Sword of Apollo (27 page)

“Phoenix pay off guards,” said Diokles. “Chain gone now.”

Nikias was about to ask how much coin his cousin had had to pay to convince the guards on the seawall to let five triremes slip out of the harbor, when Ezekiel appeared at his side and shoved something into his mouth.

“Hey!”

“Ginger root,” said the doctor. “Don't chew. Suck on it.”

“Ginger?” said Nikias. “That's what my wife takes for menstrual cramps.”

“Smart woman,” replied Ezekiel. He squatted down on the deck next to Nikias and watched him with his hooded eyes. Nikias noticed that he was fingering something hanging around his neck by a leather cord. It was a gold signet ring.

“You still have the ring, I see,” said Nikias, pulling on the oar, trying to keep time with Diokles. He wondered if the scrawny doctor had ever rowed, but thought it unlikely. The man was all brains and no body.

“It's a valuable thing that you gave to me on that night,” said Ezekiel in a voice pitched for Nikias's ears alone. “Worth far more than the gold. The signet seal is a passport in Persian lands. I don't know why you parted with it so freely.”

“The man who owned it was my family's enemy,” explained Nikias. “He murdered my mother and was responsible for the sneak attack on Plataea.”

They came to the gap in the seawall and, sure enough, the chain that was usually stretched from tower to tower was nowhere in sight. The fleet of ships quickly passed from the closed harbor and into the choppy water of the Saronik Gulf. A horn sounded from one of the towers—a call to Poseidon that Athenian ships were on their way into his realm. The young Athenians on board whooped with excitement. Nikias felt the ship turn. The beat of the oar drummer grew slightly faster.

“What was his name?” Ezekiel asked after a time.

Nikias turned and looked at the doctor. He had been concentrating so hard on rowing that he had forgotten the doctor was still there.

“Eurymakus is his name—a Persian-trained Theban assassin,” said Nikias. “He tried to kill me with a poisoned blade in a battle at the gates of Plataea, and I turned the tainted blade against him, grazing his hand with the point. He chopped off his own arm to keep the poison from spreading into his torso and then escaped in the chaos of the battle. I don't know why I took the ring from his severed limb, or even why I brought it with me to Athens. But after I met you, and after you told me the secret of the thing, well, I had no more use for it.” He thought back to the night that Ezekiel had pried off the ring's precious stone to reveal the name inscribed beneath: a name that held great import to Eurymakus, a follower of the Persian god Ahura Mazda, for it was the name of his
fravashi
—his guardian angel in the Persian tongue—a precious name that was supposed to be known only to the owner of the ring.

“After I left Athens,” continued Nikias, “I was captured in the city-state of Tanagra by Eurymakus and a Plataean traitor. They kept me in an undercroft and … and they tortured me.” He paused and pulled hard on the oar, the beats of the oar drummer echoing in his brain.

“And how did you escape?” asked Ezekiel, eyes wide with suspense.

“They were just about to kill me,” said Nikias, staring with glazed eyes at the back of Diokles's dark head. “But I shouted out the name of the
fravashi
—Dana. Eurymakus could not hide his astonishment.”

“If he had killed you,” said Ezekiel, nodding his head and giving a feral smile, “then you would have been able to call his guardian angel to your shade, and she would no longer protect Eurymakus in
this
world
or
the next. After he died he would never be able to cross the great void and enter his heaven—his spirit would become a tormented ghost.”

“A ridiculous notion,” said Nikias, “but the magic of the name worked.”

“You Greeks believe many things that I find absurd,” replied Ezekiel.

“So you told me once before,” said Nikias.

“What happened next?”

“Eurymakus took me to the Spartans and gave me to them.”

“And where did he go after that?”

“I heard him tell the Spartans that he was going to go back to Persia to help procure gold to finance their war against Athens. And then I was traded for a Spartan prisoner that my grandfather had captured—a man worth far more than my life,” Nikias added with chagrin.

“From what Chusor has told me about you,” said Ezekiel, “I find
that
hard to believe. Anyway, he told me that I should give you back the ring. So here I am.” He started to take off the cord from around his neck but Nikias stopped him with a shake of his head.

“A gift once given is never to be taken back,” said Nikias. “Besides, the thing is poison to me.”

Ezekiel glanced about with a hunted look, as if Chusor might be spying on him right now. But Chusor was nowhere to be seen, and the doctor put the ring back under his tunic and patted it.

“So be it.”

“You saved my life with the knowledge of the ring that you imparted to me,” said Nikias. “Someday I hope to repay the debt.”

Ezekiel stood up and touched Nikias on the shoulder. “I'm certain that you will have many opportunities on this voyage to repay that debt,” he said with a gloomy look, then walked aft down the aisle and disappeared into the cabin.

 

ELEVEN

By the time the sun began to rise three hours later, the ships were already twenty miles from Athens, surrounded on all sides by the dark and open sea.

And Nikias was so tired he could barely think. His body was drenched with sweat and his back, thighs, and shoulders burned. His forearms bulged ludicrously, as if they had grown in size from his first labor as an oarsman. Many of the new members of the crew had become seasick and puked up their guts on this first leg of the journey. Some had fainted, out of exhaustion, and now lay unconscious, slumped by their benches.

Nikias had not been sick the entire time, and for that he was grateful. But he knew that his body was reaching the end of its limit. He wondered why Chusor was pushing them so hard, and he started to grow churlish and snapped at the lad whose job it was to bring water to the men and ladle it into their mouths.

Finally a pipe sounded and the drumming stopped. The veteran oarsmen immediately brought in their oars and stowed them. Nikias, in a daze, pulled his oar off the tholepin and dragged it through the oarlock. His hands were frozen into claws and he couldn't make his fingers spread apart.

He looked around at the men nearby. He saw two or three hardy Plataean warriors—cavalrymen who were tremendously fit—slumped over their oars and gasping for air. Diokles, however, turned round, smiled at Nikias, and stretched his back like a cat.

“Good row,” said the Helot.

Nikias stared out the gap in the side of the outrigger deck and saw two of the other triremes in the convoy on that side of the boat—close enough to spit at—bobbing on the waves.

“We made good distance,” Diokles said.

“Where are the other two ships?” Nikias asked.

“On the other side,” said Diokles. “We're all together. The captains made sure that nobody got left behind.”

“A northwesterly wind has come up strong,” said Chusor, who had suddenly appeared at Nikias's side. “We're going to set up sail.”

“Thank the wind gods,” said Nikias.

He leaned against the side of the boat and watched in a stupor as the veterans of the
Spear
went to work hefting the two masts from the hold. The rigging, stowed in various places beneath the benches, was dug out and run up along with the sails. It took no more than a quarter of an hour to accomplish this complicated task. During this process Chusor went to various parts of the ship, giving instructions or helping out. When it was all done he came back to where Nikias was sitting and said, “Follow me.”

He led Nikias into his little cabin and shut the door. Chusor pointed at the small bed and said, “You can lie down if you wish. My helmsman is one of the best on the sea, and he is steering us straight for Serifos. You can rest easy for a while.”

Nikias stared at the bed with longing but thought it would be undignified to lie down. “Why did we have to break our backs on this first run?” he asked with undisguised ill temper.

“We spotted some Korinthians,” said Chusor. “We were in no shape with these lubberly crews to try and take them on. I didn't announce their presence because I didn't want anyone to panic.”

“Well, I feel like an idiot now,” said Nikias, sitting down heavily on a little chair and putting his face in his hands. He couldn't believe how tired he felt, but he was grateful that they hadn't been attacked. His thoughts started to drift. He imagined that he was back in his room at the farm in Plataea. He thought he could hear his mother and grandmother singing in the distance. A hand touched his back and he started.

“Eh? What?” said Nikias, getting awkwardly to his feet.

“You fell asleep,” said Chusor. He was standing next to a small table with some kind of map spread out on it and held down with little bronze statues at the corners. Nikias had seen something like it once in Perikles's chambers. He leaned over it and stared. At first it was all meaningless shapes, but then the distinct outlines of islands and shorelines materialized before his eyes and his jaw dropped.

“It's a map of Greece and more,” said Nikias. “Zeus's balls … It's the whole world! From a bird's-eye view!”

“From a
god's
-eye view,” said Chusor proudly.

Nikias stared at the map in awe. “Libya, Persia … Tartessus to the west! Skythia. And look at all of the islands. Are there truly that many?” Nikias added with amazement. “Hundreds of them!”

“Most of the Greek colonies are shown,” said Chusor. “Your people have hopped all over the world, colonizing it like frogs on a pond.”

“Where did you get this map? I've never seen the like.”

“A year ago,” said Chusor, “we took the ship to Miletus in Ionia. A merchant there owed me some money. A great heap of gold, in fact. But he couldn't pay his debt. So he offered me a book in return. A copy of
Sailing Around the World
.”

“I've never heard of it,” said Nikias.

“I had,” said Chusor. “And I had been searching for a copy for many years. I forgave the merchant his debt in exchange for that tome—more than the cost of this ship, mind you. But it was well worth it. The book is a wealth of information and had several maps that I have pieced together. And I have supplemented Hekataeus's earlier work with my own findings. Whenever we pass shorelines, I take careful reference points and…” Chusor paused, realizing that Nikias was not paying attention. His finger was moving across the map from Athens to Plataea, then down to Korinth.

“What is this symbol marked at the Isthmus of Korinth?” asked Nikias.

“That is the Dialkos,” said Chusor.

Nikias had heard of the three-mile-long overland track that the Korinthians used to roll ships from the Aegean Sea to the Gulf of Korinth. “I wish we could go that way,” he said. “We'd be home in a few days.”

“The Korinthians would have us all in chains the instant we set foot on their territory.”

“So which way do we go to get to Naupaktos and Phormion's fleet?”

“Phoenix and I spoke at length about this the other day,” said Chusor. “It's difficult because the entire Peloponnese is under Spartan control. There are no safe landings and the coastlines and bays are teeming with the enemy. And we can't go across the open ocean for days at a time. That would be suicide. Our plan, then, is to make our way to the western coast of Krete. From there the journey becomes treacherous. We must sail at night while this good weather holds and the moon is out. There are many small islands and barren coves in Messenia and the western Peloponnese. Once we get to the Athenian island of Zakynthos, we will be relatively safe and close to the entrance to the Gulf of Korinth and the fortress of Naupaktos, where Phormion keeps his fleet. Then we can consolidate all of the warriors—Athenian and Plataean—who will be going on to the port of Kreusis.”

“How long will it take to get to Naupaktos?” asked Nikias, his head swimming with everything that Chusor had said along with all of the names written on the map. There were so many cities and islands that he had never heard of. The world seemed very big compared to little Plataea—nothing more than a tiny dot amongst the vast world represented by this chart.

“Three months if we're lucky,” said Chusor.

Nikias wondered if Plataea would be able to hold out for that long. Chusor seemed to read his pensive look and said, “Don't worry. Your grandfather won't let the Spartans into the city. You'll arrive in time.”

“I wonder if Kallisto is still alive,” said Nikias. “She went into labor the night we left the citadel. She was supposed to come with us but she had to stay. I didn't even know that she had been forced to stay.”

“That was the gods sparing her from the miasma in Athens,” said Chusor.

“You think?” asked Nikias. “Sometimes I wonder if the gods are even watching.”

“They are there,” said Chusor with a black look. “But most of the time they're laughing at us.”

*   *   *

The wind held strong and pushed the triremes across the dark blue sea under a sapphire-blue sky, the prows of the five ships pushing up great walls of pure white foam. Nikias stood at the prow behind the latticed spray guards next to Diokles, his face wet with mist. There was not a cloud in the sky. It felt as if they were held in the palm of a god, carried across Poseidon's watery realm.

He gazed from ship to ship, marveling at how smoothly everything had gone since they had left Athens. The triremes were still grouped together, their sails swelled taut, racing across the waves. They made Nikias think of a herd of some kind of magical sea creatures, with their painted prow eyes, snout-like rams peeking out above the cutwater, and upswept wooden stern pieces carved to resemble fish tails. He glanced back and saw Chusor standing aft by the helmsman. The old navigator sat as rigid as a statue, his gnarled arms reaching out to clutch either handle of the steering tillers, his white beard pushed forward like a miniature sail, his keen eyes staring straight ahead, hawk-like and unwavering.