Sword of Apollo (23 page)

Both Nikias and Phile had their bows on their backs but had not found anything to shoot. “This is how our democracy began,” Nikias continued. “Just a few thousand people, working together. The first law must have been, ‘Share.'”

“I wonder what is happening back home,” Phile said.

Nikias wondered the same thing. Had the Spartans attacked yet? Had Kallisto given birth to their child … and, if so, were they both alive? And what had become of General Sarpedon and the others who had stayed behind in the Athenian cemetery?

“I miss Grandfather and Grandmother,” said Phile dreamily, then asked abruptly, “Where are the twins?”

“There,” said Nikias with a laugh. The girls had wandered down the path and into the forest. “They're getting so fast,” he said.

“It's like a god put wings on their feet,” said Phile.

They both started moving in the direction of the girls when a light brown shape leapt from the undergrowth toward the twins. The instant Nikias saw that sleek, muscular blur, he knew that it was a lion, and he screamed and started running toward the girls even though he knew he would never get to them in time. A white shape bounded from the other side of the path, barreled between the girls, and slammed into the lion, snarling and snapping its great jaws.

It was Nestor. The big dog was nearly the same size as the enormous cat. The animals—ancient enemies that had been pitted against each other for a thousand years or more—rolled on the earth, fighting and throwing up sticks and forest debris while the girls, ignorant of the danger, stood a few feet away, watching in bemused silence.

Nikias grabbed them in his arms, scooping them up and bearing them away. And then the lion was running away with Nestor chasing after it, barking madly.

A bowstring thumped and an arrow flew, striking the lion in the ribs, but the cat kept running. Phile nocked another arrow to her string but could not get off a clear shot.

“Nestor!” Nikias called to the dog, but the animal did not heed him, and vanished along with the lion into the dense trees. Phile and Nikias each took one of the girls and ran back to fort. The girls were laughing, completely unaware that death had stalked them so closely, but Nikias and Phile were both ashen and shaking.

Nikias, Leo, Ajax, Teleos, and four others took spears and mounted up, following Nestor's trail through the forest. They found the dog a mile away, his jaws locked onto the dead lion's neck, struggling vainly to drag his heavy prize back in the direction of the fort. Nikias leapt from his horse and ran to the dog, hugging his big neck and heaping praise upon him. Nestor smiled at him, wagging his tail and licking Nikias with his blood-covered tongue, then barked happily when he saw Ajax and Teleos.

“Phile's a fine shot,” said Leo, who had dismounted and was kneeling by the lion's side. He pulled the shaft from the ribs with an effort. “It must have pierced its vitals. Otherwise I don't think the dog could have killed it.”

“I don't care,” proclaimed Nikias. “This dog has earned his keep for the rest of his life.”

“We told you he was the best dog in Greece,” said Teleos.

“The king of dogs,” put in Ajax.

That night all of the citizens who were of age met in the courtyard and discussed what should be done next. Nikias volunteered to go back to Athens and find out what was happening there, and this was determined to be the best course of action. The eldest amongst them was elected the temporary leader of the outpost, and the next morning at dawn Nikias kissed his daughters and sister, patted Nestor on the head, and then departed the camp with Leo, moving down the narrow path that led to Athens.

 

SEVEN

Chusor awoke from a long, dark dream—a terrifying and claustrophobic dream that seemed to have lasted for eternity. In the nightmare he'd been imprisoned in the honeycomb—a place in the Prison Pits of Syrakuse where men were put headfirst in tiny grave-like cells, like pupae in a beehive, and left to rot. Most went mad first. Mad maggots squirming in their own filth.

But then he was magically released from this heinous prison and was floating through a black mist toward a gray light, carried on the wings of some helpful daemon—the ghost of Ikarus? Zephyros—the west wind? He was set free, and his body was suddenly as light as pig's bladder filled with air.…

He opened his lids and saw the familiar wall of the ship's cabin before his blurry eyes. How long had he been asleep? And where was Zana? He tried to say her name, but his tongue was so dry that it had stuck to the roof of his mouth. He opened his jaw with great effort and rolled onto his back. It felt as if his skin were as heavy as iron. At the end of his dream just now he had felt so light, but now it took all his strength merely to raise his eyes and peer at the ceiling. What was happening? Was he drunk? Drugged?

“He's awake,” said a gruff voice. A Helot's accent.

“Thank the gods!” exclaimed another man in the room—this one with a Plataean accent. “I told you he would come back. Didn't I tell you all?”

“That you did, Leo,” replied a third—this one with an Athenian accent. “Diokles, go find the doctor.”

Chusor strained to look in the direction of the voices, but he could not move a muscle, for he was overcome by a debilitating fatigue. “What's … happen … happening?” he rasped, struggling to sit up, but he barely shifted more than a few inches.

Phoenix appeared by his side and lifted Chusor to a sitting position. “Bring the wine, Leo,” he ordered.

A moment later Leo was next to Chusor, holding a bowl to his lips. “So that's who had spoken,” thought Chusor. “The Plataean accent. But why is Leo here on the ship?” He took a sip of wine and it trickled down his aching and parched throat and made him think of a rivulet of water washing over hot coals. He tried to speak again and started choking.

“Don't talk,” said Leo. “You've been unconscious for a long time. Do you understand, Chusor, old friend?”

Chusor closed his eyes and leaned against Phoenix's strong arms, drifting for a time, relishing the taste of the wine in his mouth. Leo's words seemed to echo in his head. He thought he had asked, “How long?” but when no reply came, he realized that he had asked the question in his mind but not out loud.

“How long have I been unconscious?” he asked.

“Almost two weeks,” said Phoenix. “The day after we arrived at the port.”

“Did I fall?” asked Chusor. “Hit my head?”

“Then you don't remember anything?” asked Leo. “Do you know where you are now?”

“I was in Syrakuse,” said Chusor wearily. He heard the sound of footsteps entering the room, then a gaunt and bearded face with a crooked nose appeared close to his own. The homely man's breath reeked of wine. Chusor could not remember his name and it vexed him.

“Where were you?” asked this newcomer.

“I was in the honeycomb,” continued Chusor. “I was dying in my own filth. Going mad. The Tyrant put me there. Don't you remember?”

The bearded man pried open Chusor's lids and stared at his eyes through a piece of magnifying crystal. “Many of the victims experience amnesia that wipes out their memories,” he said to the others in a phlegmatic tone. “Some even lose years of memories. The fever can cause brain damage. Chusor might not be the man we knew,” he added. “I warned you all.”

Chusor smiled with relief as the man's name suddenly came to him. “No, I'm not brain damaged, Ezekiel. No one could ever forget the reek of your breath.”

Ezekiel gave a surprised but hopeful smile. “Who am I?” he asked.

“You're a Jew,” said Chusor. “And a Persian. A curious combination.”

“Good, good,” said Ezekiel, breaking into a smile. “And where are we?”

“The
Spear
,” replied Chusor with growing confidence. His head had begun to clear, as though a bright sun were slowly burning off a mist in his mind.

“And do you remember what happened to you?”

Chusor forced himself to think—to fight the overpowering urge to drift back into sleep. He remembered coming into the port of Piraeus. And paying off the men. And making love with Zana. The next morning a few men came back to the ship feeling ill. And then, sometime later that day, he experienced a feeling of profound melancholy, the likes of which he had never before experienced. A strange sense of doom, as if nothing in the world was any good, and never would be. As though the sun were black and gave no heat. The gut cramps followed soon after. He crawled into bed and promptly soiled himself. Zana was so kind. So unlike her usual haughty self. She cleaned him and comforted him. But then she departed on some errand. She said she was going to search for Ezekiel.

“The sickness raced through the men of the
Spear
like fire,” said Phoenix. “Half of the oarsmen are dead.”

“Where is Zana?” Chusor asked. He saw Phoenix and Diokles exchange a brief look and instantly knew what had happened. His heart dropped to his stomach and his eyes instantly welled up with tears. “How—how long has she been dead?”

“She went quickly,” said Diokles, shielding his eyes with his hand—a Helot sign of grief. “She got sick soon after you and her shade left the next morning.”

“I could not save her,” said Ezekiel with a sigh. “I haven't been able to save
anyone
, for that matter. I gave you drugs to ease the agony of your fever, thinking that you would die like all the others. But you slipped into a state of unconsciousness and here you have lain for all this time. You would have died for certain if Diokles hadn't spooned water into your mouth now and then. He sat by your side every day and night.”

Chusor looked at Diokles, who smiled back.

“Thank you,” said Chusor.

Diokles grunted in response.

“Weren't you afraid of getting the illness?” asked Chusor.

“We Helots already have this sickness,” replied Diokles. “I almost die from it when I was a boy. It cannot hurt me now, I reckon. And besides, where else can we go? Not enough men on the crew to leave Athens now.”

Chusor turned to Leo and asked, “What are you doing in Athens? And where is Nikias? Is he alive?”

“It's a long story,” said Leo. “Nikias is alive, but he's in jail here in Athens.”

“In jail?” asked Chusor. “For what?”

“Inciting the youth of Athens to mutiny against the government,” said Leo, raising his eyebrows. “At least, that's the official charge. He was just trying to find men willing to go back to Plataea with him to help withstand the siege.”

“Is the city under siege?”

“I don't know. We don't know anything. We only just brought the citizens of Plataea to Athens two weeks ago and—”

“Chusor must be allowed to rest,” interrupted Ezekiel. “His face is pale. He can barely keep his eyes open.”

“If the sickness couldn't kill me, I can certainly withstand one of Leo's tales,” replied Chusor. “I must know what has taken place.”

They helped him drink more wine and propped him up in the bed with pillows. Then Leo told him the entire tale of their flight from Plataea—from the kindling of the great forest fire on Mount Kithaeron to the journey to the Parnes range and the discovery of the abandoned fort. An hour it took in the telling, and by the time he started in on the return journey to Athens, Chusor begged for something to eat. Ezekiel had already been preparing a bowl of chicken and lentil soup, and Chusor, voracious after two weeks without food, devoured it. He did not know it but he had lost more than forty pounds. Neither Diokles nor Ezekiel, who had known him for many years, had ever seen him so thin.

“It only took Nik and me a day to ride back to Athens from the Parnes foothills,” Leo said, continuing on with his tale after this brief break. “We arrived at the Athenian cemetery at sunset and searched amongst the tombs for the Plataean refugees, but there was nobody there. We went to the Double Gates and called up to the guards. They told us that our people had been allowed entrance to Athens a few days after we had gone to Mount Parnes. An army of Megarians and Dog Raiders had returned to Attika, you see, and the Athenians—seeing this new terror—had relented and opened the gates. Thank the gods our people didn't have to fight a battle with their backs to the walls. Nikias and I were both relieved but scared for our own skins. We could see campfires in the distance and reckoned they were Dog Raiders. And the Athenian guards told us that we couldn't come into the citadel until morning. So we camped in the tombs with a band of seasoned prostitutes who had fled the city because of the sickness and were taking their chances outside the walls. And trust me when I tell you that we neither slept nor took pleasure that entire night.”

Leo paused to take a drink from his own cup. The lad had always annoyed Chusor with his loquaciousness during the years that he had served as his apprentice at the smithy in Plataea, but now the blacksmith was grateful for his ability to properly tell a tale.

“So, the next morning?” prompted Chusor.

“They let us in the gates and told us where to find everyone,” said Leo. “The Plataeans were camped in the territory between the Long Walls. We went straight there and discovered…” Here the young man stopped for a moment and took a slow deep breath. “We discovered that the sickness had spread quickly amongst our people. Many had died. Perhaps five thousand or more. Nikias and I wandered through the camp, dazed by the number of cold funeral pyres as well as bodies waiting to be burned. They have run out of wood, you see. They've started breaking old ships for the fuel. Nikias wanted to find Sarpedon—to tell him to lead the survivors up into the mountains around Mount Parnes. But Sarpedon was one of the first to die, along with his entire family. Nikias wondered if it had been a mistake to leave Plataea. We fled a danger and ran straight into another. They say at least fifty thousand people in Athens have died so far.”