Sword of Apollo (24 page)

“The gods are cruel,” said Chusor.

Ezekiel, who had been silent this whole time, added wearily, “My own god tries the human spirit as well. There was a man named Job that I will tell you about someday. This sickness—this
miasma
, we doctors call it—is not caused by the gods, however. It is simply a disease that is transmitted from person to person. It first appeared in Piraeus, so my guess is that it came on one of the grain ships. I charted its progress from there passing through the citadel—the most deaths occurring where people are crowded together.”

“So what happened to Nikias?” asked Chusor. “Why was he arrested?”

“We left the Plataean camp between the Long Walls and went into Athens,” said Leo. “Nik wanted to find Ezekiel, and he kept talking about a woman—Helena is her name. He hoped to find out whether or not she was still alive. But she was not in her home and nobody had seen her for years and Nikias got very depressed—more depressed than I've ever seen him. Then we ran into one of Nikias's friends, a one-armed Athenian farmer name Konon. But Nikias became suddenly and violently ill. He had contracted the sickness, you see. Konon helped me get him back to the Plataean camp before Nik finally collapsed.”

“How did he fare?” asked Chusor.

“He was sick for a few days,” said Leo, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head with amazement. “And then it passed and he was fine. He is blessed.”

“The sickness is curious that way,” said Ezekiel. “Some it slays with the power of an axe stroke. Others it merely plays with like a cat who, batting about a mouse, grows bored and finally lets it go free. And for some lucky people the illness does not affect at all.”

“Like me,” said Leo. “I have yet to get the sickness.” He looked at Chusor and gave a wan smile. “Your friend Barka, the soothsayer, told me once that I would die a happy old man.”

“Barka's predictions usually come true,” said Chusor.

“Anyway, that's when Nikias's cousin found us,” said Leo, and he gestured at Phoenix where he now sat on the window ledge, staring into the distance with a thoughtful look.

“Nikias's cousin?” asked Chusor, bewildered.

“Our mothers were sisters,” said Phoenix. “Did you not know that Nikias was half Athenian?”

“I did know,” said Chusor. “But it is strange that the gods put you in our path out on the sea.”

“Strange indeed,” said Phoenix. “It was I who captained the ship that was taking Nikias back to Plataea two and a half years ago when we were attacked by Korinthians. Nikias escaped and did not know that I was still alive, and I, for my part, thought that
he
had perished on the sea. I went to the Plataean camp as soon as I heard that the Oxlanders had come to the citadel. And I can tell you that when Nikias and I came face-to-face”—here he paused to compose himself—“it was like each of us was seeing the other's shade.” He smiled and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

“So how did he end up in jail?” asked Chusor. “Fighting, no doubt,” he added under his breath.

“Actually,” said Leo, “it was from
talking
.”

“He got it in his head to raise an army of young warriors to aid Plataea,” said Phoenix. “The young men of Athens who are bristling at a chance to fight the Spartans—the ones who are furious that they are trapped behind these high walls while their enemies pillage their countryside. They gather in the agora every day and make trouble. Nikias went to the agora and called on anyone who would join him. He gave a stirring speech—told them that death in battle was far preferable to wasting away from disease or starvation. The gods value our deaths in battle over the Spartans' deaths, he told them, because we come from a democracy and thus value life and freedom more than the enemy.”

“Nonsense,” muttered Ezekiel.

“The young men ate it up,” said Phoenix. “Nikias said that the Plataeans had money. Enough to buy ships and outfit them for a voyage around the Peloponnese. But they needed volunteers to man the ships and go to the port of Kreusis on the Gulf of Korinth. He promised them a war. He promised them blood. Then the police came and arrested him and his friend Konon, but Leo and I got away.”

“Kreusis?” asked Ezekiel. “Where is this port? I have never heard of it.”

“Eight miles from Plataea,” said Leo. “It's one of our strongholds—still manned by our warriors, at least when we left Plataea. From there it's an easy walk through an olive-tree-filled valley to the citadel. The Spartans would never expect a relief force coming from Kreusis.”

“But why would Perikles lock up Nikias?” asked Chusor. “I thought he had taken a liking to the lad when he was here before. Surely a young man expressing his warlike intentions against a hated enemy was not breaking any Athenian laws.”

“Perikles,” replied Phoenix flatly, “my leader … my teacher … he is dead. Kleon, his bitter rival, rules Athens now. Nikias killed one of Kleon's henchmen when he was here last. And Kleon thinks that Nikias had something to do with this hetaera Helena disappearing from Athens—a woman for whom Kleon had some strong claim.”

“Nikias didn't have anything to do with
that
,” said Chusor. “
I
did. And Kleon hates me more than Nikias, for he is my bitter enemy and the reason that I was forced to flee Athens a decade ago.”

“Well, it matters not,” said Phoenix morosely. “Kleon is the enemy of us all, it seems. And he will not be persuaded by any means to free Nikias. He'll let him rot in jail. Perikles's allies are either dead or in exile. There is nothing left for me in this city anymore. I might as well have died with my brothers when we were attacked by the Korinthians on the sea. Athens is a city of shades. I have nothing…” he trailed off, staring out the window.

“Where is Ji?” asked Chusor suddenly. “Don't tell me that he is dead as well.”

“Ji bought a fishing boat and sailed away,” said Diokles. “He said that he had seen this sickness before and he was not going to take his chances.”

Chusor mulled on this information for a while. He wished the stalwart fighter were still here, but he was glad that the man had escaped from the disease. “May Poseidon guide him,” he said.

“What are we going to do?” Leo asked the room.

Everyone was silent for a long time. Even though Chusor felt piteously weak, his mind was clear. Nikias's idea to raise an army and take the sea road to the Gulf of Korinth was actually quite sound. Any intelligent and able-bodied young man would gladly escape this city of death for a chance to kill Spartans.

“Let us leave Chusor,” said Ezekiel. “We are taxing him. Come, come.” He tried to usher out Diokles and Leo but they sat unmoving.

“What are you thinking?” said Diokles, who had also been watching Chusor intently.

Chusor swung his shaky legs over the edge of the bed and planted his feet on the floor. “We've broken into sturdier buildings than a flimsy Athenian jail,” he said with a forced laugh.

Ezekiel reached for the wine. “I was afraid you were going to say that,” he said miserably.

 

EIGHT

“You're dead, Nikias of Plataea,” said a voice oozing with triumph. “You're a dead man.”

“Hera's jugs!” bellowed Nikias.

The small cell echoed with Nikias's wrathful cry as he swept his hand across the grid scratched in the floor, scattering the small stones that served as markers in the game of pebbles. Konon laughed and clapped his hand against his thigh as the winner of the game, a slender Athenian teenager named Aristophanes, pulled a face at Nikias.

“Are all Plataeans such poor losers?” Aristophanes asked Konon.

“I wouldn't know,” said Konon, grinning. “I've only met the one.”

Nikias sat fuming with his arms on his chest, shaking his head. “Ten games in a row, that makes it.”

“Eleven,” said Aristophanes, “but who's counting?”

“How are you so lucky at this game?” asked Nikias, who had always fancied himself a good pebbles player.

“It's not luck,” came the smug reply. “It's all skill.”

“Gods, when are they going to let us out of this place?” asked Nikias with frustration. They had been in the cell for two days. In that time they had not been questioned. Nor had they been given any food. Only foul-tasting water. The place reeked of their own waste.

“Just be glad the Skythian guards buggered out of the city,” said Aristophanes. “If they were still in charge of the jail, they would have whipped the three of us for laughs.”

The Skythians, Nikias had discovered after arriving in Athens, had fled at the first sign of the plague in their own ranks. A Skythian warrior feared dying of illness more than anything else—they believed that their shades would be putrid for eternity, just like their diseased corpses. And so they had absconded from the citadel—down to the last man—and hired two grain ships to take them to the island of Euboea. Without their ruthless police force to keep order, Athens had plummeted into a state of chaos.

“Want to play another?” asked Aristophanes.

“No, thanks,” said Nikias.

“I'll play,” said Konon.

Nikias leaned against the wall and watched the two play, studying the young Athenian closely to see if he was cheating. But he couldn't detect any sleight of hand from the actor—a man he had met on his last trip to Athens. He had been at the symposium at Helena's house, and Nikias learned that Aristophanes was famous in Athens for playing women on the stage. He had a slender but muscular build, and wore his hair very long. Nikias liked him, despite the fact that he kept beating him at pebbles. Aristophanes had been thrown into the cell with him and Konon the night they were arrested. Aristophanes had been caught “liberating” an amphora of wine from a shop. Nobody went to the theatre anymore—everyone who had not contracted the illness was afraid of crowds. So actors were starving. Aristophanes's older friend, the playwright Euripides, had fled to his cave on the island of Salamis. And Aristophanes had said that he wished he were there with him now.

It was just like that playwright to hide in a cave while disaster befell his city, Nikias mused with disgust. He had no use for writers like Euripides, whose characters talked incessantly but did not take action. Or when they did finally act, it was always to do the wrong thing, like blind oneself or kill a friend by mistake. Were men really that foolish? Were the gods truly that cruel? Perhaps they were. And the thought brought him low.

“‘He who learns must suffer,'” Nikias quoted drearily.

“Ah, Aeskylos,” said Aristophanes. “Now, there was a playwright. I wish I could have met him.”

“You did,” said Nikias, surprised. “He was at Helena's symposium.”

“Ha! That old man?” said Aristophanes with a smirk. “He was just one of Helena's pets—a crazy dotard who liked to call himself Aeskylos. The real
playwright
Aeskylos has been dead for twenty years and more.”

Nikias scoffed. Was everything in Athens an illusion?

“I think I've got you!” said Konon.

“You think?” replied Aristophanes with a shifty look. “Watch out.”

Nikias went to the door and peered through the iron grille at the top of the portal, staring down the empty hallway. He wondered where the guards had all gone. They had yet to see a single jailer since Aristophanes had been brought to the cell the night before. Perhaps they were sick, or hiding in their rooms. He reckoned that he should be content that he wasn't getting beaten right now by one of Kleon's thugs. Kleon had been Perikles's archrival in Athens, and had even tried and failed to get Perikles ostracized. Two and a half years ago Kleon's henchmen had caught Nikias meeting with the Athenian spy Timarkos—one of Perikles's whisperers—and given him a fierce beating before he escaped in a mad dash through the Piraeus. Where were his thugs now? Perhaps Kleon himself was sick. If Perikles had died—Perikles, blessed by the gods!—then no man was safe in Athens.

“Sorry, Konon,” said Aristophanes. “Your city has fallen. I win.”

“What?” shouted Konon with a startled cry. “Gods! You are a shifty fellow,” he added with a good-natured laugh.

Nikias sat down again and the room became silent. The sun was setting—Nikias could see Hesperos, the evening star, glinting like a tiny jewel in the small high window of the chamber. Konon curled up on the floor and shut his eyes. Soon he was snoring. Nikias felt sorry for the Athenian farmer. He had lost nearly his entire family to the sickness.

“How did he lose his arm?” Aristophanes asked. “Do you know?”

“Yes,” replied Nikias. “It got caught in the mechanism of an olive mill when he was a boy.”

“Poor wretch,” said Aristophanes. “Actors like me will never welcome his kind in a theatre.”

“Why is that?” asked Nikias.

“He can't clap,” said Aristophanes with an ironic laugh.

“He'll never be a hoplite,” said Nikias ruefully. “He can't hold a shield.”

“I have never been in battle,” said Aristophanes.

“Doesn't seem like you ever will—not with all of Athens hiding behind these walls.”

“We should march on Sparta and infect them,” said Aristophanes. “We don't need swords to kill them. We can just shit and breathe on them.”

Nikias laughed despite himself. He thought of vomiting the black stuff onto the Korinthian's feet and the look of horror on the man's face. “Might not be such a bad idea,” he said.

“I heard about your speech at the agora,” said Aristophanes. “My friends couldn't stop talking about it. They were ready to risk exile and run off with you to Plataea. Many of them have stopped believing in the gods, you know. People say they were all invented.”

“And what do
you
believe?”