by Noble Smith
“Arkon!” shouted his clerk from the other side of the door. “Are you unwell?”
Menesarkus swayed over to the desk and grabbed Nikias’s finger, clutching it in his hand. He lunged to the door and unbolted it, avoiding the anxious eyes of his clerk and the guards.
“Your face is drained of blood!” said the clerk anxiously.
“Water,” rasped Menesarkus.
The clerk ran to the other side of the room to fetch something to drink.
“Should we arrest the Egyptian?” asked one of the guards.
“For what?” snarled Menesarkus.
“We heard you shouting at each other,” began one of the other guards hesitantly.
“Leave Chusor alone,” said Menesarkus. “He is doing his duty.” He took the proffered cup from his clerk. But his hand shook so hard he couldn’t put the cup to his lips.
Ba-boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.
The sound of his own heartbeat in his ears was maddening. He flung the cup against the wall and bulled his way past the guards, stepping into the sunlit courtyard outside his offices. His clerk tried to follow him, but Menesarkus struck out at him.
“Leave me be!”
He made himself walk though his legs felt as though they’d been carved from marble. He was panicking. That was all. A fit of panic. He’d seen it happen to men in battle. They lost their wits. Said their hearts were going to leap out of their chests. Cowards.
“But I am no coward,” he thought bitterly.
He headed into the agora … making his way blindly through the crowds of refugees. The woodsmoke from cooking fires choked him. Made him queasy. He saw women and children. Old men. The helpless citizens of Plataea whom it was his duty to protect. He stopped when he got to the statue of the hero Androkles and leaned against the plinth, looking up at the carven figure. The hero’s sword was raised in triumph. He read the words etched onto the slab:
NO SHAMEFUL FLIGHT OR FEAR!
MAKE YOUR SPIRIT VALIANT!
They were the last words that the hero spoke before slaying the despotic madman—the Last Tyrant of Plataea. And then Androkles had been cut down by the Tyrant’s guardsmen.
He thought of Nikias. His beautiful grandson. So fearless. So foolish. He imagined him tied up in the Spartan camp, bleeding from his hand, awaiting the next cut, and his heart churned so forcefully behind his ribs that the sensation took his breath away.
His heart pounded even faster. Faster than it had ever beaten in his life. He’d held a frightened rabbit once when he was a boy. His heart beat faster than that creature’s organ. How much longer before his heart split itself open? Tore itself apart?
He felt many eyes upon him. He looked around. A crowd of people had gathered and were gawking at him with curiosity. The sun beat down on him. But he felt cold. He was shaking. A woman stepped forward and took him by the hand. She was in her forties. Black hair. Kind eyes.
“Arkon?” she said. “What is wrong?”
He tried to smile. But he could not make his mouth work. He shook his head. Unclasped her hand. He started walking again. Lumbering and limping away like a wounded man. The people parted for him. He saw the Temple of Zeus up ahead. Every step was an effort. He passed between the pillars and stepped inside the sanctuary. He flung himself on his knees at the altar. He placed Nikias’s finger on the cold stone. He gasped for air.
I’m dying. This is the end. A pitiful way to die.
He thought back to the day, fifty years ago, when he’d fought against the Persian invaders in the Battle of Plataea. His heart had been steady throughout that entire frantic day. That glorious day that he had killed the Persian cavalry general Mardonius and turned the tide of the battle in favor of the Greek allies—
He beat his breast with his fist. Over and over again, as if to tame his heart. To pummel it into submission. But it would not obey. It continued to race as though he were running the hoplitodoros—the footrace run around the citadel in full armor. He gasped and put his hand to his mouth, biting it until his teeth drew blood.
Drako would carve up Nikias. Each finger. Then each toe. Then his ears and nose. His lips. His teeth. One by one. Until there was nothing left.
But he could not trade Arkilokus for Nikias. The Spartan prince was worth every woman and child in Plataea. It would be too great a sacrifice. The city was far more important than one man … than one mere lad—
His heart stopped for several seconds. Then it swelled in his breast and pounded furiously.
He reached for Nikias’s finger and kissed the cold dead flesh. He stared at the statue of Zeus looking down at him with its merciless eyes.
He thought of Nikias’s horse, Photine, returning riderless that day, covered with blood and marked with a mountain lion’s claw. It would have been better if Nikias had died in the forest—killed by a beast—than be in the clutches of the Spartan monsters.
“Forgive me,” he said to the idol. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me,” he said over and over again. He had made a decision that he knew would haunt him even into the afterlife. But the decision had been made.
And yet the pounding did not cease.
FOURTEEN
“It’s a death mask,” said Chusor miserably as he stared at the object Diokles had brought back from the tunnel. He sat at one end of the long table in his workshop with Ji standing behind him, peering over his shoulder. The discovery of the treasure that he had so long searched for had done nothing to diminish his dejected state of mind. He could not stop thinking about Nikias and the sight of that bloody finger.…
“Perhaps this tomb is cursed,” said Ji. “We should put this mask back on the body.”
“Don’t be a fool,” replied Zana from where she sat sprawled in a chair on the other side of the chamber, sipping wine from a golden cup, her face shining with exultation. “We’ve robbed graves before and nothing happened to us.” At her feet sat a wooden chest. The lid lay open to reveal all of the treasures from the tomb: vessels bearing the likenesses of bulls and horsemen that had been made by hammering the images from the insides of the cups; intricately crafted necklaces and bracelets and rings; the head of an ox the size of a man’s fist … all made from solid gold. Her eyes blazed with delight. “Oh, Chusor. You have outdone yourself this time. You have made up for all of your treachery. There is enough wealth here to buy the finest ship in the port of Piraeus and outfit it for a year!”
Chusor held the mask out in front of him. It had been hammered as thin as papyrus and resembled the face of a bearded man in the prime of life. The face appeared to shift from a maniacal grin to a sinister frown as he tilted it this way and that. He felt as though the death mask were mocking him—as if it knew the turmoil in his heart, his abject despair concerning the fate of Nikias.
“Such treasures,” breathed Zana in a tone of awe mingled with lust.
Chusor turned the mask around and held it to his own face, peering through the eyeholes to the other end of the table where Diokles sat eating voraciously after his day of backbreaking labor. The Helot was covered in soot and streaked with sweat, so that he resembled a mound of living rock splotched with rain. On the table in front of him sat the strange helm fashioned from the tusks of boars.
“Don’t forget the sword too!” said Ajax. “I found it!”
“See!” put in Teleos, holding up the ancient blade that he had been stabbing into a wooden beam.
“Give me that!” barked Chusor. “That sword is a relic!” Teleos brought him the sword blade and Chusor set it on the table next to the golden mask. “Now go into the street and play,” he ordered. “And don’t tell anyone about what we have found or I’ll flay your arses.” The boys slunk to the door like scolded puppies. As they got to the portal it opened and Barka entered.
“Look what we found, Barka,” declared Ajax, pointing to the box at Zana’s feet.
“Treasure!” said Teleos, jumping up and down.
Barka did not seem to hear their words but stared at the
floor, chewing on a fingernail.
“Out,” Chusor said, striding to the door, for Teleos and Ajax were lingering on the threshold, staring with curiosity at the eunuch. When they saw Chusor coming at them the boys scurried into the street and the smith shut the door behind them, sliding the bolt to lock it.
“My little Lylit,” asked Diokles. “Where have you been? See what I found.” He placed the boar tusk helm on his head and smiled foolishly.
Barka glanced at him with a haunted look.
“Where have you been?” asked Chusor, staring hard at the eunuch. Barka’s hair was lank and wet and his clothes were soaked, dripping onto the floor. “The sun shone all day and yet you are drenched.”
Barka stared at everyone in turn with a wretched expression. His face was pale, and his lower jaw trembled. No one spoke. They had seen Barka this way before—one of his dark moods that always came after experiencing a mystical vision.
Chusor noticed that Barka nervously turned a ring over and over again on his finger.
“We must leave this cursed place,” said Barka. “Immediately. We must go back to Syrakuse.”
Shouts erupted in the street and everyone in the room looked toward the shuttered window.
“What’s that?” asked Ji. “What is going on?”
“Is something wrong?” asked Zana, springing to her feet. “What have you seen?” she asked Barka with a mounting tone of hysteria in her voice. “The Spartans? Attacking?”
“That is inevitable,” replied Barka without emotion. His eyes alighted on the box of treasure with a disinterested look. “I must go back to Syrakuse,” he said in a whisper.
“But have we found all the gold?” Zana asked Chusor, shutting the lid on the box and standing over it like a dog guarding a haunch of meat.
“Damn your insatiable greed, Zana!” said Chusor. “We have enough. Staying alive is all that matters now.”
He went to the window and opened one of the shutters, staring into the street. He saw people running in the direction of the agora, but they were smiling and laughing.
“Nothing dire,” said Chusor. “But something is indeed happening.”
“We must leave this place,” said Barka. “This city will be our tomb.”
Zana’s eyes grew big and she brought a hand to her mouth.
“The poppy,” said Barka, squinting at Chusor and holding out one hand like a petulant child demanding a toy. “I need poppy.”
Chusor knew better than to argue with Barka when he was in this mood. He went to a cupboard and took out a small bowl filled with resin and gave it to the eunuch, who clutched it to his chest. Ji reached into the folds of his robe and brought out a long pipe, which he handed to Barka.
“Do not interrupt me during my meditation,” said Barka. “Any of you. And I suggest we depart before dawn. Death hangs over this city like a funeral cloth. The guard Damon—the one I’ve been lying with. He will let us through the gates without searching us.” He headed up the stairs and disappeared from view without uttering another word.
The room was silent. Chusor stood chewing on his cheek with his arms crossed, wondering what had brought about such a sudden transformation in Barka’s mood. Where had the eunuch been all night? Why was he wet? It was odd. But then, Barka had always been a mystery.
He glanced at the others. Ji had sat at the table and was looking at the mask with an inquisitive expression. Diokles chomped on his food with a frown on his face, the strange tusked helm still perched on his head. Zana bored her eyes into the ceiling with a worried look, as if she were trying see through it into Barka’s chamber.
Chusor’s gaze turned to the floor where Barka had tracked mud across the stones. He bent down and touched the mud, smelling it. It gave off the distinctive odor of musty earth and slime.
“We must go,” said Zana. “Barka has never been wrong.”
“Remember Tyre?” asked Ji.
“And Karthago,” said Zana.
“And many more,” said Ji. “We can leave the city tonight and sleep in the cave on the mountain. But then which way do we go?”
Zana, Ji, and Diokles all looked at Chusor. He avoided their probing eyes, pulling on his goatee and staring into space. There was no way that Menesarkus would give up the prisoner Arkilokus for Nikias, he thought bitterly. His friend was as good as dead. But he would be damned if he would linger in Plataea to see Nikias returned home piece by piece.
He thought of the strange sign that he had seen on the path in the mountains the day he had gone to the Cave of Nymphs to meet Zana: the tortoise entangled in a dead goat’s fleece. After he had set the animal free, it had headed west.…
“I will not become entrapped like that creature,” he thought.
“Chusor?” asked Zana. “What are you thinking?”
He picked up a sharp knife, held it to his own chin, and quickly sliced off his long goatee, tossing it on the floor.
“We follow the mountain toward the setting sun,” he said. “It’s only an eight-mile walk to the port of Kreusis. We’ll find a boat there to take us south across the Gulf of Korinth to the Diolkos.” The Diolkos was the stone-laid trackway that the Korinthians had built to transport goods and ships from the Ionian Sea to the Aegean across the narrow Isthmus of Korinth. It was a marvel of machinery. There were many skilled shipwrights in that area separating Attika from the Peloponnese. “From there we can walk overland to the town of Isthmia and purchase a suitable galley. The sea will be our road thereafter.”
“To the sea,” exhaled Zana. “Gods, how I long to be on the sea again!”
“I will start packing,” said Ji and went to work gathering up their belongings.
Chusor looked keenly at Diokles, who smiled back and cocked his head. “If Lylit says I must go from Plataea, then I must go.” He picked up Chusor’s goatee and stared at it with a quizzical expression.
Chusor nodded and gave a heavy sigh. “So be it.” He had a mind to go to Kallisto—to ask her to come with them. But he knew that she would refuse. He dreaded the thought of what Nikias’s slow death at the hands of the Spartans would do to the girl. It would kill her soul.
Someone banged on the portal. Chusor went to it and peered through the peephole, then he slid back the bolt and opened the door. Leo stood there wearing the uniform of a city guardsman.
“Come look!” he said breathlessly. “A sight to behold!”
Chusor, Diokles, Ji, and the brothers followed him into the street. Leo started running through the marketplace in the direction of the gates and they fell in behind him. When they got to the agora they saw a huge crowd had gathered there. The two gates had been opened wide and riders were coming through, holding the reins of many riderless mounts. The agora was already filled with hundreds of horses and more were coming in.
“Zoticus has returned,” said Chusor, spotting the Plataean cavalry general astride his charger. Zoticus, one of the heroes of the Battle of Plataea, had gone on an expedition north to Thessalia in search of horses to supplement the Plataean cavalry. He had made fast work of his task.
Chusor spotted Menesarkus on the other side of the agora, leaning on his staff, nodding appreciatively at the sight. There was a festive atmosphere amongst the city’s inhabitants—people were laughing and stroking the horses. Parents held their small children up to stroke the noses and necks of the beasts.
“Where are we going to keep them all?” asked Leo, a grin on his face.
“They can’t stay outside of the citadel,” said Chusor. “The Spartans will kill or capture them for food.”
“Horses good to have,” said Diokles. “The masters did not bring any horses with them. We saw Nikias and the others charge the Theban army. Smash into their shield wall. Bam! I like to see them do that to the Masters.”
“You mean the mounts will all stay in here?” Ji asked Chusor. “Inside the citadel?” A horse nearby lifted its tail and dumped a huge load of manure onto the stones and another followed suit.
“Indeed,�
�� said Chusor. “We might end up eating them all before the siege is done. Whatever the case, Plataea will soon become like the Augean Stables.”
“Augean Stables?” asked Ji. “What’s that?”
“A very messy place,” said Chusor.
FIFTEEN
A glimmering fleece hung from the limb of an ancient oak. The sun shone on the metallic curls of the sheep’s wool, coruscating in the sun, and Nikias realized that the fleece was made of gold. He was filled with wonder at the sight of the magical object—for he knew it was the thing that the hero Jason had journeyed to fabled Kolkis to find.
“It has the power to heal,” said a familiar voice. “The power to bring health and prosperity to the city that possesses this treasure.”
Nikias turned and saw Demetrios standing by his side. A rush of happiness flooded through him. It had been so many years since they had been together. How Nikias had missed him! He tried to speak but no words came out of his mouth. Demetrios slapped him on the cheek and grinned, showing his straight teeth.
“Just reach up and take the fleece,” said Demetrios. “Take it home to Plataea.”
Nikias tried to do as he was told, but he looked down and saw that he no longer had any arms.
“Let me help you,” said Demetrios. He grasped Nikias with his muscular arms and lifted him toward the fleece—lifted him with a godlike strength as if Nikias weighed no more than a feather. He was eye level with the fleece now, and he was overcome by desire to possess this thing. But the tree suddenly came to life, its limbs lashing out at him as if to protect the fleece. One of them brushed him across the face—
Nikias woke up with a start and squinted through the slits of his swollen eyes. The dream faded instantly from his mind, to be replaced by the reality of his situation: he was in the Spartan camp, bound and gagged, and Drako stood in front of him, slapping him to wake him up. Nikias felt as if his head were on fire, but his torso was shaking from cold.
Drako pulled the gag from Nikias’s mouth and stared at him with his stony eyes. Nikias tried to speak, but his tongue felt as though it were glued to the roof of his mouth. Drako held a skin full of water to his lips and squirted some in. Nikias couldn’t swallow at first and gagged. But soon he was gulping greedily, trying to slake an unbearable thirst.