Spartans at the Gates Read Free Page A

commander. “Damn you! The Spartans wanted him alive!”
    A roaring sound filled Nikias’s ears. He squinted in pain, gazing up at the sky, and realized that the fog had burned away to reveal a few patches of bright blue sky. And then he heard a harsh voice snarl, “Let’s peel his face before he dies!”

 
    TWO
    Chusor the smith rubbed his callused hands over the dome of his recently shaved scalp, as if he might massage a clever idea from his brain. But he couldn’t think of anything to convince Diokles the Helot to come out of the storage room where he hid, and so Chusor could only grit his teeth in frustration.
    He pounded on the door with the flat of his hand. “Come out, you great goat-stuffing ape!” he snarled. He tried to force the door open but Diokles had barricaded it from within. The Helot race—the thralls of the Spartans—were a spectacularly stubborn people. And, thought Chusor with annoyance, Diokles was the exemplar of his kind.
    Chusor coughed and rubbed his watering eyes. “Gods, that damnable smoke!” he muttered.
    It was just after dawn and the citadel of Plataea was starting to come to life. Thousands of farmers and shepherds—terrified of the Spartan army camped two miles away from Plataea—had sought protection inside the city walls. Now they were cooking their breakfasts on campfires, and the overpowering reek of woodsmoke wafted in through the open windows of the smithy, giving Chusor a queasy feeling and stinging his eyes.
    â€œNot coming out,” came Diokles’s muffled voice.
    â€œHe’s not coming out,” said Leo confidently. The short teenager stood next to the towering smith, holding an oil lamp that lit the dark hallway. “His wits have left his body for another place.”
    â€œLeave the Oxlands and join the school of Athens, lad,” replied Chusor sarcastically in his clipped Athenian accent. “You’ve got the makings of a philosopher.” He glared at the young Plataean who served as his apprentice.
    Leo ignored Chusor’s sarcasm and spoke in a serious whisper. “Maybe if we offered him breakfast?”
    â€œHe’s got enough desiccated goat in there to feed a trireme’s crew.”
    Ever since the morning of the battle with the Theban army one week ago, when Diokles had seen the thin line of Spartan Red Cloaks snaking their way down a path on the Kithaeron Mountains toward the citadel of Plataea, the escaped Spartan slave had fallen into a morbid stupor. But when the hideous noseless Spartan emissary, Drako, and his contingent had actually been allowed inside the city walls to discuss terms with the Arkon—the leader of the Plataeans—well, Diokles had nearly lost his mind with fear and had hidden in the storeroom like a dog.
    Chusor knew that Diokles had suffered the torments of Hades at the hands of his former masters, and the Helot had been terrified for years that one day the savage Spartans would track him down. But Chusor was shocked that Diokles had reverted to this state—he was like a child hiding from monsters. Years ago they had been shipmates on a privateer’s crew and had become fast friends. During those years on the sea they had been through many perils together. But Chusor had never seen the Helot this frightened before. And it galled him.
    â€œHe’s got it in his head, the daft bull,” Chusor explained to Leo, pitching his voice so Diokles was sure to hear, “that the Spartans have come for him alone .”
    â€œThe Red Cloaks aren’t here looking for you, Diokles,” Leo said soothingly, as if he were a cheery grandmother speaking to a frightened little boy. “They’ve come to kill us all .”
    A whimper emanated from the locked chamber and Chusor rolled his eyes. He pushed Leo away from the door and said, “You’re not helping a bit, Leo.”
    â€œSorry,” Leo said, and leaned against the