ELEVEN

Barka crawled along a passageway under the streets of Plataea, a small lamp clutched in his slender fingers. Even though he had been reassured by Diokles that the tunnel had been shored up with stout timbers, he was still unnerved by being alone in such a quiet and solitary place. He felt like he was on a path leading straight to the Underworld.

He hummed to himself. It was a jaunty tune he’d learned in Syrakuse from a young man with whom he’d fallen in love.

The lion sprang, and Herakles leapt

His cudgel flew, the lion wept

The lyrics of the drinking song were idiotic, like all songs men sang when they were tipsy with wine. But they had a soothing effect on Barka. The image of a weeping lion made him smile. He thought of his lover—how he resembled a painted statue of Apollo come to life. How his eyes glowed like jewels. His smile like the sun. From the moment Barka had laid eyes on him two years ago in Syrakuse, he had known that he would die for this man.

Or kill for him.

Barka had been the guest-friend at the palace of the richest and most influential citizen in the city-state of Syrakuse: General Pantares. Barka’s soothaying skills were famous in the lands of Greater Greece and “the Tyrant” had always welcomed the eunuch whenever he came to port, marveling at his skills as an oracle, asking him advice about his enemies—advice that nearly always came true. Pantares had even asked Barka if Syrakuse should join with Sparta, which Barka had declared was inevitable, telling him that, years hence, the alliance would lead to a colossal victory for the general’s city against the Athenians.

But Barka had not predicted his own fate in the house of Pantares: falling madly in love with the general’s new ward … a beautiful young man who had arrived from the backwater of the Oxlands to further his studies in that cultivated city.

Barka stopped short as he came to a fork in the corridor. Diokles had taken him on a thorough tour of the tunnel system the day before, proudly showing him all of the twists and turns of the underground labyrinth that the work crew had been excavating, and so he knew exactly where he was. This particular corridor had only just been cleared, and it led to the city’s cistern. He could smell the scent of dank stones coming from the right, and so he turned and continued in that direction.

He never would have taken the risk of sneaking out of Plataea if not for the unsettling dream that he’d had the night before: a vision of his beloved in chains, an executioner standing over him with an axe. Barka felt that he had to see the Spartan face-to-face. The only important thing was to know for certain if his beloved was still alive. All that he had to do was to peer into the Spartan’s eyes and he would know if he told the truth or not.

He glanced down at the ring on his right hand. The ring bore a stone that opened with a hinge. Under the stone was a short needle containing a deadly poison. If Barka discovered tonight that his lover was dead, he would kill the Spartan, and then himself.

He could hear the sound of dripping water up ahead. And then he saw moonlight shining through a metal grate and a pool of water. He had come to the cistern. He set down his lamp and put a piece of flint next to it so that he could relight it if he were to return from the Spartan camp. Then he blew out the flame and let his eyes adjust to the moonlit chamber. He eased himself into the pool, treading water, then took a deep breath and dove down, feeling for the metal grate overhead. For a terrifying moment his dress got caught on the bottom of the grate, and he panicked, shooting to the surface and ripping his clothes.

He took a breath and sighed with relief. He was on the other side of the city walls. He climbed out of the cistern and wrung out his dress, then crept toward a road lined with plane trees, looking over his shoulder at the city walls to see if he’d been spotted by the guards manning the towers. But fortunately nobody saw him. He took the road for a mile, keeping in the shadows of the trees, and then headed off across the countryside, bearing east. In a short while he could see the earthen walls of the Persian Fort looming up ahead.

A moment later he felt many eyes watching him.

He stopped and stood still and said in a firm voice, “I am Barka. I have come to see Drako.”

Men slipped from the shadows of the trees like ghosts and surrounded him. One of them stepped forward and quickly bound his hands behind his back, then searched his body for weapons. Satisfied that he was not a threat, two of the warriors silently led him toward the entrance to the fort, while the others went back to their hiding positions for their night watch.

The warriors led Barka down a row between Helots—thousands of them sleeping on the ground without blankets, many of them snoring peacefully. Up ahead he could see a cluster of tents lit by a roaring fire. These tents were surrounded by guards bearing spears and wearing armor.

They led Barka inside where Drako sat on a wooden camp chair in front of a desk that was covered with papyrus scrolls. The Spartan general was naked except for a cloth wrapped around his loins. He was in his late sixties, but he had the lean and muscular body of an Olympic athlete half his age. Barka stared at his skull-like visage—the noseless face with its high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Even if he still possessed a nose, Barka mused, he would not be a handsome man.

The general looked up at Barka and fixed him with his killer’s stare. “Why have you come?” he said in his raspy voice.

Barka turned the poison ring on his finger nervously. “It’s too risky sending messages by pigeon anymore.”

“And this is not taking a risk?”

“I had to see you,” said Barka. “I had a dream about Demetrios.”

“Your Plataean lover?” said Drako. “What care I for dreams about the traitor Nauklydes’s son? He is the prisoner of General Pantares. And the Tyrant of Syrakuse is a valued friend of Sparta. Unless you do our bidding, your Demetrios will die a painful death.”

“Then Demetrios is still alive?” asked Barka, trying not to betray the hopefulness in his voice. He stepped forward and peered into the Spartan’s eyes. Drako stared back—the predatory look of a hawk regarding a mouse that has crawled into his nest. “You promised me that he would be treated well by the Tyrant if I did what you asked. If I infiltrated Plataea.”

“I told you,” said Drako. “He lives. And so you must go back to Plataea and glean whatever information you can. You have not been very useful to me thus far.”

Barka couldn’t help himself. He let forth a cry of relief and the tears burst from his eyes. Drako had not been lying. He could see the truth in the man’s cold eyes. His nightmare vision of Demetrios, chained and awaiting execution, had merely been a bad dream.

Drako got up, walked over to Barka, and led him through a curtained-off area containing a simple cot.

“Your clothes are wet,” he said. “Did you swim the river to get here? Take them off.”

“My hands are bound,” said Barka, biting his lip coyly.

Drako found a knife and cut through the ropes and watched silently as Barka removed his wet gown. Then the Spartan ran his rough hands over the eunuch’s naked body.

“Female and male intertwined,” said Drako, sinking to his knees and staring up at Barka with a hungry look. “You are androgyny in perfection.”

Barka forced himself to think of Demetrios—so gentle yet manful. He smiled inwardly, remembering the day he had first seen the young Plataean arrive at the house of General Pantares, wearing his unfashionable Oxlander clothes, but looking more refined than any bejeweled nobleman in the Tyrant’s house.

Then—footsteps in the tent and the sound of a man clearing his throat.

Drako cursed and swiftly stood.

“General. Eurymakus the Theban is in the camp. He has a Plataean prisoner. He begs to see you.”

“Stay here,” Drako ordered Barka, then pushed aside the curtain and stepped into the other part of the tent, wrapping his loincloth around him. “Bring the Theban here,” Drako said to his subordinate. “He wears a poisoned dagger in a stone sheath. Take it from him. And bind his arm behind his back.”

Barka put his wet dress back on. It felt clammy and clung to his skin. He sat on the cot and fixed his hair, thinking longingly of Demetrios. Then someone entered the tent and he cocked his head, listening with half an ear.

“You should be dead by now,” rasped Drako’s voice. “You were to be given hemlock.”

“As you can see,” came a smug reply, “I am still alive.”

“You are a fool to come to me,” said Drako. “I’ll happily do the job your own people have apparently failed to do.”

“I bring you an important prisoner,” said the other.

“Really?” said Drako. “I hardly believe that is possible.”

“Nikias of Plataea—the heir of Menesarkus.”

Barka tensed. He knew that name. Nikias was Demetrios’s best friend. He never stopped talking about him. They were like brothers. He pulled back a corner of the curtain and peered into the room. There stood Drako now wearing a red cloak, hands on his hips, facing a one-armed man with flowing hair and a long beard. The guard had said that this Eurymakus was a Theban. But he looked like a Persian, even though he did not speak with a Persian accent.

“How did Nikias come to be your prisoner?” asked Drako.

“God brought him to me,” said Eurymakus.

“Let me see the prisoner.”

Two guards dragged in a naked body bound at the feet and wrists. The young man’s blood-splattered face was so swollen that Barka could not tell if his eyes were open or closed. And his torso was covered with livid bruises. He lay there, unmoving.

“And what am I supposed to do with this?” asked Drako. “It looks like you’ve ruined him.”

“He lives,” said Eurymakus. “The damage is not permanent.”

“Where did you come from?” said Drako.

“Tanagra,” replied Eurymakus. Drako bent down and put his hand on Nikias’s neck, feeling for his pulse.

“Menesarkus will not sign a peace treaty in exchange for his heir,” he said. “Even if this is Nikias.”

Eurymakus smiled coldly. “But he will give you back Prince Arkilokus,” he said in a self-satisfied manner. “Think of the praise that will be heaped upon you if you are responsible for gaining the release of a Spartan prince.”

“And what do you want in return?” Drako sneered.

“Safe passage to Korinth for myself and my servant,” replied Eurymakus. “From there I will travel to Persia and beg Artaxerxes to redouble his efforts to help Sparta in its war against the Athenians.”

“That is all?” asked Drako.

“You and I are not enemies,” Eurymakus said. “I am the best friend Sparta has at the moment.”

“How can I be certain this is Nikias?” said Drako. “His face is beyond recognition.”

“He wears the signet ring of his house,” said Eurymakus. “Look, there. On his right hand. The boxing Minotaur.”

Drako took a torch from one of his men and knelt by the body, grasping Nikias’s hands, which were tied behind his back. He found the ring and tried to pull it off, but it would not budge.

“Knuckle … broken,” muttered Nikias weakly through his swollen lips.

“Give me your knife,” Drako ordered one of his men. The guard handed him a dagger.

“What are you doing?” asked Eurymakus.

“Shut up,” spat Drako. He put the knife to Nikias’s littlest finger and gave a quick flick of his wrist.

Nikias sucked in his breath, then screamed.

Barka gasped, covering his mouth with his hands.

Eurymakus watched apprehensively as Drako studied the ring on the bloody finger, holding it close to the torchlight. “Do you see?” asked the Theban spy. “That is Nikias’s ring.”

“You have redeemed yourself, Eurymakus,” said Drako. “You will leave at dawn for Korinth.”

Eurymakus let forth a relieved sigh. “You will not regret this, Drako.”

Drako made a guttural sound. “All of my actions with you end in regrets,” he said. “Now leave me.”

Barka watched wide-eyed as Eurymakus bent over and looked at Nikias with a curious expression: hatred mingled with yearning. Nikias wept, muttering something under his breath. Eurymakus seemed about to speak, and then he turned and exited the tent, followed by the guards.

Drako went back to his desk and sat with his back to Barka. He started writing a message on papyrus. Barka, his heart beating wildly in his breast, opened the curtain and crept over to Nikias, putting his mouth close to Nikias’s ear.

“Take heart,” he said. “Demetrios is alive.”

Nikias turned in the direction of the voice. “Who are you?” he murmured.

“A friend.”

“Demetrios is dead,” said Nikias. “Eurymakus told me. They no longer needed Demetrios alive after his father was killed.”

Barka’s pulse raced. His heart told him what Nikias had just said was true. Had Drako deceived him about Demetrios? Or did the Spartan not know the truth himself? Was Demetrios really dead? How could he know for certain?

Drako turned around and glared at Barka. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“The lad seemed to be choking,” Barka lied.

“Get away from him,” Drako ordered.

Barka dropped his head and obeyed, stepping back into the corner of the tent and standing very still, twisting the ring with the poisoned needle with the fingers of his opposite hand. A wild thought flashed through his brain: he could slay Drako and put Nikias out of his misery and kill himself before the guards outside had time to react.

But what if Nikias was wrong? What if the Theban Eurymakus had been lying?

He watched as Drako put Nikias’s bloody finger and its ring, along with a small of papyrus, into a leather bag. Then he whistled and his subordinate entered the tent. Drako handed him the bag, saying, “Remove the prisoner from my tent and guard him well. And take this bag to Plataea at sunrise and nail it to the gates.”