Spartans. These were the men we’d passed. I’d been so absorbed I hadn’t even noticed them follow me. Too late I recalled Pericles’s warning that the Spartans were targeting Athenians on
their own. Not that I was alone, but these men would have discounted Diotima.
The five stepped smoothly, almost dance-like, to form a semicircle around us.
Diotima moved instinctively to cover my back. I was proud but worried. The last thing I wanted was her hurt.
“You’re a troublemaker, Athenian. A
biased
troublemaker.”
“What are you talking about?”
The leader spat on the ground, narrowly missing my foot. “Word is, you’re a friend of the man who killed Arakos.”
“The supposed killer,” I corrected.
“The killer. You’ll do whatever it takes to get him off, won’t you? ’cause he’s an Athenian, and the man he killed’s a Spartan, and that’s what you Athenians do, isn’t it? Tell lies. And cheat.” All five Spartans glared at me.
“I swear to you, if I find the killer of Arakos, I’ll denounce him before every man.”
“Sure you will. What are you waiting for?”
“Some evidence.”
“Plenty of that. Problem is, it doesn’t suit you.”
I was uncomfortably aware that this was close to the truth. There
was
enough to convict Timo in any Hellene court. “It’s not good enough. It’s not
certain
. I need to prove it could only have been Timodemus.”
“We reckon you’ll hold out until you can cook up something that’ll get him off.”
I forgot myself and stepped forward in anger. “That’s a lie.”
Instantly the Spartans surrounded me. One of them grabbed Diotima by the arm and flung her aside. She skidded across the rough ground. When she came to a halt, she picked herself up and ran. She ran out of the vegetation, out of the woods, and back down the path to Olympia.
Good. At least she was safe.
They pushed me, and I stumbled into the man at my right. He
pushed me back and I fell against the men on the other side. This went on so long I became dizzy. It was like a boys’ ball game, but played by men and with me as the ball. If they’d done this on the grounds of Olympia, passersby would have interceded at once to stop them. But no one could see us here.
“You don’t mess with the Spartans,” the leader said. “And you don’t cheat them either. But you’re an Athenian, you always cheat, don’t you?”
“He needs a lesson, Skarithos,” another Spartan said.
“That he does,” Skarithos agreed.
Me against five Spartans. There was only one way this could end. I might as well go down fighting. I drew in a deep breath and prepared to strike first. I hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much.
“I don’t think so.” Markos shouldered his way past my tormentors to stand beside me.
I don’t know who was more surprised, the Spartans or me. They stopped pushing.
Markos and I stood side by side, and suddenly I felt much more confident. One against five was a certain loss. Two against five was survivable, especially when the two were Markos and me.
Skarithos said, “I wouldn’t have picked you for an Athenian lover, Markos.”
“No, Skarithos, I love Sparta,” Markos said. “And unlike you undisciplined idiots, I can follow orders. King Pleistarchus commands the investigation run its course.”
“So you protect the Athenian.” Skarithos spat in the dust.
“He can look out for himself. I protect Sparta.”
“Step aside, Markos. Or suffer with this bastard.”
Markos smiled and shook his head. “As I said, I follow orders.”
“Then you’ll get your lesson, too, Athenian lover.”
They didn’t say a word, merely circled and feinted. Sometimes one jumped to startle us, waiting for Markos or me to trip or make a mistake.
“What are you doing here?” I said to Markos out of the side of my mouth, as our enemy circled us like sharks.
“You mean you didn’t send her?” he said, puzzled.
“Her?”
“Diotima. She ran straight into the Spartan camp, knocked over the guard who tried to stop her, and screamed my name. I came at once.”
Markos and I turned so that we stood back-to-back. We both crouched, waiting.
“I hope you can do this,” Markos said to me quietly.
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’ll still be standing when you’re down.”
“No, you won’t, Athenian.”
“Ten drachmae say I will.”
“Twenty.”
“Done.”
None of us had weapons, or Markos and I would have been dead within heartbeats, if that was their plan.
Skarithos attacked first. He punched at my head. I dodged and kicked to the side, guessing there would be another man there. There was. My foot connected with a knee, and a man shrieked. Behind me I heard grunts of pain, and I hoped it wasn’t Markos. There was a snap, and one of the Spartans screamed, “Bastard broke my wrist!”
I smiled.
That was when they all attacked at once. The two facing me grabbed an arm each.
A third man appeared, the one whom Markos had hurt. He nursed his left wrist in his right hand. He kicked, swift and hard and strong, into my balls. I screamed and my knees buckled, but I told myself I mustn’t fall.
“Why don’t you give up, Athenian?” Skarithos breathed in my ear, his hands tight on my forearm. “Go down, and it’ll all be over.”
I gasped, “And pay twenty drachmae to Markos? Never!”
I kicked both my heels against the damaged wrist of the man in front—suddenly my pinioned arms were an advantage—and my heels connected with a satisfying crunch. I could feel his bones move between my feet as I rubbed them together. He screamed and fell back. Skarithos let go to punch me hard, one-two, in the diaphragm. The other man got an arm across my throat to choke me. I was about to buckle. Desperate, I reached behind, searching for something to grab. I knew it wouldn’t stop Skarithos from killing me.
A knife came out of nowhere to strike Skarithos in the side of the head.
It was Diotima. She’d returned, and she’d thrown her priestess knife with perfect accuracy. All that practice in her tent had saved me. A priestess knife is for sacrifices. It has a razor-sharp edge but no point to speak of. If it had, Skarithos might have died. As it was, the blade bounced off his skull, and he fell back.
I found what I was grappling for and twisted without mercy. The man behind screamed, and the arm across my throat disappeared. Enraged, I turned and rabbit-punched the man who’d denied me air. He dropped like a stone.
I looked around. Both the men who’d attacked Markos were down and unconscious. “What did you do to them?” I rasped through my burning throat.
Markos shrugged. “They weren’t very good.” He grabbed Skarithos by the shoulder. “One to go.”
We both took ahold of Skarithos, whose wits had been addled by the blow from the knife. That wouldn’t stop either of us from beating the stuffing out of him.
“After you,” I said courteously to Markos.
“No, no, my friend. After you.”
“You’re too kind. Perhaps if we hit him together?”
“An excellent suggestion. On the count of three, then.”
We both drew back a fist.
Markos counted, “One, two—”
“Hold!”
Markos and I looked around to see King Pleistarchus staring at us. We let go of Skarithos. He staggered back, his eyes rolled up, and he flopped to the ground.
Pleistarchus looked at the carnage. “Am I interrupting anything?” he asked.
Markos stood to attention and said, “No, Pleistarchus. Only some light exercise.”
Pleistarchus stepped over the body of the unconscious Skarithos. “Always good to get in some exercise,” he said with a straight face. “Keeps men fit for combat.” He counted bodies. “Speaking of which,” he continued, “why are you still alive?”
“Training standards aren’t what they used to be, sir,” Markos replied, matching the deadpan tone of his king.
“They certainly aren’t if you two could stand against five of our best. These men are supposed to be officers. I’ll have harsh words for them.” He toed a groaning body. “When they’re conscious.”
“You didn’t send them, King Pleistarchus?” I asked.
He looked at me in surprise. “Me? Of course not. What makes you think that?”
The demons were whispering in my ear, telling me what to say. “Because Arakos was killed by the secrets. I wondered if those secrets were yours.” I didn’t know what it meant. I hoped he did.
Pleistarchus turned gray. Markos stared as if I were some
psyche
he’d crossed in the night.
The Spartan king stood silent for a moment before he said, “I see. Come with me.” He turned and strode off without looking back, assuming we’d follow his abrupt order. Which, of course, we did. Diotima stepped in between Markos and me. She was breathing hard, her chiton was dirty where she’d skidded across the dirt, and her hair straggled down her face, but she looked excited. I didn’t think I’d ever loved her more.
“Thanks,” I said to her. She gave me a smile.
Pleistarchus led us to the camp of the Spartans. He didn’t stride so much as march. Men instinctively stepped out of his way, and Pleistarchus barely noticed. He went straight past the guards at the entrance—one of whom glared at Diotima—and stopped at the opened flap of his tent to motion us inside.
“No one disturbs or hears us,” he ordered the guard within. The man nodded and went out. The tent was furnished with one camp bed and one travel chest. That was it. The king of Sparta traveled with less than Diotima. In one corner, a small folding table and a camp stool. Only one stool. We stood in the middle space to talk.
“Gentlemen—and lady—we have a problem,” Pleistarchus said. “I find there are things I must tell you, if you are to succeed. In fact, the security of Sparta may depend upon it. You—Nicolaos?—yes, before I continue, you must swear by Zeus and Athena that you will not reveal what you hear to any man, and particularly not to any Spartan. Do you agree?”
“Yes, Pleistarchus.” It meant I couldn’t use what I learned as evidence before the Judges of the Games, but it might lead me to the killer. I would worry about evidence later. “May Zeus destroy me if I reveal what you tell. May Athena persecute me.”
Diotima nodded. “Artemis, hear my oath,” she said.
“What do you say, Markos? Can these Athenians be trusted to keep an oath?”
Markos looked at me as if I were livestock for sale. After a moment he said, “Yes, Pleistarchus, Nicolaos is an honest man. Surprisingly honest, considering the work he’s in.”
Pleistarchus grunted. “Whoever heard of an honest Athenian?”
“Be it so, Pleistarchus, you can trust him.”
Pleistarchus shook his head and said to me, “The fact is, if you and Markos continue to blunder about as you have, if you make a mistake, it could start a war and thousands will die.”
It was so similar to what Pericles had said that Diotima gasped. Pleistarchus noticed her reaction.
“The Spartans fear Athens, young lady. That’s not something I’ll admit in public, but the Spartans fear your democracy. If it spreads, what will happen to the Spartan way of life? Some demand war at once, before Athens becomes stronger. The ephors are among those for war. Others hold that it is none of our business, as long as Athens does nothing to upset the balance in the Peloponnese, which is ours by right of strength.”
“I understand, Pleistarchus,” I said, and Diotima nodded.
Pleistarchus said, “Do you Athenians know what the
hippeis
are?”
“It means ‘cavalry’ … ‘knights,’ ” I said.
“So it does, a title of great honor. The hippeis are elite soldiers. The best of the best. In war they’re our scouts, trained to act independently; in peace the hippeis are the royal bodyguard.”
“Many cities have a similar system,” I said, wondering why Pleistarchus told me this.
“This much all men know,” he went on. “That they are scouts and bodyguards. But the knights of Sparta have a third job. One of great importance.”
“
A third job
? Don’t these people have lives?”
“No. Combine the first two tasks and what do you get?”
“I have no idea.”
“In war the knights gather information about the enemy. In peace they guard the state.”
Diotima said, in surprise, “Men who gather information to protect the state!”
Pleistarchus nodded. “The knights are Sparta’s security service.” He paused. “Markos is one of their best.”
Which made Markos the best of the best of the best. Suddenly I felt less confident of victory.
Markos smiled at me. “Surely this is no surprise, Nico. My job is much the same as yours. I wager we have the same skills and the same expertise.”
Except I was a sole individual, with little or no support and no official position, forced to live by my wits and reliant on the largesse of Pericles. I noticed King Pleistarchus showed not the slightest surprise at Markos’s revelation about my own profession. Obviously Markos had reported on me to King Pleistarchus.
Pleistarchus continued, “Now as to what I’m about to tell you … you have sworn never to reveal. Not under any circumstances.”
“Then why tell us?”
“Because if I don’t, you will probably die.”
It sounded like a good reason to me.
“Within Sparta there is a tradition—closely kept—which we call the
krypteia
.”
“The ‘secrets’?”
“Just so. The
krypteia
is a rite of passage for Sparta’s most promising young men from across the entire army, the ones likely to become officers. They’re sent alone into the countryside with only a dagger, no food or water, and orders to survive without being caught.”
“What if they’re caught?”
“The failures are beaten to within an inch of their lives. There’s no place in our officer class for losers.”
That made my own army training look like a picnic.
Pleistarchus said, “Each young man is required to kill a few of our slaves, the people we call helots. It’s our way of getting the young men used to killing before they have to do it much more dangerously on a battlefield.”
I looked to Markos in astonishment. “You did this? You murdered a helot
for practice
?”
Markos shrugged. “It’s what we do.”