Sword of Apollo (7 page)

“What's going on?” Nikias yelled at the men standing on the guard tower, for he saw a crowd of warriors sprinting along the parapet wall in the direction of the southern section of the wall.

“Watchmen on the mountain!” a guard called down. “They sounded the alarm!”

While the guards hurried to obey, Nikias heard a shout behind him and turned to see Zoticus charging across the agora on his horse from the direction of the stables, followed by a score of riders, including Kolax.

“Open the gates!” bellowed Zoticus. “Open the gates!”

Nikias headed straight for the door to the guard tower flanking the right side of the gates and scrambled up the stairs to the level that led to the parapet wall. He ran along the walkway, passing through six guard towers on his half-mile-long sprint to the southernmost section of wall—the place that afforded the best view of the mountain. He entered the seventh tower and bounded up the stairs. When he came out onto the roof it was crowded with guardsmen armed with bows, all of them standing at the battlements, peering up toward the mountain. Nikias pushed between two of the men and leaned on one of the gaps in the stones. Below he saw Zoticus and his cavalry charging up the hill that stretched toward the mountain.

“What's going on?” asked Nikias. His best friend, Leo, wearing the armor of a tower guard, stood nearby. “What's happening?”

“Enemy,” said Leo. And after giving Nikias a quick glance he said, “What happened to you? Kill someone?”

“Long story,” replied Nikias, scanning the forested hillside. “Where are they?”

“Near the top of the mountain,” said Leo, pointing. “Watchmen on the peaks sounded the first alarm. They've almost made it back down. Look!”

Nikias saw two Plataean horsemen, riding at breakneck speed, emerging from the spot near the foothills where the dense forest thinned to a few pines. They had been stationed on the peaks of the mountain, standing guard as an early warning against invasion. Far above them, coming over the ridgeline of the mountain, was a file of men marching methodically into the trees and then disappearing amongst the canopy on their way down into the valley. Nikias thought he caught a flash of red, but from this great distance he couldn't be sure if his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.

He watched expectantly as Zoticus and his small band of cavalry met up with the Plataean watchmen, then escorted them back to the citadel.

“Those enemy hoplites up there must have come directly from the fortress of Aigosthena in Megaria,” said Hesiod, breathless. He had finally caught up to Nikias and was red-faced from exertion. “Otherwise the Skythians at the fortress of the Three Heads would have alerted us if the enemy had marched through that pass.”

“Unless the Three Heads is already under attack,” said Nikias despondently.

Nikias and the other watchers on the tower stood for an hour in almost complete silence, hypnotized by the seemingly never-ending line of men coming down the mountainside. After a while the invaders started to emerge from the woods—red-cloaked warriors, clad in armor and helms, who assembled silently on the treeless hillside above the citadel in a field of tall grass and spiked thistle, far beyond bowshot. During that time General Zoticus returned to the area in front of the wall after rounding up all his riders, this time in full force: four hundred men—every cavalryman in the citadel. The horses stood in four orderly groups, but the animals shifted nervously and swished their tails.

Between the Spartans and the walls of Plataea stood three large grass-covered mounds. These were the Graves of the Heroes—mass burial pits where the allied Greek dead killed in the Battle of Plataea had been buried with honor fifty years ago.

The southern wall now bristled with men—a thousand warriors with bows and spears. Nikias looked over at the tower to his left: there stood Menesarkus and Linos. They were speaking to the two watchmen who'd been stationed on the mountaintop, questioning them, no doubt, about what they'd seen of the enemy's movements.

Nikias's gaze wandered down to the citadel and Artisans' Lane below and the empty blacksmith shop that had once belonged to his friend, Chusor. The sign that hung outside the building—an old shield painted with a picture of the crippled god Hephaestos—squeaked on its rusted chains as it blew in the wind. Chusor, a foreigner who had set up shop in Plataea when Nikias was sixteen, had become one of Nikias's best friends. The man had saved him on the night of the sneak attack, rescuing him from a band of Theban warriors who had caught Nikias and his friends unawares in the street below. The smith was an ingenious inventor who had created something he called the “sticking fire,” and had used it to burn down the Theban barricade that the enemy had set up in front of the gates—the wooden wall that trapped the Plataeans in their own citadel.

But Chusor had departed Plataea soon after the Theban attack and had not returned. Nikias wondered if he was still alive. He wished the inventor were here now. If it was true that this siege master—the City-Killer—was coming to Plataea, they could use a man like Chusor to help outwit the wily and deadly Persian.…

“I only count two thousand or so Spartan hoplites assembled on the hill,” said Leo, interrupting Nikias's thoughts.

“That's better than sixty thousand,” said Hesiod.

“What are you talking about, Hes?” asked Leo.

“Hesiod is talking out his arse,” said Nikias, shooting Hesiod an exasperated look. Hesiod needed to learn to keep his mouth shut. Starting rumors of a massive invasion force would only lead to panic. Hesiod, catching sight of Nikias's black look, flushed and turned away.

“There's no way we could attack them,” said Leo. “Not with them on the high ground.”

“We would need twice those numbers to face a Spartan shield wall,” said Nikias glumly. “Even with our cavalry. And Plataea can only muster twenty-five hundred armored hoplites. And half of those men are in the countryside now, on their farms.”

He looked up and down the wall. All of the towers and parapets on this side of the citadel were now crowded with warriors armed with spears and bows. He looked back at the tower where his grandfather and Linos stood. They had stopped questioning the two riders and were staring at the Spartans with stony faces.

“Will they attack today?” asked Hesiod.

“They haven't brought any siege weapons,” said Nikias. “They would be mad to attempt an attack.”

“Then why are they here?”

“I have no idea,” replied Nikias.

It was two hours after zenith—an hour since the horns had been sounded along the wall—when all of the Spartans who had come over the top of the mountain were finally lined up in several squares of tightly packed phalanxes.

And then, disconcertingly, the light started to fade from the sky. At first Nikias thought it was just a cloud passing over the sun. Then he glanced up and drew in his breath at the startling sight: the moon had taken a notch out of the sun.

“An eclipse!” shouted a voice on the wall.

The cry was taken up by many more. Men pointed and cried out in fear. Women shrieked from all over the citadel. Even the Spartans became unhinged and started shifting about, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the ominous event. Nikias saw a warrior with a tall horsehair crest march up and down the Spartan ranks, screaming at the red-cloaked warriors in fury as the sky continued to darken and the stars that had been hidden by the blue cloak of the sky started to shine brighter and brighter.

“Do not look at the sun!” bellowed Menesarkus. “Do you hear me? It will blind you! Do not look at the eclipse! Avert your eyes, you idiots!”

Leo shielded his gaze obediently, but Nikias flicked a glance at the sun: the moon had almost completely covered it—there was still a crescent of glowing light at the top. He forced his eyes away and stared at the Spartans. The enemy had formed up ranks and were now staring straight ahead at the walls of Plataea.

“What does it mean?” asked Leo with a horrified whisper.

“Nothing good,” said Hesiod tersely.

“This is what it must look like in Hades,” said Nikias, gazing about at the darkened world that had been drained of color and life. He gazed at the faces of his friends and the other men standing on the tower. They all looked stricken … horrified. And afraid. Thankfully this terrible and unsettling shift in world lasted only a few minutes. The moon quickly passed across the sun and light returned to the earth. Nikias watched in awe as the transition from night to day happened before his eyes. The men on the tower exhaled as one.

After a long silence a Spartan warrior stepped forward from the rows of hoplites and approached the wall. Out of the corner of his eye Nikias saw his grandfather raise his hand in greeting.

“Here!” called Menesarkus. “Herald, come to me!”

The Spartan walked straight up to the tower where Menesarkus stood. He stopped at the base and tipped his head back to peer to the top of the forty-foot-tall square turret.

“Peace!” called out the Spartan herald. “And greetings to Menesarkus of the Nemean tribe, hero of the Persian War, winner of the Funeral Game of Leonidas, Olympic champion, Arkon of Plataea, and former guest-friend of the royal houses of Sparta!”

“Peace!” spoke Menesarkus with a booming voice. “I am Menesarkus. Old friends are welcome in the Oxlands, but I would remind you of the oath that your forefathers made after the Persian Wars when they vowed never to invade Plataea, such was the honor accorded to my city for the glory we shared in the defeat of Xerxes the Persian!”

“I have come from my king, Arkidamos the Second, regent of the Eurypontid tribe,” said the herald, “to summon you to a meeting at the Graves of the Heroes!”

Menesarkus did not reply for a long moment, and Nikias saw him peering intently at the assemblage of Spartan hoplites.

“You mean that King Arkidamos is here now?” Menesarkus asked at length, and in a surprised tone.

“The king asks that you come alone and unarmed,” stated the Spartan herald flatly.

“One of the kings of Sparta?” asked Leo. “Is out there? Stuff my arse!”

“He's joking, right?” whispered Hesiod. “They don't expect our leader to just walk out—”

“Quiet,” said Nikias. He stared at his grandfather, trying to read his face, but he was too far away to see his expression.

Menesarkus turned and said something to Linos, then leaned over the parapet and called down, “Yes! Of course! I will come! I am honored to meet with him!” Then he turned and headed for the opening that led to the lower levels of the tower.

Nikias bolted to the tower stairs, flying down the steps until he came to the archway that led to the wall parapet, then dashed across the bulwark to the other tower just as his grandfather emerged onto the walkway.

“Grandfather!” Nikias blurted out. “What are you doing? You're not going down there, are you? Not after that sign from Apollo!”

“A Spartan king has come to parlay with me,” replied Menesarkus. “He cannot enter into the citadel with Sparta engaged in open war with our Athenian allies. And so we must meet on open ground. The Graves of the Heroes will do nicely. The Spartans did not cause the eclipse. The gods are angry. With whom they are angry, however, is anyone's guess.”

“What if the Spartans try to kill you or take you prisoner?” said Nikias desperately.

“They would be fools,” said Menesarkus. “We keep twenty of their warriors as well as General Draco as hostages. If they kill me, they will never see their brothers alive again. Their hostages are worth far more to them than my old bones.”

“But you cut off his nephew's finger!”

“
Great
-nephew,” replied Menesarkus archly. “By his elder half sister's daughter, and thus not in direct line to the throne. Still a potential heir, however. Many accidents befall Spartan kings. King Leonidas died fighting the Persians at the Gates of Fire, we must remember. And now the Spartan Agiad king is in exile under suspicion of taking bribes from the Athenians.”

Nikias put his hands on his grandfather's shoulders and looked hard into his eyes. “This is madness! Don't go!”

Menesarkus stared back intently and put one of his big hands on the back of Nikias's neck. “Calm yourself, my boy,” he said with a faint smile. “The Spartans may not play by the same rules as us, but they are not as treacherous as Thebans, either.” He smiled cynically. “That Spartan herald was very polite, was he not? Now go back to the tower and watch. You might learn something.”

He kissed Nikias on the cheek and headed down the stairs that led directly to the street below the wall. Nikias watched him as he made his way through the crowds of people in the direction of the Gates of Pausanius; then Menasarkus vanished around a corner that led to the agora and was lost from sight.

 

NINE

Nikias walked back up the tower stairs with heavy legs and took his place back amongst his friends, who were staring silently over the parapet. After a time Menesarkus appeared on the path below the wall that ran along the outside of the southern bastions. He walked slowly, leaning on his staff. To Nikias he seemed very small and frail … he looked like a doddering old man going on a stroll, rather than the powerful bull of a warrior who could still beat Nikias in a pankration bout.

“We'll have a good view from up here,” said a voice from behind.

Nikias turned and saw Linos standing behind him.

“I told him not to go,” said Nikias. “The eclipse…” he trailed off, not knowing what to say.

“I advised him the same,” said Linos. “I begged him to send me instead, but he refused, of course. The eclipse has filled me with apprehension as well.”

Nikias's heart raced as Menesarkus made his way between the rows of Plataean horsemen, then started climbing the gentle slope toward the Spartan lines alone. A tall warrior stepped from the Spartan ranks and removed his sword, handing it to the herald. Then he gave him his helm as well, and strode down the hill toward Menesarkus, scattering small birds that hid in the tall grass. The three large earthen mounds lay between them. Every year Plataea held a festival in honor of these dead: Plataean, Athenian, Spartan. This was hallowed ground for both the Plataeans and Spartans.