Sword of Apollo (47 page)

“There's three ways into Plataea,” Chusor said. “Straight through the wall, over, and under. And we're going to study all three.”

Scaling ladders, tunnels, counter-tunnels, defending against earthen ramps, rams and their construction, the ingredients and measurements for the sticking fire … all of these were hammered into Nikias's head until he thought his brain would burst. He started to dream about catapults and the tunnels that Chusor had dug—and meticulously mapped—beneath the streets of Plataea. Nikias's dreams of these tunnels were dark and terrifying, and often he woke gasping for air and crying out.

For some reason Chusor told Nikias to keep from cutting his hair, which had grown very long over the last several months. When Nikias asked him why, Chusor said mysteriously, “It might come in useful. Leave it be.”

Every night they beached the ship in a deserted cove along the coast of Italia, and sometimes Nikias and Helena found the opportunity to sneak off and make love in private. But they never talked about what would happen when they reached the port of Kreusis. Nikias knew that he would have to leave Helena with the ship—abandon his pregnant lover and return to his wife. During this strange, uneventful, and nearly languid journey—for the weather was fine and calm and warm—he started to feel as though he were a shade, a mere vapor existing between two worlds. There was the present, in which he was a useless member of a ship's crew, making love with a woman who was not his wife. And there was the future—citizen of a city under siege, living with a wife whom he had betrayed. Part of him wanted the voyage to never end. The other half could not wait to arrive home to help defend the citadel.

But would Phoenix and the others be in Naupaktos once the
Spear
and the
Briseis
finally got there? Or had they perished on the sea? Or been captured by the enemy? And even if he was reunited with his cousin and the young volunteers who had set out from Athens, would Plataea still be standing once they arrived at the gates of the citadel? He tried not to think about all of these nagging questions. He was grateful when he could finally return to rowing. Ten minutes after sitting down on a bench and pulling at an oar, his mind drifted into a state of blissful oblivion. It was as if he had tasted the waters of Lethe—that river in Hades that, once sipped, made a soul forget its life on earth. All that he could see was the back of the rower in front of him, or the shining sea glimpsed through the oar hole. The only sounds were the drums, the squeak of the oar locks, and the splash of the waves against the hull.

Nikias had never seen Kolax so happy. He and Melitta spent their days climbing the masts like monkeys, or chattering endlessly together along with a small band of Serifan youths who were around their own age—the laughter of children often filled the ship and the crew was tolerant of their many mischievous ways, such as when someone greased the bottom deckers' seats overnight, or pissed in the water bucket. Chusor was the exception. He threatened to throw Kolax overboard on several occasions—he was the obvious ringleader—but Helena told Nikias that Melitta was the main culprit. The girl had always had a wicked sense of humor.

Kolax started to tie his hair in a topknot again, and the black dye was beginning to wear off to reveal his bright red mane. Nikias had not seen much of the young man over the last several years because he had been living with Osyrus and the other Skythians in the fortress of the Three Heads. He realized that Kolax had changed greatly. He was much taller than when they had first met—nearly as tall as Nikias—and he had morphed from a lean boy into a muscular young man.

“Melitta thinks Kolax is very handsome,” Helena said to Nikias one night when they lay naked on a beach, entwined like snakes under the bright stars. “Though she would never say as much. I see the way she looks at him. She is going to be heartbroken when he leaves the ship at Kreusis.”

“She's not the only one,” Nikias replied softly. But Helena made no reply. Instead she put his hand on her belly and asked him what she wanted him to name the child if he was a boy.

“Apollo,” he said. He thought of the sword that Chusor had found in the ancient tomb beneath Plataea. He was glad that he had given it to Ji for safekeeping before he went into the house of Pantares. It would have been a terrible blow to lose that heirloom. He wore it always, except when he was pulling at an oar or making love with Helena. But even then the sword was always within arm's reach. He felt that the sword had a magical property—that the blade had to be brought back into the citadel. Only then would Plataea be safe.

The next day they came to the great port city of Kroton, “the most famous athlete factory in the world,” as his grandfather used to tell him. The
Spear
and the
Briseis
were two of several hundred ships in the bustling harbor and no one paid them any heed, and they felt safe in this powerful, independent Greek city-state; they were now far from Syrakuse and beyond the grasp of those people. Even so, the women and children were kept either on board or on the beach near the two ships, for fear that evil mariners called “shell pluckers” might kidnap them. Greater Greece was a dangerous place.

Chusor headed off into the marketplace with Ezekiel on what he said was an errand of great importance, and sent Nikias, Kolax, and forty other men to round up provisions and water. Melitta was furious that she had been left behind, but Kolax promised to bring her back a souvenir. Helena was angry, too, for she had wanted to visit the famous Temple of Hera. But Chusor said that it was too risky—the walls of Kroton were twelve miles in circumference, and it would be too easy to lose someone in so vast a place. Diokles, having received instructions from Chusor to guard Helena and Melitta with his life, stayed very close to the two women—a stern and silent watchman.

Nikias had never seen so many imposing people in one city—both men and women, young and old. Everywhere he looked, it was like strolling through a citadel of the gods. After purchasing everything that the ships needed, he sent the men back to the harbor loaded with goods. Then he and Kolax made a quick trip to the gymnasium, for Nikias had always wanted to see the famed spot where Milo of Kroton—the greatest wrestler in the history of the Olympiads—had been trained. He was impressed with the pankrators he saw practicing there.

On the way back to the ships he passed the Temple of Hera, where Nikias paused at a stall selling votive statues of the goddess. He picked up one of the figures and stared at it. The thing was made of bronze with glass eyes, and its gaze seemed to follow him no matter which way he turned his head. He picked out two of them: one for Helena and the other for Kallisto. Nikias realized the ludicrousness of what he was doing—buying the same trinkets for his wife
and
lover. But he bought them anyway, and the stall keeper wrapped them in straw and put them in a leather pouch.

“Do you think Melitta would like this?” Kolax asked. He was at the next stall over—a place filled with potters' wares—holding up a cup painted with a scene of an Amazon battle: warrior women slaying Greeks.

“Yes,” said Nikias without compunction. “For that girl has the heart of an Amazon.”

Kolax grinned. “Doesn't she?” he said reverently. “In Skythia we'd call her a ‘pole breaker.' Highly sought after as a wife. My father will like her. Oh! I forgot to tell you!” he said, seizing hold of Nikias's arm and nearly causing him to drop his statues. “Barka had a vision of my father. He is safe! He and the others are hiding in the mountains northwest of Plataea. On the road to Delphi. Near a broken tower.”

Nikias could see just such a tower in his mind's eye. It lay on that road leading to the sacred city of the seers, and he had ridden past it several times on his way to Delphi. But he couldn't help but scoff. “That's a very specific vision,” he commented wryly. “Seers and soothsayers are usually more vague.”

“Chusor told me that Barka is never wrong.” Kolax smiled happily. “The eunuch also told me that you would have a son!”

Nikias said nothing. He didn't want to “stir shit in Kolax's wine,” as the Skythian saying went. The young man seemed so hopeful. “Let him believe in magic,” he thought. “Like I used to do.”

When they got back to the harbor, they met Chusor and Ezekiel returning from their foray into the citadel. Chusor carried two huge rolls of red cloth on either shoulder, and he was followed by a troop of shopkeepers, each bearing a roll of the same crimson fabric. The doctor was so weighted down with baskets of herbs and other medicines that his thin torso bent under the load.

“What's the red cloth for?” asked Kolax.

“Perhaps it's the solution to a riddle,” said Chusor cryptically.

“Are you going to trade it?”

“This is the same cloth the Spartans buy,” said Ezekiel. “Indeed, it has great value in Lakonia and other parts.”

“They don't need to hear about the cloth, Ezekiel,” said Chusor with an edge to his voice, and headed toward the beach.

So this was Chusor's “important” errand? Nikias was nettled by Chusor's evident desire to fill the already stuffed holds of the ships with goods that he might trade with the enemy. But he held his tongue and said nothing. Chusor was a great mystery to him sometimes.

After eight days they came to the Kretan colony of Hydros, situated at the long end of a narrow peninsula of Italia. Here they loaded the ship with freshwater, for they were going to head to open sea in the direction of the Greek island called the Scythe—a place that had been settled by Korinthians hundreds of years ago but which had remained neutral during the war. The Korkyrans—the city-state that controlled the Scythe—had grown angry with Korinth over the rule of a shared colony to the north. At least, that's what Phoenix had told him in one of their conversations on Serifos.

To get to the Scythe, the
Spear
had to cross a hundred miles of open sea, and it would take at least a day and a half to do so. And neither Chusor nor any of the Serifan sailors had ever been this far north before. The weather was perfect, however, with no sign of storms or rough waves. But they had to be on the lookout for Korinthian and Spartan triremes. Chusor ordered Kolax to climb to the top of the mainmast and keep a lookout all day. He thought that he had finally figured out how to separate his beloved daughter from the wild barbarian, at least for a few hours. But Melitta climbed the tall pole and clung to it next to Kolax, refusing to come down when her father ordered her to do so, and Chusor finally gave up and went to the prow, glaring at the sea.

They made the crossing in good time and did not catch sight of any ships. At night, with a full moon and a favorable wind, the two ships stayed on course, with Chusor and Agrios navigating by the stars, and by afternoon of the next day they spotted the western coast of the Scythe—a green and mountainous island covered with trees. They beached the ship and were about to go in search of a well to replenish their water, when Kolax spotted a man sitting on the rocks fifty feet above.

“Who are you?” the stranger shouted down at them.

“Friends of Athens,” called back Nikias.

“Be more specific,” came the man's reply.

Nikias turned to Chusor and the others standing near him. “I'll go up and talk to him. Maybe he can tell us where there's a spring. I don't want to scare him off, though; everyone else stay here.”

He slowly climbed up the rocks to the little ledge where the man sat under the shade of a gnarled cypress. As he got close he could see that this islander was in his early thirties—a bear of a man with a dark black beard and a wide, friendly face. He wore a simple tunic with an old leather belt and a battered scabbard. And on his lap was an ornate and well-crafted tortoiseshell kithara. He smiled at Nikias when he got to the ledge, but didn't bother to get up.

“Hello,” he said. “Name's Argus of Korkyra. Who might you be?”

“Nikias of Plataea.”

“You're a long way from home!” Argus replied with a curious and unexpected enthusiasm. “I've always wanted to go to Plataea. See the famous battlefield where the Persians were mowed like barley.”

“You wouldn't want to go there now,” said Nikias. “It's under siege.”

“So I've heard,” said Argus, his face turning serious. “Spartans. News came to the citadel of Korkyra”—here he made a vague gesture behind him at the dark forest, as if the city lay somewhere in that direction—“a few weeks ago when the Athenians arrived.”

“Athenians?” Nikias asked.

“Some of Phormion's ships,” said Argus. “Trying to get us to help them in their fight against the Korinthians and their blockade at the mouth of the Gulf of Korinth. The Athenians have gone now. Back south.”

“Did your people agree to help?”

“No,” said Argus, shaking his head sadly. “We remain neutral. At least for now. And word is that there's a huge fleet of Korinthian triremes headed to Naupaktos to destroy Phormion. That's why they were so desperate for help.”

“Weren't you afraid that we might be raiders when you saw our ship come to shore?” Nikias asked. “Why didn't you run away?”

“What would raiders want with me?” asked Argus. “Steal my harp?”

This man was either a simpleton or fearless, mused Nikias. He didn't look like an idiot, though. There was the light of intelligence in his eye. Nikias said, “To take you as a slave, of course.”

“I'd like to see you try,” said Argus with a hearty laugh. He got up slowly, and although he stood a little shorter than Nikias, he was twice as broad—the widest man whom Nikias had ever laid eyes on. “You've heard the stories about this island, no? We cut the cocks off raiders and send them on their way. This island isn't called the Scythe for nothing.”

“I don't want to fight you,” said Nikias, holding up his hands and grinning. “It would be like fighting Atlas. Or Milo of Kroton.”