Spartans at the Gates by Noble Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

start to crumble.
    Out of the corner of his eye he spotted three city guardsmen, wearing light armor, striding toward him from the direction of the jail.
    â€œChusor!” one of them called out. “Just the man we’re looking for.”
    Chusor knew all of the guardsmen—they were Arkon Menesarkus’s handpicked warriors: grizzled veterans of many campaigns.
    His heart started pounding. Had someone caught the messenger pigeon and found his note? It was unlikely, and even if they had they would not be able to read his coded message. But still, he had to suppress a sudden urge to run away, back to his smithy, and lock himself in the storeroom with Diokles. He glanced toward the gates. They’d just been opened for a troop of cavalry to enter. The horses and men were dusty from the road. The gates were quickly shut with a loud clash, and heavy beams inserted into iron slots to lock them into place.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Telemus?” Chusor asked the senior of the guardsmen. “What do you want?”
    â€œThe Arkon wants to see you, Chusor,” Telemus replied.
    â€œI was on my way to the—”
    â€œYou’re on your way to see the Arkon,” cut in Telemus, pointing in the direction he wanted him to walk—toward the city jail and the Arkon’s headquarters next door. “Let’s go.”
    Chusor tightly gripped his walking stick and obeyed. The other guards each took up a position on either side of him with the third leading the way toward the black marble steps of the city jail.
    Inside the building a clerk relieved Chusor of his pack, and then held out his hand for the walking stick. Chusor reluctantly gave it up to the man, who took stick and pack to another room. A servant then led Chusor down a long hallway, opened a heavy oak door, and bade him enter. Chusor stepped into a long rectangular room and the servant shut the door behind him with a thud.
    At the end of the chamber, behind a desk, sat a burly man writing with a stylus. He didn’t glance up when Chusor entered, but remained hunched over the parchment upon which he worked. He had a black beard streaked with gray, and was balding. His sleeveless tunic exposed his massive arms, and he wore no sandals on his large feet. Even though he was well into his sixth decade, his powerful frame made him resemble Herakles come to life; for he was Menesarkus, hero of the Persian Wars, five-time Olympic pankration champion, general of Plataea, and Arkon of the city-state.
    Chusor glanced around the chamber. There were several buckets filled with scrolls sitting on the floor, and a plate of uneaten breakfast on the desk. In the corner, behind the desk, was displayed Menesarkus’s armor and helm, supported on a wooden stand. The armor seemed to float there, hovering behind the general like a spectral guardian. Chusor knew every square inch of that armor, for he’d made it with his own hands over a year ago. Menesarkus’s battered shield, protected by a leather cover, leaned against the wall. The flap was open, revealing the image painted on the shield—a boxing Minotaur.
    â€œArkon?” Chusor asked hesitantly and resisted the urge to wipe away the beads of sweat forming on his brow. He wondered if the men in the other room had already found the secret compartment in his walking stick and his heart beat faster.
    Menesarkus put down his stylus, rubbed his eyes and the dented bridge of his slightly crooked nose, then he spoke without looking up: “You’ve stepped in bilge water, Chusor.”
    â€œHe knows,” thought Chusor, feeling his guts turn.
    Menesarkus put down the stylus, lifted his big head, and pierced Chusor with his stern gaze. “Where’s that idiot boy, my grandson?”
    Nikias!
    The Arkon hadn’t dragged him in here to interrogate him as a suspected spy. He wanted to know where Nikias was!
    â€œHe’s gone to Athens,” said Chusor with a sigh. “I