Spartans at the Gates

by Noble Smith

  “Yes,” said Nikias. “He wrote directions to your home on a piece of papyrus.”

  “Let me see this papyrus,” said Ezekiel, squinting.

  Nikias could tell that Ezekiel had become mistrustful and on edge.

  “I lost his note,” explained Nikias. “It was taken from me.”

  Ezekiel flicked his eyes around warily, and then peered at Nikias with a guarded look.

  “You don’t believe me?” said Nikias.

  “This Chusor,” said Ezekiel. “What does he look like?”

  “Tall,” said Nikias. “Much taller than me, and broadly built. And dark-skinned. He is half Aethiope, though everyone in Plataea calls him the Egyptian—”

  “Come, come,” said Ezekiel with a sneering tone. “You can do better than that. Who sent you? Are you one of Kleon’s men? If so, you can kill me now and get it over with like you did to my friend. I have nothing to live for.”

  Nikias shook his head. “Kleon? I’m not one of his spies. And Chusor isn’t dead. He’s very much alive.”

  “Pah!” spat Ezekiel.

  Nikias stood up, his eyes blazing. “I don’t like people to call me a liar. Go to Hades, you miserable sheep-stuffer. I don’t need your help.”

  He turned and just as he did so he felt a rush of blood to his head and everything started to go black before his eyes. He steadied himself against the wineshop wall with his left hand. In a few seconds his vision returned and he saw that Ezekiel now stood in front of him, staring at him with a concerned look.

  “Come,” said Ezekiel. “Come with me to my home. I will help you.”

  “I don’t need help,” said Nikias.

  “I owe Chusor my life,” said Ezekiel. “And now I must help you.”

  “So you believe me?” asked Nikias.

  “Come,” said Ezekiel. “And don’t forget your ring. You left it on the curb.”

  Nikias glanced at the curb and saw the signet ring. He grabbed it, stuffing it into his pouch, then followed Ezekiel down the street. They walked a few doors away to the house with the sign hanging out front painted with a skull—the place that he and Konon had visited the day before. When they were inside, Ezekiel lit a lamp and led Nikias to a room full of shelves lined with hundreds of clay jars. He helped Nikias take off his tunic and carefully took hold of his right arm, turning it slightly this way and that, and stopping whenever Nikias winced in pain.

  “You’ve got a torn shoulder ligament,” said Ezekiel. “A very bad tear. You won’t be able to use this arm for six months or more.”

  Nikias’s heart sank. This was far worse than he had expected.

  Ezekiel found some cloth and expertly tied a sling, placing Nikias’s arm so that it was bent at the elbow and strapped firmly to his chest. With the weight of his arm off his aching shoulder joint, Nikias instantly felt less pain.

  Next Ezekiel held a piece of thick glass to Nikias’s left eye and peered through it. From Nikias’s perspective the glass enlarged one of the doctor’s own orbs in a comical way.

  “What’s that thing?” asked Nikias, laughing.

  “Magnification glass,” said Ezekiel. “A Persian invention.”

  “Chusor would like that.”

  “I need to drain the blood to take the pressure off your left eye,” said Ezekiel.

  “Do it,” said Nikias.

  Ezekiel took a small sharp knife from a little box and held it briefly over a flame, then he slit the skin at the corner of Nikias’s swollen eye. The blood spurted out and Nikias sighed with relief.

  “Where did you get the Persian ring you were playing with?” Ezekiel asked in an offhand manner as he cleaned his knife blade.

  “I found it on a battlefield,” Nikias replied. “The man who it belonged to had lost the ring … and his arm.”

  “May I see it?”

  Nikias frowned. There was a strange glint in the physician’s eye—a greedy kind of look. He reached into the pouch, took out the ring, and handed it to him. Ezekiel held it in his palm, staring at it through the magnification glass, pulling his lips back in concentration and revealing his big, wine-stained teeth.

  “Was the man you killed a Persian nobleman?” asked Ezekiel.

  “I didn’t kill him,” said Nikias. “And he’s a Theban.”

  “I’ve only seen rings like this worn by retainers of Artaxerxes.”

  “Were you a physician to the king?”

  “No!” said Ezekiel with a laugh. “But I lived in the capital of Persepolis, and treated many of the courtiers…” He trailed off in thought, holding the ring up very close to one eye.

  Nikias considered this strange information. What would Eurymakus the Theban be doing with a Persian nobleman’s ring? Where could he have gotten it? He thought back to the battlefield in front of the gates of Plataea, when he and Eurymakus had been thrust together in the melee. Eurymakus had wielded a poison dagger that Nikias had managed to turn against him. Eurymakus had cut off his own arm to stop the poison, and then fled.

  “There are words written on the inside of the band,” said Ezekiel, interrupting his thoughts.

  “I thought those were just scratches,” said Nikias.

  “It’s Persian script,” said Ezekiel. “A form of the old wedge writing. The ring itself is very old, you see. The gemstone, however, was added fairly recently. That’s Artaxerxes, the present king, carved into the carnelian stone.”

  “What do the words on the band say?”

  “Magos. It’s the Persian word for a kind of priest,” explained Ezekiel. “The man who wore this was a high priest and a follower of the one god Ahura Mazda.”

  Nikias remembered Chusor telling him how the Persians worshipped a single god. The smith had explained some of their strange beliefs. Something about good and evil and demons and protective spirits. But he couldn’t remember the details. It had all sounded so fantastical and barbaric, it had gone over his head. He noticed, with a twinge of annoyance, that Ezekiel was prying at the top of the carnelian with a little metal tool.

  “Hey, what are you doing to my ring?” he asked.

  Ezekiel ignored him. He used his knife to bend back one of the tiny clasps holding the gemstone to the ring. “There we go,” he said as he pulled off the gem to reveal the flat surface of the ring where the stone had been mounted to the band: the gold was inscribed here with a circle sprouting wings. “You see this? It’s the symbol for a fravashi. A guardian angel.”

  “A guardian what?”

  “It’s a spirit that protects the wearer of the ring. Like your goddess Athena coming to help Odysseus in that story the bards all sing.” Ezekiel turned over the carnelian stone and there, plainly visible, were deeply incised Persian letters. “Ahhhh, yes. Very interesting.”

  “What does that say?” asked Nikias.

  “It’s a name,” explained Ezekiel. And he silently mouthed the word written there. He glanced at Nikias and passed a hand through his hair. “Like I said, the gold ring is very old. It’s been passed down over the centuries from one magos to the next. When a new magos is initiated into this sect of priests, he is given a ring that’s fitted with a new signet that is unique to him. The name of the wearer’s fravashi is hidden on the opposite side of the gemstone because the name must be kept secret and only known by that particular magos.”

  “And that’s what’s written on the back of the gemstone?” asked Nikias with derision. “The name of Eurymakus’s guardian angel?” He started laughing at the absurdity of what he was hearing.

  “Yes,” replied Ezekiel.

  “How do you know all this? About the Persian gods?”

  Ezekiel cocked his head and said, “One cannot grow up in Persia without learning about their beliefs. And I have made it a study to know everything I can about different gods. A man’s body and mind are interconnected. You can’t simply heal the body. You also have to heal the mind sometimes.”

  “You sound like Chusor,” said Nikias.

  Ezekiel shrugged.

&nb
sp; “You still don’t believe me,” said Nikias.

  “It is hard to swallow,” replied Ezekiel. “I heard from a dependable source that Chusor was killed. And I have not seen the man for five years. And you show up claiming to be his friend, and all you can do is offer a vague description of the man.”

  “I could describe every scar on his body,” said Nikias.

  “So could anyone who had seen his corpse,” replied Ezekiel.

  “But you helped me anyway,” said Nikias. “I appreciate that.”

  Ezekiel poured some water in a mug and put in various pinches of powders from different jars. “This will help your wounds heal faster.”

  “So you think this Eurymakus is a Persian priest?” asked Nikias, watching the physician concoct his potion. “He’s a Theban.”

  “There were many Thebans in the court of Persepolis,” said Ezekiel, stirring the mixture. “Thebes and Persia have always had close ties.”

  Something in Nikias’s tired brain clicked into place, like a sword slipping into a scabbard.

  Eurymakus. The Persian gold. The ring.

  “The Persians financed the attack on Plataea,” he said under his breath.

  Ezekiel said, “The Persians will never forgive you Greeks for defeating them and starting your own empire.” He handed Nikias the mug and ordered him to drink it.

  “Why must the name of this far—” He paused, stumbling on the strange word.

  “Fravashi,” prompted Ezekiel.

  “Yes, why would it matter if somebody else knew the name of the fravashi?” He took a sip of the drink and screwed up his face. “This tastes like goat piss!”

  “Dried goat piss,” said Ezekiel. “It will help the swelling. Drink it all.” He sat down opposite Nikias and scratched his beard. “If you know the name of this Eurymakus’s angel,” he continued, “you can call on that angel to protect you. And he cannot harm you if you do this in his presence.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Nikias, draining the contents of the mug in a few gulps.

  “Men believe many ridiculous things,” said Ezekiel. “Most of what you Greeks believe seems ridiculous to me.”

  “What is the name of Eurymakus’s fravashi?” asked Nikias.

  “Daena,” replied Ezekiel. “A goddess. A daughter of Ahura Mazda.”

  “Daena,” repeated Nikias. He thought of Eurymakus wearing his sacred ring and how it must torment the Theban to have had to cut off his own arm, knowing he was leaving something so precious behind.

  “Why are you smiling?” asked Ezekiel.

  “Pleasant thought,” said Nikias.

  They sat quietly for a while, and then Ezekiel asked, “Chusor had a friend. A constant companion who never left his side. Does he live as well?”

  “The last time I saw him,” said Nikias, “Diokles the Helot was still breathing air, though he was hiding in a storeroom, living on dried goat flesh, terrified the ‘masters’ had come for him.”

  As Nikias had been speaking he saw Ezekiel’s eyes open wide in surprise, and a hopeful smile pulled at the corners of the doctor’s mouth. “Diokles—” began Ezekiel, but he was interrupted by a faint knock on the door that made them both jump in surprise. Ezekiel got to his feet and sidled to the door, opened a sliding peephole, and peered out in the street. After a few seconds he looked at Nikias and whispered, “There’s nobody there.”

  “Down here,” came a girl’s voice from the other side of the door.

  Ezekiel frowned and unlatched the portal, opening it slowly. Standing on the threshold, far below the level of the peephole, was the hetaera Helena’s slave girl.

  “You!” said Nikias in surprise, jumping to his feet.

  “My mistress wants to speak with you,” said the girl.

  “Why?” asked Nikias.

  “I don’t question my mistress,” replied the slave girl. “But she told me that you can trust her. That she is a friend of Sophia.”

  “I’m not going to be tricked by her again,” said Nikias. “I’m not coming back with you to that house where I was drugged.”

  “My mistress would not ask you to do that,” said the girl. She leaned forward and looked into his eyes and put a trembling hand on his arm. “She knows it’s not safe there. That is why she has come to you.”

  She turned her head and gestured with her thumb. Standing across the street, illuminated by the silvery moonlight, was the veiled figure of a woman. Nikias recognized Helena’s eyes watching him, beseeching him to trust her.

  “It’s not safe here,” said the girl, pulling on his wrist. There was something about her face and bearing that was so familiar to Nikias. She reminded him of someone but he could not put his finger on it. He allowed himself to be pulled out the door.

  “Wait!” said Ezekiel. “Where are you going, lad?”

  “Thank you,” said Nikias over his shoulder.

  “But the Persian signet ring!”

  “Keep it as payment for your help,” said Nikias. “I don’t want it anymore.”

  SEVEN

  Nikias had the sensation of walking in a dream. It was the helpless feeling of being pulled along by an enigmatic force—a force that he had no way of stopping.

  He could see the black shapes of Helena and the slave girl a few paces ahead, lit only by moonlight, guiding him through the deserted streets as though they were shades taking him to the Underworld.

  He didn’t know where they were headed. But for some reason it didn’t seem to matter. Maybe Helena would betray him again. Maybe not. He felt too weak to fight anymore.

  He imagined the Fates standing at their loom, weaving the destinies of men. His mother had always told him that even the gods were afraid of the “Old Sisters,” as she called them. For the inhabitants of Olympus were also connected to the great hidden tapestry of the Fates.

  He used to love being in the room where the women of his family worked the looms. He and his sister would crawl in and out of their mother’s and grandmother’s legs, clinging to them as they sang their weaving songs.

  And the scent of that place … he could almost smell it now. The musky grease from the new-spun wool dripping down onto the hanging yarn weights and onto the floor; the mysterious natural perfume of the women’s skin and hair.

  When he’d turned six his grandfather had told him he could no longer play in the women’s quarters. Nikias had tried to hide beneath his mother’s gown, but the Old Bull had dragged him from the loom chamber and ordered him to stay outside and ride his pony, shoot arrows, and practice his whip—anything but “waste his time with females.”

  “Count yourself lucky,” Menesarkus had told the sobbing boy. “Six-year-old Spartan lads are already living in miserable boy-herds, eating nothing but blood gruel and barley water and getting their arses buggered raw by bearded men. If you ever want to survive a fight with one of those man-reapers, you’ll have to get tougher.”

  Nikias had wanted to kill his grandfather that day. He could picture his flinty eyes glaring at him now. As though he were standing in front of him in the practice arena. Snarling and pulling back a fist to punch him in the face—

  Nikias jerked and realized he was so tired he was starting to hallucinate. There was a throbbing at the base of his skull that wouldn’t go away and a faint nausea churning in his stomach. He stopped and swayed to one side, nearly falling over.

  “Wait,” he said softly.

  Helena and the slave girl ran back to him and propped him up.

  “He’s exhausted, Helena,” chided the girl. “I told you he was hurt. But you wouldn’t listen. You never listen to me!”

  “Melitta, hush.”

  “I will not hush, Helena. I will not hold my tongue any longer. I told you how Kleon’s men beat him. I thought I would die watching them hurt him.”

  The slave girl stifled a sob and Nikias stroked her on the head. The child’s concern touched his heart. “I’ve taken much worse than those feather-fists could serve out,” he said, trying to make her fe
el better.

  “It’s not much farther,” said Helena to Nikias in a soothing tone. “Come. You can rest soon enough.”

  He let himself be held by Helena and Melitta. Their slender arms did little to support him, but he liked feeling their warm bodies close. Earlier he had thought that they resembled shades … but now they felt very much alive.

  The girl Melitta reminded him, in a way, of his hot-tempered sister, Phile. He wondered why Helena would let her slave talk to her in such an impertinent manner. And then it came to him in a flash, as if a secret thought had been spoken out loud.

  “She’s not your slave,” said Nikias. “She’s your sister!”

  Helena gasped and glared at the girl. “You told him, Melitta?”

  “No!” replied Melitta, amazed. “I said nothing.”

  “She didn’t tell me,” said Nikias. “I have a sister of my own. I know how siblings speak to one another.”

  They walked in silence for some time before Helena said, “I was going to tell you tonight. We are half sisters.”

  “It’s no business of mine,” said Nikias.

  “It is, in a way,” said Helena. “We’re both the daughters of Sophia the hetaera. The one whom Chusor loved.”

  Nikias was speechless as they led him the rest of the way across a small square to an ancient temple made of timber frames and brick. It was enclosed like a house with a single porch and a front door.

  “What is this temple?” asked Nikias.

  “The old Temple of Aphrodite,” replied Helena, opening the door. “One of the few buildings of the Old City to survive the burning of Athens by the Persians. We are members of this order, my sister and I.”

  They entered a sanctuary lit by a single oil lamp burning on the altar. A hunched woman—an aged priestess of the temple—nodded at Helena and went through a curtain, leaving them alone.

  “We’ll be safe here,” said Melitta, shutting the door behind them and barring it with a board.

  Helena took off her cloak and spread it out on the floor in a corner of the chamber. She gestured for Nikias to make himself at ease, and he lay with his back propped up against the wall. The place smelled of aged oak and burnt olive oil—a homey smell that reminded him of the great room at his grandfather’s farm. His body relaxed for the first time all day and he let forth a great sigh.