by Noble Smith
“Bring him,” said Drako, and started walking. Nikias saw that the Spartan general held a shining axe.
One of the guards cut the ropes binding Nikias’s feet and looped a noose around his neck, leading him through camp in the direction Drako had gone. Nikias stumbled along and fell several times but was quickly lifted to his feet by the Spartans who followed close behind. They passed through the southern entrance of the Persian Fort. A hundred paces away, near a stand of trees, Nikias could see a group of Helots digging a pit. They were guarded by a handful of Spartan warriors. Drako was already there, staring down into the pit with a contemplative look.
The warrior holding Nikias’s rope led him to the edge of the pit and pushed him to his knees. Nikias stared at the ten Helots as they worked methodically with their picks and wooden shovels in the red and rocky soil. They must have been at it for hours because they had dug the pit up to their shoulders.
Nikias could not stop himself from shuddering.
“They’re digging the pit for me,” he thought with horror. “They are going to cut off my head and throw me in this pit.” He glanced at Drako, who stood still, holding the axe. He heard an eerie sound from the sky above and craned his neck. A flock of red-winged geese flew overhead, honking their sad cries.…
“Nikias of Plataea,” said Drako without deigning to look at him. “We Spartans will not stand for noncompliance. Bravery is one thing, but stubbornness is unacceptable. Your grandfather has put your city on the brink of ruin. One word from him and we would be your loyal friends. But Menesarkus is like a mule that balks at a fork in the road. Or one of these wretches here.” He gestured at the Helots in the pit.
Nikias started weeping and the shame of crying in front of Drako and the other Spartans was unbearable. He retched, but all that came up was the water he had drunk a few minutes before.
“I won’t beg for my life,” he said defiantly, but his voice cracked when he spoke. His body hurt everywhere. The stump of his missing finger throbbed. With every breath he took he felt stabbing pains where Axe had cracked his ribs. His nose was broken—he could barely breathe through one nostril. Half the teeth on the left side of his jaw ached. It felt like a knife was digging into his brain. “Death would be a relief,” he mused. But he knew he was lying to himself. He wanted to live more than anything. He didn’t want to die in this pit. But he wasn’t going to beg to stay alive. He glanced up at the sky and saw white clouds. “A pillow fit for Zeus,” as his father used to say when Nikias was a little boy. The geese were already far in the distance, their honking now barely audible …
“Deep enough,” said Drako. He gestured for the Helots to come out of the pit. They lined up in a row and the Spartan warriors dragged Nikias over so that he was on his knees in front of them. Drako handed the axe to the Helot at the head of the line. The slave took the axe and turned to face Nikias.
“Prepare yourself,” said Drako.
Nikias’s teeth chattered.
Fevered images flashed across his mind’s eye. He saw his dead mother as she’d looked when he was a child, standing in front of her tall loom, brushing aside her beautiful hair, glancing down at him where he lay curled at her feet. Then he saw Kallisto’s face grinning at him as she rode her horse at breakneck speed toward the Cave of Nymphs, her eyes flashing. Then Helena, in the Temple of Aphrodite in Athens, her beguiling face lit by the lamplight as she leaned over him.
“Begin,” said Drako.
The Helot with the axe moved aside and the second slave in line stepped forward and squatted in front of Nikias with his head bowed. The Helot with the axe did not hesitate. He raised the axe high, then brought it down on the neck of the kneeling Helot. The slave’s head flew off and Nikias was splattered with the blood that sprayed from the stump of the dead man’s neck. Nikias gasped in surprise, then watched in shock as the Spartan warriors dragged the corpse into the pit and tossed the head in after.
The Helot who had just performed the beheading handed the bloody weapon to the next slave in line, and then he got on his knees in front of Nikias, bowing his head just as the last victim had done. The new Helot executioner dealt the slave a swift blow. The body and severed head were thrown into the pit with the other. And then this grim act was performed again and again: the next Helot in line taking the axe and beheading his fellow slave until, finally, there was only one Helot left and nine headless corpses in the pit.
The evil noise of buzzing flies filled the air. Many of them landed on Nikias, sipping the Helot blood that covered his face and neck. Fury boiled inside him. He licked his cracked lips. He could taste Helot blood.
The last Helot left standing stared down at Nikias with a wild terror in his dark eyes.
Nikias glanced at Drako, who stood close enough for the Helot to kill him with the axe. The noseless Spartan just stood there with his arms crossed on his chest, head cocked to one side, staring back at Nikias with his dead eyes.
The imperious piece of shit!
“K-kill Drako,” Nikias stuttered, his body shaking uncontrollably. “Kill him!”
The Helot stared back at him, tears welling up in his eyes. The Spartan slave clutched the axe and bowed his head. Then the man dug the edge of the axe blade across his own stomach. His innards spilled onto the bloody grass, steaming in the cool morning air.
“No!” screamed Nikias.
The Helot staggered to the edge of the pit and, with his final act, threw himself on top of the others.
“They tried to escape last night,” explained Drako. “They were caught.”
“Why—why did they d-do that to each o-other,” Nikias faltered, his jaw twitching violently.
“Because they know that if they disobeyed the death sentence their entire families would be skinned alive back home in Sparta.”
“If you g-gave m-me that axe,” said Nikias with an effort to stop the spasms in his jaw, “I—I—I would k-kill you.”
“That is because you are a human,” said Drako. “Helots are merely automatons.”
“Y-you have made them w-what they are,” replied Nikias, seething.
“Now it’s your turn,” said Drako. He kicked out with his foot, striking Nikias in the stomach. Nikias fell forward with his face in the blood-soaked dirt.
“Go to Hades,” spat Nikias.
Drako raised the axe.
Nikias closed his eyes.
Thump!
The axe drove into the ground in front of Nikias’s head. Nikias remained silent for a few seconds. And then rage surged through his veins. Drako was toying with him, like a cat that had caught a bird and broken its wings.
He clenched his jaw.
Then without warning he rolled over, locking his legs around Drako’s ankles, twisted over again, and pulled the surprised Spartan into the pit. They landed in a tangled heap on the headless corpses. Drako sprang up like a cat, spitting curses, and clambered out of the hole. But Nikias lay helplessly on his stomach, struggling to free his hands from his bindings, writhing on the Helot corpses. After several minutes he had exhausted himself and lay still, gasping for breath.
“Get him out of there,” said Drako. “It’s time to move.”
SIXTEEN
Spartans jumped into the pit and dragged Nikias out. Then two warriors, one on either side, half carried, half dragged him through the woods away from the Persian Fort. Ahead Nikias saw a company of Spartans waiting in a clearing—perhaps twenty armored men with spears and shields.
Drako gestured with his hand—a battle sign—and his men started quick marching.
Nikias stared at the ground, moving his legs feebly, wondering where they were taking him now. Were they going to attack Plataea with this small band of warriors? It seemed preposterous. Maybe they were taking him to Thebes. Nikias tried to dig in his heels but Drako was on him in an instant, smashing him in the stomach. Nikias sucked in his breath as a dark mist appeared at the corner of his vision, and he knew that he was blacking out. When he opened his eyes again he w
as facedown on a hard surface. He had no idea how much time had passed. When he lifted his head he saw a road lined with plane trees stretching out ahead.
“Keep your eyes open,” Drako said to his men.
“What’s going on?” asked Nikias in a daze.
“Shut up,” said Drako and lifted Nikias off the ground, putting him in a kneeling position.
Nikias looked around and realized, with surprise, that they were on the Kadmean Way—the road that led from Thebes to Plataea. He squinted into the distance in the direction of his citadel. He saw a cloud of dust on the road. Men were coming toward them. He could see a phalanx of armed warriors bearing Plataean shields a quarter of a mile away. He watched with anticipation as they approached. They stopped just outside of arrow range of the Spartans and stood silently with their shields raised.
“I don’t see the prince,” said Drako under his breath, and drawing his sword he held the flat of the blade against Nikias’s neck.
“Where is Prince Arkilokus?” shouted Drako.
The Plataean warriors in the front of the phalanx parted and a big man in gleaming armor stepped forward, his face hidden behind a helm with a horsetail crest. He took a few paces forward, walking with a pronounced limp.
“Where is Arkilokus?” shouted Drako again.
The Plataean ignored Drako and stared at Nikias through the slits of his helm. “Nikias?” he asked with undisguised shock in his voice. “What have they done to you?”
Nikias nodded and squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head with shame, hot tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He had recognized his grandfather’s armor the instant he had stepped from the phalanx.
“Grandfather,” said Nikias through his sobs. “I’m sorry for what I did. Don’t trade me for Arkilokus. Kill him now!”
He felt Drako’s blade tense against his throat, the edge cutting through the skin.
“Shut your mouth,” hissed the Spartan.
Menesarkus held up a hand, then took off his helm and put it under one arm, revealing his leonine head of black hair streaked with gray. Even from this distance Nikias could see the stricken look on his face.
“What have you done to Nikias?” Menesarkus asked, his face twisted in wrath.
“I didn’t do this to him,” said Drako. “It was Eurymakus the Theban.”
Menesarkus tore his gaze away from Nikias’s swollen and blood-spattered face and glared at Drako. “But it was you who mutilated his sword hand,” he said.
“You’re lucky I didn’t send you the whole hand,” Drako replied in a bored voice.
Menesarkus smiled without mirth, then turned and gestured with one arm at the Plataean phalanx. Nikias watched as a tall, blond, naked man with his arms tied behind his back stepped forth from the mass of warriors. Arkilokus started walking toward Menesarkus with a strange halting gait, as though he had just learned to walk. When he got near to Menesarkus, the Bull grabbed him by the biceps, pulled a dagger from a scabbard at his belt, and held the point to the Spartan prince’s abdomen.
“So what do we do now?” asked Menesarkus. “Do we slaughter them in front of each other out of spite?”
“Send Prince Arkilokus over to us,” demanded Drako.
“Let him kill me!” shouted Nikias.
“Silence, Nikias!” commanded Menesarkus. “Do not speak again!”
Nikias clamped his teeth together and sat trembling.
“Come, Menesarkus,” said Drako in a cajoling tone. “This is a foolish game. Send over Prince Arkilokus and then I will set Nikias free.”
Menesarkus threw back his head and burst out with a belly laugh. “Drako, I’m not one of your idiot Helots to kick about. I agreed to your terms. I have met you on the road with my twenty hoplites. I have brought your precious prince. Now let my grandson go and I will release Arkilokus.”
“I cannot trust you, Menesarkus,” said Drako. “You have already proved yourself to be a liar. You told me that Arkilokus was never your prisoner, and yet I see him standing next to you now.”
“He was never my prisoner,” said Menesarkus. “He was my guest. He’d been injured—a fall from his horse. And he is my own flesh and blood, after all. My own grandson.”
Nikias squinted in confusion at his grandfather. What had he just said? Flesh and blood? Grandson? Had the Bull gone mad? He stared at Arkilokus, who gazed back at him with an enigmatic expression.
“And I will take no lessons in trustworthiness,” continued Menesarkus, pointing at Drako, “from a man who allied himself with that Theban goat-raper Eurymakus and plotted to bring down Plataea by means of treachery!” His voice had risen at the end of this speech to a thunderous climax on the word “treachery”—a hateful word that seemed to linger in the air like the stink of death. After a prolonged silence he said, “We helped you defeat the Persians at the Battle of Plataea. We renamed the very gates of our citadel after your General Pausanius—the Spartan who led us to that glorious allied victory. And you and your kindred swore in front of those gates never to invade the Oxlands. You are oath breakers!”
Nikias took a deep and painful breath and shouted, “Grandfather! Krates and Agape are dead! Attacked by Korinthians on the sea—” He stopped as he felt the flat of Drako’s sword press against his neck.
Drako said, “Say another word and I’ll slit your throat!”
“Take Arkilokus back to Plataea!” continued Nikias, heedless of Drako’s warning. “When the time comes, trade him for safe passage for our women and children! Perikles told me they are welcome in Athens! That was the message he ordered me to bring back to Plataea—”
Drako brought the pommel of his sword down on the top of Nikias’s head and he pitched forward onto the road, his ears ringing.
“You’ve just sealed your own fate,” muttered Drako, raising his sword for the kill. But before he could bring it down a man screamed in agony, and a commanding voice in the Spartan tongue cried out:
“Stop!”
Drako hesitated.
“Stop!” repeated Menesarkus in Dorik.
Nikias lifted his head from the dirt and stared down the road. Menesarkus held something in his hand and he threw it in the direction of the Spartans—a bloody finger bearing a signet ring.
Arkilokus’s face was constricted in pain, his jaw jutting forward. “My finger!” he howled. Menesarkus held a bloody dagger to the Spartan prince’s throat.
Drako stood with his sword still raised, staring back and forth from Arkilokus to Menesarkus with a feral look in his beady eyes.
“Piece by piece!” Menesarkus called out to Drako. “A finger for a finger! And if you kill Nikias now I will slit Arkilokus’s throat before my grandson breathes his life into the dust, whether he’s my kin or not.”
“You’re bluffing,” said Drako.
“Drako, you fool!” Arkilokus shouted with wrath. “He’s going to kill me! My father will have your family skinned alive like Helots if you let me die on this road!”
There was a long and tense silence, broken only by the sound of crows crying harshly in the treetops. And above this rose the sound of a voice—a clear voice, singing from somewhere behind the Spartan phalanx, along with the plodding clop of a donkey.
“What is that?” Drako asked with surprise.
Nikias started laughing softly, for he knew the sound of that distinct voice. He was transported back to the Three Thieves in Tanagra … listening to the bard Linos. The singing got louder and soon the old bard came into sight, his face hidden by a hood, leading his ancient donkey by a frayed rope. Nikias was glad to see that Linos had survived the terrible fire at the inn.
Linos, for his part, seemed oblivious to the two groups of armed warriors facing each other across that stretch of empty road. As Linos passed by the Spartans he stopped singing and glanced at Nikias seemingly without recognition, but raised his eyebrows—an expression of baffled curiosity.
“Peace,” he said to Drako by way of greeting.
Drako grunted.
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br /> Linos continued on his way in the direction of Plataea. As he went by Menesarkus he waved at him cheerfully as well. “Peace,” he said again.
“Peace,” replied Menesarkus gruffly.
Linos disappeared from Nikias’s view behind the Plataean warriors and started up his song again.
After a long silence Drako said, “We send our prisoners at the same time.”
“So be it,” said Menesarkus.
Drako yanked Nikias to his feet. Nikias swayed, hunched with pain. Menesarkus cut Arkilokus’s bindings, then he gave the prince a little shove in the back. A moment later Drako sliced through Nikias’s ropes.
“Go,” said Drako.
Nikias shuffled down the road. Every step was agony, every breath caused him pain. He saw Arkilokus stop by his severed finger and stoop with difficulty, picking up his digit with his unmutilated hand. Then he straightened and started walking again.
The two men locked eyes as they approached each other at the midpoint in the road between the two packs of warriors. When they were a few feet away they came to a stop, looking each other up and down.
Nikias gaped at the Spartan’s face—a face that was so strangely familiar. He could see his grandfather’s eyes staring back at him from the same wide brow. He looked so much like a Plataean with his sandy-colored hair, broad shoulders, and high cheekbones. But there was a hardness in the Spartan’s eyes that was different from his grandfather’s wise gaze. Arkilokus’s countenance displayed the haughty and merciless spirit of a Spartan royal.
Nikias drew himself up painfully to his full height.
“Now we both have nine fingers,” he said.
“You don’t look good, cousin,” said Arkilokus in a taunting voice. “I don’t know if the lovely Kallisto will recognize you.”
“What did you say?” asked Nikias, amazed to hear Kallisto’s name pass his enemy’s lips.