THREE
“Telemakos always leads me to where I’m going,” said the bard with a laugh, pointing at his raven flying above them on the tree-lined lane. “He has a way of finding us good luck.”
Kolax, who was walking next to the bard and toting the man’s staff and harp, nodded in understanding. His father had always told him that ravens were enchanted with a powerful magic. It was wise for this wandering musician to put his trust in such an intelligent animal. Because instead of being a smart sort of foreigner like Kolax had first thought, the bard had turned out to be one of the biggest donkey-brains he’d ever met.
In the short amount of time it had taken them to walk down from the Akropolis to this shady road, the bard had spouted a whole cartload of foolish sheep dung. Tales of lands far to the east where men could stand on red-hot coals without feeling pain, or make their spirits fly amongst the stars merely by concentrating on a third eye in their foreheads. Or the notion that the sun was a giant ball of fire rather than the Sun god’s chariot flying across the sky. That one was really funny.
He glanced at the bare-chested bard and wondered how someone could get so muscular merely from walking from town to town and plucking catgut strings all day. The man had the biceps of a Skythian bowman and the rippled stomach of a wrestler. He would make a fine warrior if he tossed aside his tortoiseshell harp and grasped the handle of a sword. But the crazy Greek claimed he’d renounced violence! And refused to eat animal flesh! Absurd beyond belief.
Kolax knew a good thing when it came his way, though. The bard blended into Athens like all the other odd-looking characters in the capital, and as long as he stayed by this man’s side, Kolax would fit in too. He’d offered to carry the musician’s staff and harp for a reason: now he could pass for his servant. General Lukos and his slave-hunters would have a difficult time spotting him in this improved disguise.
And it was a great relief to be around someone who could talk in Skythian after these long months away from home. Even if the bard did speak his tongue with an outlandish Greek accent.
“My name is Andros of Naxos,” said the bard.
“Kolax of the Bindi,” replied the boy.
“I don’t suppose you can write out your name? Or anything for that matter?”
Kolax laughed. What a ridiculous question. “My father taught me the Three Skills—riding, shooting, and the counting of our gold,” he replied.
“Illiterate like most of your barbarian kin,” said Andros with a sigh. “I am writing a book and would have let you read some of it.”
“What’s it about?”
“The secret to eternal happiness.”
Kolax grinned. “I know the secret to happiness already—riding better than any warrior alive, shooting three arrows in three heartbeats, and possessing a clay pot full of gold darics buried in the ground beneath the floor of a spacious round tent.”
“The secret,” said Andros, acting as though he hadn’t heard anything that Kolax had just said, “is to let the world slip through your fingers like sand.”
Kolax had absolutely no idea what Andros meant by that, but he made an admiring grunting sound in the back of his throat. Hopefully that would shut the man up.
“You must release everything,” Andros went on. “Love, wealth, even happiness itself. Only then will you find peace of mind. For peace of mind is greater than any earthly glory, whether it be wealth or conquest.”
This last idiocy made Kolax burst out laughing. He laughed so hard that he started to choke. His throat was still sore from where the slave-hunter had tried to strangle him with the whip.
“Gods!” exclaimed Andros. “Poor lad! Your face is turning as purple as a grape.”
Andros led him to a nearby public fountain and encouraged him to drink. Kolax cupped his hands and held the cool water to his lips, gulping it down.
The raven flew over to them and landed on the edge of the fountain, and took a sip from the water pouring from the mouth of a stone satyr. The bird eyed Kolax, then let forth a low carrrrock sound. Andros reacted as though the raven had spoken an understandable word.
“Yes,” said the bard. “You’re right, Telemakos. Some leaf would be a good idea.” He took the leather pouch from around his neck and emptied the contents onto the marble seat in front of the fountain—a clay pipe, a flint, and another, smaller pouch filled with dried hemp, the sight of which made Kolax’s eyes grow wide with delight.
The bard filled the pipe and got the leaves smoldering. “Something I discovered in your country,” he said and gave a rueful smile.
Kolax eagerly took the offered pipe from Andros’s hand, sucking in the vapor. It was strong leaf and within a short time he felt his body start to change … as though he were made of arrow strings pulled taut and then loosened by the hand of a god.
Andros inhaled a long draft from the pipe and held the air in his lungs. “Good Skythian leaf,” he said in the back of his throat.
Kolax grinned, then took several more puffs from the pipe. After a while he closed his eyes and imagined riding across a grassy plain with the sound of the horse’s hooves thundering on the ground like war drums. He could smell the wet Skythian grass … and hear his mother’s voice calling to him—“Come, child, come, my darling horseman. Your dinner is on the spit. Your skull cup is full.” But no matter where he rode, he could not track her down.
A giant arrow—as tall as an ancient pine—slammed into the earth in front of him, blocking his path. The shaft was painted with black-and-white stripes to signify the arrowhead had been laced with poison.
Kolax’s father had taught him how to make Skythian poison when he was a small boy. After trapping grass vipers in special baskets on the ends of poles, the snakes were subdued with hemp smoke, then the venom “milked” from their fangs. This whitish poison was mixed with human feces in a leather pouch and steeped underground for the cycle of one moon. A tiny scratch from a weapon tainted with this poison could send the mightiest warrior into paroxysms of agonizing pain followed soon after by death.
Kolax got on his knees and dug in the earth beneath the arrow and found a leather pouch. He carefully untied the drawstring’s knots. When he pulled open the bag he could see nothing inside except an inky blackness. He put his face close to the opening. A viper leapt from the bag and bit him on the cheek.
He opened his eyes and looked around anxiously. He was lying down in front of the fountain. The bard and the raven were gone. He felt an ache in his guts and a powerful thirst. He glanced up at the position of the sun and reckoned he’d been there for over an hour. He’d never experienced that kind of vision while smoking hemp before, and wondered if the bard had mixed it with some other drug.
He drank some more water, then got to his feet and continued walking on the tree-lined road that led back to the agora. But no matter where he looked he couldn’t find the bard. He felt lonely and chided himself for missing the foolish man. Andros had been kind to him, though. And he needed a friend in this huge city, especially one who spoke his language. He couldn’t figure out why the bard had left him there by the fountain.
He sat down on a stone sidewalk in front of a crowded wineshop and rested his face in his hands. Hunger gnawed his guts. He still had the darics Nikias had given him for safekeeping, but he reckoned that using Persian gold in the market of Athens would draw suspicion. He pulled out the pouch that he wore around his neck. Then he opened it and started swallowing the gold pieces, one by one. That would keep his stomach from growling. And his guts were a much safer place to hide the gold.
He thought of the girl Iphigenia and wondered if she was still up in the tree where he’d left her. She had had enough food and water for only a few days. How would he ever get back to her and save her from her master? He wished the spear he’d thrown had found its mark in the Athenian warrior’s chest, rather than slaying his pretty horse.
An old white-haired slave was sweeping off the sidewalk and he nudged Kolax with a tattered broom, saying, “Move on, my son,” before giving him another gentle push.
Kolax got up and walked back into the packed agora, his heart as heavy as a lead ball for a sling. He thought of Andros’s raven and looked to the sky, but all he saw were seagulls circling overhead and a few noisy crows in a treetop. He turned his gaze to the Akropolis. If the raven was flying anywhere in the city, he would be able to spot the bird from up there.
He sprinted all the way back and stood on the steps of the Temple of Athena, keeping an eye out for the Skythian archer who had struck him. He scanned the city below with his eagle’s eyes. His father had always told him he could spot a flea on a fox’s arse from five hundred paces.
But he saw only gulls—their white bodies and gray wings sailing the skies.
He walked over to the temple and stared up at the painted statues carved into the pediments. What impressed him most was a marble frieze showing a line of cavalry. The horses seemed about to leap right off the roof. Whoever had carved those animals knew his horses.
The wind shifted just then and he heard a sound that made the skin on the back of his neck tingle. It was the faint but unmistakable call of a raven. He ran around to the other side of the temple and gazed down.
Kolax smiled. He saw a raven, five bowshots away to the west. There was no mistaking the eagle-sized bird. Telemakos was flying in a wide circle over a cluster of brick buildings that were surrounded by a wall. It looked like an old fort of some kind—a stronghold built within the walls of Athens.
Kolax could see Skythian archers going in and out of the complex as well as Athenian guardsmen standing on top of its flat roof. He watched as Telemakos dove into a courtyard of the fort and disappeared. He wondered what the raven was doing there. Was Andros in some kind of trouble? He had to find out.
He flew down the steps of the Akropolis as though his feet had sprouted wings.