Sword of Apollo (3 page)

And then the Thebans invaded Plataea, and during the chaos of the sneak attack, Kolax had fallen in with Nikias's slave, Mula. Together they escaped from the citadel and had had many wonderful adventures that night, killing Thebans and ultimately fighting alongside Nikias in the great Battle at the Gates. Afterward Kolax traveled with Nikias to the strange city of Athens. Nikias went there hoping to find mercenaries to bring back to the Oxlands to help defend Plataea from a coming Spartan siege. Kolax came along in hopes of finding his papa—the great warrior Osyrus.

Kolax did indeed find his father. And when Osyrus learned that the Snow Dog had taken the throne of Skythia, he abandoned Athens—a place crawling with enemy Nuri—and rode north with a score of loyal men to take up service with the Plataeans and earn gold. The fortress of the Three Heads was given to Osyrus to command after he and his warriors had helped rout the Spartan army, who were occupying the old Persian Fort.

The sound of men's voices jolted Kolax from his thoughts. He trotted through an olive grove where farmers were beating the trees with sticks to make immature olives fall to the ground, singing a song to Athena, the creator of the first olive tree. The workers waved at Kolax as he passed and eventually he rode through the grove and came to vineyards laden with grapes. The air buzzed with wasps.

Kolax pulled back gently on the reins and Pegasos came to a stop by one of the rows. The Skythian stared at the wasps with fascination. These insects had been bad this year—the worst in anyone's memory. At least, that's what the Plataeans had told him. The wasps killed off many of the farmers' bees—laid siege to their hives, picking off the bees one by one—and stole their larvae for food. They made Kolax think of Spartans.

He leaned over and snatched a wasp from the air with a lightning-fast movement, shaking it in his fist, letting it sting him a few times before crushing it. Then he grabbed a cluster of grapes from the vine and kept riding toward the farmyard, eating the sweet fruit and spitting out the seeds. He glanced at the little red welts on his palm, savoring the fiery pain that was now throbbing in his veins—the insect's poison. How many wasps would it take to kill him? A thousand? Ten thousand?

Pegasos ambled into the farmyard and headed for the stables. There were several men in the yard fixing a broken plow, and they looked up at Kolax and nodded—they'd seen him there many times before. They were freemen from the citadel who were helping to work Menesarkus's land. All of the Arkon's slaves had been butchered during the Theban sneak attack. Everyone in the city had been pulling together over the last two and a half years to store up supplies in the event of a Spartan siege. Kolax would welcome such an exciting event and the chance to kill more Red Cloaks!

He slid off his horse's back and led him to the stables, putting him in a stall next to Nikias's horse, Photine, who whinnied a greeting to the familiar horse.

“Here is your old friend,” said Kolax to Photine. “Don't give him any more of your love bites,” he warned, shaking one of his fingers.

Kolax saw Nikias's Sargatian lasso hanging on a peg on the wall. The braided leather whip resembled a coiled snake, and Kolax regarded it for some time, wondering why he was suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding. He grabbed a bucket and headed to the well for some water for Pegasos, passing the pitch house—the place where pine sap was turned into resin for torches. The powerful smell hit his nostrils and he breathed in the heady scent.

Under the protected shade of a storage shed nearby he saw the two infant girls—the beautiful black-haired daughters of Nikias and Kallisto—crawling in the straw, playing with some tortoises that Kolax had found up on the mountain a few months ago and brought as presents. Nikias's sister, Phile, sat on the ground, spinning wool and weeping softly. When she saw him she looked embarrassed and turned away.

“Why do you shed tears, Phile?” Kolax asked, walking over to the shed. He knelt down and held out his thumbs for one of the girls—he could never tell which was which—and the child grabbed them, swinging from his arms and laughing.

“What are you doing here?” Phile asked faintly.

“My f-father—” stuttered Kolax. “He … let me leave the fort. I've come for one of our writing lessons.”

“Maybe later,” said Phile, wiping away her tears from her big dark eyes. “Kallisto is sick and needs peace. And Grandmother is at the market in the citadel. So I'm watching the girls.”

“Where is your brother?” Kolax asked. “And Mula?”

“I don't know,” said Phile, staring numbly at girls. “They went to get the bull an hour ago.”

“Asterion escaped again?” asked Kolax, shaking his head with disdain. Poor Nikias. Such a knucklebrain when it came to animals. He'd told him how to make a proper Skythian enclosure for such a powerful bull. But did Nikias listen? No.

He put the lion's head over his own and crawled around, snarling comically, until one of the girls started to laugh but the other began to cry.

Kolax's stomach growled loudly and Phile smiled out of the corner of her mouth.

“Go into the kitchen,” she said. “You'll find something to eat.”

Kolax left Phile with her thoughts and walked somberly to the house. He knew why she was sad. She'd been in love with a young man—Kallisto's brother, Theron by name. But the unlucky young man had died of an illness last year. He'd come from a cursed family, though. Their father had been in league with the traitor Nauklydes, and three of his brethren had died—one way or another—on the night of the sneak attack.

He entered the house calling out a greeting and made his way to the kitchen. He was surprised to find Kallisto by the bread oven, kneading dough, her face pale and sweaty, dark circles under her eyes. Normally he found her to be a strong, good-looking woman with her thick black hair and prominent nose. But today she looked haggard and weak, save her fetching muscular arms that rippled as she worked the dough.

“What are you doing?” asked Kolax. “Phile said you were ill.”

“Someone has to make the bread,” she replied. She stepped back to reveal her swollen belly. The baby would come soon. Kolax hoped it would be a boy, for Nikias's sake. Such a disaster if a man were to sire three girls and no sons.

Kallisto made a strange face and breathed through her nose.

“You're not going to have the baby now, are you?” he asked, horrified.

She smiled and shook her head. “A big kick,” she said. “Hard.”

“He's a boy,” said Kolax with a knowing grin. He quickly took off his gear—his lidded quiver, bow, knives, and leaf-bladed sword—and leaned it against the wall. “Let me do that,” he said, helping Kallisto to a bench by the window. He took the bread and started to knead it expertly, breaking off balls and flattening them. Phile had taught him how to make bread last year after he had proclaimed that the job did not seem like such a difficult task. Phile was always complaining about making bread. Kolax had been wrong—it was indeed a very hard task—but he had persisted until he could bake a perfect round loaf.

While he worked he told Kallisto about the goings-on at the fort, how many Dog Raiders he had killed, and other adventures, like his slaying of the lion. But she did not seem too interested, and after a while he stopped talking. Something wasn't right. He could feel it in his gut. He got her some water from a big jar and made her drink it all, sitting by her side. Kolax's mother had died giving birth to his sister, and even though she had been under the grass now for seven years, he still missed her. He did not want Kallisto to join her.

When he was done with the bread, he put his weapons back on and wandered into the yard. He stood for a while watching the men, who were still mending the plow. They were having trouble fitting one of the iron pieces together with the other. Kolax was glad that he didn't have to plow a field. What a miserable way to spend one's life.

He strolled down to the place where Asterion the bull was kept. He saw the broken fence—the place where the animal had broken through the rails. He found the prints of Nikias and Mula in the mud and followed them through the tall sodden grass. A fat snake with orange and black rings slithered in front of him, and Kolax jumped on it, picking it up and staring into its beady black eyes.

“Poor thing,” he said. “Your poison is weak. You can't even kill a mouse.”

He flung the snake into the grass, then followed the tracks of Nikias and Mula as the indentations in the grass turned and headed north. He stopped and looked back toward the busy farm. He could make out the shape of Phile sitting under the eaves of the shed. Should he go back to her? Maybe she would feel like giving him his lesson now. Not only had she taught him to read, but she had also taught him to write.

Just then a crow flew overhead, cawing loudly. It was headed in the same direction that Nikias and Mula had gone. The crow seemed to be calling to Kolax. But what was it saying?

 

THREE

Sweat poured down Nikias's face and a fat fly landed on his forehead. However, he dared not move to brush it aside. Four glinting speartips hovered inches from his face.

But the Median riders regarded him with little concern. He was nothing more to them than a useless farmer. Their eyes were fixed on their master expectantly, waiting for him to give them an order.

The princely Persian had been lost in thought for several minutes. “This must be the place,” he said distractedly, astride his mount and looking about the hilltop with the uncertain squint of a nearsighted man. He was at least thirty years of age, Nikias reckoned, and he was small and wiry compared to most Greek men.

“This
must
be the battlefield where my ancestor fell,” declared the Persian. He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer under his breath—a prayer, Nikias recognized, to the Persian's deity Ahura Mazda. When he was done he dismounted and tossed his spear to one of his riders, then bent down and dug around in the tall dry grass as if he were searching for something that he had lost. “I've heard you can still find arrows,” he said. “And even bones.”

Nikias's mind raced. The Persians were Theban allies. They would kill him and Mula if they knew they were Plataean. He had to get away with the boy. But even if he and Mula managed to bolt past the spear-wielding horsemen, they could not outrun the riders—or their arrows. And they were four miles from the citadel of Plataea. If only he could get on the Persian's horse, which stood so tantalizingly close. The animal looked fast. He could outride the Medians and head for the borderland watchtower a mile away … but he would have to leave little Mula behind. He glanced at the boy, who was looking at him with terrified eyes.

“Zeus guide me,” he said to himself, for he was frozen with uncertainty.

The Persian wrenched something from the grass and held it close to his eyes: it was a bronze spearhead, green with age. “That's not a Persian design,” he said under his breath, and tossed it aside. “But which way is Thebes?” he muttered, standing up. “Damn this ugly country.” He reached around and pulled a wineskin off his back and took a long draft. “Where is that stupid Tanagraean guide with the runny arse?” he asked the riders.

“He could not stop shitting, Anusiya,” replied one of the Median bodyguards. “He stopped a league back. He said this is dangerous country and begged you not to ride ahead. But he was inconvenienced.”

The Persian laughed and spit some wine in the direction of Nikias and Mula. “Dangerous?” he said with a sneer, pointing a crooked finger at the bull and the cow. The bull had finished his efforts and was gently nibbling the cow's neck. “Are you afraid of love-making beasts?”

“No, Anusiya,” said the Median, avoiding the Persian's haughty gaze and staring hard at Nikias.

“Are you afraid of a skinny slave boy and a naked farmer?”

“No, Anusiya.”

Nikias knew enough Persian to understand the foreigners' words. This well-dressed Persian was an
anusiya
: an elite warrior. And he'd ridden into the Oxlands with a guide from Tanagra—a Theban ally twenty miles to the east of that citadel. The place where Nikias had been held captive and tortured by Eurymakus.

This Persian, he realized, had gotten lost on the last leg of his journey to Thebes. He'd left his guide and gone looking for the famous battleground from the Persian Wars like some sort of sheep-stuffing tourist!

Nikias noticed that the Persian carried a leather satchel on his back: a messenger's pouch. He must be an envoy. If only he could get his hands on that bag. What secrets lay within? The Persians had backed the venomous Eurymakus—the Theban assassin who had launched the sneak attack on Thebes. And the current Spartan war against Athens—the endless raids into Athenian territory to burn homes and fields—was rumored to be financed with Persian gold.

The Persian's eyes alighted on Nikias and he started, as if coming out of a deep trance. He ordered his men to drop their spears, strode over to Nikias, and stopped with his face a few inches away. “You've taken some beatings about the head,” he declared. “Handsome, in a brutish Greek way.” He looked at Mula and bent down, inspecting the boy's looks like a patron at a boy brothel, putting his hand under Mula's chin and raising his face to his own. “Pretty child, though,” he said.

The Persian crossed his arms on his chest and stared at Nikias and Mula in a lazy, self-satisfied manner. Then he glanced over his shoulder and said to the Medians, “I'll take the boy and you can share the big farm lad, though I doubt he'll be quite as easy to manage.”

Nikias saw Mula's eyes grow even wider with fear and he moved his head from side to side, mouthing the word “no.”

Four of the Medians dismounted and the Persian envoy started to untie the drawstring of his pants. Nikias tensed, readying himself to strike.