Spartans at the Gates by Noble Smith Read Free Book Online

glanced up at the mountain looming above the city. He could almost feel someone watching him from up there. How was he going to make his assignation now? There was no other way out of the citadel except through these gates. A secret tunnel did exist—Nikias had found it on the night of the Theban attack—but it had caved in, nearly burying the lad alive.
    The sound of heated voices made him turn. He saw a crowd gathering near the statue of the hero Androkles in the center of the agora: the square in front of the gates. The statue was the figure of a young man raising a leaf-bladed sword toward the sky—the symbol of Plataea’s democracy. Two debaters stood face-to-face in the shadow of the monument. Chusor wandered across the agora in that direction.
    Thousands of inhabitants from the countryside, fleeing their homes after the Spartans had invaded the valley, had set up makeshift dwellings in the agora. Many people had removed the valuable doors and shutters of their farmhouses and brought them here, using them to fashion crude lean-tos. Some had even toted their beds and furniture, anything made of wood—a scarce resource in the Oxlands—for fear that the Spartans would rip them from their unprotected homes and use them for firewood. It was a sight that depressed Chusor. What would happen if the Spartans did indeed besiege this place? How long would all of these people remain civilized in the face of overcrowding and starvation? How long until they were at each other’s throats?
    He had seen the aftermath of a year-long siege in Sicily. It was a terrible sight to behold.
    â€œâ€”but as I have argued so many times before, brother,” one of the debaters was saying derisively as Chusor got nearer to the statue, “breaking our allegiance with Athens and offering earth to the Spartans makes us nothing more than their dogs. We might as well change our name from Plataeans to Helots!”
    â€œAnd as I have reiterated countless times, my dear brother,” responded the other, eyes wide with frustration, “Sparta does not want us to be their slaves. They merely require our neutrality. I don’t understand why this fact seems to elude your brain.…”
    Chusor had always been fascinated by public debates, even as a child growing up in Athens. There was nothing more civilized, in his opinion, than two citizens having a contest of words and ideas rather than a battle of brawn. One of the highest honors of being a citizen was the right to debate in this way, both in public and in the Assembly Hall. An honor he, Chusor, would never get to have, because he’d been born a slave—a citizen of nowhere.
    â€œAnd I suppose you would rather Perikles of Athens make all of our decisions for us in this time of great crisis? Eh? Perikles the king?”
    â€œPerikles is no tyrant. Athens is the general. And we are the hoplite. It is as simple as that.”
    â€œThere is nothing simple about this situation, brother. I would remind you of the words of the noble orator…”
    Chusor glanced around at the faces in the crowd. He saw resignation. Boredom. They were quickly losing interest. They’d all heard the arguments countless times over the last two weeks. The issue was an ox beaten long after it had died. Tensions would not be diminished until the Plataean emissary returned from Athens with Perikles’s answer: whether or not they would be given permission to sign a peace accord with the Spartans.
    Chusor hoped Perikles would agree to the Arkon’s request, if merely to give the Plataeans time to stall the Spartans and build up the city’s defenses. That would give Perikles enough time to raise an army to send to Plataea’s aid as well. But he reckoned the Athenian leader would deny the request. If Plataea were to be allowed to sever its alliance with Athens, then other city-states, already rebellious, would secede also, and the Athenian Empire would