Spartans at the Gates (44 page)

Chusor could not control his anger. It surged inside his heart like a fire stoked by a bellows. He picked up his chair and smashed it against the wall, screaming, “I won't let you throw away Nikias's life!”

“He threw his life away the moment he defied me and went on his idiot's quest to Athens!” raged Menesarkus.

Chusor felt an overpowering urge to attack Menesarkus. He wanted to strike him down, put his head through a wall, anything to make him come to his senses. He could see the Bull was thinking the same thing, for his fists were clenched and he took a step toward Chusor, his mouth twisted in fury. “Take your best shot,” he said.

Men pounded on the door. “Arkon! What's going on?” they shouted.

“Nothing!” spat Menesarkus. “Leave us!” He stared into Chusor's eyes with a truculent expression—the detached gaze of a pankrator sizing up an enemy before a match began.

“You think I'm afraid to fight you?” said Chusor, his voice soft yet dangerous. “I'm not. I could beat you to a bloody pulp. Even when you were in your prime. But what good would it do? There's no way to pound any sense into that thick skull of yours. Let your beloved grandson die. It's on your head.”

Chusor went to the door and pulled back the bar lock, flinging open the portal so that it smashed against the wall, then pushed past the surprised clerks and guards and strode out of the building.

 

THIRTEEN

Menesarkus slammed shut the door to his office and slid the locking bolt. He was suddenly aware of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. It was as though his heart had become a war drum inside his chest, vibrating through his body, pulsing in his head. And it beat twice as fast as normal.

All at once his heart stopped for two full seconds, and when it started again it seemed to roll in his chest like an animal squirming inside a box. He had never had this happen before and it terrified him. His heart beat rapidly again, but a few seconds later the squirming sensation repeated.

Then again. And again.

He felt a tightness in his chest and gasped for air. He stared at his hands. His own fingertips had gone white. As white as Nikias's severed finger. His heart fluttered and stopped again, then felt as though it were expanding, churning, roiling.

A seizure of the heart!

His heart beat faster still and his face broke out in a clammy sweat. He was dimly aware of the men outside the door who were hammering on the portal with their fists.

He staggered over to his armor on its stand and punched it. The helm and corselet flew across the room and clattered on the floor.

His heart had gone mad inside his breast. He fell to his knees, trying to breathe slowly, but he felt a palpitation so strong that it took his breath away and he was seized by a severe coughing fit.

“Arkon!” shouted his clerk from the other side of the door. “Are you unwell?”

Menesarkus swayed over to the desk and grabbed Nikias's finger, clutching it in his hand. He lunged to the door and unbolted it, avoiding the anxious eyes of his clerk and the guards.

“Your face is drained of blood!” said the clerk anxiously.

“Water,” rasped Menesarkus.

The clerk ran to the other side of the room to fetch something to drink.

“Should we arrest the Egyptian?” asked one of the guards.

“For what?” snarled Menesarkus.

“We heard you shouting at each other,” began one of the other guards hesitantly.

“Leave Chusor alone,” said Menesarkus. “He is doing his duty.” He took the proffered cup from his clerk. But his hand shook so hard he couldn't put the cup to his lips.

Ba-boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

The sound of his own heartbeat in his ears was maddening. He flung the cup against the wall and bulled his way past the guards, stepping into the sunlit courtyard outside his offices. His clerk tried to follow him, but Menesarkus struck out at him.

“Leave me be!”

He made himself walk though his legs felt as though they'd been carved from marble. He was panicking. That was all. A fit of panic. He'd seen it happen to men in battle. They lost their wits. Said their hearts were going to leap out of their chests. Cowards.

“But I am no coward,” he thought bitterly.

He headed into the agora … making his way blindly through the crowds of refugees. The woodsmoke from cooking fires choked him. Made him queasy. He saw women and children. Old men. The helpless citizens of Plataea whom it was his duty to protect. He stopped when he got to the statue of the hero Androkles and leaned against the plinth, looking up at the carven figure. The hero's sword was raised in triumph. He read the words etched onto the slab:

NO SHAMEFUL FLIGHT OR FEAR!

MAKE YOUR SPIRIT VALIANT!

They were the last words that the hero spoke before slaying the despotic madman—the Last Tyrant of Plataea. And then Androkles had been cut down by the Tyrant's guardsmen.

He thought of Nikias. His beautiful grandson. So fearless. So foolish. He imagined him tied up in the Spartan camp, bleeding from his hand, awaiting the next cut, and his heart churned so forcefully behind his ribs that the sensation took his breath away.

His heart pounded even faster. Faster than it had ever beaten in his life. He'd held a frightened rabbit once when he was a boy. His heart beat faster than that creature's organ. How much longer before his heart split itself open? Tore itself apart?

He felt many eyes upon him. He looked around. A crowd of people had gathered and were gawking at him with curiosity. The sun beat down on him. But he felt cold. He was shaking. A woman stepped forward and took him by the hand. She was in her forties. Black hair. Kind eyes.

“Arkon?” she said. “What is wrong?”

He tried to smile. But he could not make his mouth work. He shook his head. Unclasped her hand. He started walking again. Lumbering and limping away like a wounded man. The people parted for him. He saw the Temple of Zeus up ahead. Every step was an effort. He passed between the pillars and stepped inside the sanctuary. He flung himself on his knees at the altar. He placed Nikias's finger on the cold stone. He gasped for air.

I'm dying. This is the end. A pitiful way to die.

He thought back to the day, fifty years ago, when he'd fought against the Persian invaders in the Battle of Plataea. His heart had been steady throughout that entire frantic day. That glorious day that he had killed the Persian cavalry general Mardonius and turned the tide of the battle in favor of the Greek allies—

He beat his breast with his fist. Over and over again, as if to tame his heart. To pummel it into submission. But it would not obey. It continued to race as though he were running the hoplitodoros—the footrace run around the citadel in full armor. He gasped and put his hand to his mouth, biting it until his teeth drew blood.

Drako would carve up Nikias. Each finger. Then each toe. Then his ears and nose. His lips. His teeth. One by one. Until there was nothing left.

But he could not trade Arkilokus for Nikias. The Spartan prince was worth every woman and child in Plataea. It would be too great a sacrifice. The city was far more important than one man … than one mere lad—

His heart stopped for several seconds. Then it swelled in his breast and pounded furiously.

He reached for Nikias's finger and kissed the cold dead flesh. He stared at the statue of Zeus looking down at him with its merciless eyes.

He thought of Nikias's horse, Photine, returning riderless that day, covered with blood and marked with a mountain lion's claw. It would have been better if Nikias had died in the forest—killed by a beast—than be in the clutches of the Spartan monsters.

“Forgive me,” he said to the idol. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me,” he said over and over again. He had made a decision that he knew would haunt him even into the afterlife. But the decision had been made.

And yet the pounding did not cease.

 

FOURTEEN

“It's a death mask,” said Chusor miserably as he stared at the object Diokles had brought back from the tunnel. He sat at one end of the long table in his workshop with Ji standing behind him, peering over his shoulder. The discovery of the treasure that he had so long searched for had done nothing to diminish his dejected state of mind. He could not stop thinking about Nikias and the sight of that bloody finger.…

“Perhaps this tomb is cursed,” said Ji. “We should put this mask back on the body.”

“Don't be a fool,” replied Zana from where she sat sprawled in a chair on the other side of the chamber, sipping wine from a golden cup, her face shining with exultation. “We've robbed graves before and nothing happened to us.” At her feet sat a wooden chest. The lid lay open to reveal all of the treasures from the tomb: vessels bearing the likenesses of bulls and horsemen that had been made by hammering the images from the insides of the cups; intricately crafted necklaces and bracelets and rings; the head of an ox the size of a man's fist … all made from solid gold. Her eyes blazed with delight. “Oh, Chusor. You have outdone yourself this time. You have made up for all of your treachery. There is enough wealth here to buy the finest ship in the port of Piraeus and outfit it for a year!”

Chusor held the mask out in front of him. It had been hammered as thin as papyrus and resembled the face of a bearded man in the prime of life. The face appeared to shift from a maniacal grin to a sinister frown as he tilted it this way and that. He felt as though the death mask were mocking him—as if it knew the turmoil in his heart, his abject despair concerning the fate of Nikias.

“Such treasures,” breathed Zana in a tone of awe mingled with lust.

Chusor turned the mask around and held it to his own face, peering through the eyeholes to the other end of the table where Diokles sat eating voraciously after his day of backbreaking labor. The Helot was covered in soot and streaked with sweat, so that he resembled a mound of living rock splotched with rain. On the table in front of him sat the strange helm fashioned from the tusks of boars.

“Don't forget the sword too!” said Ajax. “I found it!”

“See!” put in Teleos, holding up the ancient blade that he had been stabbing into a wooden beam.

“Give me that!” barked Chusor. “That sword is a relic!” Teleos brought him the sword blade and Chusor set it on the table next to the golden mask. “Now go into the street and play,” he ordered. “And don't tell anyone about what we have found or I'll flay your arses.” The boys slunk to the door like scolded puppies. As they got to the portal it opened and Barka entered.

“Look what we found, Barka,” declared Ajax, pointing to the box at Zana's feet.

“Treasure!” said Teleos, jumping up and down.

Barka did not seem to hear their words but stared at the floor, chewing on a fingernail.

“Out,” Chusor said, striding to the door, for Teleos and Ajax were lingering on the threshold, staring with curiosity at the eunuch. When they saw Chusor coming at them the boys scurried into the street and the smith shut the door behind them, sliding the bolt to lock it.

“My little Lylit,” asked Diokles. “Where have you been? See what I found.” He placed the boar tusk helm on his head and smiled foolishly.

Barka glanced at him with a haunted look.

“Where have you been?” asked Chusor, staring hard at the eunuch. Barka's hair was lank and wet and his clothes were soaked, dripping onto the floor. “The sun shone all day and yet you are drenched.”

Barka stared at everyone in turn with a wretched expression. His face was pale, and his lower jaw trembled. No one spoke. They had seen Barka this way before—one of his dark moods that always came after experiencing a mystical vision.

Chusor noticed that Barka nervously turned a ring over and over again on his finger.

“We must leave this cursed place,” said Barka. “Immediately. We must go back to Syrakuse.”

Shouts erupted in the street and everyone in the room looked toward the shuttered window.

“What's that?” asked Ji. “What is going on?”

“Is something wrong?” asked Zana, springing to her feet. “What have you seen?” she asked Barka with a mounting tone of hysteria in her voice. “The Spartans? Attacking?”

“
That
is inevitable,” replied Barka without emotion. His eyes alighted on the box of treasure with a disinterested look. “I must go back to Syrakuse,” he said in a whisper.

“But have we found all the gold?” Zana asked Chusor, shutting the lid on the box and standing over it like a dog guarding a haunch of meat.

“Damn your insatiable greed, Zana!” said Chusor. “We have enough. Staying alive is all that matters now.”

He went to the window and opened one of the shutters, staring into the street. He saw people running in the direction of the agora, but they were smiling and laughing.

“Nothing dire,” said Chusor. “But something
is
indeed happening.”

“We must leave this place,” said Barka. “This city will be our tomb.”

Zana's eyes grew big and she brought a hand to her mouth.

“The poppy,” said Barka, squinting at Chusor and holding out one hand like a petulant child demanding a toy. “I need poppy.”

Chusor knew better than to argue with Barka when he was in this mood. He went to a cupboard and took out a small bowl filled with resin and gave it to the eunuch, who clutched it to his chest. Ji reached into the folds of his robe and brought out a long pipe, which he handed to Barka.

“Do not interrupt me during my meditation,” said Barka. “
Any
of you. And I suggest we depart before dawn. Death hangs over this city like a funeral cloth. The guard Damon—the one I've been lying with. He will let us through the gates without searching us.” He headed up the stairs and disappeared from view without uttering another word.