Spartans at the Gates by Noble Smith Page B

that finds itself lost in that netherworld between life and death.”
    Chusor had never heard his own situation put so bluntly before. Menesarkus was right, of course. And it made him sick at heart. “Such is my fate,” he said, staring gloomily at the vase behind Menesarkus.
    Menesarkus followed his gaze to the jar. “Herakles could not beat Antaios by throwing him to the ground,” he explained, gesturing at the painted image, “because it was the earth that gave Antaios his strength. So Herakles had to change tactics and trust in the gods. The solution was simple, really.”
    â€œAll he had to do was lift Antaios off the ground,” said Chusor.
    â€œAnd then Herakles could squeeze the life out of him,” put in Menesarkus with a wicked gleam in his eye. “These Spartans … all we have to do is get them off their feet, and then we can crush them.”
    â€œWhy am I here, Arkon?” asked Chusor. “What is your proposition?”
    â€œHaven’t you figured it out?” asked Menesarkus with a sly smile. “I am offering you citizenship as a Plataean.”
    Chusor stood up as though he’d been stung by a wasp. Wine sloshed from his cup, splattering the stones. This was an offer of a treasure more valuable to him than a mountain of gold. Citizenship! To no longer live as a paltry freed slave, or a lowly metic, but rather a full-fledged citizen of a city-state that was in league with the great Athenian Empire. A gift once given that could never be taken away and would serve as a passport anywhere in the empire, even were Plataea to fall.
    â€œDo you toy with me?” he asked.
    â€œI would never toy with such a man as you,” said Menesarkus. “But this gift I offer you comes at a very high price.”

 
    FIVE
    Nikias and Kolax had been riding hard for many miles with a strong wind at their backs. It felt like the hand of a friendly god pushing them toward Athens.
    The fog had burned away completely to reveal the rocky and barren terrain of this region: Attika. Hardscrabble hills and parched fields waiting to be plowed and sown; many hues of brown under a bright blue and cloudless sky. The landscape reminded Nikias of a desiccated old man. It was as though the fog, like a white death shroud, had been pulled away to reveal a dried-up old corpse.
    Nikias glanced at the barbarian boy riding a few strides ahead—always a few strides ahead in an impatient manner that irked the Plataean. The Skythian kept looking back at him and frowning as if to say, “Can’t you go any faster?”
    The truth was that Nikias could not. But he didn’t want to admit this to Kolax. His recent injuries were preventing him from keeping up with the boy. His right shoulder, injured in the fall from Photine, felt as though it had been branded with an iron. And the place where he’d been kicked in the chest by the black gelding hurt more now than it had an hour ago. It throbbed with every hoofbeat, radiating a dull ache through his torso and into his spine. He longed to come to a stop and lie down under the shade of a tree.
    He could sense his horse was at the end of her limits too. He was on one of the Dog Raiders’ mounts—a lithe gray mare that had been the only animal to escape injury from his Sargatian lasso in the chaos of the fight. She was fast, but a little too small for Nikias’s heavy build. And she was getting tired. He would have to stop soon to let her drink and nose around for some food.
    â€œHow much farther to Athens?” asked Kolax.
    The barbarian boy had asked this question so many times that Nikias had lost count. Kolax was anxious to be reunited with his father—an archer in the employ of the Athenian police force. But the truth was that Nikias didn’t know the answer. He was in a daze.
    â€œHave to stop soon,” he said. “Need to rest.”
    â€œRest?” scoffed Kolax. “I’ve got a