Sword of Apollo (20 page)

“I'll find you in Athens!” Nikias yelled over his shoulder.

 

FOUR

“We must charge straight at them,” said Sarpedon. “It's the only chance for our people to make it to the walls of Athens.”

Sarpedon was surrounded by a semicircle of his men with Nikias standing before him, still breathing hard from the fast ride from Konon's farm. They were six miles from the city. He could see the walls and the smoke from funeral pyres. He could see the Temple of Athena shining in the sun, and Mount Hymettos looming behind it. They were so close now. But death waited for them on both sides of the walls of Athens. Nikias was not the only one who was thinking this.

“We should head to the Piraeus District,” said one of the Plataean cavalrymen. “Hire ships to take us to Euboea.”

“I agree!” said another. “Euboea is a big island. And it's close to Athens.”

“If this contagion is spreading throughout the city,” said Sarpedon, “the Athenians will ship out their own people first.”

“Sarpedon is right,” said Nikias. “It would take the entire fleet to transport us all to Euboea.”

“We could swim there!” said another man. “It's not far.”

“The currents are deadly,” said Nikias, shaking his head. “It's impossible.”

“Then what do we do?” asked another rider.

“We sacrifice ourselves so that our families can have a chance,” said Sarpedon. “A contagion won't kill everyone. But the Spartans surely will.” He scanned the eyes of his men with a steely resolve. “Understand?” The men nodded grimly. “We mount up now and cut them off before they reach the road.”

Nikias said, “I need a spear and a shield.”

“You're not coming with us,” said Sarpedon. “You're to lead our people to the Dipylon.” He was referring to the great two-gated entrance on the northwestern wall.

“But—”

Sarpedon grabbed Nikias's biceps. “If you disobey me now, I'll cut off your balls!” he hissed. “Now do your duty and look after our people.” His eyes softened for a moment and he added in a voice for Nikias's ears alone: “Look after my wife and daughter if I don't come back. Understand?”

Nikias nodded.

He watched the men ride off, throwing up a dusty haze as they went. How many of them would survive? Not one might make it to Athens alive. He mounted Photine and headed up the road, looking for Saeed. His family's cart was in the middle of the throng. The twins, sitting in the back of the cart with Phile's arms wrapped around them, looked at him blankly as he came up. Saeed walked alongside the lead ox. Ajax and Teleos were nowhere in sight.

“Where did Sarpedon take the cavalry?” asked Saeed.

“Just a precaution,” lied Nikias. There were many other families nearby, looking at him expectantly. They'd all seen the cavalry ride away. The Plataean riders would be slaughtered. Nikias knew that in his gut. And then the Spartans would keep coming, like a moving wall of reapers, cutting down men and women and children.

“We must go faster,” urged Nikias in a carrying voice. “Just a little further now.”

“Brother,” whispered Phile, “what are those strange smoke fires in the citadel?”

“Not now,” said Nikias, his stomach churning with anxiety. How long would it take the contagion to strike down his sister and children? How many of them would live? Did they have any medicine strong enough to thwart a terrible illness that could bring even a big warrior like Konon's father to his knees?

And then an idea hit him like a clap to the head. The Spartans feared contagion more than any foe. At least, that's what his grandfather had told him once.

“Phile!” he blurted. “Where are the medicines?”

“Are you sick?” she asked, rummaging behind her for a wooden box and opening it.

“The emetic!” said Nikias. “Quickly! Give it to me.” He took the small bottle from her hand. “And a lump of charcoal. And a small wineskin.”

“What are you—”

He seized the proffered charcoal and wineskin, then turned to Saeed. “Ride up the line to the front,” he commanded. “Tell everyone to go as fast as they can. I'll be back.” He turned Photine and shot away from the road, back in the direction that the cavalry had taken—to the west.

“Where are you going, Brother?!” cried Phile. But he did not look back. He shoved the charcoal into his mouth and chewed until his jaws ached, washing it down with the wine. He quickly caught up to the cavalry, for they had stopped a few miles from the road, waiting for the advancing mass of Spartan cavalry. He rode straight up to Sarpedon, who cried out in anger when he caught sight of him.

“Sheep-stuffing fool! I ordered you—”

“Stay here, Sarpedon!” shouted Nikias, his voice full of authority and strength. “Don't follow me! If I die, then I die. But if I succeed, then you all will live.” He uncorked the bottle of emetic and forced himself to swallow the bitter liquid.

“Are you mad?” asked Sarpedon. “What are you doing?”

Nikias threw the little clay jar on the ground, then quickly unstrapped his scabbard and tossed it to Sarpedon, who caught it. Then, without explaining himself, he bolted away from the cavalry. He glanced back over his shoulder but nobody had attempted to follow him. Sarpedon sat on his horse, openmouthed, stunned into silence by Nikias's strange actions.

Nikias rode hard, straight at the heart of the enemy cavalry—a seemingly endless mass of horses and men and armor gleaming in the sun. He felt a churning and bubbling in his stomach and forced himself to concentrate. Scouts out in front saw him and turned their horses to intercept him. He raised one hand, palm up.

“Peace!” he shouted, coming to a halt. “Peace! I need to speak to your general! I'm unarmed! I have important news!”

The Spartans surrounded him on all sides, boxing him in with their horses, then directed him toward their cavalry. The enemy horsemen had come to a stop evidently to rest their horses before their charge against the Plataeans. The scouts brought Nikias to the center of the cavalry, where a gray-haired warrior was getting his armor strapped on. Nikias recognized the man at once—he was King Arkidamos himself. Standing next to him was a tall man with an intelligent face who was dressed like a Korinthian cavalryman.

The scouts came to a stop and pulled Nikias from Photine's back, grabbing him by either arm and escorting him to within ten paces of their king. Then they forced him to his knees.

“What is this?” asked the king, perplexed. “Who are you?”

“I'm Nikias of Plataea,” replied Nikias. “I am Menesarkus's grandson.”

The king's face did not show any emotion—neither surprise nor concern. Nikias felt his stomach turn, and his face broke out in a cold sweat. The king took a step forward but Nikias held up his hands. “Stand back, Your Majesty!” he warned. “I'm sick.”

“Sick?” asked the king with a slightly perplexed tone. “What do you mean?”

“The contagion,” said Nikias.

The Spartan scouts holding on to his arms let go almost immediately and stepped back. The king recoiled as well.

“What are you doing here?” asked Arkidamos.

“I've come to warn you,” said Nikias, “and in doing so save my people from your army. If you attack us, you will catch this illness.”

The Korinthian stepped forward and bowed his head deferentially to the Spartan royal. “King Arkidamos,” he said, “this Plataean is lying. He doesn't appear to have a fever. There is nothing wrong with him.”

“I'm not lying,” said Nikias. “Look at the smoke rising from Athens. Thousands have died in the citadel already.”

The king turned his gaze toward Athens and squinted.

“An Athenian ruse, as I told you already,” said the Korinthian. “This Plataean is crafty, I'll give him that. He knows their exhausted cavalry will be overwhelmed.”

Nikias started to panic. Why wasn't the emetic working? He felt perfectly well—his stomach had even stopped churning. He looked around desperately, like an animal caught in a box. Hundreds of Spartan warriors stared at him impassively.

“Let me take Menesarkus's heir back to the fort,” said the Korinthian. “He will make a valuable prisoner in our negotiations with the Plataean Arkon.”

But the Spartan king appeared not entirely certain what to do. He looked Nikias up and down, then asked, “What are the symptoms of this illness?”

“A stabbing in the eyes and stomach,” said Nikias. “And a black vomit.” He stopped speaking and tried to will himself to throw up, but nothing would happen. “It's the eclipse. It was a warning.”

“And
you
have this illness now?” asked the Korinthian with a sly voice. He strode up to Nikias and stopped a few paces in front of him. “You look perfectly well to me. Scared, perhaps, but not sick.” The wry expression on his face reminded Nikias of a pedantic teacher who'd caught a student in a lie.

“He was brave to come here,” said the Korinthian in a booming voice. “But he knows we stand to kill or capture most of his people before they reach the walls of Athens. Do you have children, Nikias of Plataea?” He leaned forward and said in a whisper, “Perhaps I'll take them for my own slaves. And your woman too.”

Nikias grit his teeth, trembling with rage. He had failed. And he'd thrown his life away for nothing. At least he could take this smug Korinthian down before the Spartans killed him. All he had to do was smash his palm into the man's face, driving the nasal bone into his brain. He tensed his legs for the attack. But then a strange feeling overcame him and he gasped. “Gods,” he blurted, for suddenly it felt as if his stomach had swelled to thrice its size … like he was about to give birth to his own guts from his mouth. He put his palms on the ground and spewed forth a dark vomit—a black bile that sprayed the Korinthian's feet.

The man let forth a startled cry and jumped backward, and everyone within ten feet of Nikias edged back. The king stared with horror at the dark mess Nikias had made, and the charcoal-black slime trailing down his chin. Nikias heaved again and his body shook violently.

“The Plataean isn't clever enough to do
that
,” said the king. “He can't conjure the black bile from his guts on a whim.” He quickly mounted his horse and shouted to his men, “Back to the camp! The Plataeans and Athenians are infected with contagion.” And, turning to the Korinthian, he said, “Don't come back with us, Andros. You might have his sickness now. Once you are back at the Megarian camp, send a messenger to me.”

“But the Plataean,” said Andros the Korinthian. “Shouldn't we kill him?”

“Leave him to his fate,” ordered the king in a solemn tone. “I will not slay a man dying of the contagion. It would bring us bad luck.”

Nikias could not stop vomiting. He retched over and over again until his eyes were streaming tears. He saw the Korinthian—the one the king had called Andros—wipe the vomit from his feet with a rag, a look of disgust mingled with hatred in his dark eyes. Then he threw the rag at Nikias and stalked away.

Nikias watched as all the Spartans mounted up and rode away. Finally he lay on his side, breathing shallowly as the waves of nausea receded, listening to the ground tremble with the sound of pounding hooves.

He was alone in the field. The sun burned his cheek. He drifted into that comfortable state of profound relief that comes after vomiting. He watched as a trail of ants carried grass seeds in a line—an orderly line of workers. After a while he felt the rumble of horses coming from the direction of Athens. He forced himself to get to his knees. When he could finally look up, he saw Sarpedon and two other horsemen riding toward him.

“What happened?” asked Sarpedon. He leapt from his horse and rushed to Nikias's side. His face wore a rare smile—a grin so wide it looked like it might split his face. “We saw the Spartans ride away! All of them! What did you do?”

Nikias wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic and said, “I scared them off.”

*   *   *

The gates were shut when Nikias and the cavalry arrived at the northwestern walls of Athens. The Plataean refugees were still a mile behind them on the road, spread out in a broken line of exhausted travelers.

Acrid smoke from the funeral fires filled the air around the walls with a sickening stench. Up on the high walls Nikias could make out the figures of a few archers, but the bastions seemed undermanned since he had been here last. Back then the ramparts had been thick with watchmen.

“I am Sarpedon of Plataea, and we seek entrance to the citadel!” called out the cavalry captain. There came no reply from the walls. But one of the archers turned to a companion and the man vanished from sight, apparently sent on some errand. They waited for half an hour on their fidgeting horses until the first refugees started to crowd around them, wondering what was going on.

Sarpedon was growing red-faced and agitated. “This is absurd,” he grumbled.

Nikias saw Phile and Saeed arrive, and they gazed back at him expectantly. He smiled and gave them a little wave.

“Who speaks for the Plataeans?” called down a weary yet officious voice from the wall.

Nikias saw a pale and sweaty man leaning over the parapet wall.

“I, Sarpedon, son of—”

“Athens is infected with a sickness,” snapped the Athenian, mopping his face with a rag. “Tens of thousands are dead. More are dying. The gates are shut. Go back to Plataea for your own good.”

Sarpedon turned to Nikias with an outraged and bewildered expression. “Is he joking?”

Nikias thought of the terrible omen at the farm—the snake swallowing the baby owl. “Tell him that Perikles sent a message to my grandfather four days ago,” he said, “offering us refuge from the Spartan invaders.”

Sarpedon called out, “Perikles sent word to our Arkon, Menesarkus—”