a trembling hand.

 

TEN

Nikias laughed, even though doing so caused him immense pain—like knives stabbing into his lungs. He laughed because he couldn't figure out why his blood floated
upward,
toward the low ceiling a few inches above his head. He felt the blood pooling in his mouth and let another gob of it out, and watched curiously as the red stream flowed up rather than down, joining the pool of fluid and vomit and piss.

And there was a voice in the back of his mind—a nagging voice that wouldn't stop. It kept saying over and over again, “Remember the name.” He could picture the fellow. Dark eyes, curly beard, plump—strange accent.

Remember the name, Nikias.…

“What name?” Nikias said aloud. “I told you, I can't remember.” He laughed again and winced. He realized that his ribs were broken. That's why it hurt so much to laugh. He tried to move his arms but they were pinioned behind his back. Everything seemed so strange. Where was he? Why couldn't he move his arms? Why couldn't he walk?

The ring. The stone. The angel. She will save you.…

“What's he doing?” asked an annoyed voice—a cruel voice that was so different from the kindly one in his head.

“He's hallucinating,” came a silky reply. This second voice had a Theban accent.

“I need to rest my hand. My knuckles ache from punching him.”

“Axe, you surprise me. I reckoned you could punch a
defenseless
man all day.”

“I've been beating on him for three hours. I think I've broken all his ribs. I say we start cutting into him.”

Nikias saw the upside-down face of a man with almond-shaped eyes come into view. The man was missing part of his upper lip. With a sickening twist in his guts, he remembered where he was. Tanagra. Hanging by his ankles from a beam in an undercroft. And the man looking at him was his enemy—the Theban Eurymakus.

“Hello, Nikias,” said Eurymakus, pulling back his ruined lip in a ruthless smile. “You left us for a few minutes.”

Nikias squirmed and tried to lash out, but he was helpless. When they had first strung him up by the rope, hours ago, he had felt like his eyeballs were going to pop out of his skull from the pressure of his blood rushing to his head. But then Axe had started beating on him as though he were a stuffed leather punching bag at the gymnasium, and now every organ in his body felt as though it were going to burst. He had blacked out several times during the ordeal, drifting into fevered dreams that brought a few moments of escape.

But every time he woke up again to this horror.

Now his heart started pounding as the panic returned. There was no escape. He was utterly helpless, far from home and friends. No help would come if he were to scream. All he wanted now was for them to kill him and put him out of this misery. A wave of sadness bathed his soul. Eurymakus had told him that he would torture and mutilate him and send him back to Plataea in a cart. He thought of his grandfather and Kallisto seeing his destroyed body and he fought back tears. He didn't want Eurymakus or Axe to see him cry.

“I'm sorry, Grandfather,” Nikias whispered. “I'm so sorry I didn't listen to you.”

“He's sobbing, the little bitch,” said Axe. “What's he saying?”

“He's terrified,” said Eurymakus in a gentle tone. “Lower him down, Axe. Let's give our friend a little rest.”

“Stuff giving him a rest!” said Axe. “I want to make him eat his balls. You promised.”

“Lower him,” said the spy, a hint of anger creeping into his voice.

Eurymakus supported Nikias's head as Axe lowered the rope, and Nikias let forth a body-wracking sigh as he slumped to the floor. He lay with his head in Eurymakus's lap, feeling his enemy's hand stroking his head. He tried to stifle his sobs, but he couldn't help himself. He wept like a child.

“There, there,” cooed Eurymakus. “You may weep, Nikias. You must rest now. We will be here for many more hours. Many more days. There is so much I need to teach you. So much that you need to learn about pain and humility. Just like your beloved friend Demetrios will have learnt in the Prison Pits of Syrakuse. He'll be dead by now, of course. He was no use to the Spartans after his father, Nauklydes, had been turned to our cause. And the Syrakusans do whatever the Spartans tell them. They are good little dogs. They have learnt to heel. Just like you will, my frightened pup,” he added, and patted Nikias's head.

“Please let me go,” said Nikias. He couldn't help himself. He didn't want to speak but the words came pouring out of him. “Please. I'll do anything. Just tell me what to do.”

“Ha!” barked Axe. “I love this! Listen to him! Pathetic.”

“I was supposed to die … as a warrior,” gasped Nikias.

“You want to die like your father did?” said Axe with a scoffing laugh. “You want to die in
battle
?”

“Yes,” said Nikias. “This is … dishonorable.”

“Ah,” said Eurymakus. “Now you're learning something. Now you know what my brother Damos must have felt when your grandfather murdered him in the pankration arena, in front of forty thousand men. When he pushed his face into the sand, smothering him. Humiliation,” he hissed.

“I want to tell you something,” said Axe, kneeling down and putting his leering face close to Nikias's. “Your father wasn't struck down by the enemy at the Battle of Koronea.
I
killed him.” He started laughing giddily.

Nikias stared back at Axe, eyes bulging.

“I always hated Aristo,” continued Axe. “Such an arrogant piece of shit, just like you. In the chaos of the battle, after our shield wall broke and we were running away, I speared your father in the guts. You should have seen the look on his face. I've never seen anyone look so surprised. I was on my back, helpless, when Aristo cut down a warrior who was just about to kill me. He saved me! Can you believe that? Aristo saved
me
. He was such a right-minded prick. And then the sheep-stuffer reached out a hand to pull me up and”—here he made a horrible squelching sound, screwing up his face in a look of mock surprise—“Aristo sang no more.”

Nikias remembered seeing his father's bloodless blue-skinned corpse in the back of the cart. He remembered cradling his father's cold funeral jar in his arms. He remembered his mother's anguished cries and the blood pouring from the cuts she had rent in her own face with her fingernails. And all this time … all these years … the man responsible for his murder had walked free in Plataea, mocking him behind his back. Never in Nikias's life had he wanted to kill somebody more than now. To squeeze the life from Axe's body.

“You should see the look on
your
face now!” said Axe with vicious delight. “You look just like your father!”

Nikias lunged at Axe, clamping onto the man's cheek with the only weapons he had left—his teeth. He ripped back his head and tore out a chunk of flesh, then spit it back into Axe's face.

Axe fell on his haunches, clapping a hand to his bloody cheek. Then he dove at Nikias, raining blows upon his face.