by Noble Smith
They led Barka inside where Drako sat on a wooden camp chair in front of a desk that was covered with papyrus scrolls. The Spartan general was naked except for a cloth wrapped around his loins. He was in his late sixties, but he had the lean and muscular body of an Olympic athlete half his age. Barka stared at his skull-like visage—the noseless face with its high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Even if he still possessed a nose, Barka mused, he would not be a handsome man.
The general looked up at Barka and fixed him with his killer’s stare. “Why have you come?” he said in his raspy voice.
Barka turned the poison ring on his finger nervously. “It’s too risky sending messages by pigeon anymore.”
“And this is not taking a risk?”
“I had to see you,” said Barka. “I had a dream about Demetrios.”
“Your Plataean lover?” said Drako. “What care I for dreams about the traitor Nauklydes’s son? He is the prisoner of General Pantares. And the Tyrant of Syrakuse is a valued friend of Sparta. Unless you do our bidding, your Demetrios will die a painful death.”
“Then Demetrios is still alive?” asked Barka, trying not to betray the hopefulness in his voice. He stepped forward and peered into the Spartan’s eyes. Drako stared back—the predatory look of a hawk regarding a mouse that has crawled into his nest. “You promised me that he would be treated well by the Tyrant if I did what you asked. If I infiltrated Plataea.”
“I told you,” said Drako. “He lives. And so you must go back to Plataea and glean whatever information you can. You have not been very useful to me thus far.”
Barka couldn’t help himself. He let forth a cry of relief and the tears burst from his eyes. Drako had not been lying. He could see the truth in the man’s cold eyes. His nightmare vision of Demetrios, chained and awaiting execution, had merely been a bad dream.
Drako got up, walked over to Barka, and led him through a curtained-off area containing a simple cot.
“Your clothes are wet,” he said. “Did you swim the river to get here? Take them off.”
“My hands are bound,” said Barka, biting his lip coyly.
Drako found a knife and cut through the ropes and watched silently as Barka removed his wet gown. Then the Spartan ran his rough hands over the eunuch’s naked body.
“Female and male intertwined,” said Drako, sinking to his knees and staring up at Barka with a hungry look. “You are androgyny in perfection.”
Barka forced himself to think of Demetrios—so gentle yet manful. He smiled inwardly, remembering the day he had first seen the young Plataean arrive at the house of General Pantares, wearing his unfashionable Oxlander clothes, but looking more refined than any bejeweled nobleman in the Tyrant’s house.
Then—footsteps in the tent and the sound of a man clearing his throat.
Drako cursed and swiftly stood.
“General. Eurymakus the Theban is in the camp. He has a Plataean prisoner. He begs to see you.”
“Stay here,” Drako ordered Barka, then pushed aside the curtain and stepped into the other part of the tent, wrapping his loincloth around him. “Bring the Theban here,” Drako said to his subordinate. “He wears a poisoned dagger in a stone sheath. Take it from him. And bind his arm behind his back.”
Barka put his wet dress back on. It felt clammy and clung to his skin. He sat on the cot and fixed his hair, thinking longingly of Demetrios. Then someone entered the tent and he cocked his head, listening with half an ear.
“You should be dead by now,” rasped Drako’s voice. “You were to be given hemlock.”
“As you can see,” came a smug reply, “I am still alive.”
“You are a fool to come to me,” said Drako. “I’ll happily do the job your own people have apparently failed to do.”
“I bring you an important prisoner,” said the other.
“Really?” said Drako. “I hardly believe that is possible.”
“Nikias of Plataea—the heir of Menesarkus.”
Barka tensed. He knew that name. Nikias was Demetrios’s best friend. He never stopped talking about him. They were like brothers. He pulled back a corner of the curtain and peered into the room. There stood Drako now wearing a red cloak, hands on his hips, facing a one-armed man with flowing hair and a long beard. The guard had said that this Eurymakus was a Theban. But he looked like a Persian, even though he did not speak with a Persian accent.
“How did Nikias come to be your prisoner?” asked Drako.
“God brought him to me,” said Eurymakus.
“Let me see the prisoner.”
Two guards dragged in a naked body bound at the feet and wrists. The young man’s blood-splattered face was so swollen that Barka could not tell if his eyes were open or closed. And his torso was covered with livid bruises. He lay there, unmoving.
“And what am I supposed to do with this?” asked Drako. “It looks like you’ve ruined him.”
“He lives,” said Eurymakus. “The damage is not permanent.”
“Where did you come from?” said Drako.
“Tanagra,” replied Eurymakus. Drako bent down and put his hand on Nikias’s neck, feeling for his pulse.
“Menesarkus will not sign a peace treaty in exchange for his heir,” he said. “Even if this is Nikias.”
Eurymakus smiled coldly. “But he will give you back Prince Arkilokus,” he said in a self-satisfied manner. “Think of the praise that will be heaped upon you if you are responsible for gaining the release of a Spartan prince.”
“And what do you want in return?” Drako sneered.
“Safe passage to Korinth for myself and my servant,” replied Eurymakus. “From there I will travel to Persia and beg Artaxerxes to redouble his efforts to help Sparta in its war against the Athenians.”
“That is all?” asked Drako.
“You and I are not enemies,” Eurymakus said. “I am the best friend Sparta has at the moment.”
“How can I be certain this is Nikias?” said Drako. “His face is beyond recognition.”
“He wears the signet ring of his house,” said Eurymakus. “Look, there. On his right hand. The boxing Minotaur.”
Drako took a torch from one of his men and knelt by the body, grasping Nikias’s hands, which were tied behind his back. He found the ring and tried to pull it off, but it would not budge.
“Knuckle … broken,” muttered Nikias weakly through his swollen lips.
“Give me your knife,” Drako ordered one of his men. The guard handed him a dagger.
“What are you doing?” asked Eurymakus.
“Shut up,” spat Drako. He put the knife to Nikias’s littlest finger and gave a quick flick of his wrist.
Nikias sucked in his breath, then screamed.
Barka gasped, covering his mouth with his hands.
Eurymakus watched apprehensively as Drako studied the ring on the bloody finger, holding it close to the torchlight. “Do you see?” asked the Theban spy. “That is Nikias’s ring.”
“You have redeemed yourself, Eurymakus,” said Drako. “You will leave at dawn for Korinth.”
Eurymakus let forth a relieved sigh. “You will not regret this, Drako.”
Drako made a guttural sound. “All of my actions with you end in regrets,” he said. “Now leave me.”
Barka watched wide-eyed as Eurymakus bent over and looked at Nikias with a curious expression: hatred mingled with yearning. Nikias wept, muttering something under his breath. Eurymakus seemed about to speak, and then he turned and exited the tent, followed by the guards.
Drako went back to his desk and sat with his back to Barka. He started writing a message on papyrus. Barka, his heart beating wildly in his breast, opened the curtain and crept over to Nikias, putting his mouth close to Nikias’s ear.
“Take heart,” he said. “Demetrios is alive.”
Nikias turned in the direction of the voice. “Who are you?” he murmured.
“A friend.”
“Demetrios is dead,” said Nikias. �
�Eurymakus told me. They no longer needed Demetrios alive after his father was killed.”
Barka’s pulse raced. His heart told him what Nikias had just said was true. Had Drako deceived him about Demetrios? Or did the Spartan not know the truth himself? Was Demetrios really dead? How could he know for certain?
Drako turned around and glared at Barka. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“The lad seemed to be choking,” Barka lied.
“Get away from him,” Drako ordered.
Barka dropped his head and obeyed, stepping back into the corner of the tent and standing very still, twisting the ring with the poisoned needle with the fingers of his opposite hand. A wild thought flashed through his brain: he could slay Drako and put Nikias out of his misery and kill himself before the guards outside had time to react.
But what if Nikias was wrong? What if the Theban Eurymakus had been lying?
He watched as Drako put Nikias’s bloody finger and its ring, along with a small of papyrus, into a leather bag. Then he whistled and his subordinate entered the tent. Drako handed him the bag, saying, “Remove the prisoner from my tent and guard him well. And take this bag to Plataea at sunrise and nail it to the gates.”
TWELVE
Chusor stood outside the eastern walls to the citadel the next morning, inspecting a crew of stonemasons who were reinforcing a section of wall that had sagged during an earthquake years before, when he heard one of the lookouts on the battlement cry out, “Spartan on the road! Shut the gates!”
Snapping his head around, Chusor peered down the road, where he saw a single red-cloaked warrior striding toward the citadel. The Spartan walked slowly with both hands held up to show he had come in peace, but even so, the gates were slammed shut, and Chusor heard the big beams sliding into place on the inside, locking him and his work crew outside the walls.
The ten stonemasons picked up their shovels, picks, and chisels and walked hesitantly toward the gates.
“Should we attack him?” asked a young man.
“He’s just a messenger,” said Chusor, for he could clearly see a dispatch bag around the man’s neck. He looked like a typical Spartan—lean to the point of looking starved, with whipcord muscles, a gaunt face, and hair as long as a woman’s.
“It might be a trick,” said one of the other masons and brandished a pickax.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” said Chusor, grabbing the man’s pickax and flinging it on the ground. “We’re not at war with Sparta.”
“No yet,” said another Plataean.
Chusor and the others stopped at the edge of the dirt road and watched as the Spartan walked up to the gates. The invader was not very tall—the top of his head barely reached Chusor’s shoulder—but he had a menacing air about him. He turned and regarded the work crew with his cold eyes, looking at each man in turn. Then he went straight up to the gates, removed the dispatch bag, and pulled a dagger from his sheath.
“What do you want?” called one of the men on the battlement above the gate.
The Spartan ignored him, holding the dispatch bag to the wooden planks of the gate with his left hand, and drove the dagger through it with the other, pinning the bag there. Then he turned without another word and strode away.
The stonemasons exchanged mystified looks.
“What was that all about?” the lookout called down.
“It’s a message,” said Chusor. He strode over to the gate and yanked the dagger from the wood. Then he opened the bag and peered inside it. When he saw the finger his eyes got big and he uttered an oath under his breath.
“What is it?” asked one of the stonemasons.
Chusor reached into the bag and took out the finger and turned it over. “Some unfortunate man’s—” He stopped short. The flesh on his back and neck tingled.
Nikias’s signet ring!
“Open the gate!” he said in a quavering voice as he put the ring back into the bag. “Open the gate!” he shouted, pounding on the door with all his might.
The portal opened and Chusor bolted through the gap, nearly knocking over the men inside. He sprinted across the agora toward the public buildings. He could see Menesarkus coming down the steps from his offices, throwing his robe over his shoulder and clutching his staff. Chusor ran up to him, holding out the bag.
“What is it?” asked Menesarkus, taking the bag. “Where is the Spartan?”
“Go back inside,” said Chusor. “Into your office. Now!”
Menesarkus’s eyes narrowed. “Did you just order me—”
“Forgive me, Arkon,” said Chusor, bowing. “Please, take this dispatch bag into your office.” He stared hard into Menesarkus’s eyes.
Menesarkus frowned and shooed away his clerks who were trying to take the bag from him. He turned and walked back inside, saying over his shoulder, “Follow me, Chusor.”
When they were inside his private office Menesarkus shut the door, went behind his desk, and put the dispatch bag down. “You’ve seen what’s inside?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Chusor.
Menesarkus opened the bag and dumped the contents onto his desk. The finger fell out along with a small papyrus scroll. The Arkon stared at the finger for a long time before picking it up with a shaking hand and examining it. “It’s a trick,” he said at last, but his voice came out as barely more than a whisper.
“What does the scroll say?” asked Chusor.
Menesarkus set down the finger and picked up the scroll, breaking the wax seal and pulling it open. His eyes darted back and forth across the words written on the papyrus, then he tossed the scroll aside and put both palms on the desktop as though to keep himself from falling over. He’d gone pale, and his eyes were staring blankly into the middle distance, but when he spoke his voice was clear and resigned:
“They have Nikias,” said Menesarkus. “He was captured in Tanagra, on his way back to Plataea. They are going to send another finger tomorrow. And then another. Piece by piece until they get what they want.”
Chusor felt as though he might be sick. He stumbled over to a chair and sat down, staring in horror at the bloody finger. “What do they demand?” he asked. “A treaty?”
“No,” replied Menesarkus. “Drako wants something else. And I cannot give it to him. And so Nikias is dead.”
“What is their demand?” asked Chusor, aghast. “Surely you cannot think of letting Nikias be cut apart like a—”
“I have a Spartan prisoner!” shouted Menesarkus. “Prince Arkilokus.”
“A Spartan prince?” Chusor asked in wonder. “Send him to the Persian Fort now and save Nikias’s life.”
“I cannot give up our prisoner,” said Menesarkus with exasperation, as though speaking to an idiot child. “He is the only piece I have left to play in this game. He is the only security I have in case we have to get the women and children out of Plataea to the safety of another city-state. One Spartan prince—an heir to a throne—is worth thousands of Plataean lives.”
“This isn’t a game of pebbles,” said Chusor, standing up and pointing at Nikias’s finger. “They’re going to cut apart your grandson. Torture him. Until there’s nothing left but a sick and twisted mockery of a man.”
“Leave me,” said Menesarkus. “I must compose a letter to General Drako.”
“No!” shouted Chusor.
“Get out!” bellowed Menesarkus.
Chusor could not control his anger. It surged inside his heart like a fire stoked by a bellows. He picked up his chair and smashed it against the wall, screaming, “I won’t let you throw away Nikias’s life!”
“He threw his life away the moment he defied me and went on his idiot’s quest to Athens!” raged Menesarkus.
Chusor felt an overpowering urge to attack Menesarkus. He wanted to strike him down, put his head through a wall, anything to make him come to his senses. He could see the Bull was thinking the same thing, for his fists were clenched and he took a step toward Chusor, his mouth twisted in fury. “Take your best sh
ot,” he said.
Men pounded on the door. “Arkon! What’s going on?” they shouted.
“Nothing!” spat Menesarkus. “Leave us!” He stared into Chusor’s eyes with a truculent expression—the detached gaze of a pankrator sizing up an enemy before a match began.
“You think I’m afraid to fight you?” said Chusor, his voice soft yet dangerous. “I’m not. I could beat you to a bloody pulp. Even when you were in your prime. But what good would it do? There’s no way to pound any sense into that thick skull of yours. Let your beloved grandson die. It’s on your head.”
Chusor went to the door and pulled back the bar lock, flinging open the portal so that it smashed against the wall, then pushed past the surprised clerks and guards and strode out of the building.
THIRTEEN
Menesarkus slammed shut the door to his office and slid the locking bolt. He was suddenly aware of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. It was as though his heart had become a war drum inside his chest, vibrating through his body, pulsing in his head. And it beat twice as fast as normal.
All at once his heart stopped for two full seconds, and when it started again it seemed to roll in his chest like an animal squirming inside a box. He had never had this happen before and it terrified him. His heart beat rapidly again, but a few seconds later the squirming sensation repeated.
Then again. And again.
He felt a tightness in his chest and gasped for air. He stared at his hands. His own fingertips had gone white. As white as Nikias’s severed finger. His heart fluttered and stopped again, then felt as though it were expanding, churning, roiling.
A seizure of the heart!
His heart beat faster still and his face broke out in a clammy sweat. He was dimly aware of the men outside the door who were hammering on the portal with their fists.
He staggered over to his armor on its stand and punched it. The helm and corselet flew across the room and clattered on the floor.
His heart had gone mad inside his breast. He fell to his knees, trying to breathe slowly, but he felt a palpitation so strong that it took his breath away and he was seized by a severe coughing fit.