by Noble Smith
“I came to find men,” said Nikias. “To raise an army of fighters to return with me to help defend Plataea.” The instant he uttered the words they sounded so foolish to his own ears that he felt himself turning scarlet. But Perikles did not scoff. Rather he regarded Nikias with an even more serious expression.
“Did your grandfather give you leave to come here?” asked Perikles, staring at Nikias’s long hair. “You’re still underage.”
“He did not,” said Nikias, meeting his eyes again. “I came of my own accord. And I just turned eighteen. But I have yet to shear my hair and burn it. The ceremony was interrupted by the invasion.” It was a bit of a lie, he knew. But he didn’t want to tell Perikles he’d been in jail at the time of the ceremony of manhood, accused of murdering Kallisto’s brother.
“You came alone? Through Megarian territory?” asked Perikles.
“Yes.”
“A dangerous journey.”
“A risk worth taking,” replied Nikias.
Perikles turned to Phoenix and said, “Please wait outside. I need to speak with your cousin alone.”
Phoenix nodded and bowed slightly. As he turned and passed Nikias he gave him a look that said, “You’re on your own now. Good luck.”
NINE
Perikles stared into Nikias’s face for the longest time, nodding his head slightly and smiling faintly. Nikias stared back, not knowing whether he should speak or not.
“You resemble your mother,” said Perikles at last.
“So I am told,” said Nikias. “You knew her?”
“Knew?” replied Perikles with a frown. “Then she is dead?”
“Killed by Theban raiders,” said Nikias, his throat constricting as he spoke the hated words.
Perikles put a hand on Nikias’s shoulder and dropped his head. “Yes, I knew her,” he said with a note of deep sadness in his voice. “She was a famous beauty in Athens. My nephew wished to marry her, but she was carried away like Helen by a young Oxlander—a poet as I recall.”
“My father was a poet,” said Nikias. “He was killed at a battle near Koronea.”
“That battle was a failure,” said Perikles, removing his hand from Nikias’s shoulder. “But your father’s death was no less glorious than any warrior killed at Marathon.”
Nikias felt his eyes welling up. He looked away from Perikles, ashamed that he couldn’t control his feelings in front of this man, his gaze searching the room for something to focus on, to keep himself from bursting into tears. He felt like a child. He wanted to tell Perikles that his father hadn’t died a glorious death. He’d been speared in the groin, and had perished in agony, amidst the carnage of a defeated army. What did his father’s death mean?
Nothing but humiliation and horror.
His gaze passed along the row of painted vases showing scenes of warriors engaged in combat. The shifting light from the hanging lamps seemed to give movement to the painted figures: men from Homer’s day, jabbing at each other with spears or riding war chariots pulled by galloping steeds. His eyes alighted on a vase showing a dead warrior carted from a battlefield by two smiling combatants. “They’re grinning because they’re still alive,” thought Nikias. The corpse they carried hung limp and slack-jawed, his eye staring at the sky as dead as a fish’s.
“Honorable,” replied Nikias at last. “But not glorious.”
Perikles’s lower lip jutted forward. “The two go hand in hand.”
“Do they?” asked Nikias.
Perikles peered into Nikias’s eyes. “Why have you come here, lad?” he asked.
“I told you—”
“To raise an army? Ridiculous. Tell me the real reason. Why did you want to see me?”
Nikias took a deep breath. The words he wished to speak were bitter on his tongue. “If Athens will not help Plataea with warriors,” he forced himself to say, “then we must be allowed to break our oath. Otherwise we will be destroyed.”
Nikias had expected Perikles to react in disgust or rage. But Perikles merely nodded and said in a bemused tone, “That is impossible, you cannot break your oath,” as though Nikias had suggested something absurd—that the citadel of Plataea should grow giant legs and march out of the Oxlands!
Nikias replied, “What good is Plataea to Athens if we’re wiped off the earth?”
“No good at all.”
“But—”
“Follow me,” said Perikles. He turned and strode to the other side of the room, pausing to pick up a bronze oil lamp from the long table, and then he passed through a doorway at the end of the room into another chamber. Nikias followed. This anteroom was darker than the other. It took Nikias’s eyes a while to adjust to the dim light. He saw at least twenty square tables. Each tabletop was covered with earth and rocks to simulate different kinds of terrain. And each table had a model of … what were they? It was hard to tell in this shadowy room.
Perikles set the lamp down upon the table in front of them and Nikias saw, illuminated in the lamplight, a model of a citadel. And then recognition came to him. It was as if he were standing on a familiar cliff top, gazing down into the Oxlands.
“Plataea,” said Nikias with a tone of wonder, staring at the model of his city that had been meticulously constructed on this diorama. Everything was there. He could see the walls complete with each tower, and the Temple of Zeus, the Assembly Hall, the agora!
“As you can see,” explained Perikles, “your home weighs heavily in my thoughts. I’ve stood on the heights of the Kithaeron Mountains several times in my life, gazing down on the plains of the Oxlands, and I’ve seen your citadel down below, at the foot of the mountain, rising up from the ground as though it had sprung from the earth itself. Strong! Like a hoplite in the best armor and shield—an Ajax ready to face down any foe.”
“I fear the Spartans are too great an enemy,” murmured Nikias. He glanced at Perikles, who frowned as if Nikias had said something distasteful. Or unmanly. And Nikias felt ashamed again.
“You think the Spartans can storm the mighty walls of Plataea?” asked Perikles. “They’ve never defeated a city-state in a siege. It is not in their nature. They haven’t the mental faculties for such a campaign. They’re bluffing. The walls of Plataea are twenty feet thick.”
“They’ll starve us out, like the Helots of Mount Ithome,” said Nikias.
“A possibility,” said Perikles. “Something my generals and I have contemplated. And that is why we have decided”—here he paused briefly, nodding his head sagely—“that you must bring all of the women and children to Athens immediately.”
Nikias looked at Perikles in amazement. “Now?”
“Any loyal friend of Athens is a citizen of Athens,” explained Perikles. “The people of Plataea can live in the citadel for one year with the stores you have accumulated. Your grandfather’s own report told me as much. If your city were occupied by warriors alone, you could hold out for several years. The Spartans would never stay in the Oxlands for more than a season. They are stepping into bilge-water as it is. Soon they’ll be up to their necks in it. We’ve had word that there have been more Helot uprisings in Sparta.”
Nikias contemplated everything that Perikles said. It all sounded so reasonable. He imagined his grandmother, Kallisto, and his sister Phile protected by the high walls of Athens. Safe and well fed. He saw Plataea’s warriors—inspired by the Athenian generosity—standing firm against an inept Spartan onslaught, the red-cloaked warriors attacking the high walls of Plataea like a gang of children attempting to break down a stone wall with nothing more than sticks and rocks.
Perikles said, “You can either submit to the Spartans and become their slaves, or stand up to them with the hope of survival. Which would you have?” he asked in a challenging tone.
“I would stand up to them,” replied Nikias. And once he had said these words out loud—words uttered with passion—he knew that he could never question Plataea’s path again. It was as if the Fates had, at his birth, woven a golden thread leadin
g straight to the Spartan army camped outside of Plataea. And now that thread had been revealed to him. All that Nikias had to do was follow this thread to his destiny. Victory or defeat. There was no other choice. No middle path. “I fear slavery more than death,” he said.
Perikles smiled. “And that’s the kind of man with whom I would choose to be friends. Far better to die a glorious and honorable death than to skulk away like a whipped dog. The Spartans live wretched lives, Nikias, and so it is easy for them to face death. For those of us who have been blessed to be citizens of a democracy like Plataea or Athens—where the good things in life are revered and savored and enjoyed—dying in battle for us is … well … it’s even more of a sacrifice. And that’s why our deaths are held even higher in the eyes of the gods.”
Nikias thought of all those he knew who had died in the Theban sneak attack. Did the gods really consider their deaths to be more honorable? It made perfect sense. The Thebans had broken the rules of war. The Plataeans, however, had died to save everything that they held dear—their family and friends and their beloved city-state. He wondered why his grandfather had never inspired him like Perikles. Never made him feel like he could take on an entire phalanx of the enemy all by himself. Perikles was a great man, just like everyone said. A kind and generous man. A thinking warrior. A builder of cities.
“What can I do?” asked Nikias, overcome with emotion. “How can I serve you, General Perikles?”
Perikles beamed at Nikias. “I would keep you here by my side and have you serve as my shield man if I could,” said Perikles. “But I must send you back to your grandfather. You will return with the emissaries and deliver my message to Arkon Menesarkus with your own voice.”
“And what is the message?” asked Nikias.
“Stand firm,” said Perikles. “And give me your wives and children to look after. I will be their shepherd, their guardian, until the enemy is driven from the Oxlands.”
His head swimming, Nikias followed Perikles out of the anteroom into the chamber containing the long table and the vases. As he passed the table he glanced at it and saw what Perikles had been looking at when he and Phoenix had first entered the room: it was a large map, spread out on the table. And on the map was a drawing of a narrow isthmus with the name POTIDAEA written above it. A small bronze warship had been positioned on the map next to Potidaea. Nikias remembered that this was the “shit-pot” that Phoenix had mentioned at the inn. The place the Athenians now had under siege. And to the northeast of Potidaea on this map was drawn another walled citadel. A model trireme advanced toward it menacingly. It was a city-state that Nikias had never heard of called Skione.
Perikles led him through the chamber and outside—into the cool night air and courtyard in front of the building. Here a gathering of men waited for Perikles: the armed guards, two clerks, and Phoenix, who had somehow procured a mug of wine and a chunk of bread. Nikias spotted the bodyguard Akilles as well, still standing in the shadows like a statue.
“Wait here,” Perikles said to Nikias. “We’re not done yet.”
Perikles took one of his clerks aside and began a whispered conversation. Phoenix sauntered over to Nikias and offered him his cup. Nikias took it and drained the contents.
“What happened in there?” asked Phoenix.
“I don’t rightly know,” said Nikias.
“The chief has that effect on people.”
Nikias noticed the clerk who Perikles was talking to shoot a curious glance his way, and then the man bowed slightly to the general before turning and dashing away into the armory, reaching for a ring of keys on his belt as he ran.
“Come,” said Perikles, gesturing to Phoenix and Nikias. “To the Temple of Athena now. To beg the goddess’s blessing for your journey home.”
Nikias fell in behind Perikles. They walked through the half-built gates, and then up another flight of stairs to where the temple stood, and then up the steps of the temple itself. Now they were passing between the tall painted pillars that seemed so perfectly proportioned. Nikias remembered something Chusor had told him about the design of these pillars, but he couldn’t remember exactly what his friend had said because his mind was in a whirl. He could see the gigantic statue of Athena up ahead, the gold shining in the torchlight, and he felt the skin on the back of his neck tingle with excitement. Perikles led them up to the base of the statue and stopped, holding up his hands.
“Bright-eyed goddess,” intoned Perikles in a deep voice, “inventive, pure, savior of Athens, mother of arts, warlike, born from the wise head of Zeus himself wearing armor glinting of gold, the gods themselves were in awe when they gazed upon your beautiful form.…”
Nikias craned his neck, staring up at the ivory face of the goddess, the droning voice of Perikles lulling him into a trance. Nikias had no idea how much time had passed. He might have even dozed off, standing on his feet. For when he looked up he saw Perikles unsheathing a sword—the sheath held by the clerk who’d been sent off to the armory just before they’d come up to the temple.
“This sword has served me well in many battles,” said Perikles. He walked directly to Nikias and handed him the weapon. “It is yours now, Nikias of Plataea. Yours to use in the defense of your citadel—our friend and ally until the end of time, blessed by warlike Pallas Athena, under her gaze, all-victorious, goddess of good fortune.”
Nikias took the sword with his trembling left hand. It was beautifully made. He held up the double-edged, leaf-shaped blade and looked upon his own face reflected in the polished surface. He saw tears streaming down his cheeks and was surprised. He wondered how long he’d been crying.
* * *
“Plow an oar in my arse,” exclaimed Phoenix after he and Nikias were alone again, walking down the steep steps of the Akropolis. “I think the chief likes you.”
Nikias smiled. He grasped the sword in its scabbard with a fierce pride. He glanced over his shoulder to where Akilles followed a few steps behind them. The bodyguard had the faintest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth yet a venomous gleam was in his eyes.
“Perfect conditions,” said Phoenix.
“Huh?” asked Nikias.
“The water,” said Phoenix, pointing down the length of the Long Walls toward the port of Piraeus four miles away. The bay was nearly flat. There was no breeze. “We leave after dawn.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Nikias, confused.
“You and the Plataean emissaries,” said Phoenix. “We’re taking you back to Plataea via Delphinium, to the east of Thebes. I’m to captain the chief’s own dispatch ship. After we drop you off you’ll be given horses in Delphinium. You’ll have to ride from there.”
“But that will take us three times as long,” said Nikias. “It’s so much faster to just go back on the northern road to the fortress of the Three Heads at the pass.”
“The Spartans have taken the Three Heads,” cut in Phoenix. “Word came last night. One of our men who was at the stronghold escaped and fled to Athens on horseback with the news.”
Nikias felt the world spin. The Three Heads was the fortress guarding the narrow pass through the Kithaeron Mountains to the Oxlands. It had never been taken by the enemy—not in the two hundred years since it had been built.
“How was it captured?” he asked incredulously.
“How am I to know?” replied Phoenix. “But the Spartans control the pass, and there’s no other way back over the Kithaeron Mountains now. It’s the water road for you, cousin.”
TEN
Osyrus the Skythian strode toward a great kargon burial mound built on the top of a treeless hill. The wind howled in his ears and a vast black cloud hung in the sky overhead. He saw flashes of lightning, but strangely heard no thunder. The world was grim and dark.
As he slowly climbed the hill and got closer to the kargon he was struck with awe: the mound was the biggest he’d ever seen—fit for a king of Skythia. It rose like a firm breast from the crown of the hill, and surrounding it was a
ring of dead horses. These animals had been gutted and stuffed with chaff, then affixed to poles that were stuck into the ground. An offering to the dead man buried beneath this heap of sod.
Osyrus perceived that on each of the horses was mounted a human corpse that had been prepared in the same way as the steeds. And they were positioned in the customary way so that they appeared to be riding at full gallop, both hands on the reins, heads bent down and leaning over the horses’ manes, racing into the afterlife with their dead eyes wide open.
This was an exceptional offering, considered Osyrus, and he felt a thrill of wonder. What an honor! If only he might be so lucky one day to receive such a kargon. But then the lightning flashed directly overhead, and he clearly saw the nearest faces and he cried out, for he had recognized the corpses of his mother and father mounted on two of the horses.
Osyrus ran from horse to horse, peering at each dead rider, seeing his aunts and uncles and cousins and childhood friends … even a priest of Papaeus. All of his kin had been killed and positioned on the dead steeds. He looked down and saw, with horror, that his own torso had been ripped open and stuffed with chaff.
And then he noticed there was one riderless horse waiting for him.
The dead began to hiss a whispered chorus. The riders were calling to him.
Osyrus forced himself to look away from the kargon. In the distance he saw a red-haired boy riding across the grasslands, chased by a band of enemy Nuri.
“Kolax!” he tried to scream, but his voice made no sound. His lungs had been stolen from his breast. The bloody organs lay at his feet, glistening on the dark grass.
Osyrus awoke in the dark with a gasping breath, clutching his aching stomach. He lay very still for a while, lost in a haze of nightmarish images that were slowly fading back to the world of dreams from which they’d come to torment him, as they did on most nights.
For a while he had absolutely no idea where he was. The hemp did that to him sometimes. He’d been smoking more and more of it to ease the terrible pain that had been growing inside his belly for the last year. It burned in the pit of his stomach like a hot coal.