Spartans at the Gates (31 page)

“I can make you a stanchion brace,” said Chusor as Menesarkus reached the final step.

“What's that?” asked Menesarkus, pausing to wipe his forehead and catch his breath.

“A device of my own design using rods to support the knee on either side,” replied Chusor. “I made one for the Naxos of Syrakuse.”

Menesarkus grunted. “Don't concern yourself with me. The defense of the city is all that matters now.” They walked to the tower battlements and Menesarkus gazed out over the fields to the Persian Fort two miles away. Gray woodsmoke from many fires rose high into the sky. The Spartans had at least ten thousand men inside the fort—five hundred full-blooded Spartans, three thousand freeman warriors, and the remainder in Helot slaves. Scouts had ridden close to the fort and reported that nearly all of the oak trees in the surrounding area had been cut down—far more than were needed for cooking fires. The Spartans were most likely building siege machines.

The sounds of hammers and axes carried on the wind from the fort—an endless din that lasted from sunrise until sunset.

“How many days do we have?” asked Chusor.

“A week, perhaps,” replied Menesarkus. “As soon as the emissaries have returned from Athens the Spartans will press us to give them a decision. When we refuse to join the Spartan League they will start their attack.” He had received a carrier pigeon message from Athens when the emissaries had arrived two days ago. They would not risk sending another message, however. It was too risky.

Chusor nodded grimly and tugged on the braided goatee. “I believe they will assault the gates with a battering ram,” he said. “And that is why we're building the inner wall. But I think the Spartans have probably learned from the Syrakusans to attack everywhere at once with hundreds of lightweight scaling ladders.”

“Everyone in the citadel must be ready to man the walls,” said Menesarkus. “Old men and women included. How goes the excavations under the citadel?”

The night that Nikias escaped from Plataea during the Theban sneak attack, he had done so through an ancient tunnel that led from under the Temple of Zeus to the graveyard outside the city walls. But this passageway had collapsed, nearly burying Nikias alive. Chusor had suggested clearing it as well as making new tunnels to provide other ways out of the citadel—underground sally ports in case they had to launch a counterattack against the Spartans outside the walls.

“It goes well,” said Chusor. “I have a team of a hundred men working day and night. The old tunnel that leads to the graves is almost clear and has been supported with beams. It won't cave in again. New passages are being made as well. These can be used to thwart Spartan miners who might dig under the walls to make them collapse.”

“Good,” grunted Menesarkus. He knew all about sappers and the undermining of walls. He had been at the second siege of Sardis—a brutal siege that had lasted for months. The Athenians who had been leading the attack on the citadel had dug deep down under a section of wall, causing the entire bastion to collapse like a child's sandcastle. Menesarkus had been in awe of the terrible sight—a sturdy wall turned to a pile of rubble … a gaping hole in the city's defenses like a huge hole in a bronze breastplate. He looked at Chusor and thought, “Thank the gods this capable man was sent to us in our time of need.”

He saw something out of the corner of his eye—a flash of white in the foothills of the mountains. Snapping his head around, he saw a horse picking its way down the slope toward the citadel. He felt the blood drain from his face.

“That's Photine!” said Chusor. He shielded his eyes from the sun, staring at the horse with a grimace. “Nikias's mare!”

“But where is the rider?” said Menesarkus. “Where is my grandson?”

“Men on the road!” called out one of the lookouts standing nearby.

Menesarkus and Chusor stared east in the direction that the lookout pointed; they saw a line of carts pulled by Helots. The Spartan slaves, with their squat bodies and dark, bowl-shaped haircuts, were yoked to the carts like animals. Menesarkus counted ten carts.

“What are they bringing?” asked Chusor.

“I can't see what—”

Menesarkus stopped short as he caught sight of a line of twenty naked men, roped at the neck and ankles, shuffling along behind the carts. And marching behind these prisoners was an army of the enemy—at least five hundred men strong.

“Spartans!” cried several voices from along the walls and watchtowers.

The Helots pulling the carts stopped just out of bowshot range of the citadel. The roped men came to a halt behind them, and they stood with downcast heads, full of shame, Menesarkus thought, looking like children who been caught doing something bad and were now getting punished. The enemy hoplites fanned out in a phalanx formation and stood still.

A lone Spartan stepped from the mass of carts, prisoners, and warriors and made his way up the road toward the gates, striding alone and without a hint of fear. Even from this distance Menesarkus recognized the familiar gait of his old comrade from the Persian Wars. The man whom Menesarkus had fought in a pankration match in Sparta: a match without rules, fought in the Spartan way—a match in which he'd bitten off the Spartan warrior's nose to force him to release his death grip on Menesarkus's balls.

Drako the Skull.

The Spartan general sauntered right up to the gates and pounded on the oak planks as if he were knocking on the door to Menesarkus's farmhouse.

“What do you want?” Menesarkus called down unceremoniously.

Drako craned his neck toward the voice. “Ah, Menesarkus,” he said. “The fortress of the Three Heads is taken. We bring your dead so you can bury them.”

“Gods, no!” uttered the lookout. “Those are Plataean corpses in the carts!”

“Shut up!” hissed Menesarkus. He scratched his beard and peered into the distance, in the direction of the Three Heads—the fortress guarding the narrow pass through the Kithaerons. This was a disaster! The Spartans had succeeded in taking a fort the Plataeans had always thought was impenetrable. With this crucial stronghold in Spartan hands, Menesarkus realized with a sinking heart, the Plataean emissaries would not be able to return from their mission to Athens by the shortest path. And neither would Nikias, for that matter. They would have to take an alternate route by sea that could take many days or even weeks.

“I'm coming down, Drako,” Menesarkus said in a booming voice, then turned and clambered down the stairs to the ground level, followed by Chusor. His knee ached with every step.

When he got to the bottom of the tower he went out the door and paused in the area in front of the gates. The throng of men had stopped work on the interior bastion wall and were milling about near the sally port door that was locked and guarded by armed warriors.

“Open the door!” commanded Menesarkus. “Let me through.”

“But Arkon!” protested the guard. “There's a Spartan—”

“Open the damned sally port,” barked Menesarkus. “There's only one Spartan out there.”

“But you're unarmed!”

Menesarkus whacked the guardsman on the side of the head with his staff. “Weapon in hand,” he said.

The guards unbarred the door and Menesarkus stepped outside the walls and went straight up to Drako, stopping a few feet away. They stared into each other's eyes for a long time.

“There are forty-three bodies,” said Drako. “They all died fighting. None were put to death, as you will clearly see from their wounds. We took another twenty-one Plataeans prisoner.” He gestured with his thumb at the roped and naked men standing listlessly in front of the Spartan phalanx.

Menesarkus was speechless. The dead Plataean warriors were a hard loss, but to see twenty-one prisoners in the clutches of the Spartans was worse. “And what are you going to do with our brothers?” he asked at last.

“I will trade them,” said Drako.

“Trade them for what?” asked Menesarkus.

“Prince Arkilokus.”

“Are you still missing your precious royal?” asked Menesarkus in a mocking voice. “Perhaps he went whoring in Thebes.”

“Come, Menesarkus, old friend,” said Drako. “Do not lie anymore. There is no place else he could be. He foolishly went riding alone that day. Your men must have captured him.”

Menesarkus smiled wryly. “And if I had your prince, why would I trade him for a mere twenty-one men? That's not a fair trade at all for a man who must be worth his weight in gold.”

“If you wish to see your men again,” said Drako, “you will give up Arkilokus. Otherwise those warriors will be sent to Sparta as slaves and you will never see them again.”

“I'll make you a bargain,” raged Menesarkus, spit flying from his mouth in fury. “I'll trade you Arkilokus's ten fingers and toes and his cock for those twenty-one men. One piece of the prince per man.”

“You would not do such a thing to your own grandson,” said Drako.

“He may be my flesh and blood,” said Menesarkus. “But he's a Spartan. And I'll skin him alive with my own knife if I must.”

The two men locked eyes. Drako cocked his head and raised one eyebrow. “I do believe you
would
skin Arkilokus alive,” he said with admiration. He turned his head and whistled. The Helots started pulling the carts toward the walls.

“Stop the Helots!” said Menesarkus. “Tell your slaves to leave our dead where they are. We will carry them into the city in honor. And if you do not leave me the prisoners, I will go get you Arkilokus's signet ring right now with the finger attached to show you that I am serious, and then you'll have your proof that I've got him.”

Drako smiled and, turning to his men, held up one hand, giving a quick signal in Spartan battle code. Twenty Spartan warriors drew their long daggers and moved menacingly toward the prisoners, and Menesarkus suppressed the urge to cry out. Each of the Spartans grabbed a prisoner's bound hands with one hand, raised his blade … and cut through the bonds, setting the Plataean free.

Menesarkus swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to breathe again.

“I intended to give them back all along,” said Drako with a mirthless smile. “And now I know that Arkilokus lives and is your prisoner. Take care of him, Menesarkus. When we storm the citadel we will expect to find him alive and unharmed. Or else every single man, woman, and child in Plataea will pay for his one death. For
that
is how much a Spartan prince is worth to us.” He turned around and marched back toward his waiting hoplites.

Menesarkus cursed himself for an old fool. Drako had played him like a harp. He'd used the threat of sending the prisoners to Sparta merely as a ruse to trick him into revealing that he did indeed have Arkilokus.

“Open the gates!” he ordered.

The gates slowly opened and Menesarkus turned to look into the citadel. Thousands of men and women were now standing there, staring at him with anticipation.

He looked back toward the Spartans. The enemy and their Helots were already marching away, back toward the Persian Fort.

The survivors of the Three Heads started pulling the corpses of their brothers from the carts, carrying them across the field and laying them in front of the gates. Many of the freed warriors were weeping, and almost all had bloody wounds, but they did not rest until they had brought all of the dead to the walls of Plataea.

“Hold up your heads,” Menesarkus said to the naked warriors, his voice strained with emotion. “Any honor you lost at the Three Heads you will regain in the coming siege. Thank the gods you've been blessed to live to fight the enemy another day.”

As he stood watching the men he heard the sound of a horse's hooves on the rocky ground behind him. He turned and saw Photine walking toward him, breathing hard through her nostrils, tail swishing in agitation, a wild look in her eyes. But she seemed to recognize Menesarkus and bowed her head slightly as if in greeting. She still wore her bridle but the reins had been torn loose. And her haunch was streaked with blood from a wound that looked like claw marks. It had been three days since Nikias had left Plataea on his foolhardy quest to Athens, and now his horse had returned riderless, apparently having come over the Kithaerons from Megarian territory. What had happened to the lad? Had he been killed by a mountain lion? Attacked by Dog Raiders?

“Come … come here, girl,” Menesarkus said in a voice breaking with emotion. He reached out a trembling hand to seize her noseband, but she whinnied and tossed her head, then bolted in the direction of their ruined farm. He glanced over at Chusor, who stood next to him, watching Photine disappear down the road. Then the smith hung his head low and went back into the citadel.

 

TWELVE

Nikias stood on the shore of the Piraeus harbor amidst an armada of beached black warships: a dozen triple-decked galleys as big as temples, and twice as many sleek dispatch ships with single masts sat on the rocky shore. The triremes were built with copper-covered rams projecting from their prows like strange beaks, and all had ornate eyes painted on their prows: the sight of these beached ships brought to mind a throng of forlorn sea monsters that had been stranded at high tide.

“They bring them on to the beach at night to keep the hulls from becoming waterlogged,” said General Agape at Nikias's side. “The fir planks soak up water and make them slow. A triple-decker can lose two and a half knots speed if it's left in the water overnight. Now the Persians make their hulls out of the wood of…”

Nikias rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the older man's voice, listening instead to a multitude of noises: the cries of birds, the shouts of men, the sounds of hammers and adzes from the nearby shipyard, and the splash of waves. There were thousands of men at work unloading sacks from a massive grain ship that had just arrived from Sicily.