Sword of Apollo (43 page)

“Do you believe in the gods anymore?” asked Demetrios. “After all that has happened to you? Your mother and all of our friends murdered by Thebans. And you—shipwrecked and tortured and mutilated by the enemy? And now you're here, cut off from your wife and children—an exile from your land. You don't even know if Kallisto and your baby are alive.”

“I want to believe in Zeus and Apollo and all of the others,” said Nikias. “It's all that I know.”

“But isn't belief in the
self
enough?” asked Demetrios. “Do you know yourself, Nikias? Do you truly know who you are?”

“I think so.”

“Who are you, then?”

“A Plataean. A father. A husband.”

“Is that all?”

Nikias frowned. “Isn't that enough?”

“Men made up the gods,” said Demetrios. “Tales to scare children. If I blow out this lamp and we are plunged into darkness, who made it so?” He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. The flame vanished and an inky blackness surrounded them like a cloak of death.

Nikias tried not to panic, but the utter lack of light was unnerving. He felt as if he was floating.

“Did a god make it dark?” asked Demetrios. “No. It was me. Nothing more than my air. And if I am wise enough to have brought flint and a knife to start another spark, who would be responsible for that? Did a god put that thought into my head? Was it Prometheus? The fire bringer? No, Nikias.”

Nikias saw a shower of sparks erupt in the darkness. In the flash of light made by the sparks he saw that Demetrios was now on his knees in front of the lamp. Another spray of sparks and the lamp's wick flamed to life again.

“
I
am Prometheus,” said Demetrios. “
You
are Apollo. Or Ares, or whatever god you choose to be. Humans came up with things like fire and the building of temples all on our own. The gods are dead, because they were never alive. They're the ashes of men's dreams.”

What Demetrios was saying wasn't new to Nikias. He had heard overeducated men say things like this before, at symposiums or standing on boxes in the agora. But it was the manner in which his friend was saying the words that was so startling—with absolute conviction and without emotion. Demetrios had always been very pious. But now the gods were nothing to him. In his mind they didn't exist. And that was shocking.

“The moment that I was lowered down into the quarry,” continued Demetrios, leaning against the wall and staring at the light of the lamp, “I knew that I would one day escape. I knew that there would be no god in a machine to rescue me, like at the ending of some stupid play. I knew that I would have to be the one to come up with a plan. For I have always believed that I am the master of my own fate, and not some toothless old hags who live in a dream world.”

“So?” asked Nikias, somewhat petulantly. “What have you done since you've been here other than make up laws and torture your fellow prisoners?”

Demetrios smiled. “And that's why I love you, Nik. You were never afraid of me. Everyone has always been afraid of me, my entire life. Even my own father. For he could see my potential and it scared him. He knew that I would rise above anything that he had ever done. But you … you always saw yourself as my equal, and I loved you for it. Great things are coming in this war with the Spartans and Athenians. The chance to make names for ourselves. The opportunity to become legends.”

Nikias couldn't believe how unhinged Demetrios sounded. How full of self-love, even in this wretched state. “Don't go kissing your own reflection in a pond,” he said. “You might end up drowning.”

Demetrios laughed, evidently amused by the appalled look on Nikias's face. “You think I'm touched,” he said. “I may be a little mad, I'll admit. But I am a genius. Behold.” He gestured at the opening.

“What am I looking at?” asked Nikias. “Another Honeycomb hole? Are you going to put me in this one?” He was starting to grow angry. The confined space was stifling. He suddenly hated Demetrios and wanted to throttle him.

“Listen,” said Demetrios. “They're coming.”

Nikias put his head to the shaft and listened. At first he heard nothing, but then came the faintest sound of voices, the shuffling of feet, and the scraping of stones. After a while a man appeared crawling on hands and knees, dragging a wineskin filled with rocks and dirt. When he saw Demetrios standing outside the shaft entrance, he smiled and saluted him, then stood up and hefted the bag over his shoulder.

“The ground is becoming moist, Quarry Lord,” said the digger. “Just like you said it would. We're getting close to the swamp.”

“Excellent,” said Demetrios.

Nikias stood in silence and watched as half a dozen more men came out bearing wineskins full of debris. They were covered with dust, their hair matted with sweat.

“They have to work in small groups now,” said Demetrios. “It takes a long time to get to the end of the shaft. It's almost half a mile long, and only the most stalwart diggers can handle the confined space.”

“What's the shaft for?” asked Nikias.

“What's it for?” asked Demetrios. “What do you think I've been doing these last three years? Lording around this quarry like a crackpot tyrant? Pounding rocks so the Syrakusans can build themselves another public latrine? No. I've been putting this mighty army to work for me. A few feet every day, year after year. Like a ceaselessly pounding wave that slowly eats away a shore. My ancestors—like yours, Nikias—were leaders and heroes. We were born to lead.”

“Where does it go?” asked Nikias, though he reckoned he knew the answer as soon as he'd asked the question, and he couldn't help but smile at the sheer audacity of what Demetrios had done.

“To freedom, of course!” Demetrios turned and headed back up the corridor in the direction of the Ear of Dionysus. “You lucky sheep-stuffer,” he said over his shoulder. “We'll be out of here in a month, on our way to Naupaktos to join your cousin Phoenix and the others. And together we'll make our way back to the Oxlands and save our citadel from the enemy.”

 

TEN

It was just after sunrise and Chusor walked the battle deck of the
Spear of Thetis
with a mingled feeling of pride and relief. Over the last four weeks almost all of the repairs to the ship had been made, thanks to the small fortune in treasure that Kolax had brought with him, and the ship was beautiful and seaworthy once again.

How strange that a dead Korinthian spy's gold and jewels had saved them from disaster!

The ship was now fitted with a new mainmast and fine hemp sails. The outrigger decks that had been partially wrecked in the battle off Serifos had been completely repaired, and a new bronze-covered ram had been made and fitted into the prow. Chusor had even found a source of naptha and had renewed their stockpile of the precious stuff for his fire-spewing weapon. Most important, the crew and women and children—who had been on the verge of starvation—had been eating well all this time. Nobody was sick, which made Ezekiel happy and allowed the doctor to spend his days basking like a tortoise on whatever shore the ship was beached.

There were many city-states on the island of Sicily that were bitter enemies of Syrakuse—men who had followed the rebel Syrakusan Doketios years ago, and were still craving freedom. And so the
Spear
, bearing precious gems as its passport, had been able to find havens all along the coast of the vast island, as well as buy these much-needed supplies. Kolax had brought so much wealth with him that they had been able to purchase a sleek black sixty-oared ship to hold their excess crew members. They named her the
Briseis
after the bewitching princess that Akilles had captured during the Trojan War. Now that the women of Serifos were proficient rowers, they could operate both ships with mixed male and female crews. Kolax started calling the women the
Oiorpata
s, which meant “Man-killers” in Skythian. In the Greek tongue the word was “Amazon”—a name the women proudly bore, though they joked that they weren't about to hack off one of their breasts like those famous female warriors of Sarmatia.

The two vessels had made nearly a complete circle around Sicily over the last cycle of the moon, going first west, then east, somehow managing to avoid the many Syrakusan triremes that were on the prowl in the shipping lanes. They were now beached on a little barren cove ten miles north of Syrakuse, and the crew was spread out on the sand, sitting around multiple fires, eating their morning meal.

All was well.…

But how long would their good fortune last? And what had made Chusor steer the ship so close to Syrakuse? At least, that was what many of the crew had been muttering.

The answer was simple: he knew that Barka had saved Nikias and Kolax from certain death that day in the courtyard. Based on what Kolax had said about the events that had unfolded, Pantares had been in a murdering mood and would have slain Nikias and Diokles, mingling their blood with the Korinthian spy's, if Barka had not stepped in and convinced the Tyrant to send them to the quarries. Now that the ship was repaired—now that they weren't like a crippled man drowning in the sea—Chusor could risk trying to get more information from the eunuch—to find out if Nikias and Diokles yet lived. The only way to do that was to send someone back into the city and make contact with him.

He looked over the side of the boat to where Kolax was practicing archery with Melitta. The two had grown close over the last month. The Skythian boy obviously adored his daughter, doting on her like a lovesick fool, and Chusor had been loath to discover that Melitta had begun to return his affections. The thought of his only beloved child marrying a barbarian—especially one as dangerous and brutish as Kolax—was repulsive. The two fourteen-year-olds were laughing about something now, and Melitta was slapping Kolax playfully. Kolax pretended to trip and fall, begging her to spare his life as she stood over him brandishing her bow. Chusor had never seen Kolax so frolicsome, nor could he recall Melitta taking even the slightest interest in any boy.

“I am ready to depart,” said a voice at Chusor's side.

He turned and stared vacantly at Ji. “Good,” he said. “Be careful. And watch out that Kolax doesn't do anything stupid.”

“The boy can take care of himself,” said Ji.

Melitta was on top of Kolax now, pinning him with her knees and tickling him mercilessly. Kolax's pale face grew red and he screamed with laughter.

Chusor wondered if it was even worth the risk to send Ji and Kolax on this mission. What hope was there to rescue Nikias and Diokles from the horrible Prison Pits? Chusor knew what the place was like firsthand. Years ago he had lived in Syrakuse—an apprentice of the famous siege master Naxos. General Pantares, hearing a rumor that Chusor had meddled with his daughter, had him locked in a beehive cell to punish him and break his spirit. Chusor spent a week crammed into one of those narrow stone tubes. He was saved only because Naxos paid a great sum for his release. Afterward Pantares's men tried to slay Chusor in the streets of Ortygia; he escaped through a sewer tunnel into the bay, where he crawled on board Zana's old ship and hid in the hold.

He watched Ji climb down the ladder and onto the beach. Then the assassin strode over to the barbarian and told him to get up—that it was time to go. Kolax got to his feet and started to follow Ji up the beach, but Melitta ran after them, stopping the Skythian lad and kissing him on the cheek. Kolax smiled and ruffled her hair affectionately.

“Gods spare me,” said Chusor under his breath.

He made his way down the ladder to the lower deck and opened the door to the cabin. Helena sat on the bed with her back to the wall, a bucket on her lap, looking very pale. The room smelled of vomit. Ezekiel sat by her side, taking her pulse. He handed the bucket to Chusor and said, “Dump this in the sea, if you will.”

“Is she all right?” Chusor asked, taking the bucket.

“Fine, fine,” said Ezekiel. “As I've already told you, strong babies make the mother sick.”

Helena looked at Chusor and smiled wanly. “Nikias is coming back to us,” she said. “I told you that I saw him in my dream. He wore a red cloak.…”

Chusor nodded and left the cabin, shutting the door behind him. He climbed down one of the landing ladders to the beach and walked to the water, dumping the bucket in the lapping waves, then washed it until the stink was gone. He thought of Helena, pregnant with Nikias's child, and shook his head sadly. Even amidst such strife the human body creates new life. It seemed idiotic—almost contrary to nature. He thought of Helena's strange dream, too—a vision that she had had two days ago as they'd passed Mount Aetna. She'd seen Nikias standing beneath the volcano, and fire raining down upon him, but the fire did not burn him. And he wore a red cloak like a Spartan.

The sound of angry voices stirred him from his musings. He tossed the bucket on the beach and sprinted around the prow, where he found a large crowd of men facing each other—Plataean rowers on one side, Serifans on the other.

“It's suicide!” a rower of Serifos was saying. “We're too close to Syrakuse. I know this shore. We're lucky we haven't been spotted yet.”

“We're going to rescue Nikias,” replied a Plataean rower. “That's why we're here.”

“Insanity—”

“You can't rescue a prisoner from the quarries!”

“What's going on?” Chusor asked, pushing his way into the center of the men.

Agrios stepped forward and said, “My Serifan brothers wish to depart immediately for Naupaktos. The Plataeans want to stay until there is word of their young friend.”

Chusor looked around at the angry faces on either side. He could sense that a brawl might break out at any moment. “We wait for Ji and Kolax to return,” he said. “We give them two days.”