Spartans at the Gates

by Noble Smith

  Love’s sweet yearning

  A gentle hand that touches skin

  Kisses that never wear thin

  Eyes that drown me therein

  Love’s sweet yearning…”

  Nikias stared at Helena as he sang, and saw that her eyes were welling up with tears. And when the tears finally trickled from the corners of her eyes they looked like drops of quicksilver racing down her golden cheeks. When he was done he set down the harp and looked shyly about the room. He had not planned on singing. In fact he’d never sung anything other than drinking songs in front of a crowd. The chamber burst into hearty cheers and thunderous applause.

  “You can play and sing,” said Konon, coming up and slapping Nikias on the back. His face was flushed with wine.

  As the evening progressed the men became drunker and more ribald. A merchant who imported a fabric called silk—a dark-eyed Lydian with a handsome face who smiled too much for Nikias’s liking—arrived late. He wore an outlandish garment made of the material he sold, and he kept trying to corner Nikias, begging him to tell him news of the Theban sneak attack.

  The somber mood cast by Euripides had evaporated almost completely, and Helena became a charming and friendly host. Later, as the guests started to depart, she called Nikias to her and asked him to drink from her cup. He flushed with pride and drained the proffered wine.

  A few minutes after sipping from her cup Nikias started to feel dizzy. Thinking he had imbibed too much, he sat down on one of the cushioned chairs and picked up the harp, strumming the strings absentmindedly. They made a weird sound, reverberating in his brain and rising and falling in volume. The harp slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor with an echoing crash. He stared at his hands with fascination, for they seemed to be stretching and bending as though they were made of dough. He regarded them for the longest time, unable to tear his eyes away. Finally he managed to squeeze his eyes shut, but when he did he saw bright colors and lights exploding behind his closed lids. Suddenly he felt as though he were flying—like Ikarus toward the sun. It was an unnerving sensation.

  When he finally opened his eyes the room was dark and empty. The only other person still there was Konon, but he was passed out on the floor with a smile on his face.

  Nikias heard footsteps. When he looked up he saw that the two burly men who had been guarding the entrance to the house were now standing over him. Their faces were not friendly.

  “Where’s Helena?” asked Nikias with a slurred voice.

  The men ignored his question and pulled him from his seat.

  “He’s heavy,” observed one of them.

  “Like carrying a side of beef,” said the other.

  Nikias tried to move his feet, but they were dead. The men gripped him under the armpits and dragged him down a dark hallway, then up a flight of stairs. They took him into a darkened chamber and threw him on a bed, then stripped off his belt and tunic.

  “What are you doing?” asked Nikias, frightened all of a sudden. Were these two going to rape him?

  The men exited the room, shutting the portal behind them. Nikias lay on the bed, unmoving, listening to his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He heard something move.

  “Who’s there?” he asked fearfully.

  After a while a man whose face Nikias did not recognize appeared from the shadows, leering down at him. Nikias tried with all his might to sit up but he couldn’t move a muscle.

  He was utterly paralyzed … frozen like a corpse.

  The stranger ran a hand over Nikias’s chest, then up his throat to his lips. He put a finger in Nikias’s mouth and pulled down his jaw so that his mouth was agape. Then he took a small vial from the folds of his robe and unplugged a stopper. He put the spout to Nikias’s lips and poured a burning draft down his throat.

  “Now we begin,” said the stranger.

  FOURTEEN

  Nikias choked on the thick and bitter liquid. A few seconds later he felt a wave of euphoria rushing through his body. Every nerve was on fire with pleasure. Not once had he ever experienced such intense joy. Such peace and clarity of mind.

  “How are we feeling?” asked the stranger in an aristocratic Athenian accent.

  Nikias smiled and nodded.

  “Excellent,” said the man.

  Nikias saw the figure of a naked woman standing at the foot of the bed, holding an oil lamp. Her face was obscured in darkness, but her perfectly shaped breasts were illuminated by the flickering light, the areolas staring at him like eyes in a face, the navel a tiny mouth shaping an O.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Helena asked with a worried tone.

  “It’s the drug I just gave him,” replied the man, stepping back into the shadows. “A very powerful drug. Touch him now.”

  “Can he hear us?” asked Helena.

  “Yes,” said the man. “He can hear us. He’s in a dreamlike state.”

  Helena set the lamp by the bed and crawled on top of Nikias. She had washed off all of the gold paint. Her flesh was warm and smelled of roses. With all of her makeup removed she looked much younger. Nikias realized she was only a few years older than him. She pressed herself onto him, pushing her hard nipples against his chest.

  “Who’s that man?” asked Nikias, and wondered why his own voice sounded like it came from so far away. She started kissing him. Her mouth tasted delicious … like wild mint. And within a few seconds he’d forgotten what he had just asked her.

  “I’ve found this technique works far better than torture,” said the man. “And so much cleaner. Ask him why he came to Athens. And touch him below.”

  “Why are you here?” asked Helena, stroking Nikias’s quickly growing erection with her soft fingertips.

  “I came to hire mercenaries,” Nikias replied without hesitation. “To help defend Plataea. Gods! Keep doing that.”

  “And where did you get the Persian gold?” asked Helena, moving her lips down to play on his chest.

  Nikias laughed softly. “So you’re the one who stole my pack.…”

  “Not her,” said the man’s unctuous voice. “It was one of my whisperers. You were a fool to pick a fight with Kleon’s nephew on your first day in Athens. Draws a crowd, you know? Now tell me: Where did you get such a treasure in Persian gold?”

  “The gold coins,” said Nikias, chuckling. “They spilled from my guts onto the road. The Dog Raiders…” He drifted off, adrift in a sea of delight.

  “Tell him,” said Helena anxiously. “Please tell him, Nikias.”

  “It was the traitor Nauklydes’s pay for opening the gates to the Thebans,” said Nikias dreamily. “We found the darics at his pottery factory.”

  “Interesting,” said the man. “And who wrote the letter that was in your pack? The letter of introduction to the woman named Sophia.”

  “That was my letter,” said Nikias jovially. “You shouldn’t have taken it. You’re lucky I’m in such a good mood.”

  Helena moved her mouth lower and Nikias felt a rush of pleasure crash through his body like a wave breaking against a shore. Then she stopped, and he thought he might lose his mind if she didn’t continue.

  “Please!” he begged. “Keep going!”

  “Answer his question, Nikias,” said Helena urgently. “Please.” There was fear in her voice. He wondered why she was afraid of the man in the shadows. He seemed nice enough.

  “My friend Chusor,” said Nikias, even though a voice in the back of his mind was screaming at him to stay quiet. That he was revealing too much. “He wrote the letter. Sophia was his lover. He thought she might help me.”

  “What does this Chusor look like?” asked the man, his voice tense.

  “Tallest man in Plataea. Speaks with an Athenian accent. He’s half Aethiope.”

  “He’s alive!” said the man in a tone that was no longer serene.

  “Who are you?” asked Nikias.

  “I am a friend of Plataea,” said the man. “I hate the Spartans, just like you. If I were the leader of the
League I would send an army to help defend your citadel. But Perikles refuses to listen to reason. He looks to the sea for victory. The countryside means nothing to him. He will let Plataea burn.”

  “We have a Spartan prisoner,” said Nikias proudly. He knew he shouldn’t be telling this secret, but he couldn’t help himself. The words were spilling from him like liquid from a water clock.

  “Really?” asked the man with a tone of wonder. “Please, tell me more.”

  “A Spartan royal,” continued Nikias. “Worth his weight in gold. He was thrown from a horse and paralyzed. Our men found him near the city walls. My grandfather keeps him in a secret room. He’s going to use him to trade to the Spartans. To gain passage for our women and children to Athens if the city comes under siege.”

  “This is fascinating information, my young friend,” murmured the man. “Tell me. Why did you come here? To Athens?”

  “I came to see Perikles,” Nikias said. “I don’t know where to find him, though. I must find him. I’ll convince him to send an army.”

  “Never put your faith in a leader who sees himself as a god,” said the man bitterly. He moved close to the bed so that Nikias could see his face in the dim light. He studied the stranger’s features. He was in his fifties. Sleek beard and curled hair. Strong face—scar above the eye. A warrior. A leader. Nikias liked the look of him.

  “You’re my friend,” said Nikias. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” cooed the man. “A friend. But to Perikles you are nothing more than a tool to further his purpose. I’m a warrior, just like you and your grandfather. Timarkos is not your friend either. Do not trust him. He plays more than one game at a time. And Chusor is trash. An arrogant freed slave who will get his comeuppance soon enough. Now. You must leave Athens. There are Persian spies here. They will try to capture you and take you to Thebes. One of them was at the party tonight.”

  “Euripides is a Persian spy?” said Nikias, bursting into laughter.

  “The Lydian silk merchant,” said the man. “He’s in league with the Spartans and Persians. One of the pitfalls of a city like Athens that is open to the world. But this freedom allows us to keep an eye on our enemies too.”

  “That merchant was very slippery,” said Nikias, laughing softly. “I think it was his silk outfit.”

  “Shh,” said Helena with a worried expression. “Nikias, stop laughing. I don’t want them to hurt you.”

  The man put a hand on the back of Helena’s neck and held it firmly. “Why would I hurt this lad?” he asked, forcing her face toward Nikias. “Kiss him. Take your pleasure now. I can see how wet you are for him. You’ve earned this little treat. He’s given me everything I need.” With his other hand the man brushed the hair away from Nikias’s forehead. “Such a handsome lad. He’s my gift to you, my little bird,” he said, pushing her face into Nikias’s. “Kiss now. Oh, yes. Move your hips, girl. Yes. Like that. Squeeze him inside you. Yes. Yes.”

  Nikias tried to ignore the face of the man ogling them as they made love. He wanted him to go away. He didn’t like him anymore. He wanted to kill him. But he still couldn’t move a muscle. He forced himself to look into Helena’s eyes. She was weeping. He wanted her to stop but he was helpless.

  “Gods!” groaned Nikias. It felt as if every atom of his body was exploding with ecstasy.

  Helena ceased her movement and held her trembling hands to her eyes, wiping away the tears. The man leaned over and kissed her roughly on the mouth, saying, “You did well, girl.” Then he left the room.

  Helena sat for a while on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly. Then she picked up the oil lamp and held it between them so that it illuminated her face.

  “You’re far more beautiful like this,” Nikias said softly, “than when you were in your hetaera costume. I love you.”

  “You love a puppet, then,” she said. “A thing without a soul.”

  She got up and quickly put on her gown, slipping from the room without another word.

  “Helena?” Nikias called out.

  The men who had dragged Nikias to the bedchamber reappeared and gagged him, putting a cloth sack over his head. They carried him down a flight of stairs, then threw him on the ground. They took turns kicking him in the stomach. When they were tired of this sport they picked him up and threw him into a cart. Nikias was conscious of a searing pain in his shoulder and stomach—or rather the notion of pain—but he was beyond caring, lost in a netherworld.

  “This is what a shade feels like,” he thought.

  * * *

  Eos, the goddess of morning, woke him.

  He was lying on the ground, face pressed against the brown grass wet with dew, shivering from the cold. His stomach muscles ached and his head throbbed as though it might burst out through his eyes and ears. The back of his throat was parched and his tongue swollen, as though he’d swallowed a hot coal.

  “I was drugged,” he remembered, and the events of the previous night came rushing back—the humiliation of Helena’s bedchamber. How he’d been helpless to move and unable to keep himself from answering the man with the dulcet voice.

  He sat up and looked around. He was outside the city walls, near the graveyard. He could see the Akropolis and the Temple of Athena atop the hill. The sun was rising with a fiery glow.

  The truth of what had happened hit him like an uppercut—an Athenian whisperer had gotten ahold of him. Chusor had warned him about Athens. That the citadel was crawling with spies, keeping an eye on everything, watching anyone suspicious who came to their city.

  “Careless idiot!” he cursed himself. The symposium had merely been a trap. And Nikias, like some stupid rabbit, had walked right into the snare. Not only had he lost the gold, but he had endangered Chusor, and given up secret information about the Spartan prisoner.

  And Helena had been forced to make love to him in front of that twisted man.

  He looked down and saw a piece of papyrus pinned to his tunic, like a sign stuck to a slave at an auction. He ripped it from his clothes and read the message with blurry eyes.

  RETURN TO ATHENS AND DIE.

  They’d tossed him from their city like garbage and sent him on his way with a warning, as though he were nothing more than a vagabond.

  “I’ve been the worst sort of fool,” he said out loud. The face of Timarkos—the Athenian spy he’d dealt with in Plataea—flashed before his eyes. How the spy would mock him if he were to find out what had happened.

  He reached for his belt. His Sargatian whip was gone. He opened the small pouch sewn onto the belt and put his hand inside. He found the disk for his sword that he’d left at the Dipylon Gate yesterday. And in the corner of the pouch, tucked under a fold of leather, was the object he was looking for. He pulled out the gold-and-carnelian signet ring that he’d taken from Eurymakus the Theban’s severed hand. He didn’t know why he’d kept the wretched enemy’s ring in the first place. But he was glad that the Athenian whisperer had not found it and taken it last night. He put the ring back into the pouch and stood up. Then he started walking back toward Athens.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man standing under a tree about five hundred paces away, watching him intently. This man—dressed in the clothes of a vagabond and wearing an old tattered woven hat—started following him, keeping his distance warily, like a fox following a wounded prey.

  Nikias heard the sound of a mule cart’s wooden wheels behind him, rattling on the stone pavers.

  “Timarkos told me you were clever,” said an old man’s voice, “but I beg to differ.”

  Nikias glanced in surprise but the old man holding the reins dropped his head and hissed, “Don’t look at me. Just keep walking. They’re watching us.”

  Nikias did as he was told. He made to wipe his face on his sleeve, masked his mouth in the crook of his arm, and asked, “Who are you?”

  “An enemy of Thebes and Sparta,” said the old man. He wore a farmer’s tunic and a wide-brimmed leather hat that hid his eyes. “Now, you
must do exactly what I tell you to do. There is an orchard across from the gymnasium. There is a horse tethered to one of the trees. Take the horse and ride to the Piraeus District. Leave the horse at the gates and go to the shipyards—the harbormaster’s offices. A one-eyed slave boy will find you.”

  The old man turned the cart onto a little side road and was gone.

  “Do I trust him?” thought Nikias.

  He could see the gymnasium up ahead. He glanced to his left and saw that the man dressed like a vagabond was getting closer. The stranger raised his fingers to his lips and let forth a piercing whistle. Another man emerged from a field on the opposite side of the road. A third dropped from a tree and started walking quickly toward Nikias. Soon the three would converge and be on him.

  Nikias dashed off the road and into the orchard. He saw a horse there, undid the tether, and leapt onto the animal’s back. The three spies shouted for him to stop but he was already galloping away, headed toward the bay as fast as the horse would run.

  FIFTEEN

  “By Ashtarte’s swollen tits,” uttered Zana in a nervous whisper as she walked tentatively toward the citadel of Plataea with Chusor at her side. The walls and area in front of the gates were swarming with armored men.

  “I told you not to worry,” said Chusor. “Just don’t say anything. Let me do all the talking. I know every one of those warriors by name.” He held Jezebel in one of his huge hands, and the bird made itself smaller, as though sensing his tension.

  Barka—dressed as a woman—followed close behind. Ji came last, nearly doubled over from the belongings that he carried on his back in a great sailcloth sack.

  “I like Greek men,” Barka observed with a girlish titter. “They’re so much gentler than Persians or Egyptians. And their pricks are smaller, which is nice.”

  “And you,” said Chusor, snapping his head around and shooting the eunuch a withering glare. “None of your games. Behave yourself. I don’t want another Byblos incident on our hands.”

  “I can’t help being pretty,” said Barka. “I’m popular wherever I go.”