Sword of Apollo (19 page)

The land they walked through had been ravaged by repeated Spartan attacks over the last year. The farms and villages that they passed had been burned—all that was left were the charred remains of beams and blackened roof tiles or the stone threshing floors that had sprouted weeds between the cracks. Fields had been cut and trampled last spring by the enemy before the wheat could ripen, and the vines that would now be laden with grapes had all been hacked off near the ground. Only the sacred olive groves had been left untouched, and the branches were laden with unharvested fruit. They marched until the sun began to set and made camp in a fallow field, huddled together with all of the warriors standing guard in a great ring about the women, children, and old men.

“Our exhausted warriors make our walls,” said Leo, making a play on the old Spartan saying, for in the far-off country of Lakonia they had no walls around their citadels, such was the Spartan confidence in their military prowess. Leo's joke was quickly taken up by all the men, and could be heard uttered—followed by sharp laughter—throughout the long night.

Nikias sat with his back to a wheel on his family's cart, so spent from the last two days he could hardly move. Saeed stood nearby, staring back toward Kithaeron Mountain with his arms crossed. Nikias knew that he was thinking about his son. Teleos and Ajax were sound asleep, curled up with Nestor like three huge pups. Every once in a while Nikias heard one of his daughters call out in despair for their mama. Not only did they miss their mother's touch, they were still nursing. The resourceful Phile had found a young woman who had given birth to a stillborn child a week before, and the teenager willingly took to feeding the girls to ease her swollen and painful breasts. She was in the cart with the twins, and Nikias could hear her speaking sweet words to the girls through a voice filled with tears.

Phile came around from the other side of the cart where she had been kneading bread for the morning's breakfast and sat next to him. “You can't sleep?” she asked.

“I won't sleep until we're inside the walls of Athens,” he replied.

There was a long silence and then Phile said, “I was so scared when the attack came that I pissed myself, Brother.”

Nikias grinned. “Grandfather shit himself before they faced the Persians during the Great War.”

“He did?” asked Phile.

“Old Linos the bard told me. He was standing right behind him in the phalanx.”

She paused, then asked hopefully, “Did you ever shit yourself, Brother?”

“No,” said Nikias. “But I spent my childhood fighting Grandfather in the arena. Nothing in life seems terrifying after facing him,” he joked.

“I suppose not.”

Nikias took Phile's hand and held it tightly. “Are you worried about Athens?” he asked.

“Of course. I've never even been there. But I've heard so many stories. Will we be scorned?”

“It won't be bad. Athens is beautiful. The most beautiful city on earth. Wait until you see the statue of Athena on the Akropolis.”

“But will they accept us there?”

“They will. Perikles will force them to accept us. And he rules Athens.”

Nikias wrapped his arm around Phile's shoulder and she put her head on his arm and exhaled. He was suddenly overcome with love for his younger sister. He had fought with her his entire life and had always resented her. But now he was so thankful that he had her by his side—so grateful that she was here to watch out for his girls. He thought about Kallisto and wondered if she was still alive.

“Don't fret about Kallisto,” said Phile, guessing what he was thinking. “Grandmother is with her. She has helped bring many children into this world.”

“All I can do now is pray,” said Nikias.

“I love her, too, you know?” said Phile. “I loved her even before you. She is like my sister. And I was jealous when I thought that you had stolen some of that love. But then I came to realize that Kallisto's love is boundless—for me, and you and the girls.”

Nikias turned his face away. He didn't want his sister to see the tears coursing down his cheeks. After a while Phile went back into the cart to sleep next to the girls and Nikias fell into a dreary and fitful sleep, full of bad dreams. He was awakened by the growling of Nestor.

“Who's there?” asked Nikias, sitting up with a start, for he saw the large shape of a man looming over him.

“Get up,” said Sarpedon with a surly voice. “I need you. Bring your sword.”

Nikias strapped on his weapons, then followed Sarpedon through the labyrinth of sleeping bodies to the area where the horses were tethered. Photine stood apart from the others, champing on some grass.

“What's going on?” asked Nikias.

“I'm sending out scouts in every direction to look for the enemy,” said Sarpedon. “You're one of my best riders. And you're lucky. Head west for two hours after the rising of the sun, and then report back.”

 

THREE

Nikias and the other ten chosen riders waited until the first glow of the sun above the mountains in the east, then went off on their missions. Photine was happy to be running free and trotted across the Attik plains. But all that Nikias discovered on his journey was more ravaged countryside: burned homes and fields and the occasional corpse rotting in the sun—the bodies of Megarians and Korinthian pillagers who had no doubt been killed by Athenian cavalry sorties. He rode for ten miles, then headed back to camp. A fresh scout was waiting to take his place and headed off in the same direction.

Each morning for the next three days Nikias headed off on this mission, only to find the same thing—a desolate landscape and no sign of the enemy. And each day the refugees managed to travel about fifteen miles before stopping for the night to allow the many stragglers to catch up.

On the fourth morning after the battle at the Tower of Theseus, Nikias awoke before dawn from a nightmare. He had dreamed that his best friend from childhood, Demetrios, stood by the tree that held the golden fleece, encouraging Nikias to reach up and seize it. But when Nikias tried to grasp the magical treasure, the tree came to life and attacked him. It was a recurring dream that always filled him with foreboding. He had first experienced the vision when he was tortured by Eurymakus the Theban, hung upside down from the rafters of an undercroft in the city-state of Tanagra and beaten mercilessly.

Now, as he rode across the barren fields, lost in grim musings, he wondered what had happened to Demetrios. His friend—more like a brother than a mere gymnasium companion—had been sent off by his father to Syrakuse, years before the Theban sneak attack, ostensibly to study at the house of a wealthy general on that island. Demetrios had had the bad luck to be born the heir of Nauklydes, the traitor who had opened the gates of Plataea to the enemy. Nauklydes, a prominent magistrate and Menesarkus's protégé, had made a secret alliance with the Thebans and their Spartan overlords. He'd been promised that he would be given control of Plataea after it was taken. But once he opened the gates he was betrayed by the enemy, and his daughter was raped and killed before his eyes.

After the invaders had been defeated, Nikias uncovered information that Nauklydes had been the traitor. He helped bring him to justice, and the man who had once been a hero of his citadel was convicted of treason and given the tunic of stones: buried up to his waist in the agora and stoned to death.

Nikias still couldn't comprehend how a man as principled as Nauklydes could have betrayed his own people. Was it out of fear of the Spartans and their designs on Plataea? Or simply an insatiable lust for power and wealth? Nauklydes had sent Demetrios to Syrakuse to get him out of the way—so that his beloved son would be safe from the threat of Spartan invaders. But Syrakuse, as it turned out, was a puppet of the Spartans. Nauklydes was like a foolish shepherd who'd sent his sheep to live amongst the wolves.

Was Demetrios still alive? It wasn't likely. The Spartans had certainly ordered the Syrakusans to murder Demetrios after they had been assured of Nauklydes's complicity in the sneak attack. If they hadn't slain him, then the Syrakusans would have thrown Demetrios into the notorious Prison Pits of that city-state: deep marble quarries where men toiled until they died. Or so the rumors told of that awful place. Demetrios was strong … even stronger than Nikias. But his friend wouldn't last more than a few months in the Prison Pits, let alone the more than two years since Demetrios's father had been betrayed by the wily foes of Plataea.

“Why do you keep coming to me in my dreams, Demetrios?” Nikias asked aloud. “Eh, brother?”

He looked around, startled from his dark thoughts by the sudden realization that he recognized his surroundings. He was at the farm of his friend Konon—about fifteen miles from Athens. He thought back to the day he stumbled onto this farm, delirious from a blow he'd taken in a fight with Dog Raiders. Konon's kindly family took him in and nursed him back to health.

The place, which had been prosperous and lovely back then, was now utterly destroyed. All that was left were the footings of the buildings, scattered roof tiles, and the house's chimney. He went past what had been a fine fig orchard, but the trees had all been chopped down. The sight of the place made him depressed and he quickly departed, heading up a little hill that looked over the plains.

When he got to the top he saw something flashing in the distance. He peered across the plains and beheld an unmistakable sight: spearheads held high, catching the light of the sun on their gleaming bronze points. A great army of horsemen was riding straight at him, less than two miles away, six hundred or more.

“Hera's jugs!” he cursed, then wheeled Photine around and kicked her hard, riding back toward the abandoned farm. It would take him half an hour to get back to the refugees on the road, he reckoned, if he pushed Photine as fast as she would go. There would be time to warn them. But the majority of the refugees would still be a few miles or so from Athens by the time the Spartan cavalry arrived. They would be caught in the open fields and massacred within sight of the walls. He let forth a furious scream of frustration.

“Nikias!” cried an astonished voice.

Nikias snapped his head around. Standing amongst the ruins of the farm was a young man waving frantically with one arm—his other arm was only a stump, having been cut off at the elbow.

“Konon!”

Nikias checked Photine and trotted over to his friend. The one-armed Athenian, a stolid farmer with a plain but ingenuous face, looked pale and emaciated since the last time Nikias had seen him.

“It
is
you!” said Konon, smiling back with a similar disbelief. “You just disappeared from the city that night! I thought you were dead!”

“I had to leave quickly,” said Nikias. “I didn't have any way to get word to you. What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same.”

“I'm helping to lead refugees from Plataea,” explained Nikias. “We've come to the safety of Athens until the Spartans are defeated. Perikles told us to come. I was just scouting for the enemy.”

Konon's face fell. “Nikias. This is a black time to come to Athens for safety.”

“What do you mean? Because of raiding parties? Or have the Spartans started to besiege Athens?”

“No,” said Konon. “Something worse.” He held up a blackened pot. “We buried some coins under the doorsill. I came to get them so I could buy medicine.”

“Medicine? For what?”

“The contagion,” Konon replied flatly. “My father—do you remember him? He's dead. So is my grandfather. And my brother's wife. My grandmother clings to life.”

Nikias's heart sank. “What is this contagion?” he asked, horrified.

“It's bad. A burning fever that strikes you down, stabbings in the guts and eyes, and a black vomit. So many have died already. Once you get within a few miles of Athens you'll see the funeral pyres. They're burning hundreds today. It might be thousands tomorrow. We're running out of wood.”

Nikias shook his head in disbelief. This could not be happening. An army of Spartan horsemen was advancing across the plains, and the only refuge for his people was a city infected by some terrible plague. They hadn't brought any medicine to remedy what Konon had just described. The only things they carried in the cart were opium and hemp for pain, honey to sterilize wounds, and a powerful emetic made from narcissus flowers. He knew all this because he had helped Saeed carefully pack the jars the day before they left the farm.

“It was the eclipse,” was all that he could think of to say.

“The illness started weeks before the eclipse,” said Konon.

“It was a warning,” said Nikias. “We should have stayed in Plataea. But now we have no choice. Do you have a horse?”

“Just my old mule,” said Konon. “Everyone's animals were transported to the island of Euboea for safekeeping over a year ago.”

Nikias pictured the long island of Euboea in his mind's eye. It was separated from the mainland by a narrow channel that had powerful shifting currents. He had passed through this channel years ago on an ill-fated trireme commanded by his cousin Phoenix. But their ship had been attacked by Korinthian raiders and Nikias jumped overboard, swimming to shore. He never knew what had become of Phoenix and the others.

“Why doesn't Perikles send all the people in Athens to Euboea?” he asked.

“He said it would be a sign of weakness to abandon the citadel,” explained Konon. “The only people allowed on Euboea are some warriors and shepherds to guard the flocks.”

Nikias took a deep breath, then exhaled quickly. “Ride your mule back to Athenes as fast as you can,” he said. “An army of Spartans is heading this way. I have to go now, old friend. I have to warn my people.”

“We're living in a little cave near the Temple of Hephaestos!” Konon called out as Nikias galloped away.