SEVENTEEN

Menesarkus followed his men in utter despair down the long road to Plataea. His thoughts were only for his grandson. They had been walking for two miles and still Nikias had not stirred. The lad’s arms hung limply at his sides. His chest barely rose as he breathed.

When he had first laid eyes on Nikias today he had not recognized him, so altered was his grandson’s face. Menesarkus had seen many pankrators beaten to a pulp. But Nikias had always come through his bouts relatively unscathed, such was his prowess in the arena. He had never seen him look this bad.

But Eurymakus had tortured him. Broken his body. There were black bruises all over Nikias’s torso. He had livid bruises on his forehead. Menesarkus knew that serious head wounds could cause seizures. Had his brain been affected?

What would Eudoxia say when she saw her poor grandson?

When he was in the Temple of Zeus yesterday he had begged the Stormbringer to forgive him for making the decision to save Nikias, for he had realized what his wildly palpitating heart had been trying to tell him. He wondered if Zeus would take away his protection from the citadel and its people because Menesarkus had made such a selfish act.

They passed the old man leading the donkey: he walked with fast strides that were at odds with his withered legs. He had thrown back his hood to reveal his features and he was still singing softly to himself, a smile fixed on his weather-beaten face. All of a sudden Menesarkus recognized him: the old man was Linos, a famous bard with whom his son Aristo had studied in his youth. Linos was a Plataean who had departed the citadel soon after the Persian Wars had ended, and had returned every now and then over the last fifty years. Menesarkus had not seen him in the Oxlands since Nikias was a little boy.

Linos glanced at Menesarkus and smiled genially without recognition. “Peace,” he said again. Menesarkus nodded back. He suspected Linos had become senile.

They were a quarter mile from the closed gates of the citadel of Plataea when Menesarkus heard the sudden thunder of horses in the distance, followed by warning cries from the lookouts on the tops of the walls.

“Dog Raiders!”

Menesarkus ordered his men to stop and peered south. He could clearly see the horsemen—a troop of over twenty raiders in black cloaks—charging down the foothills of the Kithaeron Mountains, heading straight toward the citadel. The enemy would cut off Menesarkus’s armored men before they could run to the gates. And they were out of range of the protection of archers from the walls.

Better to stand and fight than be ridden down by riders, he mused.

“Make a wheel,” Menesarkus said in a loud but calm voice. “Lay my grandson by my side,” he said to the men bearing Nikias. He glanced over at Linos, who was a hundred paces behind them. The old man looked about him with a bewildered expression. “Leave your donkey, Linos!” Menesarkus ordered. “Come here now!”

Linos seemed torn. His head moved back and forth from the approaching Dog Raiders to his animal. Finally, and very reluctantly, he dropped the animal’s lead and dashed over to the warriors, who had formed an orderly circle of shields around Menesarkus and Nikias. He squeezed through the ranks and gave Menesarkus a mystified look.

“I don’t have a spear,” said Linos with a sheepish smile.

“Here.” Menesarkus drew his sword and handed it to Linos.

Linos took the leaf-bladed sword and gripped it in his gnarled hand, screwing up his lined face.

The Plataean warriors raised their left arms bearing their shields and planted the butt spikes of their long spears in the ground.

Menesarkus clenched his teeth. The military part of his mind raced. Dog Raiders had never been so bold as to come this close to the citadel in daylight, preferring to lurk in the mountains or attack farms at night. Perhaps these horsemen were a decoy—an advance force of a much larger army attacking the other side of the citadel. Had Drako used the prisoner exchange as a way of distracting Menesarkus from his duty? An army of Spartan warriors might already be sneaking around to the western walls with scaling ladders.

He cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted up to the walls, “Keep the gates shut! Do you hear me? This might be a trick! Do not open the gates, even if we are overwhelmed!”

“Yes!” the guards on the wall shouted back. “We understand, Arkon!”

Menesarkus realized that his heart beat regularly now. It had been churning inside his breast during the confrontation with Drako, but now it felt surprisingly normal and this filled him with a sense of calm. He was actually looking forward to this fight. He stared down at Nikias, who lay dead to the world with half-closed lids and mouth slightly agape, but his mutilated hand twitched slightly. Was he dreaming now?

A fearsome battle cry from the horsemen shook Menesarkus from his thoughts. The Dog Raiders turned away from the city walls and charged straight at them—a mass of riders that split apart and rode in a circle around the Plataeans. Menesarkus perceived that each carried some sort of strange weapon in his hand—a black rope attached to a roundish shape.

Menesarkus gripped his shield and raised his spear, his body tensed for battle.

Suddenly the lead horseman threw one of the objects at his shield. It hit with a dull thud and fell at his feet. He glanced down and saw a black-bearded decapitated head with its tongue sticking out. A barrage of heads hit the shields, one after the other, until each of the riders was empty-handed.

“What are they doing?” called out Leo. “Are they trying to kill us with severed heads?”

The Dog Raiders stopped all at once and tore off their helms to reveal red hair tied in topknots. They cast off their black cloaks and threw them on the ground, baring their muscular arms painted with tattoos.

“They’re Skythians,” said Linos with a dumbfounded laugh.

Menesarkus glanced at the old bard who grinned back.

“Greetings!” said Linos in the Skythian tongue, smiling and handing Menesarkus’s sword back to him. “May your ewes never come out arse first.”

The lead rider bowed to Linos and addressed him, speaking in halting Greek, “Elder one, I am Osyrus of the Bindi. I have come to offer my services to the city of Plataea.”

Menesarkus and the Plataeans stared back at the Skythians in astonishment. Osyrus and the other Bindis exchanged tense glances.

“We bring these Dog Raider heads as a sign of our skills,” said Osyrus. “We—”

“We’ve come to kill the Red Cloaks!” interrupted a croaking voice. Menesarkus recognized the boy Kolax as he drove a white horse forward past the other riders until he was next to the leader. Osyrus tried to clap a hand over Kolax’s mouth, but the young barbarian ducked and looked directly at Menesarkus, “Peace, Arkon! Forgive me. But I lost Nikias in Athens. I found his mare, though.”

“Photine!” exclaimed Leo with sudden recognition.

Menesarkus gazed at the tempestuous animal. He hadn’t seen her since the day she had appeared outside the citadel, streaked with blood. “Where did you find her?” he asked, bewildered by the arrival of Kolax and his kin.

“I found her wandering in the olive groves above your farm,” Kolax said. “I reckoned Nikias had come back to Plataea and had fallen off her again! Where is he? He’ll be happy to see I caught her.”

Menesarkus dropped his chin to his chest.

Leo took off his helm and held it under one arm. He caught Kolax’s eye and gestured toward the center of the ring of men. “He is there,” said Leo in a funereal tone.

Kolax frowned and slid off Photine, elbowing his way through the armored Plataean warriors, leading Photine to the center of the wheel formation. When he saw Nikias he let forth a cry and knelt by his body.

“Ah, Sky-Father Papaeus! What happened to him?” he said in Skythian, tears pouring from his eyes. “Who did this to him?”

Menesarkus put a hand on Kolax’s shoulder and turned to Osyrus.

“I am Menesarkus, Arkon of Plataea. You are welcome here,” he said. “The boy Kolax is known to us. He is accounted a hero in my city.”

Osyrus nodded and translated Menesarkus’s words for those of his men who did not speak Greek. The Skythians who had doubted Kolax before now stared at him in wonder.

Menesarkus heard the sound of a dagger being unsheathed and turned. He saw Kolax slicing a deep cut across his own palm, then the boy held the wound to Nikias’s lips.

“My blood is a healing potion,” Kolax intoned. “I bear the blood of the gryphon of Skythia in my veins. I will save him from death.”

Photine dropped her head and sniffed Nikias’s head, then ever so gently she nudged him with her nose. But he did not move. The horse pawed the ground as if in anger, then threw back her head and let forth a bloodcurdling neigh.

“She’s calling the Horse God for help,” said Kolax with a sigh. “All will be well.”