Spartans at the Gates (37 page)

“There must be thirty of them!” said Jaro in amazement.

“I had to swallow them,” said Kolax. “To keep them safe. They're the coins my friend Nikias gave me.”

He looked at his father, who stared back at him with a dumbfounded expression that slowly changed to a smile. Osyrus nodded, as if finally coming to a decision. He turned to the men and said, “Everyone take one gold coin. Consider it a first payment. And we'll keep the Dog Raider heads as well.”

Kolax grinned. They were going to the Oxlands. They were going to Plataea!

 

FIVE

“Is anyone there? Help!”

The plaintive voice had called out three times before Kallisto finally forced herself to get out of bed, drawn by the urgent tone. It was late morning, and Phile and Eudoxia had gone to the market, leaving Kallisto alone in Menesarkus's house in Plataea.

Well, not quite alone. There was the Spartan, Arkilokus, in the room at the end of the hall. Phile had whispered to her, practically right after they had passed the threshold of the house, that there was a Spartan under the roof and that he was Menesarkus's illegitimate grandson. Kallisto had been fascinated by this remarkable news and had been curious to see what the man looked like.

But Kallisto had been ordered by Eudoxia to stay away from the Spartan's room. Phile had told her that the prisoner was utterly defenseless—paralyzed in both his arms and legs. And now the man was crying out in fear, but not loud enough for the guardsmen standing watch downstairs at the front entrance of the house to hear him.

Even in her weakened state Kallisto reckoned she could fight a man who could only turn his head from side to side. And so she started gingerly down the long hallway, holding one arm over her sore ribs—the place where she had been struck by a Theban arrow. She wondered where Menesarkus was. She had yet to see the Arkon since she had been brought to his house. She'd been told that he spent most nights at the city offices. She dreaded the moment when they finally would meet. They hadn't seen each other since the night she had helped defend Menesarkus's farmhouse from the invaders. But now Menesarkus knew the truth about her father's part in the sneak attack on Plataea, and he must hate her for being her father's daughter.

“Help!” cried the Spartan again. His voice sounded terrified now.

Kallisto said, “I'm coming!” What she saw when she pushed open the door made her burst out laughing, for the Spartan was flat on his back, naked except for a sheet over his lower half, with a huge black crow sitting on his chest, staring at him with its beady black eyes. It was the same crow that had flown into the bedchamber at Chusor's house the other day—the one with the distinctive white tail feather.

“Why are you laughing, you idiot girl!” raged Arkilokus. “Get it off me!” His fingers and toes wriggled frantically.

“I thought you were being mauled by a vicious dog,” said Kallisto.

“These things will pluck out the eyes of the dead,” said Arkilokus. “Now get it off me.”

Kallisto crossed her arms on her chest. “Say ‘please.'”

Arkilokus turned his head and stared at her openmouthed, evidently astonished at her impudence. He thrust out his jaw and appeared to be on the verge of saying something vicious when the crow hopped closer to his face and let forth a menacing sound—a low gurgling deep in its throat.

“P-please!” sputtered Arkilokus. “Yes! Please! Just get the thing off of me!”

Kallisto grabbed a pillow from a chair and strode toward the crow. It cocked its head at her as she pulled back and whacked it. The bird went flying toward the open window with a raucous cry, and Kallisto fell onto the bed with a howl of pain. She lay across Arkilokus's body for a while, then sat up, hugging her rib cage.

“You're injured,” said Arkilokus.

The concern in his voice surprised Kallisto.

“I'm all right,” she said, glancing over to the window. The crow perched on the sill, eyeing her with fury. She flung the pillow across the room—a perfectly aimed throw. Both the pillow and the bird disappeared out the window.

“Thank you,” said Arkilokus, sighing.

“You're welcome,” said Kallisto.

“Now, could you scratch me?”

“What?”

“With your fingernails.”

Kallisto rolled her eyes. “Are you mad?”

“It itches
so
much along my spine,” said Arkilokus. “It's agony. It started as a tingling early this morning. Now it feels like ants crawling over my back. Come, now, girl! Don't be squeamish. My arms are useless. Your mistress would tell you to do it if she were here.”

Kallisto stared at Arkilokus as if for the first time. It struck her, in that instant, how much he resembled Nikias … an older, fiercer version of Nikias. As if her beloved had gone away for ten years and returned a hardened but still recognizable man. This Spartan had nearly the same color hair and eyes as Nikias. Even his physique resembled Nikias's, with his broad chest, long legs, and huge hands. But the older man had a full beard, and his brow was thicker. And there was nothing of Nikias-the-poet in this haughty prince's eyes.

She thought of the terrible rumor that Phile had told her yesterday … that Nikias's horse, Photine, had returned to the city, riderless and covered with blood. She could not believe it. Would not believe it. But she had been praying desperately to Artemis all morning that it was untrue. That her beloved was safe.…

“Please?” asked Arkilokus, as if taking her silence for a rebuke of his manners.

She shook herself from her reverie. “Where should I start?”

“Anywhere,” he said. “My chest. Start there.”

She started scratching his skin with her right hand, moving it over his pectorals. He let forth an almost orgasmic sigh—the same deep-throated sound Nikias made when they made love.

“Gods,” he said. “So good.”

“She's not my mistress,” said Kallisto.

“Who isn't?” asked Arkilokus, his eyes squeezed shut in rapture.

“Eudoxia. Menesarkus's wife. I'm not their servant. I'm a guest in this house.”

“I don't care who you are,” said Arkilokus. “With fingernails like those I'll build a shrine to you.”

She moved down his legs, her fingernails making little red marks across his skin, but he smiled and made no complaints.

“Your name?” he asked.

Kallisto bristled. She didn't like being asked her name like a slave. “My name is for my family and friends,” she replied.

Arkilokus opened one eye.

“I have been rude,” he said. “I should have introduced myself first. My name is Arkilokus, even though I'm sure you have already been told my name.”

Kallisto shrugged.

“You don't seem to be squeamish around men,” observed Arkilokus. “Athenian women are always so high-strung. So different from Spartan females.”

“I'm not Athenian,” said Kallisto. “I'm Plataean. And I grew up with a house full of older brothers.”

“Did you?” asked Arkilokus with a raise of his eyebrows. “A fortunate father.”

“My father is dead,” said Kallisto, and stopped scratching. “He was in league with the traitor Nauklydes, but the Thebans cut off his head once he'd helped them inside the citadel. And most of my brothers were slaughtered.” She gave him a black look, as if he were the cause of all her woes.

Arkilokus nodded his head. “Helladios,” he said solemnly. “You are the daughter of Helladios.”

Kallisto said, “I am no longer the daughter of Helladios. His name is poison to me. My name is simply Kallisto. I'm nobody's daughter anymore.”

“I am not a lover of the Thebans,” said Arkilokus, as if to apologize for her misfortunes. “I argued against the sneak attack on Plataea. I called for our elders to use diplomacy to sway your men to reason. You cannot understand such things, though”—this last part spoken to himself, as if she were no longer sitting right there in front of him—“because it is beyond your ken.”

Kallisto threw back her head and laughed scornfully, her eyes flashing. “Ha! You are in a precarious position to insult my intelligence, Spartan.” She glared at him and felt her pale cheeks turn red. “I could claw out your eyes faster than that crow could have pecked them. Or I could cut off your precious balls and send them flying out the window after that pillow!”

Arkilokus made a meek face. “My apologies again, Kallisto. I'm impressed. You speak with the lashing tongue of a Spartan maid. My own sister has scolded me in the same manner. And I beg your forgiveness, just like I do with her.”

Kallisto's look softened. She couldn't believe she had just threatened to cut off the balls of a Spartan prince. “Are Spartan girls really allowed to wrestle naked in the gymnasium?” she asked.

Arkilokus grinned. “They ask the same question in Persia,” he said. “And the answer is: yes, they do. Our women are trained to be warriors, and to breed warriors. Women don't wear veils in my country. And they can own property as well.”

Kallisto considered this information for a moment, then asked, “Do women in Sparta really have their heads shaved and their breasts bound on their wedding nights?”

He nodded. “I was brought up in my father's palace,” he replied. “But most Spartan warriors are sent away as little boys and raised with the men. By the time they are of breeding age they are wholly unused to women. The shearing and binding lessens the … the shock of their new circumstances.”

“So King Menelaus had Helen's breasts bound?” asked Kallisto, astonished. “Beautiful Helen's head shaved?” She started scratching Arkilokus's other leg in an absentminded way, trying to imagine Helen of Troy treated in such a strange manner.

“Menelaus was a king,” he replied. “He was sophisticated enough to appreciate a woman's beauty. Like me.”

Kallisto stared into Arkilokus's eyes. She was surprised to see a hunger and yearning there. He glanced down the length of his body and smiled. She followed his gaze to his loins, where the sheet was now propped up like a tent.

“I think you're getting better,” said Kallisto hurriedly, springing to her feet and departing the room as fast as she could. She slammed the door behind her and stood with her back to it, listening. Arkilokus's laughter emanated from the chamber.

Later that day Phile came into Kallisto's room to inform her, with a kind of subdued excitement, that the Spartan had started to move his limbs.

“The phoenix is coming back to life,” said Phile.

The next morning Kallisto heard the noise of several men in the hall. She got quickly out of bed and opened the door a crack, peering out. She saw Menesarkus and a doctor, as well as the two guardsmen, walking toward the Spartan's chamber. “This itching he complains about,” the doctor was saying, “is a very good sign. I've seen this many times before. It means the spine was merely bruised and…” His voice trailed off as the Arkon and the doctors entered the room.

Arkilokus improved rapidly—as if Asklepius, the god of healing, had blessed him. The next day Phile dashed into Kallisto's chamber and informed her, breathlessly, that the Spartan had actually risen to his feet. “He's several inches taller than Nikias,” said Phile, her voice mingled with admiration and fear. “He stood there naked, stretched out to his full height. And he's hung like a bull,” she added with a sour look. “It's disgusting.”

The next morning—just three days after Kallisto had gone into the Spartan's room to chase away the crow—Kallisto stood at her window staring down into the courtyard, watching Arkilokus as he took his first awkward steps. He was supported on either side by the guards, moving hesitantly, but he made his way on his own two feet, albeit stiffly, like a corpse that had come to life. The Spartan prince's face was rigid with determination as he concentrated on each small step.

He glanced up and saw Kallisto in the window above. He smiled at her and made a ludicrous cawing sound like a crow. Kallisto saw the guards exchange puzzled looks. She stepped back from the window and closed the shutters, smiling despite herself.

 

SIX

The sun was westering when Nikias, dog-tired and limping, emerged from a wooded path and onto a dusty road, supporting himself with a staff made from a branch. Directly ahead, a mile up this cart-rutted road, he saw a familiar citadel made of gray stone, built atop a hill of white chalk that rose above the northern bank of the Asopus River. He said a silent prayer to Zeus, for he had arrived at the city-state of Tanagra and was now only twenty miles from home.

He wiped the sweat from his face and lurched down the road toward a stone bridge spanning the river. His right ankle was swollen to three times its normal size. He'd never had an ankle injury like this before. He'd never realized it could be so debilitating. All he wanted was to find a bed at an inn and get some sleep. He didn't dare risk going the rest of the way home on foot tonight. The Spartans would most likely be patrolling the road from Tanagra to Plataea, hunting for any messengers attempting to get in and out of the Oxlands.

And Nikias felt about as agile as a bull with a broken leg.

He would have to take an alternate route—through the mountains. And to do that he would need a decent horse. In the morning he would buy a mount with the money he'd taken from poor old Krates's corpse. He would have to chance running into Dog Raiders again, but he would rather fight those warriors than attempt running a blockade of Spartans.

At least for now he was safe. Tanagra lay just on the other side of the river, and he knew the place well. He had been to the citadel many times over the years to fight in pankration matches with Tanagraean boys. The city was about half the size and population of Plataea's twenty thousand, and had been under the control of Athens for many years. But it had always been a fiercely independent place. “The men of Tanagra might just rebel against the Athenians someday,” his grandfather had told him. “Though the people of that city hate the Thebans just as much as we do.”