by Noble Smith
“I am Osyrus of the Bindi. You don’t need to bother with me. I am just passing through with my injured son.”
“Just passing through?” said the Dog Raider with a scornful laugh. “With your injured son. And where are you headed, Skythian?”
“Who is to say,” said Osyrus. “The god chooses my destiny. Come and sit. We have wine we’ll share with you.”
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” said the Dog Raider. “I won’t drink your poisoned wine, Skythian horse-raper.” He made a quick gesture with his left hand, drawing his sword with his right. More shapes moved from the woods and came up behind him, fanning out in a semicircle, their weapons glinting in the light of the fire. All of them wore helms and had round shields slung on their backs. Kolax quickly counted fourteen men. He reached around and clutched the handle of his father’s dagger where it was attached to his belt, inching the blade from the sheath.
“We’re travelers,” said Osyrus. “In my country travelers are afforded certain rights of safe passage.”
The Dog Raider laughed and glanced from side to side at his men. “Did you hear the Skythian?” he asked in an amazed tone. “I think he left his sheep-shit brains in his Grasslands.”
Kolax could not believe this Dog Raider spoke to his father in such an insolent manner. He started to say something insulting, but Osyrus clapped his hand over his mouth.
“Which way would you like your heads to be facing when we lay out your corpses?” Osyrus asked the Dog Raiders calmly.
“Come again?”
“East or west?” asked Osyrus. “Answer me, quick, you maggot from a buzzard’s arse, because you’re all about to die.”
The Dog Raider chief turned to his men. “Skin the boy first, then roast him on the fire.”
Osyrus let forth a Skythian war cry.
The instant the sound had passed his lips a barrage of black arrows flew down from the rocks above, striking the Dog Raiders where they stood. The dumbfounded warriors jerked and gasped as they were struck, for the tips of the arrows were coated with a poison that acted nearly instantaneously, filling the men’s veins with a terrible fire. They fell to the ground, screaming and writhing.
All but one.
The Dog Raider chief had somehow avoided being struck. An arrow had clanged off the forehead of his helm. Another had glanced off one of the iron bands on his wrist. He reacted without hesitation, leaping straight through the roaring fire—charging at Osyrus, who still sat on the ground.
Kolax, in a blur of motion, sprang from his father’s lap, his dagger clutched in his hand. He ducked the Dog Raider’s furious sword stroke and plunged the dagger into the man’s groin, pulling the blade upward and spilling out the enemy’s guts.
“Stop your arrows!” shouted Osyrus, jumping to his feet.
The Dog Raider chief howled in agony, dropping his sword and falling to his knees, clutching his intestines as they oozed from his abdomen. Kolax kicked him in the face with the flat of his foot, then sliced across the man’s eyes, blinding him. The warrior clapped his hands to his face and Kolax drove the dagger into his chest—three quick stabs that pierced his heart.
The Dog Raider chief crumpled to the dirt. Before his head hit the ground Kolax was already bounding over to the nearest enemy warrior who lay on the ground, slitting the man’s throat to make certain he was dead, then moving on to the next one.
“Kolax!” shouted Osyrus.
“Yes, Papa,” said Kolax without glancing up, driving his dagger into the brain of a twitching Dog Raider.
Osyrus stood with his mouth agape. “Good kill,” was all that he could manage to say.
Kolax smiled at his father and nodded. But then another powerful gut cramp wracked his bowels and he squatted on his haunches, groaning in pain. He peered up at the rocks behind his father, watching as the black silhouettes of Skythian archers moved down the steep face. There were twenty-four of them. They were all men of the Bindi tribe who had left Athens with Osyrus and Kolax.
The archers fanned out on the killing ground, carefully removing their individual arrows from the bodies, for each man marked his own arrows with a particular pattern on the shaft. They put the arrows back into their lidded quivers, careful not to touch the razor-sharp and tainted arrowheads.
“Strip them of the armor and clothes,” said Osyrus in a commanding voice. “Cut off their heads and put their faces in their arses so that they can smell their own bungholes for eternity.”
“Ha ha!” laughed Kolax, before doubling over in agony. He watched as the archers quickly completed their task, making a pile of clothes on one side and armor and weapons on the other. The fourteen naked corpses were lined up in a row, their skin shining white in the light of the rising moon. Kolax thought they looked like strange fish. He giggled as their heads were hacked off and arranged in the humiliating position. But the painful spasms in his bowels cut his laughter short.
“Where do we go now?” asked one of the archers.
Kolax turned to see Jaro—an archer nearly the same age as his father—standing face-to-face with him. Jaro was a tall and muscular man with the reddest hair Kolax had ever seen. Osyrus wasn’t looking at him, though. He had his arms crossed on his chest and gazed at the sky.
“I don’t know,” said Osyrus. “I’m waiting for a sign.”
“Well, we can’t wait here forever,” said Jaro. “Killing these Dog Raiders is a waste of time. They don’t wear gold like Persians. Where are we, anyway?”
“The Kithaeron Mountains,” said Osyrus. “Didn’t you ever look at a map when you were in Athens? On the other side of this range is the Oxlands and the city-states of Thebes and Plataea.”
“I say we set out for that other place,” said another archer. Kolax glanced over at Skunxa—the fattest and smelliest Skythian he’d ever met. The man stood near the fire, trying on one of the Dog Raider helms. “We should join our fellow Bindis at the Athenian siege of Potidaea or whatever it’s called and make some coin.”
A few of the Skythians made sounds showing their agreement with Skunxa. But others complained. It was a difficult decision to make: Plataea or Potidaea.
“Potidaea is too far,” said a slender young man with a neatly trimmed beard and a splendid topknot. He chewed on a piece of dried meat and smiled in a self-satisfied way. His name was Griffix and he was one of Kolax’s cousins. “I heard it takes weeks to get to Potidaea on a trireme,” he continued. “And I don’t see any ships up here in the mountains. Plataea, however, is just a day’s ride over this mountain.”
“We should go to Plataea,” agreed Kolax.
“My son,” said Osyrus, holding up a hand. “Please. You are too young to have an opinion on such a matter.”
“Let the boy talk,” said Jaro, throwing up his arms. “He’s the one who got us into this shit-pit in the first place.”
Osyrus waved a hand for Kolax to speak.
“Plataea is a wonderful place,” said Kolax. “The people aren’t like Athenians at all. They are tough and don’t ride in boats. There’s heaps of gold too. You could each make enough in a year to buy fifty of the best horses back home.”
“Come on,” said Griffix. “The boy is talking shit. Are you certain he’s your son, Osyrus?”
Kolax flew at Griffix, but before he could get close enough to throw a punch, Osyrus grabbed his son around the waist and lifted him above his head. The archers all laughed as Kolax kicked the air, screaming in his hoarse voice.
“Calm yourself,” said Osyrus, “or I’ll have Skunxa sit on you.”
Kolax stopped struggling and glanced at the potbellied Skunxa. All of a sudden it felt like a knife was digging into Kolax’s guts. He let forth a howling scream, clutching his midriff. Osyrus quickly set him down.
“What happened?” he asked. “What is wrong?”
“It’s my stomach,” said Kolax. “I’ve got to make shit.”
He squatted down right in front of the men and started straining, his eyes bugging.
“I don’t need to see this,” said Griffix, rolling his eyes.
“Watch!” barked Kolax. “I’m going to prove it to you.”
“Prove what?” said Griffix, a disgusted expression on his face. “That you’re as crazy as a hemp-smoking hare?”
A great fart erupted from Kolax’s hind end, followed by a noisy bowel movement that splattered on the ground.
“He looks like a sheep with the drips,” said one of the men, peering at Kolax.
“Hey, what’s that coming out of his arse!” cried out another, pointing.
“He’s shitting darics!”
“You’re kidding.”
“Look!”
“Thank Papaeus!” said Kolax after he was done. He fell on his side and lay very still.
Many hands grabbed at the pile of feces, cleaning off the gold coins and holding them up to the firelight. Griffix, after thoroughly rubbing one of the darics on his tunic, bit into it, exclaiming, “It’s real!”
“There must be thirty of them!” said Jaro in amazement.
“I had to swallow them,” said Kolax. “To keep them safe. They’re the coins my friend Nikias gave me.”
He looked at his father, who stared back at him with a dumbfounded expression that slowly changed to a smile. Osyrus nodded, as if finally coming to a decision. He turned to the men and said, “Everyone take one gold coin. Consider it a first payment. And we’ll keep the Dog Raider heads as well.”
Kolax grinned. They were going to the Oxlands. They were going to Plataea!
FIVE
“Is anyone there? Help!”
The plaintive voice had called out three times before Kallisto finally forced herself to get out of bed, drawn by the urgent tone. It was late morning, and Phile and Eudoxia had gone to the market, leaving Kallisto alone in Menesarkus’s house in Plataea.
Well, not quite alone. There was the Spartan, Arkilokus, in the room at the end of the hall. Phile had whispered to her, practically right after they had passed the threshold of the house, that there was a Spartan under the roof and that he was Menesarkus’s illegitimate grandson. Kallisto had been fascinated by this remarkable news and had been curious to see what the man looked like.
But Kallisto had been ordered by Eudoxia to stay away from the Spartan’s room. Phile had told her that the prisoner was utterly defenseless—paralyzed in both his arms and legs. And now the man was crying out in fear, but not loud enough for the guardsmen standing watch downstairs at the front entrance of the house to hear him.
Even in her weakened state Kallisto reckoned she could fight a man who could only turn his head from side to side. And so she started gingerly down the long hallway, holding one arm over her sore ribs—the place where she had been struck by a Theban arrow. She wondered where Menesarkus was. She had yet to see the Arkon since she had been brought to his house. She’d been told that he spent most nights at the city offices. She dreaded the moment when they finally would meet. They hadn’t seen each other since the night she had helped defend Menesarkus’s farmhouse from the invaders. But now Menesarkus knew the truth about her father’s part in the sneak attack on Plataea, and he must hate her for being her father’s daughter.
“Help!” cried the Spartan again. His voice sounded terrified now.
Kallisto said, “I’m coming!” What she saw when she pushed open the door made her burst out laughing, for the Spartan was flat on his back, naked except for a sheet over his lower half, with a huge black crow sitting on his chest, staring at him with its beady black eyes. It was the same crow that had flown into the bedchamber at Chusor’s house the other day—the one with the distinctive white tail feather.
“Why are you laughing, you idiot girl!” raged Arkilokus. “Get it off me!” His fingers and toes wriggled frantically.
“I thought you were being mauled by a vicious dog,” said Kallisto.
“These things will pluck out the eyes of the dead,” said Arkilokus. “Now get it off me.”
Kallisto crossed her arms on her chest. “Say ‘please.’”
Arkilokus turned his head and stared at her openmouthed, evidently astonished at her impudence. He thrust out his jaw and appeared to be on the verge of saying something vicious when the crow hopped closer to his face and let forth a menacing sound—a low gurgling deep in its throat.
“P-please!” sputtered Arkilokus. “Yes! Please! Just get the thing off of me!”
Kallisto grabbed a pillow from a chair and strode toward the crow. It cocked its head at her as she pulled back and whacked it. The bird went flying toward the open window with a raucous cry, and Kallisto fell onto the bed with a howl of pain. She lay across Arkilokus’s body for a while, then sat up, hugging her rib cage.
“You’re injured,” said Arkilokus.
The concern in his voice surprised Kallisto.
“I’m all right,” she said, glancing over to the window. The crow perched on the sill, eyeing her with fury. She flung the pillow across the room—a perfectly aimed throw. Both the pillow and the bird disappeared out the window.
“Thank you,” said Arkilokus, sighing.
“You’re welcome,” said Kallisto.
“Now, could you scratch me?”
“What?”
“With your fingernails.”
Kallisto rolled her eyes. “Are you mad?”
“It itches so much along my spine,” said Arkilokus. “It’s agony. It started as a tingling early this morning. Now it feels like ants crawling over my back. Come, now, girl! Don’t be squeamish. My arms are useless. Your mistress would tell you to do it if she were here.”
Kallisto stared at Arkilokus as if for the first time. It struck her, in that instant, how much he resembled Nikias … an older, fiercer version of Nikias. As if her beloved had gone away for ten years and returned a hardened but still recognizable man. This Spartan had nearly the same color hair and eyes as Nikias. Even his physique resembled Nikias’s, with his broad chest, long legs, and huge hands. But the older man had a full beard, and his brow was thicker. And there was nothing of Nikias-the-poet in this haughty prince’s eyes.
She thought of the terrible rumor that Phile had told her yesterday … that Nikias’s horse, Photine, had returned to the city, riderless and covered with blood. She could not believe it. Would not believe it. But she had been praying desperately to Artemis all morning that it was untrue. That her beloved was safe.…
“Please?” asked Arkilokus, as if taking her silence for a rebuke of his manners.
She shook herself from her reverie. “Where should I start?”
“Anywhere,” he said. “My chest. Start there.”
She started scratching his skin with her right hand, moving it over his pectorals. He let forth an almost orgasmic sigh—the same deep-throated sound Nikias made when they made love.
“Gods,” he said. “So good.”
“She’s not my mistress,” said Kallisto.
“Who isn’t?” asked Arkilokus, his eyes squeezed shut in rapture.
“Eudoxia. Menesarkus’s wife. I’m not their servant. I’m a guest in this house.”
“I don’t care who you are,” said Arkilokus. “With fingernails like those I’ll build a shrine to you.”
She moved down his legs, her fingernails making little red marks across his skin, but he smiled and made no complaints.
“Your name?” he asked.
Kallisto bristled. She didn’t like being asked her name like a slave. “My name is for my family and friends,” she replied.
Arkilokus opened one eye.
“I have been rude,” he said. “I should have introduced myself first. My name is Arkilokus, even though I’m sure you have already been told my name.”
Kallisto shrugged.
“You don’t seem to be squeamish around men,” observed Arkilokus. “Athenian women are always so high-strung. So different from Spartan females.”
“I’m not Athenian,” said Kallisto. “I’m Plataean. And I grew up with a house full of
older brothers.”
“Did you?” asked Arkilokus with a raise of his eyebrows. “A fortunate father.”
“My father is dead,” said Kallisto, and stopped scratching. “He was in league with the traitor Nauklydes, but the Thebans cut off his head once he’d helped them inside the citadel. And most of my brothers were slaughtered.” She gave him a black look, as if he were the cause of all her woes.
Arkilokus nodded his head. “Helladios,” he said solemnly. “You are the daughter of Helladios.”
Kallisto said, “I am no longer the daughter of Helladios. His name is poison to me. My name is simply Kallisto. I’m nobody’s daughter anymore.”
“I am not a lover of the Thebans,” said Arkilokus, as if to apologize for her misfortunes. “I argued against the sneak attack on Plataea. I called for our elders to use diplomacy to sway your men to reason. You cannot understand such things, though”—this last part spoken to himself, as if she were no longer sitting right there in front of him—“because it is beyond your ken.”
Kallisto threw back her head and laughed scornfully, her eyes flashing. “Ha! You are in a precarious position to insult my intelligence, Spartan.” She glared at him and felt her pale cheeks turn red. “I could claw out your eyes faster than that crow could have pecked them. Or I could cut off your precious balls and send them flying out the window after that pillow!”
Arkilokus made a meek face. “My apologies again, Kallisto. I’m impressed. You speak with the lashing tongue of a Spartan maid. My own sister has scolded me in the same manner. And I beg your forgiveness, just like I do with her.”
Kallisto’s look softened. She couldn’t believe she had just threatened to cut off the balls of a Spartan prince. “Are Spartan girls really allowed to wrestle naked in the gymnasium?” she asked.
Arkilokus grinned. “They ask the same question in Persia,” he said. “And the answer is: yes, they do. Our women are trained to be warriors, and to breed warriors. Women don’t wear veils in my country. And they can own property as well.”
Kallisto considered this information for a moment, then asked, “Do women in Sparta really have their heads shaved and their breasts bound on their wedding nights?”