Sword of Apollo (48 page)

“Of course you wouldn't!” exclaimed Argus, throwing back his head and laughing. “I don't care how good a pankrator you are. You'd never take me. I've got a skull of bronze—fists don't work against it. And I'm too heavy for you. My neck's thick as well. I'm hard to choke. I trained in Kroton, by the way. There was a great-grandson of Milo who taught at the gymnasium, and he said that I outweighed the old man in his prime. I was supposed to represent our city for the games next year.”

“There won't be any games for us Plataeans,” said Nikias.

“Cheer up!” said Argus merrily. “The Olympic officials will order a sacred truce to the war! You'll be able to fight next year. We'll go to Olympus together, eh?”

“How did you know I was a pankrator?” Nikias asked.

“I can see the signs,” said Argus. “Your scarred knuckles, your misshapen ears, your bent nose. You're either a very good pankrator or a poor one, by the look of all your marks and dents.” He held Nikias's gaze for a long time. Then he shook his head somberly. “No. You're a good fighter, all right. And you've seen many men to their graves. Now”—he slapped Nikias on the shoulder and started clambering down the rocks toward the beach, careful not to harm the kithara as he went—“your people will need water. I'll take them to a hidden well over yonder. I can get you fresh meat, too—there's a village nearby. Your people must be hungry after crossing over from Italia. That's a long pull.”

“How did you know we came from Italia?” Nikias asked, following him down.

“I watched you for the last two hours, making your way toward the island. Unless you rose up out of the sea, you've come from Italia—most likely, the port of Hydros in Kalabria.”

“We have silver,” said Nikias. “To pay for your help.”

The harp banged against a rock, making a weird, dejected noise, and Argus stopped his descent. His face went slack and he blinked rapidly, as if waking from a dream—as if the sound of the harp had stirred him from a happy sleep. “I'm a dead man if I stay here. They broke my brother's neck, you see? He did nothing wrong! The girl … she was in love with him…” He trailed off into silence then shrugged. “And so I slew them all.” The air was filled with the sound of crying gulls and the noises of the men and women of the
Spear
on the beach.

“Nikias!” called Chusor impatiently. “What are you doing?”

Nikias waved back. “I'm coming!”

“Listen, Nikias of Plataea,” said Argus, becoming very serious, “I've been a mariner since I was a lad. I know the sea and all of the islands and currents from here to Naupaktos—that's where you're headed, I take it? To join up with Phormion?”

Nikias nodded. “And then to Plataea.”

“I'll come with you to Plataea,” said Argus, nodding vigorously. “Who would pass up the opportunity to fight the Spartans? Only the dullest sort of coward, eh? I'd rather die in battle instead of swinging from a rope. Let me come along,” he pleaded. “Like I said, I'm an oarsman by trade. I can earn my keep on the ship. And I can man a wall well enough once we get to Plataea. How do you propose to get into the citadel, by the way, if they've built a counterwall?”

Nikias was taken aback by this question. Getting into Plataea was something that he and Chusor had not even discussed. If the Spartans had built a counter-wall, they would have to storm this barricade, get over it, and make a break for the walls. How could Chusor have neglected to talk about such an important and basic thing?

“We'll have to bull our way through,” said Nikias.

“‘Bull our way through,'” repeated Argus, smiling. “Like the famous Bull of Plataea—you've heard of him, right? Menesarkus the champion? The one who killed the Theban at the Olympiads with the Morpheus hold?”

Nikias said, “Yes. Menesarkus and his hold are well known to me.”

“We'll smash our way in!”

Nikias knew that it was foolish to trust a stranger whom he'd just met—to let this man on board the
Spear
. But he felt in his gut that Argus was being honest with him. His brother must have been murdered and then he had committed some heinous act of revenge for which he would have to pay, most likely with his life. He had probably been hiding out on this side of the island, trying to figure out what to do. The gods, for some reason, had brought them together on this shore. Only time would tell for what reason. And only an idiot would pass up the opportunity to bring such an obvious fighting man along—especially one who was willing to help smash his way into a city under siege.

“So?”

“I'll ask them to take you on board,” said Nikias. “We could use some music.”

Argus sighed. “It was my dear little brother's kithara,” he said ruefully. “I can't even play the stinking thing.”

 

FIFTEEN

The fair wind and weather held. The
Spear
and the
Briseis
made a fast journey on this last leg, guided by the cheerful Argus, who had been welcomed aboard somewhat warily at first but had instantly fit right in with the crew, impressing all of the mariners with his strength and knowledge. Even Chusor thought that the man was a rare find, and pressed him for information about this region and its islands, gleaning from him everything that he could.

Two days after leaving the Scythe, they beached the ship on Ithaka, the island where Odysseus himself had been born and raised, and they made a great sacrifice to Zeus after purchasing ten cows from the islanders with the last of Kolax's treasure. For tomorrow they would have to pull across an open stretch of water where they would be exposed to enemy ships. But if Zeus blessed them, they would reach the mouth of the Gulf of Korinth near the end of the day, and lie safe in the harbor of Naupaktos with the Athenian fleet by sunset.

After the meat was cooked and shared amongst the over three hundred men, women, and children of the two ships, Nikias and the Plataean mariners performed the Oxlander harvest dance. It was a dance that every Plataean boy learned as soon as he could stand; it taught him the fundamental stance and movements of a phalanx warrior, to the rhythm of drums and the trill of pipes. The watchers clapped as they danced and shouted out their war cry of “Freedom, sweet freedom!” By the time they were done, many of the dancers, like Nikias, were crying, for the dance and the music had brought back the memory of their beloved citadel and everything that they stood to lose if Plataea fell to the Spartans.

Later, when everyone was tipsy on wine—except for the unlucky men who'd drawn lots to stand guard—Helena borrowed Argus's kithara and played “The Shield of Akilles” while Nikias sang. He had learned the song from Linos the bard, and he sang it in his clear, deep voice. Helena was a superior musician who made the lyre's catgut sing. Together, in music and voice, they painted a picture of that famous shield that seemed to hang in the air over the bonfire—a shield that bore images of the world and even the heavens hammered into its shining face: the constellations and the sun and moon, weddings and murders, shepherds and marauders, a city at peace and one under siege, war and festivals, lions and bulls, men and women, friends and enemies. Many shining eyes watched their performance in front of that roaring fire, and when they were done there was a profound moment of silence, filled only by the ceaselessly crashing waves, until the crowd burst into applause and cheers.

Nikias and Helena found a place on the beach and wrapped themselves in a blanket. They made love in silence, and said nothing afterward, and Helena fell into a fitful sleep while Nikias contemplated how odd it was that in his short and strange life he had seen and lived so many of the very things depicted on the shield of Akilles. “The shield stands for civilization,” Linos had told him once. “That is obvious. But there's something more. There's a secret in that shield that we bards spend our entire lives trying to decipher.” Nikias asked the old man if he had discovered that secret, but Linos merely smiled and raised his eyebrows slightly as if to say, “If I have discovered the secret, I will never tell.”

In the morning they boarded the ships and Nikias took one of the first turns at the oar benches. It was another calm and sunny day, with a slight wind at their backs, and the two ships cut across the sea side by side like a whale swimming with a porpoise. Four hours into his stretch Nikias heard shouting. A few minutes later a mariner came and relieved him and told him that Chusor wanted to see him on the battle deck. Nikias walked quickly down the gangway and paused at the closed door to the little cabin, where he could hear Helena retching. Then he went up the ladder onto the battle deck and looked around quickly—they were in the middle of a wide gulf that he knew to be the Gulf of Patros, with land on either side. On the port side a tall heap of a mountain rose from the earth, the peaks clinging to a few white clouds. Chusor stood near Agrios, staring in that direction.

“What is it?” asked Nikias as he went over to him.

“Look,” said Chusor despondently. “Our luck has run out.”

Nikias saw the shapes of triremes on the waves perhaps half a mile away. Scores of them. So many that he could not count them. His heart dropped to his knees.

“How many?” he asked.

“Kolax up in the mast counts sixty-two,” replied Chusor. “And he has keener eyes than me.”

“I didn't know he could count that high,” said Nikias under his breath. “And you think they're enemy ships?”

“I have no doubt,” said Chusor. “They were waiting on a beach over there under Mount Arakynthos. When the ships saw us they put into the water. Perhaps they were planning a sneak attack on Naupaktos today and they're afraid we'll warn the Athenians. Whatever the case, they're coming for us.”

“What about the fire machine?”

“We have to face them head-on to use that device. There's too many of them. We might be able to set a few of them on fire, but they'll swarm us. Our only hope is to get to Naupaktos. The Athenian fortress lies on the other side of that place up ahead where the gulf narrows. But we're still twenty miles away.”

Nikias looked at the sails. Both were starting to go slack. The wind was dying. And the ship was too laden with people and provisions to outpace ships with rested oarsmen. “We'll have to throw everything overboard,” he said.

“That will give us some time,” said Chusor. “I think we should tell the
Briseis
to make a run for it. They're faster than us.”

“Yes,” said Nikias. Argus and Thersites were on the little single-decker now, along with thirty or so Plataeans and a small number of Serifan women and children. Nearly a hundred people in all, including the Serifan rowers. “It will be good if some of us get away.” But he cursed under his breath. They had come so far. They had almost made it to the safety of the Athenian fortress.

Chusor turned and faced Nikias, but he would not look him in the eye. “I did something wrong,” he said, staring at the deck, his dark and striking face dripping with sweat, his jaw trembling slightly. “I came to Plataea years ago seeking a treasure. I found it beneath the city while you were in Athens. I stole the gold and precious things, and used the wealth to buy this ship.”

So many mysteries concerning Chusor and his activities had been answered for Nikias in that simple admission. But rather than anger toward his old friend, he felt only relief. “That's all?” he asked. “I thought by the look on your face that you'd killed someone.”

“Then—”

“I don't care,” cut in Nikias. “It doesn't mean anything.”

Chusor looked into his eyes. “You have a heart that's as big as this ship, Nikias. You and I should have been friends in a time of peace.”

“It would have been lovely, would it not?” said Nikias. “To have lived in the peaceful city shown on Akilles's shield.”

“Not many people, it seems, have that lucky fate.”

Nikias nodded. “Promise me…” he began, but his voice became ensnared in his throat and it took a great effort to speak. “Promise me that you won't let Helena and our unborn child be taken alive.”

“The same for my daughter,” Chusor whispered. “Don't let her become a Korinthian thrall.”

They clasped hands firmly.

“We can outrun them, can't we, Father?”

Nikias turned and saw Melitta and Helena standing behind them. Helena clutched the little statue of Hera in both hands. Her face was white as she stared into the distance at the fast-approaching ships.

“Of course,” said Chusor, with a forced laugh. “We just need to lighten our load.”

They threw everything overboard that was not joined to the ship: water, food, armor, and shields. Even the spare mast and extra sails were jettisoned. The rowers, knowing that the enemy was coming quickly, broke their backs at the oars and the ship surged ahead for a time. But the mariners were tired from the long haul that had brought them here from Ithaka. A few of the men and women working the oars fainted and were quickly replaced. Nikias sat at a bench for a two-hour stint, then went back up to the battle deck and found Chusor at the stern.

The Korinthians were much closer now. There were five ships out in front of the fleet, and Nikias could clearly see the marble eyes mounted to their prows and the tops of their gleaming rams cutting through the water. He looked toward the bow. There was no sign of the
Briseis
, the ship and its crew having reluctantly departed an hour ago. The single-decker must have passed through the narrow gap in the gulf that Nikias could see so tantalizingly close up ahead. To the right stood the country of Akhaia and, to the left, Aetolia. The two lands were separated by a watery gap no more than a mile across.

Something flew screaming overhead and the mainsail split. A broken yardarm clattered to the deck. The Korinthians had started firing the bolt shooters mounted on their prows. Another projectile smashed into the curving stern, sending fragments of wood flying through the air. Nikias and Chusor were knocked back, and when they got up Nikias saw that Agrios lay slumped on his seat, a splinter of wood wedged into his neck.