by Noble Smith
Menesarkus reined in Photine and got off her back. He approached Drako warily. But the sound of heavy footsteps coming from behind made him turn. He saw a band of Spartans—hoplites who had managed to escape the fray—running toward the river.
When Menesarkus turned back toward Drako, the Spartan’s fist slammed into his nose, followed by another that caught him in the gut, and he reeled.
“Over here!” shouted Drako, waving frantically to his men heading for the river. “This way!” Then he lunged at Menesarkus again.
But Drako’s punches had sent a rush of energy coursing through the Bull’s veins. It was the ikor of the gods—the blood of the Olympians infusing Menesarkus’s body with strength. The old pankrator was ready for the Spartan this time. He dodged Drako’s fist and kicked out with the flat of his foot, breaking Drako’s kneecap. The Spartan cried out in pain and lurched. Menesarkus threw himself onto the enemy, hitting him on either side of the head with two powerful haymakers. Drako’s knees went wobbly. Menesarkus slipped behind him and wrapped his arm around his neck, putting Drako in the dreaded Morpheus hold. The Spartan squirmed and clawed at Menesarkus’s face as his larynx was slowly crushed, but he could not stop the champion pankrator.
“Release him!” shouted a voice.
The Spartan warriors Drako had summoned had arrived and now surrounded Menesarkus, coming to a halt a spear’s length away and forming a semicircle around him. There were four of them. Two had swords. Two were unarmed. They were completely naked and their long hair was untied and hung about their faces like women’s tresses—a strange contrast to their lean and muscular male bodies. Their chests heaved with every breath, and their teeth were bared like feral animals, eyes shining in the moonlight.
“Come any closer and I snap his spine,” threatened Menesarkus, tensing the muscles of his arms.
Drako raised his hand, moving his fingers quickly—speaking in battle sign:
“Kill him.”
With a final effort Drako jerked and trembled and went limp.
Menesarkus let go of Drako’s body and the Spartan slid to the dirt—a lifeless heap. Clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, the Bull of the Oxlands braced himself for the final fight of his life.
The Spartans charged. Their swords flashed in the silver light.
“Zeus!” bellowed Menesarkus, raising his right fist to throw a final punch before the enemy swords claimed his flesh.
And then, in the blink of an eye, all four of the Spartan warriors dropped to the ground … dying at Menesarkus’s feet. Three of them were writhing and gagging on their own blood as it gushed from their eyes and nostrils, while the fourth clutched a spear point that had been plunged through his stomach, a look of agonized surprise on his face.
“And that was my last poisoned arrow!” called out a voice in Skythian. “Or else I would have killed all four!”
Menesarkus had neither seen nor heard the horse bearing its two riders as it charged down from the Persian Fort to rescue him from certain death. But there they stood: Leo and Kolax astride a single mount. Menesarkus wanted to kiss both of their unlovely faces.
The barbarian pushed himself off the animal’s rump, landed spryly on his feet, and dashed over to the Spartan with the spear in his guts. He bent down and swiftly slit the man’s throat.
“I claim all four as my kills,” Kolax said to Leo, pointing his bloody dagger at him. “Your poorly aimed spear hadn’t killed him yet.”
Leo ignored him and said to Menesarkus, “Are you hurt, Arkon? You’re bleeding.”
Menesarkus shook his head. “Just my nose,” he said.
Leo, however, had lost his Oxland helm and had suffered a deep gash that stretched from his left ear to his chin. He seemed oblivious to his wound, however, for he replied with a smile, “Me neither.”
At that moment a wild roar of “Plataea!” erupted near the entrance to the Persian Fort, and Menesarkus knew that the army of fully armored Plataean hoplites who had quick-marched behind the cavalry—two thousand men strong!—had made it to the fortress. The real slaughter of the enemy would now begin in earnest.
Menesarkus wiped the blood from his upper lip and let forth a sigh of relief. Then he knelt cautiously by Drako and put his fingers to his wrist, feeling for a pulse.
“This is the one who stole my horse,” Kolax said, gesturing at Drako. “Ah! There she is!” he declared with relief, pointing to the riverbank where his animal stood eating grass.
“Does Drako still draw breath?” asked Leo.
Menesarkus nodded. “He is harder to kill than the Hydra.”
“May I slay him too?” said Kolax hopefully.
“No,” said Menesarkus. “We keep this Spartan alive.”
EPILOGUE
Never waste new tears over old sorrows.
—EURIPIDES OF ATHENS.
“And then what happened?” asked Nikias. He was propped up in bed, squinting through puffy eyes at Kolax and Leo, who sat on either side. Mula was at the foot of the bed.
Leo was about to continue when Kolax raised his hand in a self-important manner and exclaimed, “Let me tell! Leo got the last part all wrong. I felled six Spartans who were going to kill Grandfather Arkon, not four! And besides, Leo didn’t even see what happened next.”
Nikias glanced at Leo, who rolled his eyes and smiled in a good-natured manner. “It’s true,” he said. “The Arkon took my horse and left me to tie up Drako and guard him.”
“Menesarkus and I galloped back to the Persian Fort,” said Kolax with enthusiasm, pretending he was astride his mount. “Inside it was a slaughter ground. I wanted to join my people and chase down the enemy who were still fighting, but Grandfather Arkon ordered me to stay by his side. He started shouting that he had captured Drako, calling on the surviving Red Cloaks to throw down their arms. And do you know what those mare-milkers did? They gave up! Curse them to the Barren Lands Below!”
The Skythian looked so comical in his wrath that Nikias laughed, even though doing so caused him immense pain. He touched the wrappings wound around his rib cage and winced.
“Over two thousand of them were killed,” said Leo. “And we only lost thirty men.”
“Only three Skythians were killed,” observed Kolax. “My cousin Jaro was one of them. But he died a glorious death. We buried him with fifteen Spartan heads.”
“A great victory,” said Nikias. “If only I could have ridden with you,” he added faintly.
“And me too,” said Mula morosely. “I’ll never get to be in a battle.”
“Don’t whine about it,” Kolax said to Mula. “Some are born to be warriors like me and others are born to cook, like you.”
Mula scowled and punched Kolax in the shoulder.
“Ouch!” said Kolax. “I didn’t insult your cooking.”
Nikias thought it was amusing that Kolax, the most brutal killer he had ever known, would allow himself to be punched in the arm by a puny slave boy, but the two had escaped from the citadel together on the night of the sneak attack and had formed a brotherly bond that, apparently, would never be broken.
“We should leave you now,” said Chusor from the other side of the chamber where he’d been sitting silently during the entire visit. “Nikias was in Morpheus’s arms for three days and has only been awake for two more. We must let him rest and heal.”
“But let me finish!” said Kolax, and speaking very quickly he told how the Helots—those docile sheep-people—had merely sat in their pens during the entire attack. And how the five hundred Spartan survivors were chained together and led back to the citadel. He also described the battering ram that the Spartans had built and how it had taken twenty oxen to pull it back to Plataea. “And I sat on top of it the entire way,” he exclaimed, “laughing at Skunxa the whole time and mocking him for his feeble number of kills. I bested him by ten. And—”
Leo, realizing that Kolax would never stop chattering, started pulling the boy away from the bed.
“—now I’m goin
g to make a drinking cup from one of my enemy’s skulls for the Skythian celebration my father is…”
Leo and Mula dragged him out the door and Nikias could hear him babbling all the way down the hall.
Chusor walked over to the bed, bringing his chair with him, and sat by Nikias’s side. He took his pulse, then examined the wounds on Nikias’s skull with a pensive look.
“What do you think?” Nikias asked.
“You are proving most difficult to kill,” replied Chusor.
“How do I look, though?” Nikias said, touching his swollen face.
Chusor stared into his eyes. “It will take you a long time to heal from these facial wounds. And your right shoulder is bad. But you do not seem to have suffered any hurt to your brain, which is a relief. Your face might never look the same, although I set your broken nose while you were comatose. You should be able to breathe through it again once it has healed.”
“Am I that hideous?” Nikias asked.
“I never thought you were particularly good-looking to begin with,” said Chusor with a wry smile.
“Thank you for doctoring me,” said Nikias. “If someone had to poke holes in my skull, I’m glad it was you.”
“A simple procedure,” said Chusor, getting up to take a closer look at the back of Nikias’s skull where he had drilled three small holes. “I had to do it to relieve the pressure on your brain from the swelling.” He lifted the wrapping. It had been two days since he had performed the operation, and there was no sign of infection—no necrotic stink. The skin looked healthy too. He put Nikias’s wrapping back on. “You are young. You will heal,” he said, almost to himself.
“You saved my life,” said Nikias.
“The women of your household were the ones who kept you alive,” replied Chusor. “Your grandmother, sister, and Kallisto refused to let you die. But it was fortunate that I came back when I did.”
“Where did you go, Chusor?” asked Nikias with a searching look.
Chusor ignored his question. He went to the table in the corner of the room and picked up an object covered in a leather wrapping—a thing that he had brought into the chamber earlier—and put it on the bed within Nikias’s reach.
“What’s this?” asked Nikias, unfolding the leather cover to reveal a sword in a plain scabbard.
“Diokles found the blade under the city. When we were excavating tunnels to serve in case of a siege,” explained Chusor. “He discovered an old tomb. This was the only treasure that we found. I set it in a new handle.”
Nikias gripped the handle and slid the double-edged leaf-shaped sword from the scabbard. It shone like polished silver. He saw a stranger reflected in the mirrorlike surface: a young man with a head shorn of all its hair, and a face that was swollen beyond recognition and covered with scabs and bruises. “It’s a beautiful blade,” he said softly. “I’ve never seen the like.”
“Nor I,” said Chusor. “It’s made of a curious amalgam of metals. It’s lighter than iron but stronger. And the edges were incredibly sharp, even after being underground for centuries. It’s almost like it’s been charmed by a god.”
“It must have been made by the people who lived here before the Sea Raiders came,” said Nikias. “What are the words etched here?” He squinted at the strange script running up the center of the sword’s blade. “This is in the language called the Ox-Turning, isn’t it? The same script written on our ancient stones.”
“Yes,” said Chusor. “As best I can tell it’s a blessing: ‘Light-god-help-me-slay.’”
“The Sword of Apollo,” said Nikias.
“Indeed,” said Chusor with a smile, nodding his head. “Apollo: god of light.”
“I lost two swords on my journey,” said Nikias. “My grandfather’s old blade and one given to me by Perikles.”
“The Sword of Apollo is yours now,” said Chusor. “You’ll need a good weapon in the coming days. The Spartans won’t give up, you know. They suffered a great loss at the Persian Fort, that is true. Over two thousand warriors in their service were killed. Five thousand Helots have been freed. Hundreds of full-blooded Spartiates breathed their lives into the dust, and hundreds more are captive here in the city. But the two kings of Sparta and the elders of their high council will not let this disaster go by unpunished. They will send an even bigger force next time. They will avenge their dead, free their prisoners, and recapture every single Helot in the Oxlands. And they will besiege this city for a lifetime if that is what it takes to destroy Plataea.”
Nikias smiled grimly and slid the sword back into the scabbard. “I know that the Spartans won’t give up,” he said. “And thank you for the sword.”
Chusor stared into space, stroking his smooth chin.
“You cut off your hair and goatee!” said Nikias. “Strange that I only just now noticed.”
Chusor glanced at him and smiled slightly, then looked away. “I am like the sheep from the old tale that sheds its wool to disguise itself from the wolves, forgetting that they can still smell its scent.”
“Where is Diokles?” Nikias asked. “I haven’t seen him yet.”
“He has gone away with some old shipmates,” said Chusor. “They departed several days ago. I went with them to Kreusis, but I returned to Plataea because … well, I came back because I had a feeling that I must. And I was right to return, for I found you near death. But now that you are on the mend I have to join my companions.”
“Then it’s true?” asked Nikias. “Leo said you’re going away for good. Where?”
“The sea,” said Chusor. “To roam the sea on a galley.”
Nikias nodded and stared at the sword.
“I’ll leave you to rest, friend,” said Chusor. He cleared his throat. “Good-bye, Nikias. I don’t know if we will see one another again.”
He made to leave but Nikias reached out and gripped his wrist. “There’s something I have to tell you. About Athens.”
Chusor looked at him curiously. “What is it?”
“Your lover Sophia,” said Nikias. “I don’t know how to say this.” He paused and lowered his eyes. “She’s dead. She died in a fire several months ago.”
The smith dropped his chin and passed one of his large hands back and forth over his smooth head, then covered both eyes with his palms. “Barka prophesied truth again,” he hissed under his breath. Awe and anguish were intermingled in his voice. “Years ago he told me that Sophia would die in a fire lit by our love. And so I never went back to Athens for fear of condemning her to death. But such is the nature of prophecies: you are damned by either path that you take at the intersection of the roads.” He took his hands from his eyes and they were wet with tears.
“I asked to see you the moment that I awoke from my stupor last night,” said Nikias. “So that I could tell you. I’m sorry to bring you such sad news.”
“I knew it in my heart,” said Chusor. “A sadness has touched my soul for some time.”
“I met Sophia’s daughter,” said Nikias. “She told me how kind you were to her when she was little.”
“You met Helena?” Chusor asked. “Is she well? The last I saw her she was a boyish, skinny little thing,” he said with a fond smile. “Sophia would never tell me who her father was,” he added under his breath.
“She is beyond compare,” said Nikias. “And intelligent. And so many other things. We became … friends.”
“Indeed?”
“There’s more. Listen. Sophia had another daughter.”
Chusor’s eyes narrowed. “Another daughter? That cannot be. Sophia was barren after Helena was born.”
“The gods sometimes bless women with fertility again later in life. At least, that’s what I’ve heard my grandmother say.”
Chusor scowled and said, “Then she’s Kleon’s daughter.”
“No,” said Nikias. “She’s your daughter.”
Chusor smiled out of the corner of his mouth. A slanted and humorless smile. “Impossible,” he said.
“She
was born seven months after you left Athens,” Nikias said. “She has your eyes and dark skin. I thought she was part Aethiope when I first saw her. And she’s very tall for her age.” He met Chusor’s intense and fixed gaze. “And she’s in great danger because of you.”
* * *
Later in the day, after Nikias had been alone for some time at his rest, Kallisto entered the room with a plate of food. She set it on the table by his bed and then lay down next to him, gently pressing her body against his side. He stared out the window, gazing at a crow standing on the rooftop of the adjacent house.
“The one with the white tail feather,” he said. “He knows you’ve brought me food. He’ll land on the windowsill soon and beg for bread.”
“I’ll shoo him away with a pillow,” she said. “Dirty old thing. He haunts this house like a ghost.”
“No,” said Nikias. “Apollo sends him. And I like the bird. He brings me good luck.”
After a long silence Kallisto said, “Why won’t you look at me, my love?”
Nikias glanced at her and said with a mournful voice, “Can you still love me after all that’s happened?”
She kissed him very gently on the cheek. “I didn’t fall in love with you for your face,” she said.
“No?” he asked with a faint smile. He wanted to tell her everything … about his shame for all that had occurred. About how Eurymakus and Axe had broken him in the chamber in Tanagra—how he had begged for his life like a coward and revealed the secret of Arkilokus being a prisoner in Plataea. About the horror of watching the Helot slaves behead each other, one by one, until the terror had nearly made him lose his mind. About making love with Helena … and the fact that he longed for her still. But the words stuck in his throat and he was silent.
“It was your words,” said Kallisto with a playful laugh.
“My what?”
“I fell in love with you for your poems. Even the bad ones.”
Nikias could not hold back his tears. He wept like a child while she covered his swollen face with soft kisses. “Don’t be sad,” she said in a soothing voice, full of love, full of compassion. “There is so much to be joyful about. Your grandfather is going to let us marry. And there is this.”