Spartans at the Gates (9 page)

“But my husband heard news just yesterday in the market—” one of the women began.

“—of Thebans and a battle!” finished the other.

“True,” said Nikias. “I was there.”

“And you walked all the way here straight from the fight?”

“No wonder you're such a mess.”

Nikias laughed softly. “No, the battle was two weeks ago. I looked fine until this morning. I'm on my way to Athens.”

“I am the wife of Solon,” said the elder of the two women. “My name is Anastasia. And I live nearby. You must come to my home and eat something and rest.”

“Maybe I could just stay
here
awhile, by the well, wife of Solon,” said Nikias, closing his eyes again and drifting off.

“My grandson is coming with the cart,” said Anastasia. “He'll take you to the house.”

Nikias shook his head. “I can walk,” he insisted. He tried to stand but his legs were wobbly and he sank back down. Soon a young man arrived pulling a wooden cart. His left arm was missing at the elbow, so he had yoked the cart to himself with an ox harness. He stared curiously at Nikias as he approached.

“Is he dead, Grandmother?” asked the young man.

“Not yet,” croaked Nikias.

“This is my grandson, Konon,” said Anastasia.

Konon, a strong farmer with stout legs, wrapped his arm around Nikias and heaved him into the cart, setting his pack and sword by his side. Then he yoked himself to the cart again and started walking, pulling Nikias through an olive grove toward the main farmhouse.

Nikias reached for the pack and thrust his hand inside, feeling for the pouch in which he'd placed the gold. It was still there. He sat up and swiped his long hair out of his eyes. “My name is Nikias,” he said. “Son of Aristo.”

“Konon,” replied the lad. “Son of Periander.”

They approached the first of the farm buildings—a shed filled with barrels for the fermenting of wine. An old man with a humped back stood outside the shed tasting some mash from a cup. As the cart approached he ordered it to stop and shuffled over to it, thrusting the cup into Nikias's hand saying, “Taste this.”

Nikias took a swallow and coughed. “A little on the pickle side, as my grandfather says.”

The man gave a colossal sigh—as though the world were coming to an end. He took the cup from Nikias's outstretched hand.

“My thoughts exactly, boy,” he said and tossed the rest of the wine to the side. An instant later his face lit up. “Now try the juice from this other vat and—”

“Husband,” interrupted Anastasia, who had come up behind them, “this poor boy has come all the way from the Oxlands and a battle with Thebans. He's been thrown from his horse and beaten by Dog Raiders. And now you are making him taste your wine? Stop!”

“I thought he was the young fellow who lives down the road,” said Solon. “The one who shits himself and has to be carted around.”

“He's a traveler from Plataea, Grandfather,” explained Konon.

“And he's very ill,” said Anastasia with a chiding tone.

“Take me to court, why don't you?” Solon muttered to himself and went back into his shed.

“He's nearly blind,” Anastasia said to Nikias.

“But not yet
deaf,
” countered the cranky Solon from inside the building.

Konon pulled the cart up to the front of a farmhouse and helped Nikias to his feet, supporting him as they entered the front door.

“Take him to the kitchen,” Anastasia told Konon.

She made Nikias a delicious meal: flatbread, olives in brine, goat cheese, chickpeas in oil and vinegar with herbs, little fish drowning in oil, and a delicious wine mixed to the perfect proportion with good, clean water. Nikias hadn't realized how hungry he was. He kept the slave girl busy working at the bread oven. Anastasia was pleased that he ate so much.

“Poor dear,” she said after he'd finished off his second plate of fish and beans. “Poor starving creature. You must have been dying.”

Nikias wiped his mouth on his arm and smiled at Anastasia. “Bless you, wife of Solon,” he said. “I think you have saved my life.”

“My other grandson, Konon's elder brother, is an oarsman on a trireme,” said Anastasia proudly. “I hope some other mother would do the same for him if he was ever in trouble in the colonies.” She took a painted plate off the shelf and set it before Nikias. It bore the image of a fierce-looking young Athenian man throwing the javelin and written beneath was the name
TIMON.

“He looks like a brave fellow,” said Nikias. “I have a cousin who's on the
Sea Nymph.
”

“My Timon is on the
Freedom Bringer,
” she said. “We haven't seen him for a year.” She took the plate, gently dusting it off with her sleeve, then carefully placed it back on a high shelf. “We don't know where the fleet was sent. Somewhere in the north. A blockade,” she added and her face fell. She smoothed her dress over her ample chest and brightened. “Come,” she said. “You can't go about wearing that bloody torn tunic. You look like a barbarian.”

She led Nikias to an upstairs bedchamber where she opened a large cedar chest and took out an Athenian-style tunic—it was shorter than the kind worn in the Oxlands and made of finer wool. She crossed her arms and watched unabashed while Nikias undressed until he wore nothing more than his Oxlander boots. She inspected his naked body, commenting on his dozens of bruises and cuts.

“You're a fine specimen,” she said. “You're almost the same size as my Timon, and he's one of the strongest men in the fleet.”

Nikias tried to slip on Timon's tunic but he couldn't lift his right arm and winced with pain.

“Poor lad! What is wrong?”

“My arm,” said Nikias. “Tore the shoulder muscle.”

Anastasia helped him put on the rectangular cut of cloth, fastening the square at the shoulder with a copper pin. Nikias put on his own heavy leather belt and adjusted his Sargatian whip. He turned around and Anastasia regarded him with an appraising eye.

“Timon is a little bigger than you,” she said. “He
is
an oarsman, after all. But the folds at the waist look elegant. You appear to be a proper Athenian.”

“Thank you, good woman,” said Nikias.

“Except for those ugly boots,” said Anastasia. “No Athenian would be caught dead in those. It's either barefoot or sandals in the city.”

Nikias shrugged. “They're my favorite boots. They're not coming off unless I
am
dead.” He reached for his pack and took out a cone-shaped traveling hat. It was made of gray felt and had a geometric design. He put it on. “What do you think?” he asked.

Anastasia smiled. “Only an Oxlander would wear a pilos as ugly as that one.”

“My mother made it for me last year,” said Nikias. “She said it would bring me luck.”

“Then don't lose it,” said Anastasia.

Just then a deep male voice boomed from the courtyard below. “Where is he?”

“In the house,” came Konon's reply.

“Call him down here, then!” ordered the man.

“Wife!” shouted Solon. “Bring the Plataean!”

“Come, Nikias,” said Anastasia with a sigh, as if she knew what this was all about. “Let's get this over with.”

Nikias followed her down the stairs and into the courtyard. He saw Solon and Konon, and next to them was a giant in farmer's clothes—a man in his late fifties with a long beard and close-cropped hair and the pugnacious bearing of a pankrator.

“Nikias,” said Anastasia, gesturing toward the giant, “this is my son, Periander, Konon's father.”

“Where are you from, lad?” demanded Periander with a belligerent tone.

“Plataea,” replied Nikias proudly.

“So are the stories true?” asked Periander, his eyes ablaze. “Did the Thebans take Plataea?”

Nikias scoffed. “Take Plataea? Thebans? Never! A traitor let them through the gates and they held the city for a time. But our citizens rallied together and drove them out. And our cavalry smashed their relief forces outside the walls. We slaughtered them.”

All of the faces in the courtyard showed various degrees of amazement.

“And you were in this fight?” asked Periander.

“I fought in the streets,” said Nikias. “Then I escaped from the city and helped raise the countryside.”

“But you've still got your long hair,” said Konon, indignant.

Nikias didn't want to tell them that he was eighteen and of age … that he should have gone through the ceremony of manhood three weeks ago and burned his long hair on the altar of Zeus … but he'd been in jail at the time, falsely accused of murdering Kallisto's brother. He said, “Everyone fought that night. Even our women and children and slaves.”

“Gods, what a story!” said Periander, his big mouth breaking into a smile. He clapped Nikias a great opened-handed blow to his right shoulder. Nikias cried out in pain and his knees buckled.

“Father, he's injured!” cried Konon. “A fall from a horse.”

Periander, Solon, and Konon all came to Nikias's aid at once. They led him to a chair and bade him sit. He cradled his shoulder with one hand, clenching his teeth.

“I'm sorry,” said Periander. “Please forgive me.”

“How could you have known?” asked Nikias, forcing a smile.

“And what are you doing here? Are you with the Plataean contingent that arrived in the city the other day to see General Perikles?”

“No,” said Nikias. He hesitated. He didn't want to divulge that he had come to Athens to look for mercenaries. “I'm here on an errand … to my Athenian relatives,” he lied.

“What is your name, lad?” asked Periander.

“Son of Aristo—Nikias by name. Nemean tribe.”

“Nemean tribe?” asked Periander, his face contorted in astonishment. “Are you related to the Bull of Plataea?”

Nikias realized there was no getting out of this one. He had to tell the truth.

“He's my grandfather,” he replied with trepidation.

Periander smiled again, showing four missing lower incisors. He pointed to the gap and said proudly, “See this? Your grandfather took my teeth in the Panathenaic Games! One punch and I was out like a smashed lamp!”

 

EIGHT

After walking east for half a mile below the ridgeline, Chusor and Ji arrived at the Cave of Nymphs. Chusor looked for signs of other men, but he couldn't see anyone. As they approached the mouth of the grotto, the pigeon that had delivered Chusor the message flew out and alighted on his shoulder, cooing in his ear.

“She's waiting for you,” said Ji, and came to a stop. He bowed slightly and made a sweeping gesture for Chusor to enter.

Chusor squinted into the blackness, but he couldn't see anyone. Only a fire burning far back in the cave. He wondered if Ji had betrayed him. If this was an elaborate trap set up by Barka. But Ji could have easily murdered him on the walk here if he had desired to do so.

“Come to the fire,” said a woman's commanding voice from the blackness behind the fire. She, too, spoke in Phoenician, but without an accent, for the language was her native tongue.

Chusor obeyed and set his staff on the ground along with his pack.

“Now strip.”

He took the pigeon off his shoulder and set it on a rock. Then he pulled off his climbing boots, slipped off his belt and tunic, and stood facing the flames. In the firelight his muscular torso seemed to be carved from bronze-colored marble. The dozens of puckered scars on his body reflected the light like the edges of silver coins.

A naked woman appeared from the shadows on the other side of the fire. Her physique was a perfect female counterpart to Chusor's. She was freakishly tall for her sex, with an ample chest, powerful legs, and broad shoulders. She would dwarf nearly any other man besides Chusor. Her black hair—shining like obsidian—grew all the way down to her waist in two thick plaits.

Chusor noticed she wore no ornaments except for earrings of beaten gold that hung nearly to her shoulders. They were in the shape of miniature triremes dangling from hoops. Chusor had fashioned them with his own hands—hammered them out in the hold of a ship using a spare anchor as an anvil—and he was pleased to see she still owned them.

She was not considered a ravishing beauty by the standards of the day, in any port. But she wasn't manly or unlovely. Her face was just too strong—as if a sculptor had roughed out her features and had not yet made the delicate refinements. There was something about her, however, that aroused Chusor's animal nature like few other women had. She was confident and happy in her own skin. She loved pleasure as well as pleasing him. And those qualities made her very appealing.

Her big sleepy eyes looked him up and down with a languorous gaze. She crossed her arms under her breasts, pushing them together in a beguiling way. Zana—the daughter of a deposed Phoenician king who'd become a pirate queen and captain of a band of cheerful cutthroats.

“What did you do to your exquisite hair?” she asked wistfully.

“I grew tired of it,” explained Chusor. “Where is your ship, by the way? Your crew?”

“The ship is lost,” she said with a tiny shrug, as if she had misplaced a trinket and not the fastest pirate ship on the seas. She stared at his smooth pate and chewed the inside of her cheek petulantly. “I don't like your bald head.”

“I'm happy to leave you in peace,” he said. But the way he gazed hungrily at her body said otherwise.

She looked at his loins, grinned, and said, “Spears ho!” imitating the battle cry of Phoenician mariners.

“Is there someplace soft for us to lay ourselves down, Zana?” asked Chusor with a world-weary voice.

Ever so slowly Zana stepped back into the shadows, but her hand remained in the firelight. Beckoning … beckoning.…