Spartans at the Gates (38 page)

Nikias arrived at the bridge and paused halfway across it to rest his ankle, leaning on the ancient stones. Two dirty boys were wrestling on the riverbank below, grappling halfheartedly, laughing in a good-natured way. A group of veiled women were nearby, dipping amphoras into the river and balancing the water jugs on their heads. Woodsmoke from cooking fires drifted from little stone houses lining the top of the riverbank. He heard a baby crying, and a woman singing to soothe it. All was normal. Everything was at peace.

It had taken four days to get to this haven. Four punishing days of hiking across the Parnes Mountains, a rugged and mostly uninhabited range covered with a thick forest of pine and fir trees. He should have made the trip in half that time. But he'd gotten lost at the start of the journey, and had been forced to double back time and again after getting stuck in dead-end ravines. Then he'd nearly broken his neck slipping down a crumbling slope. He'd been lucky to come away with only a sprained ankle. But this injury had slowed him considerably.

On the evening of his second day in the mountains he had chanced upon a well-used footpath. He had known, immediately, that it was one of the old pathways the Athenians had made connecting their city to their northern allies. He'd seen the route before, marked on one of his grandfather's maps. This trail was interspersed every few miles with guard towers, each manned by a small band of Athenian warriors, and Nikias had been overjoyed when the path had led him to one of these forts, for by that time he'd become delirious with hunger and thirst.

He'd called out to the guardsmen in the square tower, telling them that he was a Plataean. The men had been surprised at the sudden appearance of a lone and bedraggled traveler and had let him in. Nikias had immediately told the commander of the tower about the loss of Perikles's dispatch vessel, and the veteran warrior had sent a runner back to Athens with this urgent news and a note written by Nikias. They had given Nikias food and water and let him rest for the day and all through that night inside the safety of the stone tower. The next day, he'd walked the rest of the way to Tanagra along the footpath.

And now he was so close to home he could practically smell Plataea on the wind. Steeling himself against the pain in his ankle, he continued across the stone bridge, wincing with every step, and then started up the switchback road that led to the city gates. He passed a theatre built into the side of the hill below the town, and looked down upon the curving rows of empty marble benches and the bare stage.

The face of Perikles flashed before his eyes. He reckoned the Athenian general had heard the news about the dispatch ship by now. He wondered if the great man would be distraught that Phoenix and his crew had been killed or captured. At least he would know that it was the Korinthians who had attacked, thanks to Nikias's message. He thought of the beautiful sword that Perikles had given him. It must now on the bottom of the sea, lost forever—a gift to Poseidon.

Nikias knew he was lucky not to have been killed or captured during the sea battle. But all he felt right now was numb and exhausted. And his ankle burned like it was on fire. He paused for a moment to rest, leaning on the makeshift staff, scanning the road up ahead. The only other traveler he saw was an old man walking slowly and leading a tired-looking donkey. Nikias gritted his teeth and walked as fast as he could, keeping his head down as he passed. The old man smiled at Nikias.

“Peace, young man.”

Nikias had learned not to trust smiling strangers anymore. The old man could easily be a Theban or Korinthian spy. He scowled, refusing to look at him, and quickened his pace despite the pain in his ankle. When he got to the city gates he found eight guardsmen milling about. Glancing up, he saw many archers along the battlements. The Tanagraeans were on alert. They had obviously heard about the sneak attack on Plataea, and were not going to get caught with their balls in their hands.

One of the guards stepped forward, blocking his way. He was a short, wiry man with a pointed beard and sly eyes. “What's your business, lad?” he asked.

“The Three Thieves,” Nikias said. It was the name of the inn that he and his grandfather always stayed at when they came to Tanagra.

“Where are you from?”

“Plataea.”

“Plataea?” the guard asked incredulously. He looked Nikias up and down, and then his eyes opened wide with recognition. “You're Menesarkus's grandson, aren't you? That young pankrator.”

Nikias nodded but made no reply. All of the guards were now gawking at him and starting to crowd around. Nikias glanced over his shoulder. The old man with the donkey was still out of earshot.

“You fought my younger brother,” said the guard with sly eyes. “Two years ago. You broke the stupid sheep-stuffer's arm.”

Nikias remembered the fight. The man's brother was an arrogant boy who'd spit in Nikias's face during the bout, sending him into a blind rage. He'd broken the boy's arm on purpose, to teach him a lesson. “Sorry,” he said.

Sly Eyes gave a merry laugh that was out of sorts with his crafty-looking face. He slapped Nikias on the back, saying, “Don't apologize. I wish you'd broken both of his arms. I hate the little bastard.”

“What's the news from Plataea?” asked another guard—a young man of about Nikias's age with a missing front tooth and a hunted look on his gaunt face. “We haven't heard anything for a week. Our general sent some scouts to Plataea three days ago, but they saw Spartans five miles east of the Persian Fort, and so they came straight back. Are the Spartans really camped right outside the gates of Plataea?”

“Not within pissing distance,” said Nikias, “but close enough to make everyone nervous.” He glanced over and saw that the old man with the donkey had stopped ten paces away and was eyeing Nikias surreptitiously. He was now close enough to hear their conversation.

“Did you fight in the battle at the gates of Plataea?” asked the younger guard.

Nikias nodded. “I did.”

“No modesty, now,” said the biggest guard standing there. He was an older man with a blond beard and huge scar across his cheek. “We want to hear what happened firsthand. All we've heard until now are rumors.”

Nikias knew he would have to tell them something or they would think he was lying about fighting in the battle. But he didn't want the suspicious old man to know anything about him. “Perhaps you could let this old fellow in first,” said Nikias. “I'm holding him up.”

The guards barely glanced at the aged traveler and waved him through the gates. The old man smiled warmly at Nikias and led his donkey through the arch. Once he had disappeared into the city, Nikias began his tale. He told them about being trapped in the citadel during the Theban sneak attack. About escaping through the secret tunnel and riding to the northern garrisons. He described the wild charge against the mass of Theban hoplites and the great battle that had ensued just outside the city walls.

The guards listened with rapt attention, staring at him with admiration. Nikias felt himself getting carried away, but he kept on talking despite the nagging voice in the back of his head that told him to shut his mouth. He even told the guardsmen about his fight with Eurymakus. How the Theban whisperer had killed Nikias's horse out from under him—killed it instantly with a poisoned dagger—and how the horse had collapsed, pinning Nikias underneath it with the Theban standing over him, bearing the poisoned blade and gloating.

“How did you survive?” asked the young guard, awestruck.

“I had my Sargatian whip,” said Nikias with a smile. “I got one hand free from under the horse, grabbed the whip, and snapped it around the Theban's left arm, yanking as hard as I could against the hand that held the dagger. The spy's fingertip brushed against his own tainted blade, drawing blood.”

“You killed the man with his own poisoned blade?” said Sly Eyes, laughing.

“No,” said Nikias. “Eurymakus grabbed a sword from off the ground, and cut off his own arm before the poison could travel up his arm. He did it faster than you could fart.”

“This Eurymakus sounds fierce,” said the young guard, a hint of awe in his voice. “Cut off his own arm! Gods!”

“He sounds like a Theban goat-stuffer,” sneered the guard with the scar. “Only cowards use poison, Priam.” He smacked the young guard on the back of the head.

Priam bowed his head. Nikias felt sorry for him. He was obviously the whipping boy of the group. “May I pass?” Nikias asked, and then added with a forced laugh, “Because I'm starving.”

“Leave your weapons,” said Sly Eyes.

“But I'm Plataean!” said Nikias indignantly.

“New law,” said the big guard gruffly. “You can keep your walking stick.”

Reluctantly, Nikias took off his sword and dagger. He felt more naked than if they had stripped him bare.

Priam reached for his weapons and handed him two markers in return. “I'll lock these up in the tower,” he said, smiling in a fawning manner. “You can get them when you leave the citadel.” He slipped away from the others and disappeared through the gates.

The guards stepped aside to let Nikias enter.

“Don't break any arms,” said Sly Eyes.

Nikias forced himself to smile and nodded at the guards as he passed. He walked as quickly as he could, limping on his swollen ankle through the archway and into the public square. There were many people milling about and enjoying the warm evening: families with children and old men and women. A group had gathered to watch some performers on stilts, and just then a piper struck up a happy tune. Nikias felt foolish for having been so reluctant to give up his weapons. This place was just like Plataea. He might as well have already been home.

There was a little fountain house in the center of the square designed to look like a miniature temple. Nikias stepped inside and went up to the bronze cistern filled with water from a marble spout shaped like the head of a water nymph. There was a cup attached to the basin by a chain. He dipped the cup in the basin and drank the cool, clean water. He thought of the Well of Gargaphia back home and how he'd sat in the little building the night before he departed Plataea, staring at the signet ring of Eurymakus. He tried to remember the Persian name that Ezekiel had found inscribed on the stone, but the guardian angel's name had slipped from his mind.

He felt eyes on his back.

He turned quickly and thought that he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a hulking figure of a man ducking into a building across the square. Nikias's heart jumped, but he didn't panic. He pretended that he hadn't seen anyone. He calmly took another drink of water, then put the cup in its holder on the basin. He slipped out of the fountain house and walked casually to the opposite side of the square, where he stood in the doorway of a busy wineshop, lingering there for several minutes, but he didn't see the hulking figure again.

“I must have imagined it,” he told himself and laughed. He'd thought he'd seen Axe—a Plataean warrior who had been one of the traitor Nauklydes's followers. Axe, a violent and ruthless giant of a man, had vanished from the citadel after the trial of Nauklydes. He'd last been seen walking down the road that led to the fortress of the Three Heads. There was no way Axe would be here in Tanagra, he told himself, so close to Plataea, where he was a wanted man.

“Idiot,” he chastised himself under his breath. “You're seeing things.”

As he was about to leave the wineshop he saw a slight young man exit the dark doorway that he had been watching. The youth had black hair and brown skin and very smooth cheeks. Nikias reckoned he must be a Persian slave. The young man walked directly up to the fountain house and peered inside, then looked around the square as if searching for Nikias.

He exited the wineshop, walking slowly across the square to the other side, making certain that the Persian spotted him. Then he turned and headed down a lane lined with pottery shops that had all been shuttered for the night. At the end of the lane he saw the familiar sign for the Three Thieves inn—a board painted with a comical picture of three housebreakers on tiptoe bearing various stolen objects, their heads looking furtively behind them. He heard footsteps behind him and whirled.

The Persian slave was there, smiling in a friendly way.

“What do you want?” asked Nikias.

“Don't hurt me!” said the youth, holding up his hands. He spoke with a thick Persian accent. “My master see you at the gates and send me.”

“Sent you for what reason?”

The Persian raised his arched eyebrows coyly. “Only one silver coin. Two for whole night.
And
I have room with bed.”

Nikias let forth a relieved laugh. The young man was nothing more than a prostitute—a gate-lurker looking for lonely travelers. “No, thanks,” he said. The Persian looked crestfallen. “But tell your master I'm flattered,” added Nikias. “I've no doubt he sent his prettiest boy to tempt me.”

He turned his back on the Persian and ducked through the doorway of the inn.

 

SEVEN

Nikias had only been standing in the entrance of the Three Thieves for a few seconds when the innkeeper, a tall balding man with a brown beard and a kindly face, appeared from an inner doorway. Hypatos took one look at Nikias and said, “Why, it's Aristo's son, Nikias! Are you here with your grandfather, Menesarkus?” he added.

“No, just me,” said Nikias. “But I need a room all the same. I have silver.” He reached under his shirt and held up the bag, jiggling it.

“You've come to the right place to spend it, young Nikias!” said Hypatos, clapping his hands. “You must have a story to tell. I'm sorry that I don't have time to hear it, though. I'm off to the kitchen to make sure that things are not amiss. The evening meal will be served quite soon, and I have hungry travelers waiting. Please, go into the dining hall and wait.”