by Noble Smith
“I’ve been beating on him for three hours. I think I’ve broken all his ribs. I say we start cutting into him.”
Nikias saw the upside-down face of a man with almond-shaped eyes come into view. The man was missing part of his upper lip. With a sickening twist in his guts, he remembered where he was. Tanagra. Hanging by his ankles from a beam in an undercroft. And the man looking at him was his enemy—the Theban Eurymakus.
“Hello, Nikias,” said Eurymakus, pulling back his ruined lip in a ruthless smile. “You left us for a few minutes.”
Nikias squirmed and tried to lash out, but he was helpless. When they had first strung him up by the rope, hours ago, he had felt like his eyeballs were going to pop out of his skull from the pressure of his blood rushing to his head. But then Axe had started beating on him as though he were a stuffed leather punching bag at the gymnasium, and now every organ in his body felt as though it were going to burst. He had blacked out several times during the ordeal, drifting into fevered dreams that brought a few moments of escape.
But every time he woke up again to this horror.
Now his heart started pounding as the panic returned. There was no escape. He was utterly helpless, far from home and friends. No help would come if he were to scream. All he wanted now was for them to kill him and put him out of this misery. A wave of sadness bathed his soul. Eurymakus had told him that he would torture and mutilate him and send him back to Plataea in a cart. He thought of his grandfather and Kallisto seeing his destroyed body and he fought back tears. He didn’t want Eurymakus or Axe to see him cry.
“I’m sorry, Grandfather,” Nikias whispered. “I’m so sorry I didn’t listen to you.”
“He’s sobbing, the little bitch,” said Axe. “What’s he saying?”
“He’s terrified,” said Eurymakus in a gentle tone. “Lower him down, Axe. Let’s give our friend a little rest.”
“Stuff giving him a rest!” said Axe. “I want to make him eat his balls. You promised.”
“Lower him,” said the spy, a hint of anger creeping into his voice.
Eurymakus supported Nikias’s head as Axe lowered the rope, and Nikias let forth a body-wracking sigh as he slumped to the floor. He lay with his head in Eurymakus’s lap, feeling his enemy’s hand stroking his head. He tried to stifle his sobs, but he couldn’t help himself. He wept like a child.
“There, there,” cooed Eurymakus. “You may weep, Nikias. You must rest now. We will be here for many more hours. Many more days. There is so much I need to teach you. So much that you need to learn about pain and humility. Just like your beloved friend Demetrios will have learnt in the Prison Pits of Syrakuse. He’ll be dead by now, of course. He was no use to the Spartans after his father, Nauklydes, had been turned to our cause. And the Syrakusans do whatever the Spartans tell them. They are good little dogs. They have learnt to heel. Just like you will, my frightened pup,” he added, and patted Nikias’s head.
“Please let me go,” said Nikias. He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to speak but the words came pouring out of him. “Please. I’ll do anything. Just tell me what to do.”
“Ha!” barked Axe. “I love this! Listen to him! Pathetic.”
“I was supposed to die … as a warrior,” gasped Nikias.
“You want to die like your father did?” said Axe with a scoffing laugh. “You want to die in battle?”
“Yes,” said Nikias. “This is … dishonorable.”
“Ah,” said Eurymakus. “Now you’re learning something. Now you know what my brother Damos must have felt when your grandfather murdered him in the pankration arena, in front of forty thousand men. When he pushed his face into the sand, smothering him. Humiliation,” he hissed.
“I want to tell you something,” said Axe, kneeling down and putting his leering face close to Nikias’s. “Your father wasn’t struck down by the enemy at the Battle of Koronea. I killed him.” He started laughing giddily.
Nikias stared back at Axe, eyes bulging.
“I always hated Aristo,” continued Axe. “Such an arrogant piece of shit, just like you. In the chaos of the battle, after our shield wall broke and we were running away, I speared your father in the guts. You should have seen the look on his face. I’ve never seen anyone look so surprised. I was on my back, helpless, when Aristo cut down a warrior who was just about to kill me. He saved me! Can you believe that? Aristo saved me. He was such a right-minded prick. And then the sheep-stuffer reached out a hand to pull me up and”—here he made a horrible squelching sound, screwing up his face in a look of mock surprise—“Aristo sang no more.”
Nikias remembered seeing his father’s bloodless blue-skinned corpse in the back of the cart. He remembered cradling his father’s cold funeral jar in his arms. He remembered his mother’s anguished cries and the blood pouring from the cuts she had rent in her own face with her fingernails. And all this time … all these years … the man responsible for his murder had walked free in Plataea, mocking him behind his back. Never in Nikias’s life had he wanted to kill somebody more than now. To squeeze the life from Axe’s body.
“You should see the look on your face now!” said Axe with vicious delight. “You look just like your father!”
Nikias lunged at Axe, clamping onto the man’s cheek with the only weapons he had left—his teeth. He ripped back his head and tore out a chunk of flesh, then spit it back into Axe’s face.
Axe fell on his haunches, clapping a hand to his bloody cheek. Then he dove at Nikias, raining blows upon his face.
“Stop!” barked Eurymakus. “Not yet!”
“I’ll kill him!” shouted Axe, whipping out his short knife.
Eurymakus stood up and pulled forth his poisoned dagger from its stone box. The blade shone with dark poison. “Not yet!” he screamed.
Axe was about to stab Nikias, but the sight of the tainted blade inches from his face stopped him short. He backed up and glared at the Theban.
“Now go clean yourself up,” ordered Eurymakus. “And tell Nihani to come back down here.”
Axe sheathed his knife and clapped a hand over his cheek. He got up slowly and backed to the door, then exited the chamber, slamming the door behind him with such force that the hinges rattled.
Eurymakus got a wineskin filled with water and held it to Nikias’s swollen and bleeding lips. “Drink,” he said.
“Why are you doing this to me?” asked Nikias plaintively. He had started shaking uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. “Why, Eurymakus? It debases you. It makes you less of a man.”
Eurymakus said in a chiding tone, “You do not understand, Nikias of Plataea. It is my duty. My fravashi has brought you to me. To teach you things. You will understand soon enough.”
Fravashi!
Nikias’s thoughts spun. The stone on the signet ring. And the name that the doctor Ezekiel had found inscribed there. What had he called her? An angel. A guardian angel. But what was her name? He couldn’t think straight.
The door to the cell burst open. Axe strode into the room with one of his big arms wrapped around the neck of Nihani, his other hand holding a dagger to her throat.
“What is this?” said Eurymakus in a shocked tone.
“I’m going to show you how to get this job done,” said Axe, blood pouring down his face.
From the doorway the Tanagraean magistrate Polykarpos entered, followed by Axe’s cousin Priam and two armed guards. The guards shut the door and barred it behind them.
“We can’t let the Plataean live any longer,” Polykarpos said to Eurymakus. He shook his head and glared. “He is too dangerous. Look what he has done to my poor grandson even though he is bound at the wrists and ankles!”
“But—but he is my prisoner!” sputtered Eurymakus.
“He is my prisoner,” said Polykarpos. “Under my roof. You’re going to kill him anyway, Eurymakus. What difference does two days make?”
Axe shoved Nihani to the floor so that she was on her hands and knees. He turned to Priam and s
aid, “If she moves a muscle, cut off her head.”
Priam drew his sword and stood over Nihani, arms raised for the deathblow.
Nihani looked at Eurymakus, who held a trembling hand for her to be still.
“Now,” said Axe. “I’m going to make Nikias chew on his own balls. And then I’m going to cut off his head and throw it down the hole of the public shithouse.”
Axe walked over and shoved the stunned Eurymakus out of the way. “Come here,” he said to the two guards. The men sauntered over and grabbed Nikias, lifting him off the floor and positioning him on his knees with his face pressed into the floor, holding him tightly between them. Nikias squirmed desperately.
Nikias felt Axe’s hand groping underneath him, reaching for his testicles. Then he grasped hold of them, yanking them down like a farmer getting ready to castrate a young bull. Nikias sucked in his breath and bucked his hips frantically. This couldn’t be happening!
“Hold him still!” Axe growled at the guards. “I can’t get a firm grip.”
And then, for an instant, Nikias felt himself leave his body, as though he were in a flying dream. Everything went quiet save for a rushing sound in his ears. The evil chamber vanished, and he saw Ezekiel in his mind’s eye, peering at the stone he’d pried from the signet ring, uttering a woman’s name.…
Nikias felt the touch of cold iron against his thigh. He locked eyes with Eurymakus, who stared back at him.
“Daena!” screamed Nikias. “Daena! Protect me!”
Eurymakus’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. He held up his arm, screaming, “Axe, wait!”
Axe turned to look at Eurymakus with a curious expression, such was the powerful force of Eurymakus’s cry, but he kept the dagger poised against Nikias’s testicles. “What?” he asked angrily.
Eurymakus rushed to Nikias, knelt in front of him, and peered into his eyes with a desperate look. “What did you say?” he asked with anguish in his voice.
“Daena!” whispered Nikias frantically, tears pouring from his eyes. “Your fravashi! I found your ring. And the name inscribed on the stone. Daena. I will call to her after I die and she will come to me and not to you.”
Eurymakus’s eyes flicked around the chamber. He stood up and passed a shaking hand across his brow.
“Take me to the Spartans,” pleaded Nikias. “They can trade me for Prince Arkilokus, who is a prisoner in Plataea.”
“What’s he talking about?” asked Axe.
“Gibberish,” said Eurymakus faintly.
“Get ready to taste your own seed,” said Axe, pulling on Nikias’s testicles again and tensing his arm for the cut.
Nikias squeezed his eyes shut, screaming deep in his throat. He started thrashing again.
“No!” he screamed. “No, no, no!”
All of a sudden Axe released his grip and so did the guards. Nikias heard choking sounds and opened his bleary eyes. Axe and the guards were on the floor, writhing in agony. Blood oozed from their eyeballs. Axe clutched his hand. There was a wound there—a thin scrape, no bigger than a cat’s scratch. Eurymakus stood over the dying men, his poisoned blade grasped in one hand. It glistened with gore.
“What is this?” croaked Polykarpos from across the chamber. “What have you done?”
Priam stared in amazement at the men flailing on the floor. It had all happened so fast. In the blink of an eye. He brought the sword down to cut off Nihani’s head, but his sword clattered on the stones and he staggered forward, for Nihani was no longer on her knees at his feet—she had slipped behind him and, pulling the young man’s dagger from his belt, plunged it into his back, both hands grasping the hilt. Priam, groaning, fell to the stones, and Nihani yanked the dagger from his back, then drove it in again and again until he became still.
Polykarpos ran to the door and tried to unbar it, but Eurymakus flung his dagger across the room. The short blade stuck in the magistrate’s head and he clutched his skull, shrieking. Falling to his knees, blood started gushing from his nostrils and eyes. His lips curled back to reveal his red-stained teeth—blood seeped from his gums. He looked back and forth from Eurymakus to Nihani, gasping for air, and then fell on his back, convulsing violently, biting off his tongue with a spray of blood.
Nihani stared wild-eyed around the chamber. She made to speak, but Eurymakus held a finger to his lips for silence. He darted to the portal and put his ear to the keyhole, listening … waiting to see if anyone in the house above had heard the slaughter down in the undercroft. When he was certain no one was coming, he pulled the dagger from the magistrate’s head and slipped it back into the stone sheath on his belt.
Nikias lay on the floor, breathless and unable to move. He craned his head and saw Axe slumped against a wall, twitching in his final death throes from the dreadful and potent poison.
Axe was grinding his teeth—gnashing them together so hard that they were breaking apart in his mouth. He spit some teeth from his mouth along with a gob of blood. “N-no!” he sputtered, his bleeding eyes locked onto Nikias’s. “H-h-how?” he asked, his voice now coming out as a desperate squeak from his constricting throat.
“You,” said Nikias, mustering every effort to speak, “should see the look … on your face.”
ELEVEN
Barka crawled along a passageway under the streets of Plataea, a small lamp clutched in his slender fingers. Even though he had been reassured by Diokles that the tunnel had been shored up with stout timbers, he was still unnerved by being alone in such a quiet and solitary place. He felt like he was on a path leading straight to the Underworld.
He hummed to himself. It was a jaunty tune he’d learned in Syrakuse from a young man with whom he’d fallen in love.
The lion sprang, and Herakles leapt
His cudgel flew, the lion wept
The lyrics of the drinking song were idiotic, like all songs men sang when they were tipsy with wine. But they had a soothing effect on Barka. The image of a weeping lion made him smile. He thought of his lover—how he resembled a painted statue of Apollo come to life. How his eyes glowed like jewels. His smile like the sun. From the moment Barka had laid eyes on him two years ago in Syrakuse, he had known that he would die for this man.
Or kill for him.
Barka had been the guest-friend at the palace of the richest and most influential citizen in the city-state of Syrakuse: General Pantares. Barka’s soothaying skills were famous in the lands of Greater Greece and “the Tyrant” had always welcomed the eunuch whenever he came to port, marveling at his skills as an oracle, asking him advice about his enemies—advice that nearly always came true. Pantares had even asked Barka if Syrakuse should join with Sparta, which Barka had declared was inevitable, telling him that, years hence, the alliance would lead to a colossal victory for the general’s city against the Athenians.
But Barka had not predicted his own fate in the house of Pantares: falling madly in love with the general’s new ward … a beautiful young man who had arrived from the backwater of the Oxlands to further his studies in that cultivated city.
Barka stopped short as he came to a fork in the corridor. Diokles had taken him on a thorough tour of the tunnel system the day before, proudly showing him all of the twists and turns of the underground labyrinth that the work crew had been excavating, and so he knew exactly where he was. This particular corridor had only just been cleared, and it led to the city’s cistern. He could smell the scent of dank stones coming from the right, and so he turned and continued in that direction.
He never would have taken the risk of sneaking out of Plataea if not for the unsettling dream that he’d had the night before: a vision of his beloved in chains, an executioner standing over him with an axe. Barka felt that he had to see the Spartan face-to-face. The only important thing was to know for certain if his beloved was still alive. All that he had to do was to peer into the Spartan’s eyes and he would know if he told the truth or not.
He glanced down at the ring on his right hand. The ring bore a stone t
hat opened with a hinge. Under the stone was a short needle containing a deadly poison. If Barka discovered tonight that his lover was dead, he would kill the Spartan, and then himself.
He could hear the sound of dripping water up ahead. And then he saw moonlight shining through a metal grate and a pool of water. He had come to the cistern. He set down his lamp and put a piece of flint next to it so that he could relight it if he were to return from the Spartan camp. Then he blew out the flame and let his eyes adjust to the moonlit chamber. He eased himself into the pool, treading water, then took a deep breath and dove down, feeling for the metal grate overhead. For a terrifying moment his dress got caught on the bottom of the grate, and he panicked, shooting to the surface and ripping his clothes.
He took a breath and sighed with relief. He was on the other side of the city walls. He climbed out of the cistern and wrung out his dress, then crept toward a road lined with plane trees, looking over his shoulder at the city walls to see if he’d been spotted by the guards manning the towers. But fortunately nobody saw him. He took the road for a mile, keeping in the shadows of the trees, and then headed off across the countryside, bearing east. In a short while he could see the earthen walls of the Persian Fort looming up ahead.
A moment later he felt many eyes watching him.
He stopped and stood still and said in a firm voice, “I am Barka. I have come to see Drako.”
Men slipped from the shadows of the trees like ghosts and surrounded him. One of them stepped forward and quickly bound his hands behind his back, then searched his body for weapons. Satisfied that he was not a threat, two of the warriors silently led him toward the entrance to the fort, while the others went back to their hiding positions for their night watch.
The warriors led Barka down a row between Helots—thousands of them sleeping on the ground without blankets, many of them snoring peacefully. Up ahead he could see a cluster of tents lit by a roaring fire. These tents were surrounded by guards bearing spears and wearing armor.