Sword of Apollo (39 page)

Where were all of the prisoners hiding? Where was everyone? He bent down and cupped a handful of powdery limestone dust—the ground was thick with the stuff—and rubbed it on his face, cleansing himself as best he could of the shit and urine that had been flung at him.

Diokles hit the quarry floor with thump and a cloud of dust. Nikias helped get him out of the harness. The Helot's face was streaked with tears. “My little Lylit betrayed me,” he said in a high voice, like a stricken toddler.

A figure suddenly emerged from the dark entrance of a small cave nearby and jogged over to them. As he got closer Nikias could see that the man was short and slender, with a sparse beard and one eye. Above the missing eye's socket was a deep indentation on his forehead. He had obviously suffered a serious blow to the head that had caved in his skull and wrecked his eye, and now his brow resembled a dented helm.

“Hello,” said the man with a friendly smile that showed his prominent rabbit-like incisors. “My name's Thersites. Welcome to our home. What's your name?”

Nikias was taken aback by the man's good-natured introduction and replied, “My name is Nikias of Plataea. And this is my friend Diokles.”

“Wait here,” said Thersites, “and I'll be right back. I must make my report, and scratch my arse, for I forgot to do that this morning. Rituals, you know.” He ran back into the cave from which he had come.

“Just let me do the talking,” Nikias said to Diokles.

The Helot stood with his shoulders slumped, staring at his feet. “I have nothing to say,” he replied morosely as hot tears continued to gush from the corners of his dark brown eyes. “I am dead in my heart.”

Nikias put his hand on the short man's brawny neck and gave him a little squeeze. But Diokles shook himself away from Nikias's hand—the petulant gesture of a child who feels sad and scorned. Nikias left him alone to stew in his misery.

Men started to emerge from various niches and cave entrances around the perimeter of the quarry. Their numbers quickly swelled. Most were naked and many carried work tools—chisels and hammers. Nikias's heart started beating faster and he forced himself to be calm. He wasn't going to be gang-raped. He would die before that happened.

The quarrymen surrounded him in a big circle and stared at him silently. They were savage-looking men—tanned brown from the relentless sun, scarred, and muscled. Most had bushy beards and wild, unkempt hair. They scowled at him, staring him down, waiting for him to break. But he stood with his arms crossed on his chest, staring back at them, from one man to the next.

Thersites pushed his way through the crowd and took Nikias by the hand. “Come, this way!” he said jovially. “We're going to have fun today! It's a festival day, no? It's a blue-sky, cool-breeze day, yes?”

Nikias let himself be led by the little man, and the circle of quarrymen parted to let them through. He looked back over his shoulder and saw Diokles, docile and dejected, pushed along by the others.

Thersites led Nikias through the warren of archways to a big open area. Across the way was an enormous gash in the side of the quarry wall that went from the floor nearly to the top. Standing far back in the shadows he could see the figure of a statue with a smiling face.

“Stay where you are,” said Thersites in a low voice. “Let the Quarry Lord have a look at you. Don't fart. Or smirk.”

Nikias followed Thersites's eyes to the statue in the cave. As Thersites approached it, the “statue” moved and Nikias realized that it was a man wearing a crudely carved stone mask, his skin covered with gray stone dust. Nikias glanced over his shoulder. A thousand or so prisoners had made a wall of men behind him and Diokles.

“Nikias of Plataea!” shouted the naked man in the cave all of a sudden, and his voice—spoken with the grating accent of a Karthaginian—echoed in the chamber and seemed to hover in the air, repeating and shifting, slurring and morphing before the sound spilled out into the quarry and dissipated. The effect was eerie and sent a chill up Nikias's spine.

Nikias looked at Thersites and asked, “What do I say?”

“Do not speak unless spoken to,” said Thersites. “That's proper manners. At least where I come from. On the moon,” he added, pointing to the sky.

“Hammers or chisels?” asked the Quarry Lord, and his words repeated the same weird echoing pattern, seemingly flying around the cave like birds or insects.

Nikias turned to Thersites. “What's he talking about?”

“You get to choose the weapons for you and your opponent to fight with,” said Thersites with a broad smile. “Hammers or chisels. Every time a new man comes into the quarry, a shade must depart. It's been the Quarry Lord's law since he took over. Keeps the population down,” he added with a nervous laugh.

Nikias's heart sank. He realized that he was going to have to fight one of these men. And kill him. His shoulders slumped and he looked toward the blue sky, shaking his head. He felt too weak to fight now. Thersites, shuffling and bouncing with excitement, was nodding his head and grinning—a look that said, “Isn't this fun?”—and Nikias realized that the man was utterly insane.

“Can I have something to eat and a rest first?” Nikias said. Stuff these quarrymen and their little game. They could all go to Hades.

Thersites choked on his spit and gave Nikias a terrified look, then backed away from him. “This isn't a joke,” he said. “The fight is to the death. You know? When they pull your shade from your body and kick dirt on your face.”

“I didn't think it was a joke,” said Nikias. “But I'm tired and hungry. If I'm going to die, I'd like to do it on a full belly.”

The prisoners within earshot of Nikias started to grumble. They had never before heard such impudence! “He wants a meal and a nap!” one man shouted, and the others started to bark out insults. But their noise was cut short by a weird sound that erupted from the cave—the sound of mirthful laughter.

“Your Quarry King thought it was funny,” Nikias said.

“Quarry
Lord
,” corrected Thersites. “Remember our manners, lad. This isn't the Antipodes, where men's feet are on their heads and their mouths are in their arses.”

After the laughter had died down, the Quarry Lord said in a firm voice, “You may rest while the Helot goes first.”

Nikias glanced at Diokles. The Helot smiled at him dolefully and said, “I'm ready, Nik. I'll fight.” He made a little gesture over his heart.

But Nikias knew that Diokles had no intention of fighting. The Helot was steeling himself for death. He had no will to live. He was going to let himself be hammered to a pulp by one of these men.…

“Hammers or chisels?” the Quarry Lord asked again.

“Fists!” called out Nikias, his face turning scarlet with rage. He turned to the men staring at him. “Why not fists?” he repeated. “Who will fight me, eh? Who has the balls? I'll tear the throat out of any one of you. Have any of you ever met an Oxlander? Come on! I'll fight your best man without any weapon at all! With my hands and feet alone! And I fight for the Helot. So bring on your best!”

Thersites let forth a snort of laughter. “Two at once? Without weapons? That's never been done before! Wonderful!”

The quarrymen grumbled and fidgeted. They had been insulted by this newcomer. How dare he taunt them!

“So be it,” said the Quarry Lord. “Two at once. The Plataean fights for his friend and he must fight as a pankrator—no weapons for him. But my quarrymen will be armed. Take the Helot to the honeycombs. If the Oxlander dies, kill his friend.”

Men came forward and grabbed Diokles, pulling him back into the crowd, where he disappeared from sight.

“Nice knowing you,” said Thersites to Nikias, and scurried back to take his place amongst the prisoners in the circle.

A strapping man, his torso cut with muscles—hardened by years of pounding rock—pushed his way through the crowd and into the makeshift arena. He bore a huge hammer in one hand, and his black-bearded face was somber, his eyes as hard as stones. He outweighed Nikias. From the opposite side came a shorter and younger man with a rippled body and light brown hair and beard. He carried a chisel and his narrow, wolfish face was set in an eager grimace.

“I'm going to turn your head to pulp,” said the one with the hammer.

“I'll blind him first,” said the one with the chisel.

“Shut up and die,” replied Nikias.

The chisel wielder charged first, swinging his weapon with all his might, but Nikias was too quick—too agile. He lunged sideways, grabbing the man by the other arm as he stumbled past, yanking it from the socket and sweeping his legs out from under him with a practiced motion. The prisoner landed on his back and Nikias lunged forward, grasping the prisoner's hand bearing the chisel with his own callused oar grippers, driving the weapon into the prisoner's left eye—deep into his brain.

Nikias stepped back from the twitching prisoner, watching him bleed his life into the dust. Then he turned his snarling face to the others. “Next,” he said under his breath.

The quarrymen looked at him openmouthed.

“Evidently you've never seen someone die that quickly,” said Nikias, and spat on the ground.

The other fighter circled around Nikias warily, deftly tossing the hammer from hand to hand. Nikias could tell by his stance that this one had had some pankration training. And he was trying to mesmerize him with his hammer trick.

“Dancing around me all day isn't going to help,” goaded Nikias, provoking his opponent as he'd been taught by his grandfather. A man could be defeated with words before the fight had even begun. “Do they eat the dead in this stinking place?” he asked. “Which of your friends will feast on your tender prick tonight?”

The quarryman's eyes narrowed. Suddenly he flung the hammer at Nikias's head—a skillful throw that would have found its mark if Nikias hadn't been ready for it. He ducked and the heavy tool smashed into a man behind him with the sound of cracking bones.

In the next instant the big quarryman rushed Nikias and they slammed together like two triremes prow-to-prow, grappling with their arms outstretched, legs far apart. The man was strong and Nikias felt his feet sliding on the slick quarry surface. He realized with alarm that he'd forgotten to take off his slick sandals. He was losing ground to the bigger man.

“I'm going to start with your arse,” said the quarryman in a hoarse whisper. “Very tender meat.”

Nikias was sliding fast now, losing his balance. The man was about to flip him over. “Fall on your own terms!” he heard his grandfather's voice shout in his head.

He flung himself backward, pulling the man on top of him, and pushed up with his feet using every ounce of strength in his lower body. For a second the surprised fighter was suspended above him, supported by Nikias's powerful legs, then he flew over the top of Nikias and landed hard on his back.

Nikias was on top of him like a snake on a rat, coiling his arms around the man's neck and putting him into the Morpheus hold, clamping down on the sides of his throat with his biceps, pulling him close to his body so that they looked like two rowers on an oar bench—chest-to-spine. The quarryman thrashed and kicked, and Nikias squeezed even harder, leaning back his head to avoid the man's clawing hands. It took a minute for his opponent to pass out, and once he was limp Nikias snapped his neck with a vicious twist so that the man's head was practically reversed on his torso.

Nikias staggered away from the corpse and wiped the sweat and dirt from his face, glaring at the wall of prisoners, who stared back, dumbstruck and enraged. They looked like they were going to rush him.

Then Nikias heard a startling sound—the battle cry of “Eleu-eleu!” bursting from the cave. The sound reverberated against the stones and pierced his bones in the same way it had, years ago, when he'd snuck into the pankration championship at the Olympiads to watch his grandfather fight Damos the Theban, and the crowd of forty thousand had sung the Greek war chant.

The Quarry Lord stepped from the shadows of the cave and into the light of the open pit, marching toward Nikias with long, swinging strides. The prisoners took up the cry and the noise of it was so loud that it made Nikias's ears ring.

Now Nikias could see how big the Quarry Lord was—how tall and menacing. He carried a heavy war club carved from a single piece of rock, and his body was like the statue of a god graven in stone. He stopped a few paces from Nikias, staring at him from behind the sinister mask. Nikias faced the taller man, bracing himself to fight again.

“Coward,” said Nikias above the din. “Going to fight me with that club? With a mask on? Show me your face so I can see who I'm going to kill.”

But the Quarry Lord did not reply. He just stood there regarding Nikias with his head cocked slightly to the side, as if he were staring at something peculiar. Then he held up his hand for the prisoners to stop chanting and they ceased at once. After a long silence the club slipped from the Quarry Lord's hand, hitting the hard ground with a thud, and he pulled off his mask to reveal an austere yet amiable face—a striking face that wore a mysterious half smile like the enigmatic grin on an ancient kouros statue.

Nikias stepped back as if he'd been shoved by unseen hands, mouth agape, blinking rapidly.

“My old friend,” said the Quarry Lord, now speaking with his true accent: a thick Plataean cadence. “The gods have a curious sense of humor, do they not?”

“Demetrios?” Nikias asked in awe.

And then the prisoners of the quarry watched in wonder as these two fierce men—their brutal chief and this violent newcomer—grabbed each other in a rowdy embrace, arms locked together like wrestlers at the start of a bout, howling and laughing, pushing each other back and forth in a riotous dance of friendship.