Sword of Apollo (28 page)

Nikias looked to the right and saw Phoenix's ship. His cousin was standing by the mast, waving at him. He smiled and shouted something but Nikias couldn't hear him over the wind. He cupped a hand to his ear to show that he needed to shout louder, but Phoenix made a dismissive gesture as if to say, “It's not important.”

“Phoenix say, ‘We go very fast!'” said Diokles.

“I reckoned as much,” said Nikias, and thought, “Nothing can stop us. Nothing can stop us from getting back to Plataea.”

“Look,” said Diokles, pointing at the prow of the ship. “Sea wolves.”

Nikias squinted at the white foam. All of a sudden the sleek gray shapes of dolphins appeared from the lather, leaping and playing, racing the ship, the fins on their arched backs cutting through the boiling water like axe blades.

“A good sign,” said Diokles, slapping Nikias on the back.

“Do you know the story of how Apollo turned himself into a dolphin?” asked Nikias.

“No. Tell me,” said Diokles.

“Many years ago Apollo came to the temple of Delphi,” began Nikias. “Back then there was a great serpent—a python—that terrorized the land.”

“Where is Delphi?” asked Diokles. “Is it an island?”

“No. It's northwest of Plataea. On the side of a steep hill overlooking a valley of olive trees that lead to a bay. You can ride to Delphi in three days from Plataea. I've been several times with my grandfather to hear the oracles. Anyway, the snake was enormous and—”

“Bigger than a horse?” broke in Diokles.

“Oh, much bigger. As big as a pine tree.”

“How did Apollo kill the giant snake?” Diokles said, his guileless face alive with wonder.

“He shot it!” said Nikias. “With his darts.”

“I would have used a forge hammer,” offered Diokles.

“Anyway,” continued Nikias, “Mother Earth became angry with Apollo because the python was her son.”

“Many women bear snakes for sons,” put in Diokles.

“Too true,” said Nikias. “So, to make up for this, he served a king in Thessaly as a goatherd for eight years.”

“Boring,” muttered Diokles.

“My story?” asked Nikias, with a surprised laugh.

“No! Watching goats all day. I used to have to do that when I was a slave in Sparta. I like the sea much better. No goats.”

Nikias smiled inwardly at the childlike Diokles. There was not a malicious bone in the man's body. He had forgotten how much he liked the Helot.

“So what happened?” asked Diokles.

“When Apollo had served his time, he turned himself into a dolphin and bore priests from his temple in Krete upon his back, bringing them all the way to Delphi.”

“That would hurt,” said Diokles.

“If you were a dolphin?” asked Nikias.

“If you were a Kretan priest,” said Diokles. “Imagine one of those fins sticking up your arse!”

 

TWELVE

By late afternoon the friendly wind at their back was still blowing hard and the convoy was within sight of the barren-looking island of Serifos. The
Spear of Thetis
took the lead and guided the other ships to the mouth of a bay on the northeast tip of the island—a crescent-shaped inlet with steep hills sloping up on either side. Running nearly to the beach was a swath of olive trees that snaked up a little valley to the top of a hill.

“Stow the masts!” called out Chusor.

With the same efficient grace with which the veteran mariners had put up the masts and rigging, they took it all down in a blur of activity. After the masts, sail, and all of the gear were stowed away, the men were told to get back to the benches. Even though Nikias had been resting for several hours, his body still ached from toes to neck as he sat down and eased his oar into the tholepin.

They didn't have to pull hard, however, for soon they were gliding into the gentle waves of the protected cove. They ran the ship onto the sandy beach, and then the whistle piped.

“Landing ladders,” called out Diokles.

Veterans grabbed the landing ladders and locked them into place, and Nikias scrambled over the side with the others, standing next to the ship in waist-deep water. The men put their shoulders to the hull and lifted the trireme the short distance to the shore and set it down on the beach, where it listed to one side like a beached whale.

Nikias looked at the empty cove. There wasn't a person or dwelling in sight. By the look of the abundant plant life all around, he reckoned there must be a spring nearby. He shaded his eyes and peered at the top of the hill above the cove where there stood a single enormous and ancient olive tree. He saw a movement there—the figure of a small man standing up suddenly. He squinted and saw that it was a goatherd wearing a woven straw hat. And it wasn't a man but a slender lad.

Nikias turned to see if Chusor had spotted this sentinel. The captain of the
Spear
was staring straight up at the boy, holding a piece of burnished copper, which he turned this way and that to catch the light, flashing a signal. When Nikias looked back toward the hill, the goatherd was no longer there.

“Who was that up there?” Nikias asked as he walked over to Chusor.

Chusor hid the piece of copper in his palm. “Just an islander,” he said abruptly. “I must have words with my crew. Perhaps you could take some men and round up wood for cooking fires. We'll have food in a few hours or so.” He then called all of his veteran oarsmen together and led them off to some rocks on the left side of the beach—a crowd of the marauders, along with Diokles and Ezekiel.

Another ship from the convoy appeared in the cove and was quickly beached alongside the
Spear
. It was Phoenix's vessel and bore a one-armed sailor who leapt from the top of a landing ladder and ran triumphantly toward Nikias.

“Konon!” shouted Nikias, running up and embracing his friend. “You made it!”

“Just barely,” said Konon. “They almost didn't let me on board—they said a one-armed oarsman was about as useful as a three-legged horse. But Phoenix saw me and let me come. I banged the oar drum the entire way.”

“Well, I'm glad that you're here,” said Nikias. The other three ships appeared at the mouth of the cove. Soon the beach would be crowded with ships and men.

“Just think!” exclaimed Konon. “This is the island where the baby Perseus and his mother washed up in the chest! This might be the very cove where the old fisherman found them!”

“These islands are all full of tales
and
fishermen,” Nikias said under his breath.

Nikias rounded up some Plataeans and young Athenians and went to work gathering wood near the beach while keeping an eye on Chusor and the marauders. He couldn't hear what Chusor was saying to his crew but he could see that he spoke urgently and emphatically. Most of the men were nodding obediently at his words, but some scowled and complained. These were quickly set upon by their brethren with angry words and a few fists.

“What are they on about?” asked Konon.

“I don't know,” said Nikias.

At a command from Chusor, twenty of the mariners broke off from the group and scrambled onto the
Spear
. They came down minutes later armed with spears and swords and headed into the grove, where they vanished into the dense trees.

Nikias took upon himself the task of making fires. Somehow the ship's flint had managed to go missing, so Nikias made flames using a bow drill. Soon there were several bonfires roaring on the beach, with nearly thousand men crowded around them. Some lay about resting while others swam in the water, cleaning themselves, or explored the olive grove that stood inland. A few came back reporting that they had found a well and men went off with empty amphoras to bring back a supply of freshwater. A few men, wandering off together in pairs, sought out privacy behind the rocks or in the woods for quick relief of their pent-up desires.

Nikias looked up at the hillside above the cove and saw a score of men standing at attention with spears. Curiously, they were facing the cove, as if to guard the hillside from any man who might make an attempt to journey inland. Why had Chusor set his men to guard the hill? And why had he flashed that signal to the young goatherd when they'd first arrived on the beach? He couldn't see Chusor anywhere. He did spot a group of his mariners milling about the
Spear
with sullen looks, speaking to each other in low voices. They were watched over by Diokles and some other members of the marauders' crew. One of them went up to Diokles and said something to him, pointing at the hillside, and the Helot knocked the man down—a brutal blow that made the mariner's knees wobble, then he slumped to the beach like a sack of wheat. Diokles pointed at the other men in the group threateningly and they backed off, dragging their companion to the shade cast by the ship.

Nikias saw Ezekiel and jogged over to him. “What's going on?” Nikias asked. “Why are some of Chusor's crew acting mutinous?”

Ezekiel looked crafty and shrugged. “They want to go raiding in the countryside, I suppose. Chusor won't allow it. We need the locals on our side.”

Nikias glanced over at the group of six or seven mariners sitting in the shade of the boat, tending to the man whom Diokles had flattened. They did not look like bloodthirsty men bent on raiding and pillaging. Rather, they appeared depressed and surly—as though they had been struck to the heart by some grievous blow.

“Some men just won't listen to reason,” said Ezekiel, and wandered off.

Several hours passed. Nikias bathed in the sea and then lay down naked on the sand and dozed, enjoying the cool evening air.

“Well, Cousin,” said Phoenix, coming back from a tryst with a smile on his face, “this was much better than our last time at sea together.”

“I'm astonished at the difference,” said Nikias, rolling over. “I didn't feed the fishes once.”

“I'm wondering how we're going to feed all of these men,” said Phoenix, peering about with his crease-eyed mariner's squint.

“I was wondering the same thing,” said Nikias. “We can't live on hard olives.”

“Chusor told me not to worry,” said Phoenix. “But all of our ships are empty. There were no spare provisions to be found in Athens.”

“There's wheat on board the
Spear
,” said Nikias. “Hundreds of bags in the hold. Enough to make bread for several weeks.”

“Mariners need
meat
,” said Phoenix. “I told Chusor that we should send raiding parties into the interior of the island, but he said the locals are warlike and will kill anyone who ventures onto their land, so I and the other captains have agreed to keep all our mariners here at the cove. But the men aren't going to remain docile if their bellies are groaning.”

“Where's Aristophanes?” asked Nikias. “I saw him board your ship at Piraeus.”

“What, the young comedian?” said Phoenix disdainfully. “He jumped ship before we even left the Piraeus harbor. He took one look at the bottom deck and buggered off like a hare.”

Nikias shook his head and muttered, “Actors and playwrights.”

“Hey, there's Chusor now,” said Phoenix, pointing.

Nikias looked up. Chusor stood on the top of the hill above the cove by the spearmen, talking to the young goatherd to whom he had earlier flashed the message. The lad was perhaps fourteen years of age. It was hard to tell because the broad-brimmed woven hat hid his features. The two stood several paces apart, and when the goatherd stepped toward Chusor with his hand raised as if to touch him, Chusor backed suddenly away and held up his palm, causing the goatherd to stop. Nikias realized that Chusor didn't want to get close to this young man. He was evidently afraid that he might be carrying the Athenian sickness about him like a dark cloud.

Chusor spoke vehemently to the goatherd and the teenager nodded his head submissively and turned his face toward the beach, seeming to look straight at Nikias for a moment from under the shadow of the hat. For some reason Nikias felt an inexplicable sense of expectancy. Who was this young man? He thought of the story of Apollo that he had told to Diokles—this goatherd could have stepped from that tale. The youth turned abruptly and headed over the top of the hill, disappearing from sight down the other side on his long, slender legs.

Chusor ambled down the slope toward the cove until he was within earshot of the beach, then cupped his hands to his mouth and called out in his booming voice, “I need fifty men! Come now! And bring knives!”

“What's he up to?” asked Phoenix.

“I don't know,” replied Nikias.

Nikias, Phoenix, and fifty or so men made their way through the olive grove and up a little cleft, then emerged onto the slope. They clambered up the rocks toward the hilltop above. When they crested it, they were met with a curious sight: Chusor, standing patiently and holding a cow by the lead, surrounded by scores of docile goats. Five shepherds—the ones who had obviously brought the animals—were already a quarter of a mile away, walking on a white footpath etched into the arid ground that led toward the center of the island.

“Dinner!” shouted Phoenix joyfully, scooping up a black goat.

“I didn't want the shepherds near us,” said Chusor, “in case we have brought the evil miasma with us. They have agreed to bring us animals each day that we linger here. We'll have to set up racks on the beach to smoke some meat for the next leg of the voyage. Any supplies that we need can be ordered from the village, but we'll have to pay in silver.”

“Excellent,” said Phoenix. “I like this island.”

“We'll slaughter the animals up here,” said Chusor, “then sacrifice the cow to Poseidon down on the beach tonight.”

“A feast!” shouted a young Athenian.

“This voyage gets better and better,” said another.