Sword of Apollo (29 page)

Nikias picked up one of the goats and held it in his arms. He stared at the goatherds and the slender lad with the straw hat—now just a tiny figure. The young man stopped for a moment and looked back. Inexplicably Nikias's heart beat faster, matching the throbbing heartbeat of the frightened goat he held in his arms.

 

THIRTEEN

The sacrifice did not keep the sickness away. The savory smoke from the choicest parts of the cow—the most tender meat and thickest fat to please the gods—wafted skyward, but it did nothing to appease their apparent wrath. That night the miasma came to the camp on the beach like a ravenous beast that moves on silent paws. The victims were all men who had been lucky enough to avoid getting sick in Athens. Here, in this bright and beautiful cove, their luck ended. By next morning fifty men had fallen ill and five had died.

Days went by in a ruthless tedium of sickness, death, and manual labor. Trees had to be cut down for firewood to burn the corpses of the men who kept breathing their lives into the dust. More goats—brought by the shepherds to replenish the stock—needed to be slaughtered for food, for the living had to be fed even while the putrid dead piled up. Freshwater was gathered from the well that sat far from the beach. All the while Chusor's guard of mariners stood on the hillside like ominous statues staring down at the cove, a line of stalwart defenders.

One morning Nikias awoke to find the bodies of two marauders hanging from the biggest olive tree nearest the beach. “They tried to sneak past the guards,” said Diokles.

“And Chusor hanged them?” Nikias asked, shocked at this harsh justice.

“Chusor did not want to hang them,” said Diokles. “The men did that themselves. They know what is at stake if the sickness spreads to the island.”

Nikias had never heard of marauders acting with such benevolence for their fellow humans, but he did not press Diokles. He had fallen into a dark gloom that neither the pure blue water of the cove nor the bright sun, nor even Konon's cheery disposition could dispel. He realized that Chusor had brought them to this isolated place to let the sickness run its course. They could not risk getting sick at sea. But how long would they have to stay here, watching their crews be whittled down? So many men had died that one of the ships would have to be left here; there weren't enough men to man all five triremes any more.

Every so often he would see the goatherd with the big straw hat standing on the top of the hill, seemingly searching him out amongst the crowd of men on the beach. At first he thought he was imagining this, but after several times he felt that he could not be mistaken. For some reason the goatherd was looking for him, and this made him uneasy.

After another three days—a week after they had arrived on Serifos—the evil miasma seemed to have run its course. No new cases of the sickness were reported, and virtually everyone who remained standing had either already survived a bout with the illness—as Nikias and Chusor had—or seemed to be miraculously immune, like Konon and Phoenix.

Phoenix and the other captains started taking men out onto the sea and training them at the complicated oar maneuvers of galley fighting. It was hard work, but Nikias was thankful to be doing something other than gathering wood for pyres or skinning goats. The young Athenians and Plataeans caught on fast, and after a week of training the four ships could come together on choppy water, aft to aft in a defensive “star” position, then burst out at full speed to ram an enemy. For this exercise they put the
Democracy
—the least seaworthy of the five ships that had set out from Athens—at anchor in the middle of the bay and took turns ramming it. The ship, its hull breached, slowly filled with more and more water after each successful ramming. Soon the
Democracy
was swamped and floated in the bay like a corpse.

Nikias enjoyed ramming another ship. It was a powerful sensation to feel the trireme jump forward, each oarsman working as one, and slam at full speed into the hull. It was the same sensation he got when punching an opponent in the jaw. Chusor said that fighting at sea was merely pankration with ships, which Nikias thought was an apt description.

Another week went by and still the sickness did not come back, but the westerly wind continued to blow hard, making it impossible for them to leave the cove: they would have had to fight the wind all the way to their next destination. But the mariners grew strong on goat meat and bread baked from the
Spear
's supply of wheat. And the oldest mariners, including Chusor's ancient helmsman, said that a friendly wind would soon return, and then they could head on their way to the next stop on their intended route—the tiny isle of Agios, which lay south of the Spartan-held island of Kythera.

Toward dusk a little boat came into the cove and headed toward the beach. Nikias was eating the evening meal with Chusor, Diokles, Konon, and Ezekiel near one of the cooking fires—roasting chunks of goat and wild onions on sticks.

“Who's this?” asked Konon.

“Fisherman, most likely,” said Nikias.

“Thank Poseidon! Maybe he'll have some squid. It would be a nice change from goat.”

“It's not a fisherman,” said Diokles, breaking into a broad grin as the boat cruised up to the beach and its only occupant leapt from the craft and pulled it onto the shore.

Chusor started laughing. “No, it's not a fisherman.”

“Too bad,” said Konon with a sigh.

“Never thought I'd see
him
again,” said Ezekiel.

The short man looked around the camp and, spotting Chusor and the others waving at him, marched up to the fire, squinting at them with his narrow eyes. He had smooth skin and a wispy beard—the only hair on his face. It was difficult for Nikias to determine his age, but he sensed a great strength and intelligence—and a hint of menace—from the wiry little man.

“Let me introduce my ship's exhorter,” Chusor said to Nikias. “This is Ji. He comes from a land far to the east—beyond even the country of Indika.”

Ji bowed slightly to Nikias, who nodded back and said, “Peace.”

“Where have you been?” asked Diokles.

“I got … lost,” said Ji cryptically. “I did not touch ground for a week after leaving Athens. Korinthian ships everywhere. I had to hide out on Kythnos for a while.” He sat on the beach cross-legged and, taking a skewer of goat meat from Ezekiel, blew on it a few times before shoving a large piece in his mouth. “I haven't eaten in many days,” he said, chewing hard.

“I thought perhaps you had gone back to your own land,” said Chusor.

“Too far,” said Ji. “Too dangerous. I'll take my chances with you lot.”

Ji ate and ate and offered little in conversation, but Nikias could tell that Chusor and the others were glad to see him. Later that night, with the setting of the sun, the wind changed to the northeast, as if Ji—the foreigner from the East—had brought the new wind with him. Nikias and Konon went off to the niche in some rocks where they had made their resting place. He lay on his back staring at the stars, wondering what the day's journey would bring.

But Nikias awoke in the middle of the night with a start. He looked around in the moonlight at the sleeping form of Konon, wondering what had woken him up. His friend lay on his stomach, snoring loudly. Nikias noticed, with surprise, that one of his own sandals was on his chest and he picked it up, staring at it in confusion. Then another sandal dropped from above and landed on his stomach and he jumped to his feet. Standing on the rocks above was the figure of the goatherd with the big straw hat, face hidden by the dark shadow cast by the brim. The stranger held a finger to his lips and gestured for Nikias to put on his sandals and follow.

Nikias, compelled by some mysterious fascination, slipped on his footwear and caught up to the goatherd, who had already moved off into the woods. The young man stepped silently, picking his way quickly along the trail. What did this stranger want of him? And why was he foolishly following him without question? There was something strange about this lad. He seemed different than when Nikias had seen him standing on top of the hill. He appeared taller now. And Nikias didn't remember him having such comely hips that swayed fetchingly as he walked.

He felt as though he were in a strange dream from which he could not break free. The goatherd led him off the main trail and onto a path that wended through the olive trees on the right side of the slope. They made their way over a rocky area and then up to a ridgeline. They walked for twenty minutes or so, the light of the moon guiding their way on a switchback trail until they came to a little plateau. Here stood a small temple made of marble, with a tiled roof. The goatherd went inside and Nikias followed. They were all alone here in this place, far from the camp and out of sight of the sentries on the hilltop. Nikias asked with a trembling voice, “Who are you?”

“Do you not know?”

The skin of Nikias's neck and cheeks tingled with excitement. The figure who stood before him was no lad—it was a woman in disguise. “Helena,” he said, amazed.

She took off the straw hat to reveal her exquisite face. Her eyes shone in the bright light of the moon that poured through the temple columns, and she smiled hesitantly. She unloosed her hair that was bound at the back of her head, and her curly and untidy locks fell about her neck, touching her shoulders like fingers.

“I always liked dressing up,” she said.

Nikias stood with his mouth agape. Now he understood why Chusor had acted so strangely when they first landed here, why the marauders had been so diligent about keeping everyone at the cove in isolation. Serifos was their own home. They had been terrified of infecting their loved ones who lived on the other side of the island. And Chusor had kept the knowledge of Helena's existence here a secret for the very same reason—so that Nikias would not seek her out.

Helena took a step toward him but he backed away, even though every fiber of his body was screaming at him to take her in his arms. “No!” he said emphatically, holding up his palms. “Stay where you are. You can't come near me.”

“But my sister told me that the miasma was gone from the camp,” she said. “There are no new illnesses.”

“How does your sister know that?”

“She comes to the camp every day. The goatherd whose clothes and hat I'm wearing now—the youth with short hair.”

Nikias understood. Helena's half sister—the slip of a girl he had met in Athens years ago—was the “lad” he'd seen talking to Chusor. She'd grown several inches in that time and had cut her long hair so that she now resembled a boy.

“Chusor's daughter,” said Nikias. The wind had started to pick up and Nikias thought that he heard something on the wind. The sound of a cry or a horn. He strained to listen but heard nothing more.

“Chusor disguised us as boys, you see,” said Helena. “To get us out of Athens. My hair was shorn just like Melitta's is now. I let it grow back, but Melitta has chosen to keep hers that way. She was always a trickster, and she has grown wild on this island.” She took a step forward but Nikias held up his hand again.

“The
gods
are tricksters,” he said. “We can't take the risk of being together. This sickness turns the mightiest man into a corpse in hours. I could be carrying the miasma on me now, like an invisible cloak.” He thought of the hanged men—slain by their fellow marauders simply for trying to go back home to see their families. He, Nikias, was risking the same punishment merely by talking to Helena now.

“Don't be foolish.”

“I'm not being foolish. I've helped burn the dead! Hundreds of men. Tens of thousands have already died in Athens. Many of my own people too. Now I must go!”

Helena's face fell and she sank to her knees, letting forth a stricken groan. “I've come nearly every day to the hilltop merely to catch a glimpse of you. And now you are to leave tomorrow and … and I might never see you again. I'll die if that happens. I'll die.” She wiped the tears that coursed down her cheeks. “I already thought I had lost you once before. Not a day has gone by that I haven't thought of you.”

“I have to go back,” said Nikias in a panic. In battle or a pankration bout he was calm and keen witted. Now he felt like he was drowning. He couldn't think straight. “I can't stay here with you.”

“We don't have to touch,” said Helena. “Just sit for a while. I beg you. We can talk. Surely the sickness can't leap from you like a poisoned dart shot from a bow.”

Nikias could not tear his eyes from her face. His desire to hold her was so strong, it was making him queasy—as if he were in a boat on a stormy sea. He felt weak and stupid. He sat down heavily on the ground and nodded. “Yes. We can talk for a while.”

Helena wiped the tears from her face again and smiled. “Do I look very different from when we met in Athens?” she asked shyly. “I have been in the sun these years, working in the fields. I fear I've become dark and homely.”

She did indeed look different from the hetaerae he had known and made love to in Athens. Back then she had been dressed in the finest clothes. Her skin had been painted and her hair intricately arranged. But now she resembled a dusky goddess—Persephone come to life and returned from the underworld to bring hope to the world again. “You're even more beautiful than I remembered,” he said with sincerity.

His words brought a faint smile to her lips. “When Chusor came to help my sister and me escape from Athens, he told us everything that had happened to you on your journey home.”

“I thought of you often,” he said. “When I was tortured by the enemy, your face came to me in my fevered dreams—it was the only thought that kept me from losing my mind.”

“Chusor said that you suffered greatly,” said Helena. “That you almost died.” She glanced at his hand with the missing finger, and then at the left side of his face with his scars and slightly squinting eye. “He told me that as soon as you awoke from your delirium, you told him about us. And then Chusor came to Athens—three weeks after you had departed the city, just like you promised he would. There is a little stronghold on the top of the mountain in the center of the island. That is where we live. There are watchtowers on the four corners of the island that keep a lookout for raiders. Life is very different here than in Athens, but I am no longer one of Kleon's puppets. I am free now. I am free to be with whomever I want,” she added, giving him a significant look.