Sword of Apollo (11 page)

He leaned forward and kissed Penelope on the forehead and Kallisto put her cheek on the back of his head. They stayed like that for a long time, just breathing. The redolent scent of Penelope's hair mingled with the natural perfume of Kallisto's body was intoxicating. He would be astonished if the air of Elysium was more fragrant than this.

“When my grandfather was walking to the Graves of the Heroes to speak to the Spartan king,” said Nikias, “he told me that he saw a sign: there was a dead fox in the grass. It had no wound. It had just died. Very strange.”

“What does it mean?”

“You know the old story of the Spartan boy? The one who held a stolen fox under his cloak and let it eat his guts, rather than admit he had taken it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“The dead fox in the grass stands for the Spartans. And the gods were letting my grandfather know that they could be defeated, no matter how cunning they might be.”

Kallisto shrugged with one shoulder. Evidently she was not impressed with the story of the dead fox, but his grandfather's story had filled Nikias with hope.

“Young master?”

It was Mula, standing in the doorway.

“You must go and join the others,” said Kallisto. “We'll see you when you return from the mountain.”

Nikias stared into Kallisto's eyes for a long time and she gazed back intently. Then he kissed her on the lips and left the room.

A slender Persian man waited at the bottom of the stairs, holding a lamp. His gaunt yet regal face wore an austere look. This was Mula's father, Saeed. The Persian had only been nine years old at the time he was captured by Menesarkus at the Battle of Plataea—a prince's groom who had spent his miserable life up until then mistreated by his vicious master. Menesarkus beheaded the prince and Saeed fell at the Greek warrior's feet, weeping and begging for his life. Nikias's grandfather, splattered with the blood and guts of the men he had destroyed that day, ruffled Saeed's hair and smiled at him in a kindly way, saying “You my prize now” in broken Persian. At least, that's the story Saeed had told Nikias since he was a little boy, for Saeed had helped raised Nikias, teaching him how to ride as well as to wield the Sargatian lasso. He was more like an uncle than a family servant. And he had saved Nikias's life at the Battle of the Gates against the Thebans.

“Come, Nik,” said Saeed. He led Nikias into the biggest room, where he had laid out all of the family's weaponry. “The bows have all been strung, the strings are waxed,” he said. “Each of the women will carry one on the journey. There are twenty arrows in each quiver,” he added, gesturing at a pile of arrow cases.

“Good,” said Nikias. His sister, his grandmother, and Kallisto, like most of the women in Plataea, were better archers than the men, learning from childhood to shoot and participating in the sacred festival of Artemis every year—a day when the women hunted in the fields and forests alone and the men stayed home with the children.

Saeed said, “I sent all the armor and shields to the citadel with the men who came to collect the last of the supplies today.”

“They got all of the pitch?”

“All except one jar. I will use it to burn down the house after we have departed.”

“Make certain there is nothing left,” said Nikias. He regretted destroying the house they had so recently built. But they couldn't leave any habitations in the countryside standing. The Spartan invaders would have to make their own shelters in the Oxlands, and not occupy Plataean homes like birds that steal nests.

He regretted having to leave behind his cherished gear—a breastplate, greaves, and helm that had been made by Chusor—but they were too heavy to bring on the journey to Athens. He was glad that one of the warriors who stayed behind would be able to make use of it. “Let Pelops have my armor,” he said, naming a warrior who would remain in the citadel. “He's almost my size.”

Saeed nodded. The Persian slave would be staying behind as well, along with Mula. Saeed would never leave his master Menesarkus's side, and thus his young son would stay with him as well, despite the danger. He reached down and picked up a sword belt with a scabbard and fastened it around Nikias's waist. Then he tied on Nikias's Sargatian lasso in a breakaway knot.

Nikias pulled the sword from the sheath and looked keenly at the blade in the lamplight. It was the weapon that Chusor had found in a tomb beneath the citadel, and it was engraved with words in an ancient tongue signifying that it was the Sword of Apollo. It had been wrought of some mysterious combination of metals and was extremely sharp. And it had remained in perfect condition for hundreds of years, wrapped in oiled skins, even though the handle and pommel had rotted away. Chusor had replaced these parts and had given the sword to Nikias after he had been released by the Spartans. The pommel was made of bronze with the inscription “Of Plataea” scored into it.

Suddenly a scream pierced the night.

Nikias, his heart pounding, flew through door and into the courtyard. His sister stood with her hands to her gasping mouth, while Eudoxia was holding a broom nearby. She had pinned something underneath it—a long, fat, squirming thing.

“Snake,” said Eudoxia

“Step aside,” said Nikias. “I'll cut it in half.”

“No,” said Eudoxia. “Look.”

Nikias grabbed the burning torch from the wall sconce and held it down low. The snake had something sticking from its mouth—two little yellow legs and talons.

“It swallowed a baby owl,” said Mula, horrified.

“This is bad,” said Saeed.

“Spike and hammer,” ordered Eudoxia.

Saeed darted out of the courtyard. Mula bent down and grabbed the snake behind the head and picked it up, letting its tail dangle. It was almost as long as the boy was tall—with black and orange rings. And it was fat.

“Nikias!”

He looked up to where Kallisto stood at the window. “What happened?” she asked in a harsh whisper.

“Nothing,” said Nikias. “Don't worry. It's just a snake. My sister got scared. Go back to bed.”

But it wasn't just a snake. It was a snake that had swallowed an animal sacred to Athena. It was a terrible omen. A foreboding of death and disaster. Saeed quickly returned and gave a hammer and a spike to Eudoxia.

“Take it to the door,” she commanded, uttering a prayer to Hestia, goddess of hearth and home.

Mula dashed out of the courtyard with the snake and everyone followed him through the house to the front portal. Nikias opened the door and they all stepped onto the threshold, then he shut the door behind them.

“Hold the creature to the door,” said Eudoxia.

Mula did as he was told, and Eudoxia put the spike in the middle of the snake and nailed it to the wood with two firm blows. The creature writhed wildly but did not release the owl, thrashing against the door like a worm on a hook, its body slapping against the planks, drumming out a dull and chaotic beat, as though a persistent visitor stood knocking gently at the door and would not go away. Blood and guts oozed from the hole made by the spike.

“Nikias,” said Saeed. “You must get back to the city. The men will be leaving for the mountain soon. Take Mula with you in case the Arkon needs to send us a message.”

Nikias pried his eyes away from the sickening yet mesmerizing sight of the snake.

“Be ready to depart at dawn,” said Nikias. He went to the stable and found Photine, then took her into the yard and mounted. Mula came running up and Nikias reached down, lifting him up so he sat in front. Then he kicked the horse and galloped down to the road that led to the citadel, staring at the dark walls of the city looming ahead, but all that he could see was the image of the writhing snake that was burned onto his brain.

 

FOURTEEN

At three hours after midnight the gates of Plataea opened silently—the great hinges on both doors had been greased so that they would not make a sound. A throng of warriors—five hundred strong—stood bunched together at the entrance to the citadel, staring silently into the darkness outside the walls. None of the men wore armor or helms, only tunics and sandals. They all had large amphoras affixed to their backs with leather strapping. And each had a leaf-bladed sword on his hip.

Without a word they exited the citadel, moving along the outside of the wall to the southern section of the barricade. Once they got to this point they separated into smaller groups of four to ten and headed up the slope toward the great mountain that stood frowning above the valley. After the last man had departed through the gates, the tall wooden doors swung shut from the inside and were barred. Less than a minute had passed for this sortie to exit the citadel.

Nikias, Leo, Kolax, and another young warrior named Baklydes walked together through the field of thistles to the south of the citadel toward the Graves of the Heroes—the same place where Menesarkus and the Spartan king had met the day before. The moon had set long ago, and the sky was covered by a high lid of wispy clouds, blocking out some of the starlight. Nikias glanced to his right and saw another group nearby. He gave a slight wave and the leader waved back. Beyond this company of men Nikias could just make out a few more groups heading west. There were no goats or shepherds or their dogs in the fields. All of them had been brought into the citadel earlier that day. The men with their strange burdens were the only ones moving in the night.

“These things are heavy,” whispered Kolax, adjusting the straps of his jar.

“Shhh,” hissed Leo. “I'm counting out the time.”

“No talking,” said Baklydes. He was Hesiod's much less talkative older brother.

Nikias came to a shelf of rocks and clambered up, coming out onto a narrow goat path that led straight into the forest. He paused and peered into the gloom of the trees, listening for any sound. The Spartans might have scouts positioned near the citadel, or Dog Raider spies could be lurking in the shadows, so they had to be cautious. He looked at Leo and saw his lips moving as he counted.

“You are all like Prometheus tonight,” his grandfather had told the men when he addressed them in the agora just before their departure. “Bringers of fire.”

Nikias hefted the bulky jar into a more comfortable position, then started walking up the path. The only sound was the whisper of their sandals on the gravel of the path, and the occasional hoot of an owl. Soon they were walking amongst gnarled oak and olive trees; he breathed in the air, which was rich with those scents. A deep sadness washed over him. The forest on the mountainside—a sacred refuge of the goddess Artemis—was ancient and famous throughout Greece. The god Dionysus and his followers used to walk these hills. And the baby Oedipus, doomed from birth to slay his father and marry his mother, had been left by a shepherd to die on the mountaintop. The summit itself, though, was the most sacred spot of all. And this was where they were headed.

“But all of this must be destroyed,” he thought morosely. The people of Plataea had been given no other choice. Tonight they would burn the forest to the ground to keep the Spartans from using the trees against them.

“Did you hear that?” asked Kolax. He stopped and whirled, nocking an arrow to his bow and pointing it down the path behind them.

Nikias peered into the dark and saw a shape moving there. “Don't shoot,” he commanded.

But Kolax had already dropped his bow and was smiling. “Mula,” he said. “I know his footsteps.”

Sure enough, the boy scampered up the trail and stopped in front of them, breathing hard.

“What are you doing here?” Nikias growled.

“I wasn't going to be left behind,” said Mula. “I snuck out with the other men when the gates were opened.”

Kolax laughed and cuffed Mula on the side of the head. “Good one,” he said with admiration. “I didn't even see you.”

“Your father is going to have the skin off your arse when we get back,” said Nikias.

“I don't care,” said Mula. “I'm not going to stay in the city with the women and babies.”

Nikias turned to Leo. “How much time has passed?”

Leo held up ten fingers then five more.

“Keep moving,” said Nikias.

They continued their quick ascent, following the trail that had been worn by countless goats and shepherds, deep into the heart of the pine forest. At one point a large buck bounded across the trail right in front of Nikias—one of its antlers brushed against his chest—causing his heart to leap in his breast, for his first thought was that it was a lion. But the only other sign of life that he saw was the occasional tortoise feasting on the leaves of weeds that lined the path, or startled hares and lizards darting in the undergrowth.

Nikias pushed on, breathing hard, heedless of the stabbing in his calves. His group had been selected for their speed. Nikias, Leo, and Baklydes were three of the fastest mountain climbers in the city. And Kolax was strong despite his wiry frame. Even little Mula was keeping up with them. But every step of the way Nikias expected an enemy arrow to come flying from the dark.

“Thirty minutes,” whispered Leo behind him.

They had made good time and were almost to the top of the mountain. Nikias could see the glow of the moon rising from behind the trees on the summit, twenty feet above. He found a place where stairs had been graven in the rock and climbed quickly all the way to the top, the wind growing stronger with every step.

He emerged into a small clearing lit by starlight. Here the pines had been cut down hundreds of years ago to make a gathering place. He stood for a moment, catching his breath, looking about anxiously, squinting into the wind that whipped around the summit.

In the center of the clearing was a heap of dead branches—a jumble as big as a house. A wooden effigy stood atop the pile. It was the figure of a smiling young woman draped in real clothing. The painted face grinned down at him in the moonlight, its dress undulating in the wind, causing it to look very much alive.