THIRTEEN

Menesarkus slammed shut the door to his office and slid the locking bolt. He was suddenly aware of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. It was as though his heart had become a war drum inside his chest, vibrating through his body, pulsing in his head. And it beat twice as fast as normal.

All at once his heart stopped for two full seconds, and when it started again it seemed to roll in his chest like an animal squirming inside a box. He had never had this happen before and it terrified him. His heart beat rapidly again, but a few seconds later the squirming sensation repeated.

Then again. And again.

He felt a tightness in his chest and gasped for air. He stared at his hands. His own fingertips had gone white. As white as Nikias’s severed finger. His heart fluttered and stopped again, then felt as though it were expanding, churning, roiling.

A seizure of the heart!

His heart beat faster still and his face broke out in a clammy sweat. He was dimly aware of the men outside the door who were hammering on the portal with their fists.

He staggered over to his armor on its stand and punched it. The helm and corselet flew across the room and clattered on the floor.

His heart had gone mad inside his breast. He fell to his knees, trying to breathe slowly, but he felt a palpitation so strong that it took his breath away and he was seized by a severe coughing fit.

“Arkon!” shouted his clerk from the other side of the door. “Are you unwell?”

Menesarkus swayed over to the desk and grabbed Nikias’s finger, clutching it in his hand. He lunged to the door and unbolted it, avoiding the anxious eyes of his clerk and the guards.

“Your face is drained of blood!” said the clerk anxiously.

“Water,” rasped Menesarkus.

The clerk ran to the other side of the room to fetch something to drink.

“Should we arrest the Egyptian?” asked one of the guards.

“For what?” snarled Menesarkus.

“We heard you shouting at each other,” began one of the other guards hesitantly.

“Leave Chusor alone,” said Menesarkus. “He is doing his duty.” He took the proffered cup from his clerk. But his hand shook so hard he couldn’t put the cup to his lips.

Ba-boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

The sound of his own heartbeat in his ears was maddening. He flung the cup against the wall and bulled his way past the guards, stepping into the sunlit courtyard outside his offices. His clerk tried to follow him, but Menesarkus struck out at him.

“Leave me be!”

He made himself walk though his legs felt as though they’d been carved from marble. He was panicking. That was all. A fit of panic. He’d seen it happen to men in battle. They lost their wits. Said their hearts were going to leap out of their chests. Cowards.

“But I am no coward,” he thought bitterly.

He headed into the agora … making his way blindly through the crowds of refugees. The woodsmoke from cooking fires choked him. Made him queasy. He saw women and children. Old men. The helpless citizens of Plataea whom it was his duty to protect. He stopped when he got to the statue of the hero Androkles and leaned against the plinth, looking up at the carven figure. The hero’s sword was raised in triumph. He read the words etched onto the slab:

NO SHAMEFUL FLIGHT OR FEAR!

MAKE YOUR SPIRIT VALIANT!

They were the last words that the hero spoke before slaying the despotic madman—the Last Tyrant of Plataea. And then Androkles had been cut down by the Tyrant’s guardsmen.

He thought of Nikias. His beautiful grandson. So fearless. So foolish. He imagined him tied up in the Spartan camp, bleeding from his hand, awaiting the next cut, and his heart churned so forcefully behind his ribs that the sensation took his breath away.

His heart pounded even faster. Faster than it had ever beaten in his life. He’d held a frightened rabbit once when he was a boy. His heart beat faster than that creature’s organ. How much longer before his heart split itself open? Tore itself apart?

He felt many eyes upon him. He looked around. A crowd of people had gathered and were gawking at him with curiosity. The sun beat down on him. But he felt cold. He was shaking. A woman stepped forward and took him by the hand. She was in her forties. Black hair. Kind eyes.

“Arkon?” she said. “What is wrong?”

He tried to smile. But he could not make his mouth work. He shook his head. Unclasped her hand. He started walking again. Lumbering and limping away like a wounded man. The people parted for him. He saw the Temple of Zeus up ahead. Every step was an effort. He passed between the pillars and stepped inside the sanctuary. He flung himself on his knees at the altar. He placed Nikias’s finger on the cold stone. He gasped for air.

I’m dying. This is the end. A pitiful way to die.

He thought back to the day, fifty years ago, when he’d fought against the Persian invaders in the Battle of Plataea. His heart had been steady throughout that entire frantic day. That glorious day that he had killed the Persian cavalry general Mardonius and turned the tide of the battle in favor of the Greek allies—

He beat his breast with his fist. Over and over again, as if to tame his heart. To pummel it into submission. But it would not obey. It continued to race as though he were running the hoplitodoros—the footrace run around the citadel in full armor. He gasped and put his hand to his mouth, biting it until his teeth drew blood.

Drako would carve up Nikias. Each finger. Then each toe. Then his ears and nose. His lips. His teeth. One by one. Until there was nothing left.

But he could not trade Arkilokus for Nikias. The Spartan prince was worth every woman and child in Plataea. It would be too great a sacrifice. The city was far more important than one man … than one mere lad—

His heart stopped for several seconds. Then it swelled in his breast and pounded furiously.

He reached for Nikias’s finger and kissed the cold dead flesh. He stared at the statue of Zeus looking down at him with its merciless eyes.

He thought of Nikias’s horse, Photine, returning riderless that day, covered with blood and marked with a mountain lion’s claw. It would have been better if Nikias had died in the forest—killed by a beast—than be in the clutches of the Spartan monsters.

“Forgive me,” he said to the idol. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me,” he said over and over again. He had made a decision that he knew would haunt him even into the afterlife. But the decision had been made.

And yet the pounding did not cease.