Sword of Apollo (36 page)

“What's wrong, master?” he asked.

“Word has come to me from a messenger ship,” said Andros, sitting down and pouring himself some wine, “that one of our expeditions to root out some pirates on Serifos ended in disaster nearly a month ago.”

“What happened?”

“Six triremes and their crews were lost.”

“That's over twelve hundred men,” said Kolax.

“Your multiplication has improved,” said Andros with a mirthless smile.

“Thank you,” replied Kolax.

“You don't understand sarcasm, do you, Kolax?”

“Master?”

“Twelve hundred men, and I will take the blame for their ineptitude,” muttered Andros. He caught sight of the box on the floor at Kolax's feet and asked suspiciously, “What's this?”

“Nothing,” said Kolax.

“A box of nothing?” Andros snatched it up and pried off the top. His dark look faded as he took out the plate embellished with the satyr. “A souvenir of Syrakuse?”

“For a friend,” said Kolax.

Andros put the plate back in the box and interrogated him on what he had learned that day. Kolax told him about the conversation that he had overheard at the shield shop, and how he had taken the two mariners from the
Bane of Attika
on a tour of the rim of the quarry. But he said nothing about Barka the eunuch, nor did he say that he had recruited his own agent in the oily guide.

Andros had his secrets and Kolax had his own.

 

THREE

Another two dreary weeks went by, and every few days Kolax went to the quarry and met with the guide, learning from him the schedule that Barka the eunuch kept on his visits to the listening place above the Ear of Dionysus. But Kolax was careful never to run into Barka again.

One afternoon, when Kolax had just returned from roaming the city, his master burst through the front door calling out, “Kolax! Put on your best tunic! We're going to a symposium!”

Andros was in a gay mood, for the symposium was at the palace of General Pantares. Kolax reluctantly put on a frilly tunic, a golden belt, and some fancy sandals, then walked alongside Andros through the winding streets to the best part of the citadel.

“You are my eyes and ears, young Kolax,” Andros said. “Make yourself one with the walls and find me some diamonds.”

“Diamonds” were what Andros called any bit of information that he believed to be valuable. So far Kolax had failed to deliver any of these illusionary gems.

“Yes, master,” he said with a sigh. “I'll do my best.”

The house of General Pantares was an enormous place, built of imported marble. Standing out front was a troop of armed guards—serious-looking men of the same race as the eunuch's bodyguards, with long chin beards and slightly upturned noses. They patted Kolax and Andros down, searching for hidden weapons.

When Kolax and Andros entered the front courtyard, they heard energetic harp music playing from within. Slaves came and led them to footbaths and removed their sandals, coating their feet in scented oils.

“Disgusting smell,” said Kolax.

“Rose water,” said Andros with a smile. “Would you prefer they bathed your feet in horse sweat?”

“That would be a joy,” said Kolax. “And from what tribe are those pig's-arse-ugly guards out front?”

“Tyrsenians in the employ of Pantares,” said Andros. “He has his own little army of them in the citadel. They're his police force, like the Athenians have your Skythian brethren. The Tyrsenians used to rule all of Italia, but they were defeated by the Syrakusans soon after the last Persian War. So they must earn their coins under Greek masters now.”

“We Skythians don't have to serve anyone,” said Kolax testily. “The Athenians pay well. When they stop paying, we move on.”

“Would Skythian archers enlist with Korinthians like me?”

“We Skythians don't care which city's stamp a coin bears. The sweet jingling sound that they make in our pocket is exactly the same, be they Athenian owls or the winged horses of Korinth.”

Andros laughed. “You are quite the pragmatist, young Kolax.”

Kolax smiled. He was lying, of course. Neither he nor any of his Bindi kindred would serve the Korinthians. Maybe those Nuri dogs would lick the arses of the men of Korinth. But not Kolax and his tribe. Unless, of course, the pay was good. But Korinthians were notoriously tightfisted. And dishonest. At least, that's what his kinsman Skunxa had always told him. But Kolax didn't say what he was thinking. He had learned to honey his words and become a pragmatist under Andros's tutelage … even though he wasn't quite sure what being a pragmatist meant.

After scent had been applied to their hair, they were allowed to enter the big inner courtyard where the symposium was taking place. The harp music was louder here, but Kolax could not see where the musician was standing. There were fifty or so men and a few hetaerae milling about, along with some bejeweled lads with painted eyes. Everyone was drinking and talking so that the space was filled with the din of their voices and laughter. The walls around the courtyard, at first glance, were lined with the shapes of dark statues. But then Kolax realized that they were armed Tyrsenian warriors, watching the crowd with squinting eyes.

He looked up and saw that the harpist was sitting above them, suspended over the guests on a swing. Kolax scoffed. What a ridiculous profession. The only thing stupider and more useless than a musician, in his opinion, was an actor. Could not a man make his own music with voice or drum? Could not a man tell his own stories?

At the far wall was a large throne-like chair where a man sat dressed in a rich robe, his fingers adorned with rings that scintillated in the light. His bearded visage was stern and humorless. His dark eyes scanned the room from face to face, like a hawk deciding which mouse to swoop down on. There was a coiled menace in the big man who, to Kolax, looked like a pankrator who had given up his training and gone to seed, yet retained the killer instinct of one who has faced men down in the arena or in battle and beaten them soundly. He reminded Kolax of an evil and coldhearted version of the kindly Plataean Arkon Menesarkus—only with three double chins. In his hand this man held an object like a small head or a ball of gold.

“There sits Pantares,” said Andros out of the side of his mouth. “None of your pert Skythian ways with him, mind you. He'll cut off your head and shove it up my arse. I've seen him slay men in here for sport. And ever since his beloved daughter died he's been as cruel as a Persian satrap.”

“I'll keep out of the way,” said Kolax.

When a slave approached with a tray filled with wine cups, Kolax grabbed one and slunk off toward the chamber where the slaves had washed their feet. He spotted some stairs leading to the balcony and ran up them, spilling his wine all over his tunic. He cursed and went to the balcony, leaning over it. This was a better place to watch what was going on than in the crowded courtyard below. After a while he saw Andros approach Pantares deferentially and the two spoke for a bit—rather, Andros spoke while Pantares listened and occasionally frowned or nodded ever so slightly, always fingering the golden object in his lap. After a time Pantares evidently grew frustrated with this interview and abruptly waved Andros away. Kolax could plainly see the look of dissatisfaction on his master's face.

The evening wore on and Kolax grew more and more weary, but he drank four more cups of wine, which took the edge off things. Some men got up and read poems about the glorious history of Syrakuse and the island of Ortygia, and a bard sang a tedious song about Apollo's seemingly endless attributes. Kolax thought he might slit his wrists from the dullness of it all. A party in Skythia meant dicing, drinking, and feats of strength. And sometimes even a bloody duel to the death. This sort of Greek festivity was worse than being skinned alive.

“You do not look very happy,” said a purring voice at Kolax's side.

He turned and saw the brown feline face of Barka the eunuch smiling up at him. The short, slender creature with the face of a lovely teenaged girl put one of his cold hands on Kolax's arm and looked deep into his eyes.

“I-I'm enjoying myself,” stuttered Kolax, caught completely off guard. “What are you doing here?” He could smell the eunuch's perfume emanating from his luxurious pile of hair and it was intoxicating, like wine mingled with orange blossoms.

“I live here,” replied Barka, smiling impishly. “I am the soothsayer of Pantares. Didn't your greasy little spy the quarry guide tell you?”

“M-my what?” said Kolax, surprised that Barka knew of the man.

Barka's hand wandered down to his thigh, then slowly reached under his tunic. Kolax became very still, his heart racing.

“And I know who you are,” Barka said, wrapping his cold fingers around Kolax's swelling member. “Shall I tell you your story? I've heard it all from my friends Chusor and Diokles.” He kept stroking Kolax as he talked and gave him an impish and seductive smile. “We sailed together for a long time after we departed Plataea. The sea is a very dull place, as you might have discovered. We spent a lot of time talking about what had happened in that citadel. The Theban sneak attack. Your bravery. They thought you very brave, did you know that? Eh,
Kolax
? I can't imagine how you came to be here now in Syrakuse, with that Korinthian Andros. The tale must be fascinating. I long to hear it.”

Barka put another hand on Kolax's chest and toyed with his nipple. Kolax's heart pounded in his ears. He felt a wild tingling up and down his spine that spread to his loins. Barka rose up on his toes and kissed Kolax full on the mouth—the eunuch's lips were warm, unlike his cold fingers. Kolax's voice caught in his throat as his hips bucked wildly, as though he had lost control of his body. Barka aimed him toward the wall of the balcony as he let forth a scream of ecstasy that was swallowed inside Barka's mouth.

The eunuch grinned and raised his eyebrows. “So fast,
Kolax
,” he said, repeating the lad's name with smug satisfaction. “And you shoot your arrows so far!”

Kolax slumped to his knees in a combination of euphoria and humiliation.

“Clean yourself off,” said Barka, taking a scarf from around his neck and tossing it to him.

All at once the crowd below in the courtyard stopped talking, for Pantares had stood up—the first time he had moved all evening—and was smiling nefariously at the partygoers.

“I have a surprise for all of you tonight,” said Pantares in his deep voice—a threatening voice that made even the prospect of a surprise sound terrifying. “I had a visitor today. A mariner, he called himself”—this spoken with disdain—“who has been on a long and dangerous journey, or so he told me, across the sea. And he came to me bearing a relic of Apollo: a magnificent golden head that was fashioned long ago. This trader attempted to sell the valuable thing to me—or, rather, to trade it for food and supplies for his ship—knowing of my devotion to that god and his temple in our citadel. The thing that he brought to me I deem priceless—an object that I reckon has great magical power. An object that Barka, my soothsayer, told me years ago would come into my possession. The god himself has brought it to me and I will ensconce it in the treasury of the Temple of Apollo, to benefit all the citizens of Syrakuse!”

He lifted up his right arm to reveal the thing he had been cradling in his hands all night long—a smiling head of Apollo, gleaming of gold.

The partygoers clapped and cheered Pantares and wished him a long and happy life. And Pantares smiled back at them wickedly. “Now,” he said, “let us meet this mariner and his servant. Bring them forth!” he said, snapping his fingers.

The doors to the courtyard flew open, slamming against the walls on either side. Kolax peered over the rail and saw a small troop of Tyrsenians enter leading two naked men, pulling them by chains attached to slave collars around the prisoners' necks. Kolax couldn't make out their faces from this angle, but he could see that one of the men was short and stocky, with black hair; the other, tall and blond. Both were muscled but overly lean, without an iota of fat on their bodies, like starved galley slaves. These wretched mariners had obviously been beaten by Pantares's henchmen, for their torsos and faces were covered with bruises and blood, and their arms were shackled to wooden stocks that they bore on their broad shoulders. Kolax wondered at the foolhardy nature of these mariners—these doomed traders—to try and deal with someone as notorious as Pantares. They must have been desperate.

As the Tyrsenians stepped aside and brought the prisoners to a stop in front of Pantares, the two bound men looked up. It was Barka who gasped first.

“No,” said the eunuch in a barely audible whisper, digging into Kolax's arm with his sharp fingernails. “My Diokles—”

Then Kolax sucked in his breath, for he, too, recognized the Helot. And even though the other prisoner's face was tanned dark and lined from many days at sea—and his hair and beard longer than when Kolax had last seen him, and bleached almost white from the sun—he recognized his old friend at once, and the blood in his veins went cold.

“Is that blond mariner Nikias of Plataea?” Barka asked, in a sharp and urgent whisper. “You must tell me now, so that I can try to save his life!”

Kolax had become a mute. He could not speak. He nodded dumbly and Barka said, “Do not interfere. Whatever happens, you must not interfere. Do you understand me, Kolax? Trust me.”

Kolax nodded again and the eunuch rushed away from his side, vanishing down the stairs.

 

FOUR

Nikias stared blankly at the floor of the courtyard, watching his sweat and blood dripping from his chin to the marble floor. He could hear Pantares speaking to the crowd, but the hateful man's words were distant and muted by the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears. He was dizzy from the beating he had taken from the Tyrsenian guards, but he'd suffered much worse. No, it was the hunger that made him stupid and weak. He hadn't eaten more than a few bites of dried fish in the last eight days. Bad luck had brought them to Syrakuse. Bad luck and ill winds. “A desperate throw of the dice,” Chusor had said. “But one we must risk.”