by Noble Smith
Helena and Melitta left him for a while, disappearing behind the curtain at the back of the sanctuary. When they returned Helena carried a basin filled with water and some clean rags, and Melitta held a cup of wine that she put to his mouth so he could slake his thirst.
Helena moistened a cloth and started cleaning the blood and dirt from Nikias’s face while Melitta sat nearby with her legs folded under her, watching him with her dark discerning eyes. Again he was struck by how familiar the little girl seemed.
He looked at Helena and realized she had taken off her veil and headscarf. She wore no makeup and her hair was pulled back in a single plait, accentuating the perfect oval of her face. Her beauty was beyond compare and when she looked into his eyes he felt a sudden pounding in his chest. It amazed him that this woman’s mere glance could have such a bewitching power over him.
He asked, “Why did you want to see me?”
“So many reasons,” said Helena with sadness in her silvery voice. “First I want to beg your forgiveness. Kleon is the master of my life, as though I were a shadow puppet moved by sticks and strings. And I feel such terrible shame for what happened to you at my house.”
“Was the man in the room that night Kleon?” asked Nikias.
“No,” she replied. “But he is Kleon’s closest confidant.”
“Does he threaten you?” asked Nikias.
“I am his toy. His plaything. But he threatens one whom I love very dearly.” Helena glanced at Melitta and the two shared a doleful smile.
“Why would he threaten your sister?” asked Nikias. “What sort of man is Kleon to want to harm a little girl?”
“I’m not little,” said Melitta angrily. “And I’m not afraid of Kleon.”
“You should be, Sister,” said Helena with an edge to her voice. “He is a man to be feared. He hounded our mother to her tomb. He told me that if I set one foot through any of the fifteen gates of Athens he will have me killed. And Melitta too. If we managed to make it out of the city … well … he would hunt us down to the Gates of Herakles.”
“I saw your mother’s house,” said Nikias. “Did Kleon make that fire happen?”
“I don’t know,” said Helena. “But I suspect as much. She was trying to get Melitta and me out of Athens. She had bought passage for us on a ship. Kleon must have found out. When our mother died I had no other choice but to become a hetaera.”
She put the dirty rags she’d been using to clean Nikias’s face into the basin, stood up, and walked to the center of the small chamber. “Our mother never wanted this to be my fate. She abhorred the notion and saved enough for both my sister’s and my dowries so that we could marry. But all of that was lost in the fire.”
She paused and took a breath, touched a hand to her mouth as if she could not make herself speak.
“Please go on,” said Nikias.
“When you were drugged,” said Helena haltingly, “and spoke of the man Chusor, I thought the Fates had sent you to us. I knew him, you see, when I was a little girl. I was Melitta’s age when he and my mother started their affair. He was very kind to me and I loved him. It broke our hearts when he was forced to escape Kleon and this snake pit of Athens. But Kleon’s tentacles are long. And now he is drawn back into the mire.”
“What does Chusor have to do with Kleon and his whisperers?” asked Nikias. “He fled Athens a dozen years ago.”
“Tell Nikias how old you are, Melitta,” said Helena.
“I’m several months past eleven,” replied Melitta.
Nikias looked at her blankly.
“Plus the nine months I spent in my mother’s womb,” added Melitta with a wry smile.
Nikias closed his eyes and shook his head. He couldn’t help but laugh. “I thought you were an Anatolian slave girl,” he said. “But you’re one-quarter Aethiope.” He opened his eyes and looked at Melitta full in the face. “You’re Chusor’s daughter. Now that I look at you, Melitta, I see my friend’s eyes staring back at me.”
“You must help us,” said Helena. “For your friend’s sake if not for ours.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Nikias.
“Kleon is almost certain that Melitta is Chusor’s child,” said Helena. “And eventually he will kill her, such is his hatred for your friend.” She crouched by Melitta, wrapping her arm around her sister’s slender shoulders. “When you return to Plataea you must let Chusor know that his daughter—the legacy of his love for Sophia—exists in this dangerous place. Tell him that I am on my knees, asking for his help.”
Nikias sat up and reached out his left hand. “Put your hands in mine,” he said, encompassing both of the sisters’ hands into his callused palm. “I promise to come back here with Chusor and take both of you away from this place. You understand? That is my oath.”
“Are you leaving tonight?” asked Melitta with despair.
“No,” said Nikias, laughing.
“Promise!”
Nikias reached into his pouch and took out a metallic disk, placing it in Melitta’s palm and closing her fingers around it.
“Keep this safe for me,” he said. “It’s the marker for my sword—an heirloom of my house. I’ll come to you to retrieve it before I leave Athens. To make certain that you are well.”
Helena started crying and Melitta wrapped her arms around her body, holding her tight. Nikias leaned back against the wall and stared at the sisters with heavy lids. Soon exhaustion overcame him and he plunged into the realm of Morpheus.
Several hours later a hand touched his chest, rousing him from sleep. The lamp had gone out and the room was dark.
“Nikias,” said Helena’s voice close to his ear. “It is still several hours before dawn. You must leave before the priestesses open the temple.”
He reached out and put his hand behind her head, guiding her mouth to his. Her warm lips kissed him back. He moved his hand down and felt the nakedness of her back. She pressed her breasts against his chest and reached between his legs, guiding him. They moaned at the same time, pushing their bodies together.
“Your sister,” whispered Nikias.
“Asleep,” came the breathless reply. Then she stopped moving and said, “Nikias, I wanted us to be together from the moment I saw you. In the street, outside the theatre.”
He said, “The first time we made love I—”
But she cut him off saying, “The first time didn’t happen. This is the first time.”
Kallisto’s face flashed in Nikias’s mind … and he pushed the image away. The only face that he wanted to conjure up in the darkness was Helena’s. Sweet Helena. The world and all its worries vanished and they were alone together, protected under the ancient temple roof, two disciples of Aphrodite.
EIGHT
Nikias made his way through the dark lanes of Athens in the direction of the Street of Thieves. It was that time of night, hours before dawn, when every living thing—except the owls and their prey—was asleep. Even the winds seemed to be at rest. It was a terrible time to be awake and alone.
He’d betrayed Kallisto—the woman he had asked to be his wife. But worse than that, he thought, was that he’d fallen in love with Helena, and with every step he took away from the temple of Aphrodite he felt a sort of wildness coming over him … a madness of unsatisfied desire. He wanted to sprint back to Helena and be with her again. To never leave her side.
He held his hand to his lips—the hand that had caressed her body with such pleasure. The intoxicating scent of her was still there on his fingertips. He couldn’t stop thinking about her alluring voice, the tender way she had kissed him, the feel of her silky hair brushing against his face while they made love.
Men would kill and betray for a woman like her.
He heard the screech of an owl and looked up toward the Akropolis; he saw the dark shape of wings passing in front of the night-gray pillars of the Temple of Athena.
“Where have you been!” shouted a voice full of fury.
He turned and saw Ph
oenix walking toward him, bearing a torch. His cousin grabbed him by his left arm and started marching him in the opposite direction.
“Get off,” growled Nikias, shaking off Phoenix’s grip with a furious jerk of his arm and planting his legs like a stubborn mule.
“We need to put our oars in the water, mate!” said Phoenix. “We’ve got a meeting with the chief. And we’re late.”
“With Per—Perikles?” stuttered Nikias.
Phoenix raised his eyebrows and smiled wryly. “Who else?” He started walking quickly up the lane without glancing back to see if Nikias followed. Nikias had to run to catch up with him.
“But how?” asked Nikias.
“I went to see him,” said Phoenix. “Told him my cousin the pankrator, Menesarkus’s heir, was begging for an audience. The mad thing is that he’d actually heard of you! I’ve never said a word to him about you, mind. He wanted to see you straightaway. The chief only sleeps a couple of hours a night,” he added. “It’s already morning for him.”
Nikias could hardly believe what Phoenix had just said. Was meeting the most powerful man in the Athenian Empire really this easy? After all of the insanity he’d been through in the last two days … it seemed absurd.
“It’s who you know,” said Phoenix, the smug tone in his voice implying that he was the main reason Nikias had been granted this meeting.
“Where are we meeting him?”
“Just follow, damn you,” replied Phoenix with the air of a man who was used to giving orders, but not in the least bit used to being questioned.
They wended their way through the dark city streets lit by Phoenix’s torch, moving closer and closer to the looming rock of the Akropolis. The bright moon shone in the cloudless sky, making the marble buildings glow. Eventually they arrived at the long flight of stairs leading up to the top of the Akropolis. But a guard of twenty or so armored warriors stood blocking the way. The men parted as Phoenix and Nikias approached, making a path between them. Before they got to the foot of the stairs, however, a warrior stepped forward and held up his hand for them to stop, and then he proceeded to search Phoenix’s clothes for hidden weapons.
“Careful with my eggs, Akilles,” said Phoenix sarcastically as the guard reached between his legs. “And my spear doesn’t need waxing tonight.”
Several of the warriors nearby laughed.
“Always a jest with you, oar-master,” said Akilles.
“You’re not my type anyway,” said Phoenix.
Nikias sized Akilles up with his pankrator’s eye. The guard was a sturdy warrior, with the crooked nose of a fighter. Nikias felt as if he’d met him before. The guard turned to Nikias and said icily, “Take your arm out of that sling.”
Nikias did as he was told, slowly pulling his arm out of the bandage with his left hand, grimacing with pain. Akilles felt roughly under his armpit, and then, satisfied there was nothing dangerous concealed there, helped Nikias put his arm back in the sling with the efficient ease of someone familiar with the care of battlefield injuries.
“I know you,” said Akilles, giving Nikias a steely look. “I fought you in the Oxlands. Two years ago. At the Festival of Demeter.”
Nikias suddenly remembered. He’d only been sixteen at the time. He’d broken Akilles’s thumb before getting him into a stranglehold and burying his face in the sand, whereupon the older athlete had raised his littlest finger in the sign of defeat. “Good match,” said Nikias.
“Good for you,” said Akilles. “You nearly broke my neck. I’d never been beaten before I fought you.” He pointed at the marble stairs gleaming in the moonlight. “Proceed.”
“We’re meeting him up there?” Nikias asked Phoenix in surprise.
“The chief’s office is up there,” said Phoenix. “In the armory.” He mounted the steps, taking them two at a time.
Nikias followed. He’d climbed much steeper and longer places in the mountains back home, but by the time he’d got halfway he was already winded. Fatigue. Not enough food or sleep. It wore him down. He glanced back and saw Akilles a few steps behind. The big man’s eyes bored into him.
Phoenix waited for Nikias at the top by some wooden construction equipment—huge hoists with gears and pulleys, and a large crane.
Two Skythian archers stood nearby, eyeing them distrustfully, and Nikias could see several more of the barbarians patrolling the area higher up where the Temple of Athena stood.
“This entrance that’s being built,” said Phoenix proudly, “is the final building to grace the Akropolis.” He swept his arm across the unfinished structure in front of them. “The Propylae Gates. We Athenians turn everything into something divine, cousin. At least that’s what Perikles is always saying. He has a flair for the dramatic, our Perikles does.”
“I haven’t been here since I was a boy,” said Nikias in wonder, turning his gaze from building to building. “And they had just begun the construction then. That was less than ten years ago.”
“Wait until Perikles has his way with the rest of the city,” declared Phoenix. He gazed out over the shimmering sea with a faint smile on his face. “The wealth we’re bringing in from the other islands will turn Athens into a city that will last until the end of the world.”
“Hmphh,” muttered Akilles.
Phoenix nodded at Akilles and said to Nikias, “Akilles here is the chief’s personal guard. We’ve been on a few voyages together, haven’t we, Akilles?”
“I haven’t counted,” said Akilles in a monotone.
Before Phoenix could come up with a proper retort, a young clerk scurried from a nearby building and gestured for Nikias and Phoenix to follow. “Come,” said the clerk impatiently. “You’re late. Come, come.” They followed him through an archway and past two lightly armored Greek guards, stopping at the threshold of a rectangular room. Nikias saw Akilles take up a position in the shadows, leaning against a wall, eyeing him with a blank face.
Inside the room was a long table—the longest Nikias had ever seen—almost entirely covered with papyrus rolls and scale models of machinery and buildings. The room was lit by several oil lanterns that hung by chains from the ceiling, casting the chamber in a flickering glow. Along one wall was a row of orange-and-black vases decorated with images of warriors engaged in combat.
A man stood at the end of the table wearing a plain robe wrapped over his shoulders against the chill of night. His palms rested on the tabletop, bare arms locked straight in an attitude of deep concentration as he stared down at a diagram on the table. He was in his sixties, but still had the muscular arms of an athlete in his prime. His pate, however, was completely bald, revealing an oddly shaped skull that reminded Nikias of the onion-like bulb on a bullwhip kelp.
Nikias reckoned this man must be an architect, studying his plans for the next day’s work. But then Phoenix said, “Peace, General Perikles,” and Nikias flinched, standing up a little straighter.
“So this is the man himself?” he thought.
Perikles. The leader of the Athenian Empire. The general who’d driven the last vestiges of barbarians from Greek territory and sacked any city that rebelled against the Delian League. The politician who’d brazenly moved the League’s treasury from the island of Delos to Athens. The visionary who made no qualms about turning Athens into the seat of the empire and pouring tax money into its temples and public buildings.…
Perikles looked up from his work to reveal a long face with a thick beard streaked with gray. He had a full lower lip that jutted forward slightly, giving him a shrewd and contemplative look. His intelligent eyes flicked from Phoenix to Nikias.
“Peace, Phoenix,” replied Perikles.
“My cousin,” said Phoenix, gesturing for Nikias to step forward. “Nikias, son of Aristo of Plataea.”
Perikles regarded Nikias for a long moment, then strode around the table with his right arm outstretched. Nikias stepped forward.
“I tore my shoulder ligament,” he blurted. “An injury.” He offered his left hand aw
kwardly. Perikles—a big, well-built man who towered over Nikias once they stood face-to-face—took his left hand and clasped it. The general took in the scars and scabs on Nikias’s face with a raise of his eyebrows.
“I have heard the report of the battle,” said Perikles. “The emissary from Plataea singled you out as one of the heroes in the defeat of the Thebans. But I had no idea you’d come with them from Plataea. I would have asked to meet you earlier. I am an old acquaintance of your grandfather, whom I hold in great esteem, and I would have heard of the battle from your perspective—from the young man who led the cavalry charge against the Theban phalanx and routed it.”
Nikias could not help the feeling of pride swelling his heart. To have a renowned man such as Perikles praise his deeds! He noticed that Perikles spoke with the refined accent of an Athenian nobleman, but there was a toughness in his voice and his face that Nikias immediately liked. None of the perfumed hair or stuck-up airs of the other Athenians he’d met in the city.
“I didn’t come with the emissaries,” Nikias said guiltily. “I came to Athens on my own.”
“I’ll wager you’ve got an interesting story to tell,” said Perikles, clearly intrigued yet puzzled. He held a forearm across his chest, resting his other elbow on this shelf of an arm, and stroked his beard with his other hand—a calculating expression. “When I heard you were in the city I assumed your grandfather had sent you with a message for my ears alone. A message differing from the one I received from the official Plataean emissaries.”
The way that he said this gave Nikias the distinct impression that Perikles had not been pleased at all with the message his grandfather had sent with the emissaries.
“And who could he trust more than his own heir?” continued Perikles with the slightest arching of his eyebrows.
Phoenix shot Nikias an angry glance as if to say, “Speak up, you idiot.” Nikias clenched his teeth and glared at Phoenix. He wished his cousin would leave so he could talk to Perikles alone.