Sword of Apollo (51 page)

“I will go wherever you ask, my lord,” said Jishti in his flawless Greek. “I will serve you in all things.” He reached down and took Arkilokus in his slender hand and started to stroke him teasingly. “Night and day.”

Arkilokus heard the sound of men approaching the tent—voices arguing heatedly. He pushed Jishti's hand away and listened intently.

“I tell you, he's in there, General!”

“I'll see for myself!”

Suddenly men with torches burst into the tent and ripped back the curtain surrounding the prince's pallet. Arkilokus sat up and reached for the knife that he kept close by. A burning torch was thrust toward his face and Jishti shrieked. Arkilokus recognized two of his personal bodyguards grasping the arms of a warrior wearing Megarian armor. A grizzled Spartan general named Kalkas was there, too, as well as the general's attendant.

“See! There he is!” said one of Arkilokus's bodyguards. “The prince has not left the tent all night!”

“What is this?” Arkilokus demanded imperiously. “How dare you come—”

“An imposter,” cut in Kalkas, his eyes growing wide with mounting surprise. “There's an imposter in the camp.” He rushed from the tent, followed by his attendant, shouting the alarm at the top of his lungs. A few seconds later the noise of salpinx war trumpets blared and were answered almost immediately on the farthest side of the counterwall, two miles away.

Arkilokus leapt up and grabbed the Megarian by the hair. “Speak! What is going on?”

“I was guarding the western picket,” said the Megarian quickly, “where it blocks off the entrance to the valley that leads to Kreusis. And a man who looked like you came up the valley, leading a host of Spartans. My commander was cowed by him and let him through the picket and into the camp, but I said there was something wrong about you—about that
man
, I mean. You see, I had been near you once before up close. And the man who came to the picket seemed younger than you and he had a scar by his left eye. But my commander wouldn't believe me—said I was crazy—because the man who claimed to be you was also missing his signet ring finger from his right hand, just like you. So I ran here to tell General Kalkas!”

Arkilokus shoved the Megarian aside and grabbed his sword. “Follow me,” he said to his bodyguard as he rushed from the tent.

*   *   *

Nikias had just stepped up to the closed gates built into the counterwall when he heard the trumpets blaring from the Spartan camp two hundred yards away. Until now everything had gone perfectly. He and his men had sauntered right through the heart of the Megarian part of the camp and up to the wooden barricade without a hindrance. It had all gone so smoothly that Nikias heard Baklydes, at one point, stifle a laugh when some sleeping Megarians leapt to their feet and bowed deferentially upon seeing the “Spartan prince” approach.

But his old friend wasn't laughing now. The ten men guarding the gates gripped their spears in both hands and turned toward the horns. “What's going on?” one of them asked. A split second later other horns started answering from all around the barricade.

Nikias pulled out his sword and bellowed, “Attack!” and cut down the guard nearest to him. The other Plataeans fell on the guards with ferocity, slaying the surprised men. But a few of them screamed for help before they died, alerting warriors in the distance.

Nikias grabbed the giant log barring the gate and started to heave desperately. Ten men, including Argus, came to his aid. They lifted the log together and tossed it aside, then pushed open the wooden gates. The walls of Plataea, black against the starlit sky, loomed ahead, a hundred and fifty yards away.

“Run!” Nikias yelled, urging the men through the gate. “Run for the ramp! The earthen ramp!”

He stared back into the darkness toward the enemy camp and saw fires kindling to life everywhere. And now disembodied torches, evidently drawn by the guards' death cries, were heading toward the gates at the barricade. The Plataeans streamed through the opening, sprinting for the earthen ramp, calling out, “Plataea!” Some were already scrambling up the mound of dirt.

Nikias glanced at the wall above the ramp. He thought he saw the shapes of ladders lowered over the sides of the walls above the ramp—or was that a trick of his mind? He waited until the last Plataean was through the barricade gate, then turned to follow. But the sound of footsteps behind made him stop and whirl around.

A huge shape came hurtling from the darkness and Nikias stepped forward to cut the man down, but stopped short his sweeping blow and stumbled forward, thrown off balance.

“Chusor! What are you doing here?”

Chusor was breathing so hard he couldn't talk. He looked around, wild-eyed, and sheathed two blood-smeared daggers. Arrows whistled from the dark and hit the wooden wall behind them. Chusor grabbed Nikias and pulled him through the opening.

They ran.

“Nikias! Nikias!” cried a voice, shrill with rage.

Nikias knew that voice screaming his name. It was Prince Arkilokus. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a horde of men pouring through the gates. Hundreds of them, clad in armor and bearing spears and torches. Arkilokus was out front, naked and holding a sword.

Nikias looked back toward the ramp—his men at the top were climbing ladders and leaping over the wall. His grandfather had gotten the message from the tower! Half of them were over and safely behind the walls when he and Chusor reached the man-made slope.

An arrow buzzed past his ear. Then something struck him in the back of the leg. He knew he'd been hit by an arrow, but all he'd felt was something hard, like the kick of an ox. But it knocked his leg out from under him just the same, and he fell face-first into the dirt.

“Help!” Chusor cried. “Help me with Nikias!”

Argus came barreling back down the earthen ramp with Baklydes at his side. They grabbed Nikias under either arm, pulled him to his feet, and started dragging him up the steep incline.

“No!” shouted Nikias. “We must hold off the Spartans so the others can get over the wall!”

Ten or so Plataeans, hearing his voice, came back down the ramp and together they made a line of red-cloaked men—a thin wall of flesh to thwart the army of Spartans running toward them like a tidal wave of iron.

Nikias twisted his torso around, reached down, and snapped off the feathered end of the arrow protruding from the back of his leg, then slammed the broken end with the flat of his palm. The arrowhead popped out the front of his thigh and Nikias screamed.

“Here!” said Chusor. He gripped the arrow below the head, yanking it out and tossing it on the ground.

The burst of pain this action caused sent a shock wave through Nikias's body—like plunging into freezing water or getting punched in the nose. Every muscle in his body was tensed, ready to deal death.

The throng of Spartans—now a thousand strong—began screaming as one. It was a bone-chilling cry that made Nikias suck in his breath. He gripped his sword, then glanced at Chusor, who took a long, deep breath like a diver coming to the surface, then calmly raised his knives. Why had his friend come back? There was no time to ask. He would never know the answer.

The Spartans were a hundred feet away when Nikias cried out, “Kallisto!”—the name of his beloved wife bursting from his lips like a prayer … a dead man's final word.

And as if in response, a rapid and staggered thumping sounded from the walls above—a sound akin to the beating of a hundred drums that raced the length of the bastion. The Spartans out in front of the pack fell in a broad swath, as though they were barley that had been reaped by a great invisible scythe, tripping the men behind them. A split second later another wave of arrows rained down, and many more Spartans fell.

Archers on the walls—hundreds of them! Shooting with deadly accuracy.

The Spartans had been roused from sleep. Only a few wore complete armor. None had brought shields. They fell back, surrounding their prince, forcing the raving warrior, blinded by bloodlust, to go back to the safety of the barricade.

“Nikias!” screamed Arkilokus. “Come back!”

Baklydes and Argus half carried, half dragged the wounded Nikias to the top of the ramp and hefted him up a ladder. He scaled it as fast as a wall lizard despite the arrow wound in his leg.

“Haul him over!”

Many hands grabbed Nikias and pulled him over the parapet and onto the stone walkway, heaving him out of the way to make room for the others—Argus, Baklydes, and last of all Chusor, who was calling out the name of his daughter—calling desperately as though he had lost his mind. But neither Kolax nor Melitta answered him from the crowd gathered on the wall.

Nikias lay with his back against the rough limestone for a long time, breathing hard, his brain swimming from loss of blood, his leg burning from the arrow wound. Men with torches ran to and fro along the wide parapet. The air was filled with cries, the thumping of bowstrings, and the clash of arms. He could hear his grandfather barking out orders nearby, but he couldn't see him in the darkness. And then an archer ran to Nikias and knelt by his side. A slender hand reached out and touched his face, and he knew who it was in an instant.

“We got the message from the Tower Hill and—”

“Our child?” Nikias interrupted, seizing his wife's hand.

“
He
is well,” answered Kallisto.

Nikias's heart swelled. “A
boy
.”

There was a slight pause—then Kallisto asked, “And … the girls?” Her voice was hopeful, yet full of fear.

Before he could reply, the men along the wall cried out in unison—in triumph. “The enemy has fled back to their counterwall!” shouted a voice. Once the din had died down, Nikias said, “Our daughters are safe in the Parnes Mountains,” and kissed her hand.

Menesarkus appeared behind Kallisto bearing a torch. Nikias saw his grandfather's face illuminated by the blaze of light, a wide smile spreading across his leonine face as he gazed down at him.

“Welcome home, warrior of Plataea,” said the Arkon. “Welcome home, Grandson.”

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

NOBLE SMITH
is an award-winning playwright who has worked as a video-game writer, a documentary-film executive producer, and the media director of an international human rights foundation. He is the author of the nonfiction book
The Wisdom of the Shire,
as well as the first two books in the Warrior trilogy:
Sons of Zeus
and
Spartans at the Gates.
He lives with his wife and children in the Pacific Northwest, where he works as a narrative designer and writer for Xbox and HoloLens.

 

Learn more at
www.thewarriortrilogy.com
and on Twitter: at @warriortrilogy. You can sign up for email updates
here
.

 

A
LSO BY
N
OBLE
S
MITH

Sparks in the Park

Stolen from Gypsies

The Wisdom of the Shire

T
HE
W
ARRIOR
T
RILOGY

Sons of Zeus

Spartans at the Gates

 

Thank you for buying this

St. Martin's Press ebook.

 

To receive special offers, bonus content,

and info on new releases and other great reads,

sign up for our newsletters.

 

Or visit us online at

us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

 

For email updates on the author, click
here
.

 

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Map of Greece, 429
BC

Map of Athens and Piraeus, 429
BC

Map of Mediterranean, 429
BC