Spartans at the Gates (6 page)

“What's wrong, Telemus?” Chusor asked the senior of the guardsmen. “What do you want?”

“The Arkon wants to see you, Chusor,” Telemus replied.

“I was on my way to the—”

“You're on your way to see the Arkon,” cut in Telemus, pointing in the direction he wanted him to walk—toward the city jail and the Arkon's headquarters next door. “Let's go.”

Chusor tightly gripped his walking stick and obeyed. The other guards each took up a position on either side of him with the third leading the way toward the black marble steps of the city jail.

Inside the building a clerk relieved Chusor of his pack, and then held out his hand for the walking stick. Chusor reluctantly gave it up to the man, who took stick and pack to another room. A servant then led Chusor down a long hallway, opened a heavy oak door, and bade him enter. Chusor stepped into a long rectangular room and the servant shut the door behind him with a thud.

At the end of the chamber, behind a desk, sat a burly man writing with a stylus. He didn't glance up when Chusor entered, but remained hunched over the parchment upon which he worked. He had a black beard streaked with gray, and was balding. His sleeveless tunic exposed his massive arms, and he wore no sandals on his large feet. Even though he was well into his sixth decade, his powerful frame made him resemble Herakles come to life; for he was Menesarkus, hero of the Persian Wars, five-time Olympic pankration champion, general of Plataea, and Arkon of the city-state.

Chusor glanced around the chamber. There were several buckets filled with scrolls sitting on the floor, and a plate of uneaten breakfast on the desk. In the corner, behind the desk, was displayed Menesarkus's armor and helm, supported on a wooden stand. The armor seemed to float there, hovering behind the general like a spectral guardian. Chusor knew every square inch of that armor, for he'd made it with his own hands over a year ago. Menesarkus's battered shield, protected by a leather cover, leaned against the wall. The flap was open, revealing the image painted on the shield—a boxing Minotaur.

“Arkon?” Chusor asked hesitantly and resisted the urge to wipe away the beads of sweat forming on his brow. He wondered if the men in the other room had already found the secret compartment in his walking stick and his heart beat faster.

Menesarkus put down his stylus, rubbed his eyes and the dented bridge of his slightly crooked nose, then he spoke without looking up: “You've stepped in bilge water, Chusor.”

“He knows,” thought Chusor, feeling his guts turn.

Menesarkus put down the stylus, lifted his big head, and pierced Chusor with his stern gaze. “Where's that idiot boy, my grandson?”

Nikias!

The Arkon hadn't dragged him in here to interrogate him as a suspected spy. He wanted to know where Nikias was!

“He's gone to Athens,” said Chusor with a sigh. “I tried to dissuade him, but it was no good.”

Menesarkus cocked his head to the side and squinted at him, dumbfounded. “Eh?” he asked, as if he hadn't heard Chusor's reply. “Gone where?”

“He's gone to Athens. To recruit mercenaries to come back to Plataea.”

“Gone to Athens?” repeated Menesarkus with a laugh. “To recruit mercenaries?”

“Yes, Arkon.”

“
Mercenaries?
” Menesarkus asked again with an astonished expression, as if Chusor had just told him that his grandson had gone to fetch water from the moon.

“Archers and peltasts, Arkon,” explained Chusor.

Menesarkus's smile faded and he scratched his beard with the end of his stylus. “Archers and peltasts,” he repeated under his breath.

“To defend the walls, Arkon,” offered Chusor. “During a siege.”

Menesarkus shot Chusor a look that said, “I know what purpose archers and peltasts serve.” And then he asked, “How did my grandson expect to entice these mercenaries? With his good looks alone?” he added with biting sarcasm.

“A bag of Persian gold darics,” said Chusor, a hangdog expression on his face.

The ironic smile on Menesarkus's face disappeared to be replaced by a thin-lipped scowl. He crossed his big arms on his chest, leaned back in his chair, and bore into Chusor's eyes. He raised his eyebrows slightly, a sign for Chusor to continue.

“There's a story to tell,” offered Chusor lamely.

“Indeed,” said Menesarkus. “The plot of this play grows ever more intriguing.” Menesarkus gestured for Chusor to sit in the chair opposite the desk.

Chusor sat down, considering how much of the tale to actually tell.

“The gold came from the traitor Nauklydes's storeroom,” he said at last.

Menesarkus chewed on the end of the stylus for a few seconds, his eyebrows raised in wonder. “And you found this gold?” he asked.

“Not I, young Leo.”

“That scab-faced lad? Nikias's friend? How did he find it?”

“He was searching in Nauklydes's office,” said Chusor. “On the morning before the traitor's trial when he and Nikias were searching for evidence to help convict Nauklydes of treachery. The lad found it and gave it to me for safekeeping.”

Nauklydes had been one of the most prominent and respected members of Plataean society: a factory owner and magistrate who, in his youth, had served as Menesarkus's battlefield protégé and Olympic herald. But Nauklydes had been terrified at the prospect of a Spartan invasion of the Oxlands, and so he had forged a secret alliance with the Thebans—allies of the Spartans. Over the years Nauklydes had been bought off with a fortune in Persian gold, paid to him by the Theban spy Eurymakus, and he had used this wealth to expand his business to as far away as Syrakuse, falling deeper and deeper into collusion with Plataea's enemies. Nauklydes had bribed the men guarding Plataea's gates on the night of the sneak attack, allowing Eurymakus and his invasion force to enter the citadel. After the Thebans had been defeated, Nikias had exposed Nauklydes as the traitor, and Menesarkus had prosecuted the man in court. Nauklydes had been found unanimously guilty and sentenced to the “tunic of stones” as a punishment: buried up to his waist in the marketplace and stoned to death by citizens of Plataea.

“How much gold are we talking about?” asked Menesarkus.

“Fifty darics or more.”

Menesarkus let forth a scoff that could have been taken as a sign of either amazement or exasperation.

“And you gave it all to my grandson?” he asked. “This fortune in gold? Enough gold, I might add,” he said, slapping down the stylus and peering at Chusor, “to build a very fine little temple to the goddess of fucking Mirth!” He raised his hand and slammed a fist onto the table with such force that the ink pot jumped and spilled ink across the parchment like a spray of dark blood. “Because this adventure of his is a pathetic joke. He'll be lucky if he makes it to Athens alive, and even luckier if he comes home with his balls intact, let alone with a band of cutthroats from the port of Athens!”

“I wanted to assist him,” said Chusor, abashed. “He was going to Athens no matter what I said to him. I reckoned the gold could be put to good use. When your grandson sets his mind to something, he cannot be diverted from it.”

Menesarkus ground his teeth together, staring back at Chusor under heavy lids.

The door opened and the servant peeked in his head, saying, “Arkon, you're needed for a moment.”

Menesarkus got up, scowling, and limped toward the door on his bad right knee. “Stay here,” he said to Chusor, and shut the door behind him.

Chusor swiped at his forehead, wiping away the stinging sweat that dripped into his eyes. He could hear the sound of activity in the offices on the other side of the door: the chattering voices and scribes hard at work. His gaze wandered to a big vase sitting on a table behind Menesarkus's desk. It was painted in the old style, from perhaps a hundred years before, when artists colored the bodies of men with black paint. The vase bore the image of a preposterously muscular man, the hero Herakles, lifting a much larger opponent—the Libyan giant Antaios, son of Mother Earth—and squeezing him in a bear hug. The artist had captured the action of this moment vividly. Antaios had thrown back his head and howled in pain and surprise, his toes straining to reach the earth. Chusor could almost hear Antaios gasp as Herakles crushed his ribs, driving the bones into his organs.

Chusor had seen Menesarkus beat a man in a pankration bout in just such a manner. By squeezing the air from his lungs until he'd passed out.

The door opened again and the Arkon came back in holding a jug of wine in one hand and two drinking cups in the other. “Leave me,” he said to the servant, who was trying, ever so gently, to pry the jug from his hands. “I can do it myself! Now leave us.”

The servant bowed, scurried out, and shut the door behind him. Menesarkus hobbled back to his desk, placed the jug and cups down with a sigh, then poured the wine. He handed Chusor a cup, then took a long draft from his own, wiping his mouth on his forearm, then nodding his head as though responding to an unspoken question.

“No, I can't blame him for having my blood,” he said at last, though more as if speaking to himself than for Chusor's benefit. “I would have done the same at his age.” He stared at Chusor and gestured at him with his cup. “You are an interesting man, Chusor,” he said. “I didn't trust you when you first came to Plataea. Not because you're half Aethiope. But because you seemed to be too clever a fellow to merely be a vagabond. I reckoned you must be either a spy or a criminal on the run. I encouraged the old Arkon to have you watched closely and he agreed. Every aspect of your life was scrutinized that first year you were here. But after you became friends with my grandson, and I saw what a good influence you had on him, my feelings about you started to change. Nikias talks about you constantly, you know? You're one of his heroes. And when I saw what you have made with your hands, well, I was convinced you were some kind of genius. The beautiful armor and helms”—here he gestured toward the armor on the rack behind him—“and your inventions! Nobody has ever seen the like, I'll wager, not even in Athens. You have a gift that few men ever hope to have.”

Chusor didn't know what to think. His head was spinning. The revelation that he'd been spied upon didn't surprise him. He'd known he was being watched back then. But to have Menesarkus, the great general of Plataea, offer him praise in such a manner—it disconcerted him.

“Many thanks,” said Chusor softly.

Menesarkus stroked his beard and said, “When the Athenian whisperer Timarkos told me you'd killed one of Kleon's men in Athens … well … everything finally made sense. You came to my city to hide.”

At the mention of Timarkos's name Chusor's heart sank. He knew Timarkos well from his days in Athens. He was one of the most dangerous spies who inhabited the viper pit of that vast citadel. And the skinny, goat-bearded whisperer had been partially responsible for Chusor losing the woman he loved.

“I do not deny that I killed a man,” said Chusor at last. “But I did it in self-defense. I had to flee Athens because I would not have been given a fair trial. And Timarkos, who helped orchestrate my downfall, is a liar and not to be trusted.”

“He said the same of you,” replied Menesarkus. “On several occasions. He even suggested I have your throat slit.”

The casual way in which Menesarkus had said this last sentence was chilling.

“But Timarkos does not concern me now,” continued Menesarkus, peering directly in Chusor's eyes. “He has proved to be most unreliable. Now
you
, on the other hand, have proved your worth countless times over the last two weeks. Without your help this city might have fallen to its most hated and ancient enemy. This invention of yours, this sticking fire that you used against the Thebans … I think it is the key to defending Plataea from a Spartan siege.”

Chusor thought back to the night of the sneak attack. The small army of Theban invaders, an advance force that had been let into the citadel by Nauklydes, had trapped the stunned Plataeans in their own city. The Thebans had built a wooden barricade in front of the gates using carts and timbers while mounted archers had patrolled the high walls. Anyone who had tried to get to the gates—the only entrance out of the citadel—was shot down by the archers on the walls. Nikias had been chosen to attempt a daring escape through an ancient and crumbling tunnel that led under the citadel. He was sent to round up all the warriors in the countryside as well as warn the border cavalry garrisons what had happened and bring them all back to Plataea.

But the men in the citadel had not known if Nikias would succeed. They knew they had to attack the barricade. If the Theban reinforcements arrived at dawn, they were all dead men, and every woman and child in Plataea would be turned into a Theban slave. Fortunately for the Plataeans, Chusor had been taught the secret of the sticking fire. Using clay vases as containers for this powerful weapon, they attacked the barricade, hurling the “pandoras,” as he called them, using two-man slings. The makeshift fortification turned into an inferno. Many of the Theban invaders were burned alive.…

“You have been doing an excellent job as Master of the Walls,” said Menesarkus abruptly, pulling Chusor from his thoughts. “You did a remarkable job repairing the gates after the Thebans destroyed them. There is no doubt in my mind that we need you. And so I have asked you here today to make you a proposition.”

This time it was Chusor's turn to be flummoxed. “A proposition?” he asked with a catch in his throat. He tugged on his braided beard and stared into Menesarkus's eyes.

“You were born a slave,” said Menesarkus.

“Yes,” said Chusor, blood rushing to his cheeks. “But my master gave me my freedom.”

“Freedom, yes, but not
citizenship
. The most you can ever hope to be in any city in Greece is a
metic
. A foreign worker isn't much better than a slave. You're like a confused shade that finds itself lost in that netherworld between life and death.”