Spartans at the Gates (45 page)

The room was silent. Chusor stood chewing on his cheek with his arms crossed, wondering what had brought about such a sudden transformation in Barka's mood. Where had the eunuch been all night? Why was he wet? It was odd. But then, Barka had always been a mystery.

He glanced at the others. Ji had sat at the table and was looking at the mask with an inquisitive expression. Diokles chomped on his food with a frown on his face, the strange tusked helm still perched on his head. Zana bored her eyes into the ceiling with a worried look, as if she were trying see through it into Barka's chamber.

Chusor's gaze turned to the floor where Barka had tracked mud across the stones. He bent down and touched the mud, smelling it. It gave off the distinctive odor of musty earth and slime.

“We must go,” said Zana. “Barka has never been wrong.”

“Remember Tyre?” asked Ji.

“And Karthago,” said Zana.

“And many more,” said Ji. “We can leave the city tonight and sleep in the cave on the mountain. But then which way do we go?”

Zana, Ji, and Diokles all looked at Chusor. He avoided their probing eyes, pulling on his goatee and staring into space. There was no way that Menesarkus would give up the prisoner Arkilokus for Nikias, he thought bitterly. His friend was as good as dead. But he would be damned if he would linger in Plataea to see Nikias returned home piece by piece.

He thought of the strange sign that he had seen on the path in the mountains the day he had gone to the Cave of Nymphs to meet Zana: the tortoise entangled in a dead goat's fleece. After he had set the animal free, it had headed west.…

“I will not become entrapped like that creature,” he thought.

“Chusor?” asked Zana. “What are you thinking?”

He picked up a sharp knife, held it to his own chin, and quickly sliced off his long goatee, tossing it on the floor.

“We follow the mountain toward the setting sun,” he said. “It's only an eight-mile walk to the port of Kreusis. We'll find a boat there to take us south across the Gulf of Korinth to the Diolkos.” The Diolkos was the stone-laid trackway that the Korinthians had built to transport goods and ships from the Ionian Sea to the Aegean across the narrow Isthmus of Korinth. It was a marvel of machinery. There were many skilled shipwrights in that area separating Attika from the Peloponnese. “From there we can walk overland to the town of Isthmia and purchase a suitable galley. The sea will be our road thereafter.”

“To the sea,” exhaled Zana. “Gods, how I long to be on the sea again!”

“I will start packing,” said Ji and went to work gathering up their belongings.

Chusor looked keenly at Diokles, who smiled back and cocked his head. “If Lylit says I must go from Plataea, then I must go.” He picked up Chusor's goatee and stared at it with a quizzical expression.

Chusor nodded and gave a heavy sigh. “So be it.” He had a mind to go to Kallisto—to ask her to come with them. But he knew that she would refuse. He dreaded the thought of what Nikias's slow death at the hands of the Spartans would do to the girl. It would kill her soul.

Someone banged on the portal. Chusor went to it and peered through the peephole, then he slid back the bolt and opened the door. Leo stood there wearing the uniform of a city guardsman.

“Come look!” he said breathlessly. “A sight to behold!”

Chusor, Diokles, Ji, and the brothers followed him into the street. Leo started running through the marketplace in the direction of the gates and they fell in behind him. When they got to the agora they saw a huge crowd had gathered there. The two gates had been opened wide and riders were coming through, holding the reins of many riderless mounts. The agora was already filled with hundreds of horses and more were coming in.

“Zoticus has returned,” said Chusor, spotting the Plataean cavalry general astride his charger. Zoticus, one of the heroes of the Battle of Plataea, had gone on an expedition north to Thessalia in search of horses to supplement the Plataean cavalry. He had made fast work of his task.

Chusor spotted Menesarkus on the other side of the agora, leaning on his staff, nodding appreciatively at the sight. There was a festive atmosphere amongst the city's inhabitants—people were laughing and stroking the horses. Parents held their small children up to stroke the noses and necks of the beasts.

“Where are we going to keep them all?” asked Leo, a grin on his face.

“They can't stay outside of the citadel,” said Chusor. “The Spartans will kill or capture them for food.”

“Horses good to have,” said Diokles. “The masters did not bring any horses with them. We saw Nikias and the others charge the Theban army. Smash into their shield wall. Bam! I like to see them do that to the Masters.”

“You mean the mounts will all stay in here?” Ji asked Chusor. “Inside the citadel?” A horse nearby lifted its tail and dumped a huge load of manure onto the stones and another followed suit.

“Indeed,” said Chusor. “We might end up eating them all before the siege is done. Whatever the case, Plataea will soon become like the Augean Stables.”

“Augean Stables?” asked Ji. “What's that?”

“A very messy place,” said Chusor.

 

FIFTEEN

A glimmering fleece hung from the limb of an ancient oak. The sun shone on the metallic curls of the sheep's wool, coruscating in the sun, and Nikias realized that the fleece was made of gold. He was filled with wonder at the sight of the magical object—for he knew it was the thing that the hero Jason had journeyed to fabled Kolkis to find.

“It has the power to heal,” said a familiar voice. “The power to bring health and prosperity to the city that possesses this treasure.”

Nikias turned and saw Demetrios standing by his side. A rush of happiness flooded through him. It had been so many years since they had been together. How Nikias had missed him! He tried to speak but no words came out of his mouth. Demetrios slapped him on the cheek and grinned, showing his straight teeth.

“Just reach up and take the fleece,” said Demetrios. “Take it home to Plataea.”

Nikias tried to do as he was told, but he looked down and saw that he no longer had any arms.

“Let me help you,” said Demetrios. He grasped Nikias with his muscular arms and lifted him toward the fleece—lifted him with a godlike strength as if Nikias weighed no more than a feather. He was eye level with the fleece now, and he was overcome by desire to possess this thing. But the tree suddenly came to life, its limbs lashing out at him as if to protect the fleece. One of them brushed him across the face—

Nikias woke up with a start and squinted through the slits of his swollen eyes. The dream faded instantly from his mind, to be replaced by the reality of his situation: he was in the Spartan camp, bound and gagged, and Drako stood in front of him, slapping him to wake him up. Nikias felt as if his head were on fire, but his torso was shaking from cold.

Drako pulled the gag from Nikias's mouth and stared at him with his stony eyes. Nikias tried to speak, but his tongue felt as though it were glued to the roof of his mouth. Drako held a skin full of water to his lips and squirted some in. Nikias couldn't swallow at first and gagged. But soon he was gulping greedily, trying to slake an unbearable thirst.

“Bring him,” said Drako, and started walking. Nikias saw that the Spartan general held a shining axe.

One of the guards cut the ropes binding Nikias's feet and looped a noose around his neck, leading him through camp in the direction Drako had gone. Nikias stumbled along and fell several times but was quickly lifted to his feet by the Spartans who followed close behind. They passed through the southern entrance of the Persian Fort. A hundred paces away, near a stand of trees, Nikias could see a group of Helots digging a pit. They were guarded by a handful of Spartan warriors. Drako was already there, staring down into the pit with a contemplative look.

The warrior holding Nikias's rope led him to the edge of the pit and pushed him to his knees. Nikias stared at the ten Helots as they worked methodically with their picks and wooden shovels in the red and rocky soil. They must have been at it for hours because they had dug the pit up to their shoulders.

Nikias could not stop himself from shuddering.

“They're digging the pit for me,” he thought with horror. “They are going to cut off my head and throw me in this pit.” He glanced at Drako, who stood still, holding the axe. He heard an eerie sound from the sky above and craned his neck. A flock of red-winged geese flew overhead, honking their sad cries.…

“Nikias of Plataea,” said Drako without deigning to look at him. “We Spartans will not stand for noncompliance. Bravery is one thing, but stubbornness is unacceptable. Your grandfather has put your city on the brink of ruin. One word from him and we would be your loyal friends. But Menesarkus is like a mule that balks at a fork in the road. Or one of these wretches here.” He gestured at the Helots in the pit.

Nikias started weeping and the shame of crying in front of Drako and the other Spartans was unbearable. He retched, but all that came up was the water he had drunk a few minutes before.

“I won't beg for my life,” he said defiantly, but his voice cracked when he spoke. His body hurt everywhere. The stump of his missing finger throbbed. With every breath he took he felt stabbing pains where Axe had cracked his ribs. His nose was broken—he could barely breathe through one nostril. Half the teeth on the left side of his jaw ached. It felt like a knife was digging into his brain. “Death would be a relief,” he mused. But he knew he was lying to himself. He wanted to live more than anything. He didn't want to die in this pit. But he wasn't going to beg to stay alive. He glanced up at the sky and saw white clouds. “A pillow fit for Zeus,” as his father used to say when Nikias was a little boy. The geese were already far in the distance, their honking now barely audible …

“Deep enough,” said Drako. He gestured for the Helots to come out of the pit. They lined up in a row and the Spartan warriors dragged Nikias over so that he was on his knees in front of them. Drako handed the axe to the Helot at the head of the line. The slave took the axe and turned to face Nikias.

“Prepare yourself,” said Drako.

Nikias's teeth chattered.

Fevered images flashed across his mind's eye. He saw his dead mother as she'd looked when he was a child, standing in front of her tall loom, brushing aside her beautiful hair, glancing down at him where he lay curled at her feet. Then he saw Kallisto's face grinning at him as she rode her horse at breakneck speed toward the Cave of Nymphs, her eyes flashing. Then Helena, in the Temple of Aphrodite in Athens, her beguiling face lit by the lamplight as she leaned over him.

“Begin,” said Drako.

The Helot with the axe moved aside and the second slave in line stepped forward and squatted in front of Nikias with his head bowed. The Helot with the axe did not hesitate. He raised the axe high, then brought it down on the neck of the kneeling Helot. The slave's head flew off and Nikias was splattered with the blood that sprayed from the stump of the dead man's neck. Nikias gasped in surprise, then watched in shock as the Spartan warriors dragged the corpse into the pit and tossed the head in after.

The Helot who had just performed the beheading handed the bloody weapon to the next slave in line, and then he got on his knees in front of Nikias, bowing his head just as the last victim had done. The new Helot executioner dealt the slave a swift blow. The body and severed head were thrown into the pit with the other. And then this grim act was performed again and again: the next Helot in line taking the axe and beheading his fellow slave until, finally, there was only one Helot left and nine headless corpses in the pit.

The evil noise of buzzing flies filled the air. Many of them landed on Nikias, sipping the Helot blood that covered his face and neck. Fury boiled inside him. He licked his cracked lips. He could taste Helot blood.

The last Helot left standing stared down at Nikias with a wild terror in his dark eyes.

Nikias glanced at Drako, who stood close enough for the Helot to kill him with the axe. The noseless Spartan just stood there with his arms crossed on his chest, head cocked to one side, staring back at Nikias with his dead eyes.

The imperious piece of shit!

“K-kill Drako,” Nikias stuttered, his body shaking uncontrollably. “Kill him!”

The Helot stared back at him, tears welling up in his eyes. The Spartan slave clutched the axe and bowed his head. Then the man dug the edge of the axe blade across his own stomach. His innards spilled onto the bloody grass, steaming in the cool morning air.

“No!” screamed Nikias.

The Helot staggered to the edge of the pit and, with his final act, threw himself on top of the others.

“They tried to escape last night,” explained Drako. “They were caught.”

“Why—why did they d-do that to each o-other,” Nikias faltered, his jaw twitching violently.

“Because they know that if they disobeyed the death sentence their entire families would be skinned alive back home in Sparta.”

“If you g-gave m-me that axe,” said Nikias with an effort to stop the spasms in his jaw, “I—I—I would k-kill you.”

“That is because you are a human,” said Drako. “Helots are merely automatons.”

“Y-you have made them w-what they are,” replied Nikias, seething.

“Now it's your turn,” said Drako. He kicked out with his foot, striking Nikias in the stomach. Nikias fell forward with his face in the blood-soaked dirt.

“Go to Hades,” spat Nikias.

Drako raised the axe.

Nikias closed his eyes.

Thump!

The axe drove into the ground in front of Nikias's head. Nikias remained silent for a few seconds. And then rage surged through his veins. Drako was toying with him, like a cat that had caught a bird and broken its wings.