 
Black Salt

By Jacob Magnus

Copyright 2012 Jacob Magnus

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter One

The crowd gasped as Young Nestor took a punch that smashed his nose, and loosed red blood down his face, soaking his teeth, and turning them pink. Ptolemaios the Bull Neck, King of Alexandria, bawled his approval, and stuffed another handful of mussels and olives into his mouth, then spat half of them out again to curse at 'Gouger' Set, as the burly Egyptian fighter lived up to his name. Nikias, the king's strategos, his battle lord and, in these days of peace, his chief bodyguard, watched the crowd jostling for good spots around the fighting square. He didn't approve of the king's hobby, and this was the least of his many indulgences. Ptolemaios had won the name Bull Neck as a young prince, devoted to riding, hunting and wrestling. Since ascending to the throne, he'd added all-night feasting to his interests. In private, Nikias thought of him as Bull Gut.

Bull Neck or Bull Gut, Ptolemaios had gone from a popular prince to a mocked and even hated king. Not his fault that the harvest had been so poor that the commoners had to live on a handful of bread and a drop of olive oil each day. And he could hardly be blamed for the storms that had ravaged the seas, and thrown a thousand sailors, screaming through lungs choked with salt water to Poseidon's deep halls. Ptolemaios could not be blamed for the countless weird cults that had blossomed like strange flowers, filling the city with mysterious songs and chants. Ptolemaios was not his father, or his grandfather, either. He was not a new Alexander, come to unite the world by the sword and the horse. He was a happy fat man who had the diabolical luck to become king right when the great city was out of all gods' favour.

People had begun to whisper of a curse. At such times, Ptolemaios needed more than a soldier to protect him, thought Nikias. He needed divine help. But as long as the gods kept their backs to him, he, Nikias, would serve.

Young Nestor broke free of Gouger Set's grapple, his left eye swollen and red, and threw a punch that rocked the Egyptian's head right back. Set slipped to the ground, and Nestor closed in, grabbing his head for a strangle. Ptolemaios clapped his fat hands, and nodded. Nestor almost had Set in the hold, but he'd been feigning weakness, to get close to the fighter from Corinth. He chopped Nestor in the back of the knee, folding his leg, and slamming it into the sandy ground. Nestor gasped, and his face turned white. While his opponent was stunned with pain, Set lifted Nestor's foot, and wrapped his hands around the man's toes, twisting and jerking with a vicious effort.

Nestor howled.

Nikias winced, and turned away. His powerful arms and chest bore many old, white scars. He wore a sword whenever he went out of the house, and he always had a knife close at hand. He'd fought in many wars, in Egypt, Hellas, and in far distant lands. His hands had thick calluses from sword training, and his feet were tough enough that if he lost his sandals, he could run all day without complaint. He knew pain. Nevertheless, he took no pleasure in watching men suffer, and the agony on Young Nestor's face made his toes ache in sympathy. If he hadn't needed to watch Ptolemaios, he would never have come to the pankration.

When you'd fought beyond the end of endurance, and survived as much by luck as by your own desperate, screaming effort, you took less pleasure in the bouts of gladiators.

Ptolemaios, swathed in vivid blue silk and surrounded by slaves and common guards, shone amidst the crowd, lit up by the noon sun. He affected the Persian style, but most of those present wore white or brown linen robes, in the Hellenic style, or a simple loincloth, as in the tradition of the land of Khem. He stood out like a peacock in a henhouse, and he liked it, in contrast to Nikias, who wore a white, Egyptian style skirt, leather sandals and a leather harness to carry his sword and knife scabbards, a skin of wine, and his money bag. His only ornament was a bronze shield of Athena, hanging down his chest on a leather thong. He didn't approve of Ptolemaios's fancy costume; it made him an excellent target, but his retinue clustered on him, too tight to admit a knife man. The nearby houses were too low to give a bowman a good shot, so in spite of an uneasy feeling in the skin of his back, Nikias felt he could afford to turn his attention elsewhere.

Vigilance had saved him many times. As Ptolemaios's military chief, he attracted even more threats than he did as a bodyguard. With an alert mind and his strong, experienced body, he could keep his own skin intact. Any threat to his own life had to come to him. His family, however...

"Leaina," he called. "Lioness, tell me where you are."

He might as well have whispered to the storm. His daughter had slipped away while his eyes were on Ptolemaios. He should never have let her come, but she had insisted. "Plenty of women watch the pankration," she'd said. He knew what kind of women, but when had she ever listened to him? He'd wished her mother were still with them. She'd been able to talk to Leaina. The gods knew he couldn't.

"Leaina, answer me," he shouted, but his voice was drowned by a roar from the crowd. He looked at Ptolemaios, but he was stuffing his face with honeyed figs. He turned to the arena, and saw Young Nestor rising to his feet, his teeth gritted against the pain. Set lay on his belly in the sand, blood running from his scalp. Nikias thought Nestor had felled him, but as he watched, Set scrabbled onto his hands and feet, somersaulted away from Nestor's kick, and stood in a fighting pose.

Nikias swept his eyes over the crowd, and thought he saw Leaina's brilliant golden hair. He moved past a couple of Nubians, and saw her talking to a young man. She looked over her shoulder, saw him watching her, and led the man away around the corner of the arena.

Nikias felt his gut tighten. What did she think she was doing? He threw a look at Ptolemaios, but Bull Gut looked safe and happy. He didn't want to leave his place of duty, but when it came to his daughter, he couldn't help himself. He followed Leaina around the corner of the arena.

The crowd shouted in excitement, and then loosed a low groan like an echo in a death chamber. Nikias glanced at the stage, but the onlookers blocked his view. Set had probably bitten off one of Young Nestor's fingers. He tended to do that when he thought he might lose. You weren't supposed to do that sort of thing in the arena, but Ptolemaios had changed the rules. That had proved about the only popular thing he'd done. Nikias shook his head, and made to catch up with Leaina.

On the far side of the arena, he found a collection of colourful tents and stalls. He caught the smell of roast mutton, pork fried in batter, and what one swarthy merchant described as finest grilled field mice. He doubted they were really field mice; probably baby rats from one of the cheap parts of town. He looked back and forth, and once again Leaina's lustrous hair gave her away. He saw her at the end of the row of stalls and shops, and it looked as if she was talking to someone, maybe a young man. He called her name, but she didn't hear him over the hubbub; here were gathered many wives and mothers, watching their children while their husbands watched the fight. A gang of boys jumped and rolled, squealing in their own imitation of the match, while their sisters braided each other's hair, and shook their heads at the folly of men.

Nikias marched up the market row, ignoring the tempting smells of salt and sizzling flesh, the aroma of wines, the baskets of succulent olives and sweet raisins. An excited shout rose from the crowd of spectators behind him, and it went on, getting louder. His shoulders grew tense, and he felt a strong pull to go back, and watch the king. He hated it whenever Bull Gut left the palace. It wasn't like the old days; he had too many enemies now. The shouting drew interest from the customers of the stalls, and they began, in small clusters, to move towards the arena. Nikias found himself facing a wall of people; a tiny wizened man in an enormous green turban made as if to walk right through him, and the two huge, almost naked Libyans flanking him scowled at Nikias, and looked ready and able to pick him up and twist his arms off his body. He stiffened, and glared right back at them. The nearer one loomed over him, put a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. He gasped; Herakles would have been proud.

The Libyan bodyguard grinned down at him, and spoke in the common tongue, a mix of Hellenic, Egyptian, and Persian, with bits and pieces mixed in from every polis worthy of the name. "You... Go," he said.

"Look down," said Nikias, and watched the man's brow wrinkle as he struggled over the words. Then his eyes sank, and his jaw sagged as he saw the iron dagger pressed against his groin.

"You... King," said the Libyan, to the furious squawking of his tiny, turbaned master. He stood aside, and Nikias hurried on, sheathing the blade only after he got out of reach. "Me king," he said. "Not for all the honey in Zeus's own hive." He laughed. Then he shoved his way past a family of strangers in blue and gold robes, with red hair and big noses. He thought he saw someone watching him, but it was a grey haired old man with watery eyes, chewing dates and dribbling the juice down his jaw. A high chant tore his eyes from the old man.

He moved on, and found the source of the chant; he dodged around a Babylonian priest, arms raised to the sun, chanting a hymn to Shamash. Whenever he saw that, he had an insane urge to tell them "it's pronounced Apollo," but he knew better than to antagonise a holy man.

At last he came out of the crowded market, and found himself in a cul de sac. The dirt path ended in a hollow between the brick walls of several big houses, all of which opened elsewhere. He frowned, and looked at the walls. They rose to twice his height, and although they showed signs of rot, they weren't so uneven or loose that you could scramble up them and onto someone's roof. Either Leaina had been carried into the sky or dragged under the ground, or she was still in the market, and he had missed her. He swore. This was taking too long. If Bull Gut tore his eyes away from the bloody spectacle in the arena, he'd notice his highly regarded, highly paid guard was absent. He'd ask questions. At a time when the king's name was being cursed daily, that would be unpleasant.

He turned back, and found a beardless youth standing in his path. He smelled oil, and saw the sheen on his skin. He also caught a sweet, smoky fragrance, strange and yet somehow familiar. He ignored the boy, and walked past him. The boy stepped into his path, blocking him. Nikias glared at him, which, in addition to the muscles, scars, and the sword, was usually enough to frighten off any street types who didn't already know his face. The youth didn't budge. Nikias saw he wasn't as young as he'd thought; his sallow face had shaving cuts, and his face and body looked wasted, his eyes shadowed and red.

"Get out of my way," said Nikias.

The wasted man shivered, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He licked his lips. "I bring a message..."

"Gods below, why didn't you say that? Tell it quick, I have the king's work to do," he said, irritated.

The man looked as if the message business wasn't paying well. He bit his lip, and then he took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders. "I bring a message from the Circle of Black Salt."

"What in the gods' abode is Black Sal-"

He didn't get a chance to finish his question. The wasted man rushed at him, slashing at his face with a gleaming bronze dagger.

Chapter Two

The bronze blade made a shining arc aimed right at Nikias's face. Only the instincts gained through decades of battle saved him from losing an eye to the old fashioned knife. His arms shot up, and covered his face, so he took the cut on his left forearm. At the same moment, he stepped back and to the right, trying to put space between them. The slash had opened a long line of flesh, which glinted white, and then welled with blood. It hurt. It felt as if the metal were still inside, digging at his meat. The wasted assassin didn't give him time to dwell on the pain, he rushed at him, slashing with ferocious energy. Nikias started to draw his sword, but as he backed up to keep out of reach of the deadly weapon, he felt the brick wall hit his back. The assassin closed in on him, and he saw, in that tight space, his sword would be useless. He reached for his own dagger instead, but the attacker stabbed his arm, giving him a painful pinhole wound on the right, to go with the long cut on his left.

The gaunt youth closed in, panting, eyes wide and excited at the sight of blood running from Nikias's arm. Nikias tried to free his blade, but the stab had left his arm stunned and tingling. the murderous messenger grinned at Nikias, and thrust the blade with such force it would have torn through his heart, and jutted out of his back. Nikias imagined the death blow, first the shock, like being plunged in icy water. Then the tearing agony, and the useless struggle to stand, to breathe, and the numb weakness as his blood failed. He imagined never again seeing Leaina, his daughter of golden hair and silver laughter, not being there at her wedding, or holding his grandchildren. He thought of his wife, Janina. He would never again hold her in his arms, never again see her with mortal eyes.

Something dark and fierce rose in his heart. His skin and hairs prickled, and his muscles surged with furious power. If this runt of a cur did kill him, even then, he would catch the blade and grip it with his heart muscle, and with his hands he'd take the little dog by the throat, and crush his life out.

It all passed in an instant, and he came back to himself, as the assassin thrust the dagger at his heart. He felt the impact, and was surprised to find it weaker, easier to bear than he'd expected. It felt more like a punch on the breast bone than a wound that pierced the heart. His eyes flicked down, and the breath caught in his throat. The knife tip had stabbed into his bronze icon of Athena. He gave silent thanks to his patron goddess; her shield had done its work.

The assassin pulled back for another attempt, and Nikias knew he couldn't expect any more acts of divine protection. Making an inner oath to sacrifice to the goddess at the first opportunity, he decided to make a libation in his enemy's blood. He'd seen men catch snakes with a forked stick; he thrust his hand into the man's elbow, hoping to trap and control his arm in the same manner. In the same instant, he punched his face with his right fist, and felt bone and gristle crunch as he smashed his nose.

Staggered, the assassin fell back, and jerked his knife hand, trying to free it. Nikias held on, trying to trap it against the man's side, but he couldn't control the hand and wrist; the attacker made several shallow cuts in his upper arm, and every cut hurt worse than the last. Nikias punched him again, and then managed to draw his own dagger, meaning to plunge it into the man's leg, to disable him. He had so many questions, and he intended to ask them with all the force he could muster. When the assassin saw the blade, his eyes widened, and he sobbed like a child. He flailed with his left arm, and some evil spirit guided his blow; the edge of his hand chopped Nikias's wrist, and his fingers went numb. His dagger stuck in the earth, so close, and yet far out of reach.

Nikias cursed all earthbound spirits, and hit the assassin in the face, but his numb hand weakened the strike. The assassin punched him a stinging blow in the mouth, and he tasted blood. Worse yet, the assassin's hand shot down to Nikias's own sword, and yanked it out.

Time seemed to freeze, as if Kronos wanted Nikias to appreciate every detail of his own death. He saw the look of insane glee on the triumphant killer's face, the shadowed eyes shining red as if lit from within by an evil fire. He saw the pallor of the man's skin, and the sheen of the oil he wore. He saw his own arms, red with his own blood, and that coppery, salty taste filled his mouth. He saw his own fine iron sword, raised high, about to fall and cleave his head in two.

As if enthused by the blood, he felt his terrible rage return, stronger than before. He stopped thinking, stopped feeling, and stopped resisting the urges of the blood; he let the blood act through him, moving his limbs. His hands flew to the man's neck, slipped on the oil, and then closed on it like a strangling noose. In the same instant, he heaved with his arms, back and legs, lifting the assassin off his feet. Deprived of a base, the man lost his strength, and his arms flailed. In a distant part of his mind, Nikias watched himself act. He knew it wasn't over; as long as he had even a single knife, the man could kill. The blood frenzy was not finished; as soon as he'd heaved the man up by his neck, Nikias pivoted, and slammed him down into the ground, and he shot his hands down, to drive the man's head into the ground. He felt the skull crack, and saw the man's eyes roll up, and the part of his mind that still thought as a man knew it was over. Yet even then the blood rage drove his hands to squeeze the neck, to crush it, until the tension in his hands, arms and chest made him feel like a solid block of stone.

At last the fury ebbed away, he let go, and sat with his back against one of the mud brick walls. The blood that ran from his wounds was only matched by the sweat that poured down his face, chest and back. He took long, deep breaths, and as his mind and senses returned to him, so did his pains. He had to go, to see a doctor, to check on the king... The king! And Leaina. Where had she gone? Had this been a random outburst of madness, or part of a calculated attack on the king himself?

Questions whirled through his mind, filling him with awful hints and apprehensions. He rose to his feet, held fast through an attack of dizziness, and then snatched up his sword and dagger. He took a quick look over the corpse, but the dead man had nothing to show who he was. The old fashioned knife looked nicer than he'd thought, and expensive, though still an antique. Nikias claimed it as a prize.

Then, before he went, he took the skin of wine from his belt, and poured a libation. "Goddess Athena. Thank you for your guidance and your help. I think I'm going to need it."

Chapter Three

He staggered out of the cul-de-sac, weak and hurting all over. The cuts had left his body streaked with blood, and he had no means to bandage them. He couldn't yet tell how serious they were, but his legs still held him, and as long as he could walk, he could do his duty. He had to get to Ptolemaios. If the king had died while he was wandering in the market, he would never forgive himself.

The sun baked his skin. It seemed to enter into his wounds, and set them on fire. Every step hurt. As he walked back into the crowded market, people began to murmur and back away. An old woman saw him, shrieked, and dropped her fruit basket. Apples, pears and wizened prunes tumbled out and scattered across the dust. Nikias leered at the crowd. Cut and bleeding, and they treated him like the villain!

"Make a path," he said, and they hurried to obey.

As he walked, he shouted for his daughter. "Leaina. Leaina! Come to your father, girl."

Someone pulled aside the curtain of a blue and green tent, and a beautiful, olive-skinned girl peered out. "You're embarrassing me," she began, and then she saw him. Her eyes, dark like his, widened, and she burst out. "Merciful Zeus, what have you done to yourself?"

"Give me your arm, girl."

She hastened to obey, and he leaned on her as they walked out of market into the square around the arena. He wasn't so weak he needed the help, but when he felt her in his arm, and knew she was safe, his heart trembled. "Stay close to me," he said. She wore a loose white dress, with a blue hem. His blood streaked the dress red.

"Father, what happened?"

"No matter what you see, stay by my side."

As they neared the arena, he noticed the crowd had fallen silent. Sometimes it meant a lull in the fight, or a moment of high tension as the combatants approached a moment of bloody decision. This felt different. His skin prickled, and his hands itched to hold his sword.

They turned the corner of the arena, but still he couldn't see the king; his retinue blocked the view, but Nikias knew something was wrong; they were all turned away from the arena. His hand strayed to his sword, but his gut told him to keep it sheathed.

"Your majesty," he shouted.

The slaves and guards broke apart, and he saw, in the middle of that crowd, the fat king in his blue silk robes, standing over a bloody corpse. "And there you are, Nicky," said Ptolemaios, bellowing like the thunder. "Deserting your post, abandoning your king to blood mad beasts and slaughter! I ought to have your eyes plucked out and replaced with boiling garlic. And then I..." His voice faltered as he looked at Nikias, saw him slashed and bleeding. "By the gods," he said, in a hushed tone. "They went at you, too?"

Nikias came close to the king, and looked him over. Besides a few red spatters, neither his body nor his clothes showed any sign of hurt. The bull necked master of Alexandria was unharmed, but as he came closer, Nikias could see he had gone pale under his tan. "I see one man," he said to the king, flicking his eyes across the dead body.

"He never came within a stride of me," said Ptolemaios, some of the bluster returning to his voice. "Shouted something about black sand, and then waved that cheap copper splinter at me. Apollophanos Halfhand here slashed his throat as he rushed in. Blade as fast as a striking snake. You could learn from him, Nicky. He could have your job one day."

Nikias looked sidelong at Apollophanos. The stocky Spartan still held his sword in his left hand, blood running from the curved blade. He had his right thumb tucked into his leather belt; in spite of the name, the thumb was all he had left on that hand. Nikias raised an eyebrow, and Apollophanos gave him a slight nod. Nikias grinned, because their understanding still held. He knew more about Apollophanos and his hand that Ptolemaios ever would, and he didn't need to worry about anyone stealing his job.

"What under heaven is black sand?" said the king. "By Zeus and Hermes, I've tried to think. Is it an Egyptian thing?"

"Black Salt," said Nikias.

The king gasped, and he heard a murmur run through the retinue. "You know about it," said Ptolemaios.

He was happy to let the king think that. "We need to go to the palace."

"Nicky, I'm sorry I questioned you." He drew closer. "What is this, a coup? I don't know if the palace is safe."

"Your majesty," he said. "The palace."

The king shuffled his feet, agitated. He looked like a dog on a doorstep, wanting to follow his master, yet afraid to go outside. He looked around at his slaves and guards, and past them at the crowd of spectators who'd come to arena to see a fight, and had found a more fascinating, and frightening sight. He stiffened, and squared his shoulders. "It's rather hot out here," he said. "Let's take some refreshment...at the palace." He walked towards the ornate litter, borne by ten slaves, a mixed set from all over the world, but all powerful men, oiled so their muscles gleamed. To Nikias, the litter stank of all the oriental effeminacy that the Hellenes had scorned since the days of Xenophon and before.

"No," said Nikias, "not the litter."

"But the palace is so far," said the king.

The arena stood on the shores of Lake Mareotis, on the southwest edge of the city. It had been converted from the old stadium, and a large group of sporting enthusiasts petitioned the king every month to build a new stadium. A canal flowed north, just inland of the lake harbour, and wound through the city to the royal harbour, and the peninsula of Lochias, where stood the royal palace. Nikias appraised the king, taking in his flabby gut as well as his spindly legs. It would be a long walk on a hot day.

"Send the litter to the library. We shall take a boat to the royal harbour."

Chapter Four

Built by the will of Alexander, the genius of war who conquered every land he set foot on, Alexandria was sited on an Egyptian coastal town, Rhakotis. When the warrior, hailed as a god by the priests at Siwa, died still young, it had seemed that his achievements would die with him. His generals fell to squabbling over the lands they had taken, and the Macedonian empire collapsed into the warring states of the successors. He had caused many cities to be raised in his name, and this, Alexandria-near-Egypt fell into the grasp of general Ptolemaios, the first and ablest king of that city. He took the name Soter, the saviour-king, and made his city into the marvel of the world. Within those walls, from the gate of the Sun at the east, to the gate of the Moon at the west, he concentrated such riches of treasure, arts, crafts and culture that Alexandria-near-Egypt became The Alexandria.

Generations of Ptolemies followed Soter, and at first they, too, were worshipped as saviour kings. But whereas Soter the First was a fighting general, his sons and his sons' sons were born to a life of ease. Ptolemaios of the Bull Neck took pleasure in battles of boxers, pankratiasts and swordsmen. He enjoyed watching other men batter, slash and gouge each other, but when it came to his own majestic hide, he stood always behind his paid experts.

Nikias led Ptolemaios and his retinue from the royal harbour up along Point Lochias, a small peninsula jutting out from the body of the city. Here, insulated by the sea, stood the royal palace, a beautiful building in white marble, built along classical lines as planned by Deinokrates, Alexander's greatest architect. Within the walls of the palace compound were gardens and a zoo. The king would talk all day about his tigers, even better than the lions, he liked to say, although the lions were quite good too. Nikias did not linger in the gardens, although the shade of the palm trees felt good on that hot day, and the cuts on his body made him long to rest.

"Slow down," said Leaina.

He shook his head, and marched on.

"Even the king is sweating," she said. "You don't need to punish yourself."

"You ran off at the arena," he said.

She fell silent.

They continued on to the palace. Deinokrates had modelled the building on the grand designs of Periklean Athens, and whenever Nikias saw the pearl white marble pillars and the low flat triangle of the roof, his eyes crinkled up, and his lips curled in the minutest smile as he remembered the city of his birth. He remembered the agora, the air full of the smells of lettuce, onions and fresh bread. He remembered the bustle and murmur as men and women of the free city talked of new ideas and brilliant inventions. They had lost their empire to Sparta, and then to Alexander, but they would never lose their spirit.

"Father," said Leaina. "Your eyes are damp. Do you need something for the pain?"

"Sweat," he said. "Just sweat." He wiped his face with the back of his hand, and winced as he tore his scabbing cuts.

"You shouldn't march around in this heat, all dripping with blood. You need to see a doctor."

"What I need," he said, "is for my little girl to stay at home, where it's safe. You can't run after every singer with a sweet voice."

"Leontas isn't a singer!"

"So it's Leontas, is it?"

She gasped. "You tricked me! You, you baboon-headed dog! How can you play tricks on your daughter? Bastard offspring of Circe and Odysseus."

He laughed. "Your mother would flay your tongue if she heard you talk. And what if I tricked you? Your father was born in the temple of Athena."

"And conceived in the wine-soaked grove of Bacchus!" She folded her arms, and fell back to let the king and his retinue go past. His hand clutched at the air where her wrist had been, and he ground his teeth as he watched her go and disappear among the trees of the royal gardens. He lingered on the threshold of the palace, frowning at the trees, until Ptolemaios came up, his brow twisted, his thick lips pressed together.

"Where are my accursed guards? It's quiet."

Nikias listened. "I hear voices within."

"A song?" Bull Gut's face cleared, and he laughed. "They're singing. There's nothing wrong after all. Not that I was wor-"

He fell silent as Nikias held up his hand. "That's not singing," he said.

The king's eyes went wide, and he shuffled backwards. "Then what?"

Nikias drew his sword. "Weeping," he said. "They lament the dead."

Chapter Five

Blood trickled down his forehead, and ran into his eyes, where it gathered in glistening red pools, before welling up and rolling in fat droplets down his cheeks and lips, soaking his grey beard, until it dripped and splashed the floor.

"Jacinthus?" said the king.

"Zagintos," said Nikias, as he sheathed his sword.

Herek, the big-nosed, blonde haired slave from the cold north shook his head. He spoke the common tongue with such a thick accent that even his wife laughed and called him the choking bear. "Shakinta," he said.

Ptolemaios shrugged. "Doesn't matter now."

Herek raised his eyebrows, and Nikias rolled his eyes. The northern slave laughed, but Ptolemaios eyed him, and he made it sound like a cough. Nikias didn't feel like laughing. He'd led the king to the palace because he'd thought it would be safe, and not just for Bull Gut. He'd smelled blood as soon as he'd set foot in the private garden, and the lament had braced him to see the corpse, but seeing old Zagintos with his skull crushed in made his own wounds hurt twice as much. He swore he could feel the antique bronze knife digging through his skin, sending splinters of pain deep into his gut. He'd already sent a slave boy to find Leaina and bring her to him, but the kid hadn't returned. Every minute of waiting made his heart ache.

The palace was built on the plan of a hollow square, with the grand hall in front, official chambers in the sides, and private rooms for the king and his privileged officers in the rear. They stood in the central garden, where the king, his family and guests could relax under the shade of the trees, play games on the grass, and even fish in a small pond. This was also the favourite spot of the royal treasurer, who had made a habit of managing the royal accounts at a small wooden table in the garden, because, as his eyes grew weak with age, he needed good strong sun light.

"The killer must have crept up and surprised him from behind," said Apollophanos, chewing the thumbnail of his fingerless right hand.

"No," said Nikias. "Whoever killed him walked right up to his face, #looked into his eyes before he smashed his skull."

The murder weapon, a round flat rock, lay on the grass, brown with dried blood.

"He was always there," said the king. "He was always just there, muttering over his scrolls. The killer couldn't find me, so he bashed poor old Jacinthus over the head."

As they spoke, the king's doctor, a tall, square shouldered Ionian called Pompus, attended to Nikias's wounds. Pompus wore a wreath of green leaves on his head, which he claimed to be a gift from Asklepios. The leaves didn't quite hide his gleaming bald patch. Nikias let the man dab away at them with clean water, but then he smeared them with some flowery smelling paste, and Nikias pulled away. "I don't need your perfumes," he said. The doctor sniffed, and walked away. Nikias pressed his lips together, and shook his head. "One murderer is still alive," he said, turning to the king.

"I've already ordered the guards to watch the palace," said the king. "He won't get back in here for another go, I swear it by the fist of Ares!"

"It's not enough-"

A high-pitched woman's voice drowned his words. "Not nearly enough!"

Ptolemaios shrank. "Oh no. Not her."

A woman almost the twin of Ptolemaios, her bulky, masculine body swathed in bilious yellow silks, lumbered near. Her thick, strong hands cradled a struggling weasel, his muzzle torn and bleeding. "Send the useless pisswits out into the city," she said. "Have the scour every corner and alley of the filthy cesspit, and when they find him, tell them to hook him up by his ears and his nostrils and his anus!"

Ptolemaios tried to smile. "Yes, Rathea. But I think I should really listen to my military experts."

"Blowhards and drunkards," she said, scowling at Nikias.

"I concur with your sister, sir," he said. "Apart from the hooks. You need to find this man, and the rest of his group. You need to do it before they disappear into the warrens of the city."

"You ought to hang one of these idiots, too," added Rathea, watching Nikias. "Set an example to our subjects; show them the price of failure. And you," she turned her squinting eyes on her brother. "When's the day?"

Ptolemaios hunched his shoulders, and looked at the corpse. He shuddered, and turned to look at the fish in the pool. "The entrails have not been auspicious."

"And the oracle?"

"Delphi is a long way. The party I sent has yet to return, Rathea my darling."

"Hrrm. The next time I see that bloody priest, I'll make him eat every steaming, slimy loop of intestine until he learns how to read it right!"

Ever since Soter imitated the Egyptian custom, and took his sister for his wife, his sons had done the same. In the case of horses or dogs, thought Nikias, such a breeding program might produce stronger, faster offspring. In the case of the Ptolemies, it turned out an ever more grotesque living caricature of Soter; that thick, jutting brow, those bulbous eyes, befitting a surprised bullfrog, those puffy lips and jowls, and that full moon belly. Worse yet, the Ptolemies had inherited Soter's love of bloodshed, if not his talent in war. Where Ptolemaios delighted in the battles of the arena, Rathea took her lusts out on helpless slaves, and spent hours every day training weasels to fight.

It might have been different, if her father hadn't been surprised to learn his sister wife was pregnant so soon after giving birth to their son. In horror at the thought of another screaming Ptolemy keeping him awake at night, he had broken the tradition of calling his daughters Berenice, Arsinoe or Cleopatra, and named his daughter Koprathea; the holy lump of shit.

She had waited nineteen long years for her father to die, and then declared her true name was Rathea. By then, the grudge had settled into her bones. She hated all men, and Ptolemies most of all. Nikias believed she would have run off with a sailor and the contents of the treasury, if she hadn't hated her brother so much. As it was, he thought that she stayed to marry him, become queen, and then torture him to death.

Rathea squeezed the fighting weasel, glowered at her brother, and stalked off. Ptolemaios studied his feet until she had disappeared, and then he turned to Nikias, chewing his lip, his brows raised, a pleading look in his eyes. "You could do it," he said. "For me."

Nikias looked down, and gave a minute turn of his head.

"Not Nikias, loyal to the last," said Apollophanos. "Pull together and stand together, that's what he wants to say."

"If you can't stand, you'd better run fast." He looked into the Spartan's eyes, and then let his gaze slide down the man, and a cruel smile grew as he did. "You're good at running, Halfhand."

"He's a good fighter, even if he doesn't have all his own fingers," said the king. "He was at my side today. That's as much as I can ask." His voice fell. "Of course, you took your scars for me, and I appreciate that."

"And if you look," said Nikias, "you'll see that my scars are all in front."

Halfhand choked on his nail, his face went red, and his lips pulled back from his teeth. His left hand snatched at the air, he paused, tense and trembling, and then he turned his back on them, and walked off in the direction of the grand hall. As he went, Nikias saw the old white scar that ran from his right shoulder blade down to his left flank.

Ptolemaios looked from one of them to other, his mouth hanging open. He drew breath to speak, and Nikias felt his shoulders and chest tense as he prepared to face questions he didn't want to answer. Athena heard his unspoken prayer, for at that moment a runner, panting and sweaty, rushed into the royal garden. "Message from the high minister," he said.

"What does Kleon want now?" said Ptolemaios. "Doesn't he know this is a bad day to discuss land taxes and littering?"

The messenger bowed to the king, and half-turned to Nikias. "The high minister begs his majesty to send his royal general and chief of bodyguards."

"I tell you, this is a bad day," said the king. "My highly esteemed royal general has essential duties to perform, chief among them the protection of my divine person."

The messenger fell to his knees, his head lowered, his arms spread and raised. "Your majesty, the high minister... He is dying."

Chapter Six

The slave girl lit a wick, floating in a jar of oil. It cast a dim yellow light, and made Kleon's soft face look like bubbles of wax. His bald, round head was beaded with sweat, and his filmy brown eyes gleamed; one eye wandered, and Nikias felt his skin crawl when he saw it roll and stare into the shadows. Kleon lay on a wooden couch, propped up with stuffed blue cushions, an old scroll in his lap. He wore a white Athenian style robe that looked clean and fresh. Underneath, however, Nikias saw a thick roll of bandages, bound around his chest, reddish brown with blood. As he watched, he saw blood seep through the bandages, and stain the new clean robe.

"Nikias," said Kleon, his voice slow and gasping. "You look worse than I do."

"That would be quite an achievement." He sniffed. Kleon had made his slaves hang a brass incense burner from the ceiling, and sweet smoke roiled down from it, but even the perfume of rose and jasmine couldn't hide the tang of blood and stale sweat. He caught another scent, as well, something strange and yet familiar. It teased his memory, but he couldn't place it.

A bald old Egyptian came in and fussed over Kleon's bandages, muttering away in a voice like rustling leaves. He gave off a powerful stink of vinegar and herbs, and he carried a little leather bag, pinched in his fingers like an old woman with a purse. He fumbled inside, and took out a copper phial. When he popped out the stopper, Nikias caught the acrid stink of wormwood. The doctor pushed the phial at Kleon's face, but the high minister shoved his hand aside. The old doctor spoke in old Egyptian, too fast for Nikias to catch his words, but he didn't need to speak Egyptian to understand.

"I tell you, I've had enough of that, for all the good it's done," said Kleon. He pushed the doctor away, although the effort tired him, and he sagged back against the cushions, panting like an old dog. The doctor shot him a scathing look, and then bustled past Nikias, and out of the door.

Kleon waved at a chair. "Sit down."

"I'm afraid if I make myself comfortable, you'll be carried away to your funeral."

Kleon gave a hoarse laugh. "Sit, sit." His broad oak table dominated the office. Heaped with scrolls, letters and parchments, it left little space for comfort. Kleon had rooms at the palace, but he preferred to work in a private chamber in the grand library, because, as he said, the presence of concentrated wisdom prodded and quickened his aging mind.

Nikias took the seat. The wooden frame dug into his back and legs, and he felt as it had been made for a smaller man. He told Kleon what had happened at the arena and the palace. "Counting you, we've had four attacks today."

"And now two kills."

He stiffened, and half-rose from the chair, before Kleon held up his hand.

"No, there have been no new attacks."

"You're tucked away in a corner of the library-"

"But my eyes see everything that takes place between the Sun gate and the Moon gate. If a bird sings, I hear it. If a rat pisses on a cobble stone, I smell it. What kind of high minister would I be, what good could I do Ptolemaios, if I didn't know more than the king?" Kleon slumped back against the couch, wheezing. His skin looked paler than before.

"I still count one kill, and unlike you, I saw it with the eyes of my body."

"Poison," said Kleon. "The knife that stabbed me was smeared with foul venom."

Nikias leapt out of his chair, cold thrills running through his chest. "The king's doctors-"

"Can do nothing. Sit. Sit down! I didn't call you here to waste my last breath moaning like a senile dotard. I summoned you because you're the only man I can trust, the only man I can rely on."

Nikias paced back and forth, making fists with his hands. He'd spoken to Zagintos once or twice in a month, but Kleon was a fellow Athenian. To lose him... He felt the same stunning pain in his chest that he'd felt when his brother had died. It made him dizzy, and he had to struggle to catch Kleon's meaning."Black salt," he said. "You know what it is."

Kleon laughed. "Reliable and quick. Not what, Nikias, who."

He leaned forwards over Kleon's table, and his fingers clawed at the wood. "Who."

"Bull Neck has made too many enemies. The sailors say he's to blame for the ships and brothers they've lost. The farmers say he's to blame for the wheat that dies, black and rotten in the earth." He sighed. "The worst of his enemies, though, hate him for more than this season of bad luck."

"I am the king's bodyguard and master of war. The king's enemies are my bread and meat. You should have come to me sooner, before this and this," he pointed at the blood encrusted wounds in his flesh, and at the bandages on Kleon's chest.

"Don't lecture me, Nikias. I've paid for this lesson with my life."

Nikias hung his head, and rubbed his beard. He smelled that strange scent again, and this time he recognised it as the same odd perfume he'd noticed on his attacker. He nodded, and threw himself down in the chair.

"I've spent the last six months infiltrating a secret religious group. Their people came to the city one by one, and set up in different trades. They're all master craftsmen in their field; carpenters, weavers, cooks... One of them even rose to prominence here, at the library."

"That's why you're here!"

"I've been watching him, trying to form a close connection, to learn what the cult is about."

"We've got all kinds of odd cults; they grow like mushrooms in a dung heap. They've never set out to murder kings!"

"You still like the theatre, don't you? Remember Bacchae?"

He remembered the play, a classic by Euripides. "My daughter likes the part where his own family tears the king apart. Girls these days... But that's just a story."

"This city stinks of fear. The people are scared that the king has brought a curse that will ruin their lives. No amount of armed might can assuage their fear; only the promise of divine aid can salve that kind of anguish. You said yourself, this city sprouts cults like a toad sprouts warts."

"And they chant, and they pray, and they wither."

"But before they wither, they command greater obedience than anything. Why did Ptolemaios the first call himself Soter, the saviour? Why did king Pentheus fear the Bacchantes? He tried to crush them, and his own family tore him apart!"

Nikias pursed his lips and shook his head. "This is no bacchic frenzy." He handed Kleon the bronze dagger he'd taken from his assailant.

Kleon ran his finger along the blade, and shivered. "Their methods are not governed by sense. Do you know the meaning of black salt?"

Nikias shook his head, and then he jumped to his feet, walked behind his chair, and gripped the back in his hands, digging his nails into the wood. His gut felt hot and tight, and he heard his teeth grind."I don't care! I don't care about some mad cult. I don't care about their history or their beliefs or their plan. They cut my flesh, and tried to murder my king. My attacker struck within a few paces of my daughter. My daughter! The arena I can understand, no sane man walks there alone and unarmed, but they got a man into the palace. They got a man here, to you." He lowered his voice, and leaned forwards, searching Kleon with his eyes. "It's my duty to protect the king, and his men. I should have stopped it before they ever got near the king, before they, you... Now the best I can do is hunt them, and stop them from coming back to finish their work."

Kleon wheezed and coughed up a blob of phlegm, which he spat on the floor. He struggled to get back his breath, and when he looked at Nikias, his wandering eye had rolled up in its socket, giving him a featureless yellow white orb in its place. His young slave wiped sweat from his brow, but Nikias thought she'd have better spent her time measuring Kleon for a funeral shroud; he looked as if he had walked halfway into the halls of death. When he spoke, he sounded weak. "Socrates died of poison." He gestured at the scroll in his lap. "Plato makes it sound painless, almost pleasant."

"You're like a dog with one foot in a hole; you yap in a circle."

Kleon made a sound like a donkey being strangled. Nikias tensed as he thought the final moment had come, and he still had so many questions. But the poison hadn't finished its work, and he realised that awful sound was Kleon's laughter. "I can feel Cerberus's hot breath on my back, and still I talk on like a blind old professor, no idea my students have all run off to the theatre."

"You called me here, Kleon. You could have called a scribe or a patient old philosopher, but you called me. If these are your last words, make them count."

Kleon made another strangling noise. His lips curled up at the corners, but if it was laughter, it was born of a dark humour. "You truly are the king's sword. If you knew you were being watched, being spied on... If you knew some of your own people were agents for the assassins, would you trust your knowledge to a common scribbler?"

Nikias rolled his eyes, and heard the wooden back of the chair creak as his nails gouged into the wood. His sword hand itched, and the tension made his head hurt. "You waste your breath on useless questions. Hades flay your tongue if you do it again. Kleon, we are two Athenians here. Speak your heart."

Kleon pursed his lips, and his brow contracted. His skin turned paler than before, and fresh sweat rolled down his face. When the slave girl dabbed at it, he jumped, and then he sent her away. He waited until she had gone before he spoke. "Trust is hard, Nikias. What I am about to give you... They cannot kill me twice, but they would dig up by body, tear it in pieces, and summon daemons into my bones to torment me in the world below. What I have cost me my life." He reached under the cushion that supported his head, and took out a wooden box. He beckoned to Nikias, who took it from him.

He held it up to the lamp, and saw the box had a skull design carved into the wood, which looked appropriate, as it was about the size and weight of a man's head. He didn't recognise the type of wood, because it had been stained black. He pulled and twisted it, but it refused to open.

"Another waste of my time! Kleon, killers have struck across the city. I don't need puzzles and games, I need targets."

Kleon peeled his lips back in a grimace that befitted a corpse. "That's what's inside, Nikias. A list of names, every member of the Circle of Black Salt."

Nikias gasped, and then he thrust the box at Kleon. "Open it!"

Kleon pushed it away. "I've done all that I can, and it's cost me my life. They have agents all over the city. These attacks are the first stage of their plan. The next will be worse. Ptolemaios is a weak king. They don't have to kill him to wreck his government; all they need is to tear away the people he relies on, and you... You have to open it before they have time to act; you have to find them before they get to you. And Nikias... By now, they know we've spoken. I'm not sure if you're capable of-"

That heat in his belly surged up; he couldn't hold it in. "I'll do whatever it takes to protect my fam- My king. And my family," he added, setting his jaw and daring Kleon to question his loyalties again.

"May the gods strengthen and guide your arm. They couldn't protect me."

Chapter Seven

He couldn't bear to say goodbye, but when he left Kleon's chambers, he had a strong feeling that he wouldn't see his old friend again. The sun hit him as he stepped out of the library, heat like the heart of an ironsmith's furnace. It made him dizzy, and he felt a return of the sick vertigo he'd felt looking at Kleon. The city spread out before him, the sea and the harbour to his left, the grid-patterned streets to his right. The city had been planned to rival any capital in the world, and with its grand harbour, its palace, library and lighthouse, it was a brilliant beacon of civilisation. Amidst the fine marble buildings, people had thrown up houses in cheaper blocks of limestone, or simple baked mud bricks. Merchants came for the sea trade, scholars for the library, and nobles and foreign dignitaries came to trade power and prestige. Princes and whores walked the same streets, often hand in hand.

He sent a messenger to the palace, with orders for the guards to keep their vigil night and day. He added that if they failed in their duty a second time, he would have the chief of the guards flogged and dipped in the sea. He also reminded them to have someone watch over Leaina. He didn't need to tell them what would happen if they failed to protect her.

After that, he took the box to Lorcas, a locksmith from Sidon. Lorcas kept his neat shop, fronted with rose marble, on the waterfront of the Cibotus harbour, with a view over the shining sea, and the island of Pharos. Nikias knew that the marble facing was a fake, covering walls of old mud brick; Lorcas wore a glittering cap of emerald silk, and night blue robes with gold thread woven into intricate bird designs, but his clothes, too, were cheap copies of the real thing. Two years before, Lorcas had sold his wife a bronze lock box, covered with gilt roses. Nikias had found that one of the rose petals doubled as a secret catch, allowing anyone to unlock the box without a key. He'd snatched up his sword, but his wife had held onto his arm, and made him swear not to spill blood on her account. She had neglected, however, to make him swear not to threaten Lorcas, and this he had done, with such vigour, that Lorcas had promised him a lifetime of faithful service.

"Open it," he said, over the cup of mixed wine Lorcas had proffered.

Lorcas tugged at his wispy beard, and turned the box over. "Hmm."

"I said open it!"

"I see, I see. No need to scream like a harpy's orgasm."

Nikias choked on his wine.

Lorcas turned the box around three times, rapped it on his cluttered workbench, and then he screwed up his eyes, and peered at it under an oil lamp, which added a pungent stink to the aroma of metal polish and wood resin. "Yes. Yes!"

"Well?"

Lorcas lowered the box. "I can open it."

Nikias sighed. "That's the only good news I've had today."

"Come back next week."

His eyes widened, and then he threw the cup on the floor, where it smashed in pieces. "I need this box open now, Lorcas. Today! The king's life... No, your life depends on it."

Lorcas shrank, and held the box in front of his face. "Today? But..."

"Today."

"But this is an antique!"

"What?"

"Look at those holes in the eyes and nose. It's a Babylonian pin tumbler lock."

"Babylonian?"

"Alright, maybe it's Assyrian. Anyway, it's ancient, nobody uses them anymore. You Hellenes brought rotary locks when your Alexander conquered the world. Everybody uses them, from Carthage to Crete."

He narrowed his eyes, and leaned over Lorcas. "I don't need a history lesson. Open the box. Smash it, if you have to."

Lorcas yelped, his hands jumped away from the box, and his eyes rolled. "Oh no no no, my lord, prince of the sun and moon, don't ask me to...to break it. I did that once for a client, a noble lord, like yourself, but there was a trap."

Lorcas leaned forward, and Nikias bent closer, fascinated in spite of his irritation. "Go on."

"The designer had made it out of lacquered pear wood, with an inlaid filigree of silver butterflies. They had also built it with two compartments; with the right key, you would unlock your treasures; with a false key, you would unlock the trap. My client had no key at all, and he was in a great hurry, much like you."

Nikias snarled.

Lorcas chewed his lip, and went on. "I hated to damage it; a work of many months in the shop of a master craftsman. If you have never made such a thing, you cannot understand its value. But he insisted, as you insist, and so, against my will, my judgement, and my heart, I hammer a wedge into the seam, and split it open. Do you know what happened?"

Nikias nodded. "The second compartment."

"Yes. The box cracked apart like an egg, and the secret compartment sprang open. Out plopped half a dozen furious scorpions!"

Nikias stepped back, shuddering. He'd fight any man, but venomous beasts made his skin writhe. "Your customer, he..."

"Died."

"The scorpions."

Lorcas shook his head. "No, sir. The scorpions never touched him. When they tumbled out onto my bench, and he realised what he'd been carrying around, what he'd tried to open by himself, his heart failed. He died right where you're standing."

Nikias stared at floor, aghast. He walked back to Lorcas, trying not to move too fast. His eyes fell on the box, and the skull design seemed to leer at him. "You don't think..."

Lorcas sucked his teeth. "No way to tell. You see these markings?"

He peered at them, small gouges in the wood around the skull, like birds' feet.

"Babylonian writing. Not a dialect I know, but I've got a friend who should be able to read it. Probably just says 'hands off, you thieving son of a baboon buggering slave'. Anyway, I'll get his opinion, and see if he can put me onto a set of Babylonian keys."

"This has to happen today. This belongs to the men who tried to assassinate the king, and-"

Lorcas went pale. He dropped the box on his bench, and pointed a shaking finger at Nikias. "Assassinate... And you brought it here... You bastard. You child of snakes!"

His reaction surprised Nikias. His world had been shaken by the attacks, and he'd taken it for granted that everyone knew about them. Now he saw he'd been mistaken. "They failed. The king lives. They tried to get me too, and I'm fine."

"You call walking around with long tears in your flesh 'fine'? I thought you'd fought a duel over another man's wife."

He sighed, rolled his eyes, and grabbed Lorcas by his pathetic attempt at a beard. "I've got no time for this! Open the box by sundown. If you blab, the assassins will cut your throat. If you fail me, I'll nail your hands to your tongue, and throw you in the harbour!"

He left Lorcas a shivering wreck. As he left, he paused in the doorway. "Tell me what was inside that trapped box."

Lorcas sobbed. "Salt. A bag of salt."

Chapter Eight

He went back to the palace, and checked on the king. The palace guards had placed themselves in a conspicuous rank in front of the palace facade, and it pleased him when they challenged him before they let him inside. He didn't want to talk to Ptolemaios, having little good news to report, and he couldn't help but smirk when he learned that Rathea had cornered Ptolemaios in his rooms. Nikias wouldn't have got into that scene for less than half the kingdom. He heard Ptolemaios talk in a low, placating tone, but Rathea's furious shrieks assured him she was not to be placated. The two guards who blocked the door to the king's private rooms flinched whenever she yelled, doubtless afraid she would take out her frustration on them.

He looked for Leaina, and questioned the slaves, but no one could tell him where she was. No one had seen her in the palace that day. He stood by the pond in the garden, looking at the spot where they'd found old, dead Zagintos. The slaves had carried him away, and cleaned the area. They'd washed the stone, but they'd left it on the grass, like a burial marker. He frowned, and massaged his scalp. The stone bothered him. The other attacks had been carried out with knives, antique bronze daggers. One had been poisoned, but the poison had been applied with a knife. The stone felt wrong. As he studied the smooth, rounded surface, he felt it had a message, like the mysterious writing on the skull box.

Pompus appeared, and tried, once again, to tend to his wounds. At first Nikias tried to brush the man off out of sheer annoyance, but Pompus held his arm with unexpected strength. "How long until the next attack?" he said.

The question caught him off balance. "The next?"

"Everyone's hunched up, and tense. We've heard the thunder, now we're waiting for the storm."

He didn't like that image. It made his shoulders and chest tighten, as if expecting a sudden blow. He understood what Pompus wanted to tell him: you need to be ready. He let the doctor patch the stab wound on his right arm, and wind a fresh linen bandage around his left. After the work was done, he tested his arms, and found the bandages didn't hinder him that much. "You've served on the battlefield," he said.

Pompus shook his head. "The arena," he said. "I prayed to Asklepios to teach me the art of medicine. He set me to work at the arena. You can get a lot of experience treating fighters."

"You can get more on the field of war," said Nikias, feeling he'd been tricked, and hoping to nettle the doctor.

Pompus's mouth became a thin line, and his ears turned red. He checked the bandages on more time, and then he reached into the leather satchel at his side. "I learned about these treating fighters," he said, taking out a pair of thick leather bracers. "A warrior like you might be touch enough to block iron with his arms, but we mortals prefer to wear armour." He dropped the bracers at Nikias's feet, turned his back, and walked away in such a hurry that his leafy wreath slipped, so it looked as if a small tree was growing out of his head. Nikias smothered his laughter, but Pompus must have heard him, because he marched away even faster, until he disappeared into the palace interior.

Once Pompus had vanished, he felt let down, deflated. "It wasn't iron," he called after the doctor. "It was bronze." He bent down, and picked up the bracers. They were thick but light. He twisted his lip, and tested one with the point of his knife. The leather resisted it better than he'd expected. Pompus had done a good job. He felt cold and guilty.

Chapter Nine

He'd intended to go to the temple of Athena, to give thanks for her aid in the fight with his attacker. Her bronze shield bore a deep gouge, where it had stopped the blade that would have plunged deep into his heart. He had meant to give her an oblation of new wine, and ask for her guidance. Her temple was to the north east, on the shores of the Eleusinian sea, but his feet had carried him south, across the canal. The new bracers chafed his wounds, and they felt heavy, but as he walked on, he forgot they were there. He strode past the theatre, to the house of the silk swan. From the street it looked like a house of brown bricks, overgrown with winding green ivy. The dark red door gleamed with the inlaid image of a flying swan. He gave the knock, answered the questions, and then it seemed he walked into an earthly paradise.

Like the palace, the house of the silk swan was built on a Babylonian plan: thick walls on the outside, and an open square within. Here grew a lush green garden, blooming with hanging baskets of red and yellow roses, brilliant orchids, and long trails of blue and purple morning glory. Silk curtains hung from the baskets, and glowed from fires within. They made the garden into a colourful maze. Scents of lavender and spring flowers filled the air, and the beautiful music of the lyre sounded in his ears, as well as the soft voices and sweet laughter of women.

He greeted the slender Ethiopian girl who tended the door, and grinned at the barbarian warrior who guarded her. He walked through the maze, and went to the familiar green curtain, but paused on the threshold, his eyes crinkled and moist. He looked back, but the door to the city was lost in a maze of glowing colours. He faced the curtain, and touched the silk. It felt like living skin. He traced a face on it, and stroked it like a woman's hair. His eyes took on a faraway look.

The green curtain parted, and a hand, slender and pale, reached out, brushed his wrist, and took his hand in a gentle grasp. His heart thudded, and he held his ground long enough to wipe away his tears with his free hand, and then he allowed the hand to draw him into the chamber on the other side of the curtain.

She always wore the dress of a free Athenian woman; today she wore a long, loose himation, the cloth of the robe blue as the skies of Hellas. On her brow she wore a glittering silver ampyx, and she had her long golden hair braided and bound up in a black net attached to the metal circlet. He didn't know if she wore Athenian dress for his sake; she had plenty of beautiful Persian dresses, and the other girls in the house of the silk swan favoured the Egyptian skirt, with a loose, coloured blouse.

She stopped him just inside the curtain, her hand on his chest. Her warm, gentle touch sent thrills through his skin, and made his heart beat faster. "Again?" she said.

"I couldn't stay away."

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "You come here every day."

"If I lived to be a thousand, I would never tire of these visits."

He began to step forwards, but she pushed him back. She looked up him, her big dark eyes shining and moist. Her face, no longer young, still had the same beauty. "You come here too often."

He pressed his teeth together, until his jaw felt like a solid rock. The heat in his chest spread to his heart, and then it spread through his entire body. He took her wrist in his left hand, and wrapped his right arm around her body. She tensed to fight, but he lifted her off her feet, and crushed her body to his in a sweltering embrace. She resisted at first, and then her muscles relaxed, her lips brushed his face; she kissed his brow, his eyes, and then his mouth. He carried her into her chamber, and lowered her down onto the apple green couch. Her clever hands slipped off his leather harness and Egyptian skirt. He unwrapped the blue folds of her himation, and threw it aside. They lay together on her couch, caught in the heat of mutual need.

Later, he lay on her couch, and she rested her head on his chest. She mixed sweet wine, and they ate good bread and succulent lamb, and listened to the music of the lyre, muffled by the many curtained rooms and passages. She laughed. "What would your wife think?"

He twisted his lips, and winced. "I hope she would be pleased that I have you."

"To have you take your pleasures with a woman in a house of this kind? If she were in her grave, she'd claw her way out of the earth, cry out to Nemesis, and lead a band of screaming furies to eat your eyes, your heart, and your-"

"Nemesis and the furies can wait. I'm busy enough with mortal foes."

She rolled over, and leaned her elbows on his chest. "Show me. Come on, let me see."

She peeled away a corner of the bandage on his left arm, and gasped when she saw the long cut.

"It doesn't hurt," he said.

"You think that impresses me? Tell me what happened."

He reddened, and bit his lip. He tried to tell her a simple, bloodless tale of his day, but she wheedled and dug until he told her the whole story.

"More enemies you don't need," she said.

"The king's enemies," he said. "I'm just the king's sword."

"And you'll run with blood and rust. Why won't you leave?" She shook her head, and stroked his face. "Why won't you leave that fat idiot to his fate, and go?"

He pictured it. He could take a ship to Hellas, buy land, raise sheep...

"You've told me many times how you dream of going back."

"I dream of it still," he said. His face hardened. "But I've already lost my wife. The only safety for the king's sword is to remain the king's sword. I keep him safe, and he keeps me safe. Once I left him, my enemies would increase beyond number."

"You're afraid?"

"I do not fear for myself, but my girl... Leaina."

She drew breath to argue, and then she caught herself, and nodded. "Leaina." She rubbed her brow. "Athens' star has fallen, and Alexandria outshines the sun. She could have a great future here. A better life than her mother's."

The breath caught in his throat. He looked at her, and she shimmered through his tears. He took her in his arms. "I mourn my wife every day, but I will come to you every night."

Chapter Ten

A floppy haired youth with a fuzzy scrap of beard ran up to him as he stepped into the dying afternoon. He drew his sword so fast it sang, and the young man's face lost all colour as he backed away, palms out. "No, sir, no! Please!"

Nikias kept the blade out. He had the house wall at his back, and he used peripheral vision to check for anyone approaching on the flanks.

Nothing.

He looked at the young man, who was white and trembling. "If Black Salt sent you they must be getting desperate."

"No sir, you don't understand."

He tapped the sword so the metal rang like a temple bell. "Help me."

"Would you put the sword away, please?"

Nikias shot him a savage grin, and stepped closer. As he did, the young man scrambled backwards.

"Or you could keep it out! It's a nice sword. Very nice. Uh, I came- I came to talk to you. It's about Leaina."

"My daughter!" He stepped in, faster than before, and again the young man shot back, so his back almost touched the far wall. "Tell me where she is. I want to know she's alright."

"She's fine. She's fine! She's at my house-"

He sprang forwards, and used his free hand to shove the youth against the wall. He pushed the blade against the youth's neck. "Have you come to bargain for my daughter's life? When they find you, they won't even recognise you were a man!"

The youth writhed and twisted his head back, his eyes squeezed shut. He splayed his arms and flattened his hands against the wall, not even trying to fight. "No," he said. "Who would send me?" Nikias caught the stink of hot piss, and heard it spatter on the paving stones. Disgusted, he let the kid go, stepped back, and sheathed his sword.

He sighed, and massaged his temples. He felt unusual warmth in his face. "You shouldn't run at me saying things like that. My arms are covered in scratches and stab wounds from when a boy, much like you, tried to kill me."

The youth sank down, back to the wall, still pale and shaking. He smelt of piss and fresh sweat. "Leaina's at my house, sir, because... We want to get married."

Nikias tried to laugh and gasp at the same time, and it came out as a painful, hacking cough. "Married! You're that Leonides she mentioned. You're no soldier. You're not even a man!"

"Leontas. I'm an artist. Why should I be a soldier?"

"She can't marry you. The idea's preposterous. Look at yourself!"

"I love her."

"But how can you protect her?"

Leontas looked up at him. His face had regained its colour, and though his face had turned red, his jaw looked set and defiant. "Protect her from what?"

Nikias stared at him, and then he walked away, shaking his head.

Chapter Eleven

He walked through the crowds in the gathering dusk. The farmers of Hellas would be readying to sleep, but the rich Alexandrian city dwellers had their slaves carry torches, and the poor ones carried cheap lanterns, and tried not to spill their oil. His visit to the house of the silk swan had both eased and burdened his heart. It had reminded him of the price he'd paid for safety, a price he paid again every day he woke up alone in his bed.

"Safety is life," he told himself, as he made his way along the wharf, teased by the salt spray. "A sailor doesn't rush back to shore when a storm hits. He goes out in a strong-hulled boat, and rides out Poseidon's fury. Safety in strength and good sense. I will not flee the thunder. I will ride out this storm."

He drew near to Lorcas's shop, when an eerie figure blocked his path, a robust man who waved at him with a grotesque stump of a hand. Apollophanos. "So good to see you here," said the maimed Spartan smiling like a starveling at a feast. "The gods, it would seem, prefer we Hellenes to band together."

He grunted. "Yes, yes. I'm busy, Halfhand. I'll talk to you later."

He made to walked by the Spartan, but Apollophanos held up his maimed hand, and set it on his shoulder. He'd seen many wounds, and taken more scratches and cuts than he could number, and aside from the pain, they failed to unsettle him. When the Spartan's single thumb touched his skin, his skin felt cold, and he felt the slightest squirm in his belly. He brushed away the hand. Apollophanos continued to smile, but his eyes narrowed. "Dear brother of Hellas, don't leave me so soon. Come tell me the day's tale."

He felt heat rise in his chest, and his hands itched to shove the man out of his way. He'd waited long enough for Lorcas to have opened the box. He wanted to know the secrets buried within that skull, and the Spartan's time wasting presence set his jaw on edge.

"You'll hear my tale soon enough, if you linger around the king. And what of Ptolemaios; has he tired of your heroic boasts already? Tell me what brings you down from the palace."

Apollophanos shrugged. "I come here every day at sunfall, and sing to the fishes."

Nikias stared at him. "This must be that famous laconic wit. I leave you to your jesting." He turned away, and walked towards Lorcas's shop.

"Wait," said Apollophanos. "Wait!"

He was almost at the door. He noticed it was ajar, and he caught a familiar scent, like sweet smoke.

"We broke your empire!"

He halted, his eyes wide, his jaw locked tight, lips peeling back from his teeth. He turned and glared at the Spartan, and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. "Of all the stupid things you could say..."

Apollophanos gritted his teeth, and stood erect, chest thrown out. "The great Athenian empire. We crushed it. We beat your armies and burned your ships. We devastated your land, carried away your gold, and we took your women."

The people of the dock cleared a circle around them, and the air went silent, but for the lapping of the waves.

Nikias felt his heart jump and grow hot. The hair on his arms, back and head prickled and stood up. He forgot about the locksmith, and the box, and his duty to the king, as the age old rivalry between Athens and Sparta heated his blood. His face twisted into a mask of fury, and he walked forwards until he could feel the warmth of the other man's skin, and smell his sweat and the leather of his sword belt. "Our empire did not last," he said, in a low, menacing voice. "But neither did yours. Alexander conquered the world, and cast us both into shadow. Who fears Sparta today?"

Apollophanos's face writhed in some bitter inner struggle. "What happened after you lost the war? You Athenians pride yourselves on your freedom, your demos. What happened after the war? You gave yourselves up to tyrants! And what have you done, Nikias? For all your pride in your free city, you serve a king, just like a common slave."

He pulled the sword halfway out of the scabbard before he caught himself. "Bite your tongue before you lose it, Halfhand."

"Sword of the king. That's all you are, a weapon in the grip of a tyrant!"

The heat in his chest boiled out, and threw his fist into Apollophanos's jaw. He rocked the Spartan's head, and sent the man staggering back until he fetched up against the low wall at the edge of the dock.

Apollophanos laughed, his teeth red with blood. "You have no honour. You belong in the arena, with the other fighting slaves."

"You are one to talk of honour," he said. "At least my scars are all in front."

The smile died on Apollophanos's lips. Nikias watched him, but the Spartan hung his head, and spat blood on the paving stones. Then he rose, shoved his way through the gawkers, and marched away.

Nikias trembled, and rubbed his tight fist. The Spartan had a hard jaw, and left his knuckles sore. He took a few steps after Apollophanos, and then he remembered why he'd come to the docks. "Let it go," he muttered. He shut his eyes, massaged his brow, and turned back to Lorcas's shop, still rubbing his fist.

The door was still ajar. As he pushed it open, he caught another, pungent gust of that sweet fragrance. It reminded him of the arena, where he'd smelled it that noon. He stepped into the dark shop, and heard a muffled cry. He drew his sword, and looked around, the pain in his hand forgotten. He found no one in the front room; by the light of Lorcas's cheap lamp, he saw the same workbench, and a clutter of boxes heaped on the floor, and he smelled the same mix of wood resin and metal polish, now overlaid by that sweet smoke.

Lorcas had a private room in the back, through an old door stained almost black by years of being pushed and pulled by the locksmith's oily hands. He moved close to the door, sword in hand, and put his ear to it. He thought he heard strained breathing, but it could have been an echo of the sea.

His stomach felt like a bundle of wet snakes, and his teeth squeaked, his jaw was so tight. He put a hand out to the door, and raised the handle of his sword overheard, point forward and down, ready to thrust. Sweat rolled down his face, and his heart beat faster, blood loud in his ears. He pushed the door open.

He saw Lorcas on his knees in front of his bed, his hands bound with a leather thong. The fancy emerald cap had slipped off, and his night blue robes were stained with sweat. His face was pale and slack, his eyes wide and weeping. A small high window in the ceiling let in a ray of the dying sun, and revealed the locksmith's captor. He stood taller than Nikias, with wide shoulders and muscles that would have suited Herakles. He had shining blue eyes in a hard face with high cheekbones. His shaven head and face, and all his skin shone like burnished bronze. He wore flowing silk trousers bound up at the ankle in his leather boots. In one hand he held a bronze knife.

Nikias knew where he'd smelled that fragrance before. The assassin at the arena had carried the same stink.

Lorcas spoke first. "Nikias! Noble lord, sword of the king, save me."

He said nothing, and neither did the stranger.

Lorcas twisted to face him, his eyes bulging in fear. "Please, Nikias, save me from this barbarian." As he moved, he revealed something; Nikias saw the skull box, sitting on the bed.

"Go," said the stranger. He spoke the word with a thick accent, one unfamiliar to Nikias.

"I have the names," said Lorcas.

The stranger cuffed Lorcas in the back of the head, and the locksmith bent forwards, hunched his shoulders, and moaned. "I tell you go," said the stranger.

Nikias lowered his sword from the hanging guard, and jabbed the point at the stranger to emphasise his words. "I am Nikias, strategos, and sword of the king. Release my servant and I'll let you live."

"You are a thief and a slave of thieves."

"Of all the things you could have said..." He felt the heat in his chest, the thrill of strength in his arms. His toes curled to grip the ground, and his thighs tensed to spring. "You accursed bronze blades, cutting at my city. I've killed your kind before, and I'll kill you too."

The stranger shifted his stance, to stand behind Lorcas, one hand on his head, the other holding the dagger pointed at Nikias, as if to imitate his sword. "I'll cut his throat."

The locksmith squeezed his eyes shut, and his jaw hung slack and trembling.

"And I'll send you to the underworld right after him. You think that pin will keep you alive? Your skull is as empty as a drum. I have a sword."

The stranger's eyes flicked from his short dagger to Nikias's gleaming iron blade. He grimaced, and lowered his head. He looked as if he was bowing, and his blade hand drooped until it was not so much pressing as leaning against Lorcas's shoulder. All the while, he kept those vivid blue eyes on Nikias's sword.

Nikias sighed through gritted teeth, unaware he had been holding his breath. "That's right," he said.

Lorcas opened one eye, and then the other. He twisted a little, to look at his captor, and then he looked up at Nikias, his shining eyes and shaky, hopeful smile saying more than any words.

The stranger plunged his dagger into Lorcas's neck, and pumped the blade back and forth. Lorcas's eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth gaped wide, cheeks stretched to tearing. He tried to scream, but a gout of blood choked his words to a sickening gurgle, and red froth spilled from his lips.

Nikias felt a shock run through his whole body, and it seemed he could feel the knife bite into his own neck. He screamed an oath, raised his sword, and shot forwards, meaning to stab the murderer in the chest. At the same moment as he moved, the man grabbed Lorcas's head, pulled it back and to the side, and yanked out his dagger. The blade tore its way out of the locksmith's flesh, and released a jet of bright red arterial blood.

He saw it rush through the air at him, and his free hand was already flying to cover his eyes, but the blood spurted out with all the power left in Lorcas's heart. The blood sprayed Nikias in the face. At once the room vanished in a thick red haze, and his eyes stung as if he'd thrust them in a bowl of vinegar. He skidded on the wooden floor as he tried to arrest his charge, and lashed out with his sword, more to deter his foe from attacking than from any hope of giving hurt.

He caught himself, and backed up, wiping at his face with his free hand. He heard a rasping gurgle as Lorcas made a desperate, futile struggle for life. The sound made his stomach tie itself in cold knots. He couldn't see a thing; a thick red haze of pain obliterated his vision. Bereft of living sight, his mind threw forth the image of that gleaming bronze dagger as it pierced Lorcas's soft neck. He pictured the blade biting and tearing at his own neck, and he shivered.

Something hard struck his back, and for a moment he believed the man had slipped behind him, and delivered a fatal blow. Then he realised that the vertical edge he felt against his skin was the door frame. He heard footsteps to the front, getting louder. Still blinded by blood, he acted on reflex. He dropped to his knees, and slashed with his sword, cutting a square pattern through the air. His blade met no resistance, and he paused.

The footsteps sounded again, louder this time, and he felt the air move against his naked torso. He threw himself to the left, to land on his shoulder, and kicked out with his right leg, trying to bar the door. He failed to block the murderer's path, but as his heel lashed out, it struck flesh, and he heard a grunt of pain.

He rolled onto his feet, and sprang through the doorway, thrusting his sword in a full lunge. He saw nothing but that maddening red haze, but he felt the blade dig into something soft, and he heard a strangled cry.

He thought he might have dealt a killing wound, or at least done enough harm to disable the murderer, but the footsteps sounded again, and he heard the front door squeak on its hinges. Frustration and fury swelled up and overcame his relief at having survived. He bent down, and wiped his face on his Egyptian style skirt. He got enough blood out to see again, although Lorcas's little shop looked red and twisted, like a chamber fit for the worst torments of the underworld. If he'd had time, he would have bathed his eyes in fresh water, and rested until the sore, swollen feeling eased.

He didn't have time.

Nikias spared one last glance at Lorcas, but the Sidonian locksmith lay on his face, unmoving, in a growing pool of his own blood. The skull box had gone.

He turned, and ran out of the shop, and into the dockside street.

The sun lay on the blade of the horizon, and made the sea shimmer like molten gold. Through Nikias's blood soaked eyes, it looked like the sun was stabbed and bleeding its life into the sea. The waterfront was as busy as ever, with fishermen carrying their harvest in great stinking baskets, and slaves running errands, or buying food for their masters' dinners. Everyone looked red and distorted, loaded with evil in his eyes. It seemed to be mutual, for as soon as he rushed outside, the people nearest him shrieked and withdrew. He ignored them, and looked east and west for the murderer.

He didn't have to look far. In spite of the blood that obscured his sight, the sudden hush let the sound of running ring loud in his ears. The murderer had gone right, and was now racing east along the waterfront, towards the royal harbour. Nikias shot after him.

As he ran, the murderer barged into a dock worker sweating under a trap basket of huge crabs. He staggered and fell, and dropped his load, the trap cracked apart, and the crabs spilled out across the paving stones, clicking and snapping long sharp claws as they scuttled for freedom. Nikias ran right through them, and felt a biting pain in one ankle, as one of the crabs clawed him. He gasped, and pushed on, ignoring the pain. The next crab scuttled at the wrong moment, and crunched under his foot, spewing bloody flesh on the stones.

Nikias saw a couple of guards at the far end of the waterfront. They had a chestnut horse by the reins, and looked to be questioning its rider. In his eyes, their pointed iron helms made them look like single horned beasts, monsters released from the stygian depths to torment the living. He ignored his fancy, and shouted for them to stop the running killer. They turned away from the horseman to see who had called, and then one of them shot a finger at Nikias. They moved to intercept the killer, but as they closed in, he hopped onto the parapet of the dock wall, and then dove at the horse. The guards threw out their hands, but they failed to catch him as he sprang onto the horse. Momentum went against him, and carried him over it, to land on the other side. The rider shook his fist, and then he clung onto the beast for his life, as the murderer slapped the animal in the eye. The horse reared up, and lashed out with its legs. It knocked one guard to the ground, clutching his ribs. The other threw himself aside, and the furious horse forced him to back away.

"Gods below!" Nikias saw the killer run away on the other side of the horse. He pushed his legs to work faster. The frightened horse pranced and kicked, and the onlookers scurried for safety, right back into Nikias's path. He shoved through the press of scared, noisy people, and had to sheathe his sword, still blood wet, to avoid stabbing a sobbing, hobbling old greybeard. Putting a bloody sword in the scabbard went against all his military training. It made his skin crawl, but he couldn't think about it. He had to push on and catch the murderer, or Lorcas's death, and all Kleon's effort would have been in vain.

He came out of the press, and found himself facing the terrified horse. Perhaps its eye had swollen and grown more painful, and perhaps the running, screaming people had panicked it, but it bucked and reared, snorting and gnashing its teeth. Nikias halted, concerned about those flailing hooves. He caught its powerful animal smell, blended with the salty air, and the ever present stink of Lorcas's blood. The rider had vanished, and the wounded guard lay on his back, his eyes squeezed shut, his face white, lips twisted as he tried not to cry. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, and his partner knelt by his side, helmet gone, both hands pressed against his head.

"Get a doctor," said Nikias.

The unharmed guard stared at him, his eyes moist and unfocused.

"Pompus! Go to the palace. Tell him I sent you. Run!"

The guard got to his feet, and nodded. He couldn't go straight along the waterfront; the horse blocked his way, but he shot off down a side street. Nikias was tempted to use the same trick, but he didn't want to lose sight of the murderer. He eyed the horse, prayed for Athena to help him, and then, right as the horse was kicking up, he dove down, between its legs.

He hit the paving stones hard, but he rolled, and though he bruised his back and hips, he came out unhurt. Behind him, the horse grunted, and drummed its hooves on the stones. He scrambled to his feet, afraid it would kick out, and break his back. Then he ran.

The murderer had used his time to build his lead, and he had already come close to the dock side walls of the library. He raced past the corner of the grand marble building, and disappeared in shadow. Nikias plunged after him. One or two people lingered in the area, on their way to dinner parties, or coming home from work. Too early to carry a lamp or torch, they made do with their eye sight. As Nikias came into the gloomy avenue, the dark sea on his left, the wall on his right, he found that everyone had turned into shadows and spectres. His sore eyes had had enough in the twilight; now he couldn't tell who was who.

He ran on regardless.

He went at full speed into a man, who went down, swearing and gasping. It couldn't have been the murderer; he'd felt this guy fold around him, soft as an overripe melon. From somewhere ahead, he heard the drumming sound of boots on stone. He ignored the fat man's curses, and raced off.

He turned the corner of the library, and came into a small square in front of the temple of Poseidon. The house of the god followed the usual pattern, a heavy triangular roof resting post and lintel fashion on a double row of ionic columns. This one was painted blue as the crystal sea. Alexandria owed her wealth to her harbours and the sea trade, and the sailors and their families frequented this temple in particular, which ensured it remained well kept. As a result, the statue within, of Poseidon sitting on his throne, was one of the finest works in the city. The square outside was well lit with many hanging lamps, and a small fountain, shaped like a dolphin dancing on the waves, stood in the centre.

As Nikias turned the corner, the light blinded him, and he threw his hands in front of his stinging eyes. That reflex saved his life. The murderer had halted on the corner, and as Nikias came into the square, the man slashed at him, aiming square at his neck.

The blade cut through the air, and Nikias felt it bite into his raised arms, but he felt no pain. His battle honed reflexes made him shoot sideways and draw his sword, and the murderer dodged back, into the square, to escape it. He followed up, and had time to realise why he had taken no hurt; the bracers Pompus gave him had proved their worth. The bronze dagger had scored a line in the thick leather, but it had failed to bite through it.

"Only your luck has kept you alive," he said to the killer. "Drop the skull box or I'll send you below for judgement."

"Your gods cannot judge me. I am Zalm, and I serve the most high."

He pointed his sword at the man's face. "I don't care what gods you worship, barbarian. If they are true, they'll curse your blood soaked hands."

"You call me barbarian, you bearded fiend? I am a free man, while you are the blade of a tyrant!"

Nikias rolled his eyes. Not this nonsense again! "Give me the box. I do serve the king. By stealing it, you commit treason, and my king has no mercy for traitors."

Zalm pursed his lips, and sniffed the air like a curious dog. "It wasn't luck that spared your life back in that shop," he said. "I could have stuck my knife in your heart. You owe me your life."

Nikias had never heard such a preposterous bit of folly. His eyes widened, and his lips fell open, and he felt torn between the desire to curse and to laugh.

The distraction almost killed him.

Zalm hurled the skull box at his head. Caught by surprise, he blocked it with his sword, and felt a solid thunk as the blade met the wood, and then a dull rattle as the box hit the ground. In the same moment, Zalm dropped from view. He crouched low, almost on all fours, and charged at Nikias's legs. The Athenian had a fraction of a second to see Zalm rush him, and then the man struck his legs, and bowled him over. The impact sent his arms flying, and wrenched the sword out of his hand. He heard it clatter on the paving stones some distance away. Zalm hurled him with Herculean strength, and he turned a somersault, before smashing face down on the cold stone slabs.

The stone hit his face like a titan's punch. Brilliant lights flashed in his eyes, and he felt his brain shake in his skull. The blow left him stunned for several seconds, and when the shock wore off, the pain took over. He felt as if some smith had fashioned a perfect iron replica of his face, peeled off the skin, fitted on the mask and bolted it to the bone, and then heated it until it glowed red.

He tried to stand, but his arms refused to obey him. He tried again, and this time they trembled as he got them under his chest, but his body had got as heavy as a chest filled with lead. He gasped, fought off the pain in his face that made him want to fold up his whole body and vanish. He made an intense effort of will, and forced his hands to raise his body, though they shook and almost dropped him. He made his legs take his weight, and then he staggered to his feet.

He stood in an empty square.

Zalm had gone.

Chapter Twelve

The sun had fallen, and the sky had turned black. Rows of flaming lamps hung from posts, the temple square bright as a bonfire, the air thick with oily smoke. To the north he saw the crystal blue columns of the temple of Poseidon, but the doors were shut, and no one lingered on the steps, although he caught the fragrant scent of incense wafting from the temple. No one haunted the dolphin fountain, to hear it splash and whisper in the night. Turning left and right, he saw no signs of life, but he did see a light, like a glimmering flame on the stones.

His sword.

He picked up his weapon, still damp with Zalm's blood. He flicked his eyes from the blade, around the square, and back to the bloody tip of his weapon. He hadn't seen the wound, but from the blood, he knew it had to be deep.

"He can't run far," he said to the night air. "Athena, goddess of cunning in battle, show me my enemy."

If Athena was listening, she wasn't talking. His face hurt, and so did his legs, where Zalm had crashed into them. At least the box hadn't smacked him in the head.

"The box!"

He turned around, scouring the stones for it. Unlike his sword, the wooden box wouldn't shine in the lamp light. He remembered hitting it aside, and he walked that way. He swore he'd heard it rattle, as it rolled across the slabs. He came near the fountain, and the noise of rushing water got louder, but he didn't see the box. Over the sound of the water, he heard something, a thudding noise, like...

"Boots."

He ran.

He didn't question it, he just followed the sound, sure in his bones he'd caught the trail. The thudding noise led him past the fountain, across the square, and into the dockside alley that led from the little harbour to the royal harbour. As he ran, new life filled his legs with strength, and the sword felt light in his hand. The pain stayed with him, deep in his face, but he found it easier to ignore.

On his left, lights burned on the small island of Antirrhodus, and behind them, the great beacon fire of the lighthouse of Pharos cast glimmering rays across the water. He smelled salt on the air, and, from a little way ahead, the perfumed nectar of the royal gardens. Point Lochias, the royal harbour and the palace itself lay straight ahead. The irony of it made him laugh, even though it cost him more pain; the traitor, the man who served the king's would-be assassins, now ran for safety right to the king's palace.

The Canopic canal blocked his path. Nikias heard fierce oaths in that thick, strange accent, and knew his intuition had been true. "Blessed Athena," he muttered. "That's two oblations I owe you."

Up ahead he saw the bridge by the sea, lit by hanging lamps like those in the temple square. He saw Zalm's broad shoulders and gleaming scalp, and he also saw the bleeding wound in his back. Perhaps Zalm heard his footsteps, or felt his gaze on his skin, for he turned, and looked Nikias in the face. Even at that distance, his eyes gleamed blue, and the fire light made his tanned skin shine like a blood drenched sword. He spat a guttural curse at Nikias, turned to move on, and then he saw his mistake.

The bridge by the sea blazed with lamp light every night without fail, because the first building across it, that broad stone bulk, was the barrack house of the royal guard. The king's chosen soldiers lived there, and their street patrols led them across the bridge every night. Nikias knew. He had ordered the patrols.

The barrack house was his home.

They marched towards the bridge, their sandaled feet slap-drumming on the paving stones. Ten men, moving in step, a sword at their side, a spear on the shoulder, and every other man carried a burning torch. Zalm stared at them, and Nikias could imagine his surprise, his frustration, and his fear.

He slowed down. He no longer needed to run. Zalm had nowhere left to go.

"One word," he said.

Zalm didn't look at him.

"They're my men. One word from me, and they'll cut you apart."

He was close enough to see the details of the wound. His sword had entered Zalm's back in the lower right side. It must have missed the kidney and the lung, otherwise the barbarian would have collapsed in agony, or choked on his own blood. Even so, fluid life had poured down his back and stained his loose silk trousers, and still it seeped out.

"You're losing blood. You're weak."

Zalm rounded on him, dagger high, box clutched in the other hand. He looked as if he was about to spring on Nikias, but this close, Nikias saw that his face was pale, and his hands shook. "I can still..." he struggled for air."Go through... You."

Nikias's legs felt like his sandals were tied to the ground. His muscles burned, and his chest heaved with the effort of all that running, and every time he moved, he felt as if he was being flogged in the face. Yet he grinned.

"Not this time, you bloody handed beast."

The sound of soldiers marching got louder, and the light of their torches shone ever brighter. Zalm looked over his shoulder, and then back at Nikias. "I could have killed you twice by now."

"And you should have." He hefted the sword, and began to calculate his moves. He could run the man through, or slash his neck or one of the main arteries. That would kill him, and he'd be able to retrieve the box with no more trouble. He pictured Kleon, lying on his couch, bleeding from a wound that wouldn't heal, his hands growing weak and numb as poison ate away his strength. He wanted to do it, wanted to cut the murderer down.

His crimes demanded it.

He bit down his fury. "There's so much you could tell me," he said.

Zalm's eyes flared. "You think you can buy me? You think gold and silver are worth more than a true heart?"

"I need to understand Black Salt. Tell me who they are, where they are. Tell me and I won't kill you now."

Zalm tossed away his dagger, and raised the skull box high over his head. "You'll never understand Black Salt!"

Nikias saw what was coming, but he couldn't believe it. Zalm faced the harbour and the distant light house of Pharos. He summoned strength, and then his arm shot forwards. Nikias tried to get there first, but his legs seemed to be made of laths of wood, bound together with old, stiff leather. It took all his strength to close that gap, to leap, and hurl out his sword, which gleamed in a burning arc under the lamps.

His blade caught Zalm's forearm, and bit into his meat. Blood erupted from the wound, and poured down on the stones of the bridge. Zalm let out a guttural cry, but his arm had already stretched to the limit. Nikias cut power from the throw, but the box still fell out, over the edge of the bridge, and splashed down in the black water below. As he lost sight of the skull box, Nikias felt an agonising pain in his heart, a torment of failure

Zalm stumbled away from the edge, clutching his arm and moaning. Nikias threw himself forward, and leaned over the side, casting his eyes here and there, but the night was so dark, he couldn't see where the bridge shadow ended and the water began.

He felt Kleon's reproach. He'd let down a fellow Athenian, a comrade in government, and worst of all, a dying friend. He pictured Lorcas, looking up at him with pleading eyes, right before Zalm killed him. He thought of Zagintos, too, his lined old head crushed as he sat in the palace garden. The poor old man couldn't have defended himself, but he shouldn't have had to. Defence was Nikias's job, and he'd failed.

"The fat king will flay away your skin, and stick you on a spike above the palace."

He turned on Zalm, and felt another stab of pain in his heart when he saw the murderous barbarian was laughing, jeering at his failure. He gripped the wound in his right arm, trying to staunch the blood, but it flowed, thick and dark, over and through his fingers. His face had become pale as the clouds, and it shone with sweat. He shivered, weak from exertion and blood loss, but still he laughed.

Right then, Nikias hated him. He felt it in his blood, in his bones and in his heart, a fury that screamed for him to plunge his sword into his enemy's chest, to rip out his heart, and hack the flesh from his bones.

The marching patrol reached the bridge. "Stay your hand," one of the men cried.

Zalm laughed, and it sounded obscene to Nikias, the kind of sound the titans made when they mocked the gods and stormed Olympus.

He raised his sword and went for Zalm.

The patrolling soldiers gasped and yelled. "No! Drop your sword!"

Zalm backed away, still laughing, his lips peeled back so his teeth caught the fire light. Nikias ignored the cries of the soldiers, and threw himself at the man, overwhelmed by the desire to take Zalm's life.

Zalm came to the edge of the bridge, Nikias almost on him. Zalm caught the edge of the bridge and leapt up, with the practised motion of a rider mounting a horse. But he didn't mount it. He let himself topple, still laughing, over the side.

The strength and the fury drained out of Nikias. He felt like a punctured wine skin, all the sagging and empty. The sword slipped from his fingers, and clanged against the stones. He came to the side of the bridge, and slumped over it, cold, hollow, and shaking.

"Don't you move, you child of a drunken dog!"

The patrol of soldiers surrounded him, making a half circle of spears levelled at his body.

"Good of you to get here now," he said, looking down at the Canopic canal. He couldn't see any sign of Zalm, but with his wounds, the murderer was probably drowning. He didn't feel any reaction to that. "If you'd come quicker, you might have had to do your actual duty, deal with a dangerous barbarian. You might have got hurt. We can't have that, can we?"

One of them, their leader, came close. "Bite that tongue or I'll cut it off."

The soldier grabbed Nikias by the shoulder, and turned him around. Nikias moved with the pull, and whirled out a low hook that struck the man's short ribs, and left him doubled over, gasping. In the same movement, he took the man's spear, held a short length between his hands, and used a reaping swing to smack the soldier's ankle. The soldier fell on his backside.

Nikias stepped over the fallen man, the spear held between his hands, and he scowled at the soldiers, who, as one man, backed away. "Do you know me now?"

"Dung of Anubis," said one.

"It's the chief!" said another.

They looked at one another, and then straightened up and stood to attention. He saw a lot of pale faces, wide eyes, and trembling lips.

"That's right."

One of them cleared his throat. "Why'd you go so hard on Nefer, sir?"

He glanced down at the fallen soldier. "If I'd been Black Salt, Nefer would be dead. I've been going easy, and it's got me nothing but bruises, blood and dead friends. No more. They're killing us with bronze. We have to be iron."

Chapter Thirteen

He gave the soldiers new orders. "Curfew at nightfall. No one goes outside, not even to piss against their own front door. No weapons on the street. You see even a glint of bronze, take that man in. I've got questions for him. You see this?" he showed them Zalm's dagger. "Take it, and ask around the metal smiths. Find out who made it, when, and who paid. Mean time, listen for 'Black Salt'. You hear a whisper of it, come to me. Not your friend. Not your officers. You come to me."

"Sir," said one man, "these are big changes. Does the king-"

"I'm giving you these orders on my authority. Let me think about the king."

The man swallowed, and nodded.

"Pass the word. Black Salt can't hide in my city."

Chapter Fourteen

He threw the report aside. "This wasn't worth the sheep you skinned to write it!"

The young guard officer swallowed, but he stood his ground. "Sir, the curfew has gutted street crime, and we've more than doubled our arrest rate. Alexandria has never been more secure." He wore a linen skirt, sandals, and a leather harness to carry his weapon. His chest was broad and his arms bulged with muscle. His shaven face looked handsome, if hard, and his brown eyes were a little close together. The odd thing about him was his hair; though young, he had grey hair. Seen from the corner of his eye, when they'd first met, Nikias had thought he was an old man.

Nikias sighed. He sank into his chair, and cast a scornful gaze around his office. Stacks of vellum and brittle papyrus littered his desk; reports from the last week. What the young officer said was true. They had cut common crime down to a third of the usual amount, and they had locked up every thug, pimp and whore who thought the curfew didn't apply to them. A few rotten guards had let the street types work for a bribe, but when Nikias had found out, he'd put them on canal duty. That meant fishing through the filthy depths of the city canals, dredging for the lost skull box, or Zalm's corpse.

They'd found neither.

"This isn't good enough," he said. "The curfew is costing the city money. The heads of every guild have complained to the king that we're breaking their trade. The night workers are talking riot. We need to break Black Salt."

"Sir, if Black Salt were really strong enough to challenge you... I mean the king... They wouldn't let a curfew stop them. What if the last one died when he jumped in the canal?"

"What if? That's the best you can do... Your name?"

"Kalliphas, sir." He held his breath.

"Kalliphas... Breathe man, I won't kill you."

Kalliphas tensed as if waiting for a blow. He squeezed his eyes almost shut. "Sir, even if they're still here, they're weak. Days have passed since the attacks, and nothing's changed. You, I mean he, the king, is still master of the city. Maybe they've given up."

"Given up? Given up!" He rose, swept a stack of papers aside, and leaned over his desk. "If a thief breaks into your house, steals your gold, and murders your grandfather, do you let him be just as soon as he takes a holiday?"

Kalliphas flinched. "Sir-"

"No more excuses! I don't want to hear a word from you, Kalliphas, or any other guard, until you bring me the heads of the circle of Black Salt."

"Sir, I-"

"Not a word." He sat, and looked at the reports once more.

Kalliphas bit his lip, his face pale as the moon. He stood to attention, and marched out. As soon as he'd left, the door banged open.

Nikias spoke without looking up. "I said I don't want to hear from you!"

"But I haven't said anything yet."

He looked up, and saw a man built like a potato. He had a lump of a body, and his odd, misshapen head stood out from his body without any visible neck. He wore a pristine white robe, and a gilded circlet on his sweaty brow, both of which would have suited a wealthy nobleman, but looked grotesque on this knobbly dwarf.

Nikias stared at him, and the dwarf twitched and rubbed his lumpy face.

"Well?" said Nikias.

"Nobias, sir. I work, worked, for master Kleon, sir." He rubbed his hands together. "There's been another death, sir."

They could have walked to the tower of Pharos, for the Heptastadium linked island of Pharos to the mainland. However, the bridge was seven furlongs across, and it would have meant twice that amount before they reached it, and twice again to cross the island. Nikias took a boat.

Gulls wheeled through clear blue sky, and sunlight sparkled on the dancing waves. The great harbour thronged with ships and small boats, for ever since the curfew had begun, every man in the sea trade raced to finish his business before the sun fell. They filled the air with shouts and more than once, Nikias heard the grinding creak as two vessels clashed, struggling for space. He winced when he heard the shouted curses, because he knew that the sailors would complain to their masters, their masters would complain to the king, and the king would complain to him.

Rathea had already begun to grouse. Ptolemaios might have had the neck of a bull, but faced with his sister's fury, he had the heart of a mouse.

Nikias wanted to enjoy the warm sun on his face, but instead he paced up and down the little boat until it rocked, and the oarsman begged him to stop.

She lay on the rocky ground at the foot of the tower, staring up at the sky, her light linen dress billowing in the breeze. She looked like a free woman, taking her ease, basking in the shine. Her arms lay stretched out, her legs the same, feet towards the tower. She had a bruise on her left temple. Her dark hair spread out from her head, matted with dry blood, and the grey rock around her head bore the same reddish brown stain.

Nikias had last seen her tending to Kleon. She'd looked sad and scared.

"Chora," said Nobias, wringing his hands. "She didn't come home after the master's funeral, and then the keeper of the light sent word to us this morning."

He sucked his teeth, embarrassed to recall that he hadn't attended Kleon's funeral. He'd spent every night leading patrols through the city, and though he'd meant to go, an informer had sold him a lead on a lot of hooded types holding a clandestine meeting, which looked suspicious enough to be Black Salt. He'd weighed them, and it had seemed promising enough to follow up, though it had turned out to be a theatre troupe rehearsing Lysistrata.

He couldn't decide if Kleon would have cursed him or laughed.

"The keeper found her," he said. "He knew her."

Nobias nodded his lumpish head. "The master sent him a basket of food every morning..."

"And in return, he passed on the tale of the night, eh? Who set sail, and when, that kind of thing."

Nobias hunched over, and stared at the ground. "I cannot say... The master-"

"Was my friend! He came to me, Nobias. He asked for my help. He trusted me, and you should too."

Nobias bit his lip. "Yes, you're right. It was as you say. But this morning, she brought no food. The keeper found her this way."

"I'll talk to him myself. You can tell me what she did before. Anything strange, anything new."

Nobias broke out in hacking coughs, and Nikias thought he was choking, until he realised the ugly man was laughing.

He scowled. "I said something funny?"

"I'm- I'm so sorry, sir. I'm so sorry. I was rude, unpardonably rude."

"Yes, all right, just tell me what you know."

"Sir, you asked me what was new. Sir, with the master dead..."

He covered his eyes, and sighed. "I see."

"She was upset. Chora loved him, sir. We all did, sir. But Chora... She came from a poor house, with many children. Her father died of the plague, and her mother couldn't feed all those little mouths, so she..."

Nikias knew the story. "She sold her children."

"A crime against the gods!"

"She wasn't the first to do it, and she won't be the last." He held up his hand to forestall the slave's tale. "I see, Nobias, I do. It's a hateful thing. She was lucky to go to Kleon. With his death... He had no children. Who will inherit?"

Nobias shrank, and fat tears rolled down his round, lumpy face.

"Oh." With no heirs, it was likely that Kleon's property would be seized by the crown, and sold off. If Chora had loved Kleon as much as Nobias thought, it would like losing her family a second time. Or worse, being sold like a horse or a camel. He felt sad for her, but it irritated him to waste time on a common suicide when he could be hunting the circle.

He crouched down, and looked at her. Pretty enough, if you liked slave girls, although her hands were rough and calloused from work. He noticed scratch marks around her wrists. "Did she wear jewellery?"

Nobias blew his nose, and shook his head. "A slave in gold? No, sir."

Not bracelets, then. He frowned. The scratches had a cross-hatched pattern, like some kind of fabric. He looked closer, and saw dried blood under her nails. It looked the same as the blood from her head, but how could it have got under her nails after she'd fallen?

His heart started to beat faster. Maybe this wasn't a waste of time. He looked with greater care, but he didn't notice anything else unusual, until he went back to her face. He cursed under his breath.

"Noble sir?"

"Nobias, how would you say she died?"

"Sir? Does the sun oppress you? Would you like a drink, perhaps sit in the shade, sir?"

He stood, and patted the dwarf on his hump. "Speak, Nobias."

"Well... I should say she threw herself from the tower."

"That is how it looks."

That's how it was meant to look, he added in the privacy of his heart. They'd done as good a job as they could, but he'd seen too many deaths not to catch the details. The blow to her temple, the bonds on her wrists, the flesh under nails from when she'd clawed at them as they held her at the edge of the tower. No doubt she'd screamed for help, but out here, so far from the mainland, who would have heard her?

"The light keeper," he said. "He doesn't live here."

Nobias shook his head. "No, sir. He has a small house in a cove, north of the temple of Isis. It's a little walk west of here."

Nikias felt himself at a point of decision. If his theory was true, then the keeper's house would be dangerous. But if he went back for his men, or waited for them on the island of Pharos, a vital chance could slip aside.

"It's hot out here, Nobias. You should go back to the mainland."

"Thank you, sir."

"Stop by the royal barracks on your way, and tell officer Kalliphas to come and bring me a few strong hands."

"For the body?"

"Hmm. He can find me at the keeper's house."

Nobias bobbed around. "I could show you the way, sir."

Nikias shook his head. "The cove north of the temple. I'll follow the shore. Thank you, Nobias. I'm always looking for good men, and you can tell Kalliphas I said you might be just the kind of man we need."

Chapter Fifteen

He walked along a pristine white beach with a view of the sparkling blue sea clear to the horizon. Here, the body of the island rose between him and the city, shielding him from the noise and the bustle. He saw a few fishing smacks dotted on the waters, and, in the distance, a galley sailed out for distant ports. Otherwise, he caught no sign that any other people lived nearby. The air smelled cool and fresh, with the salt tang of the sea, different from the open sewer stink of the city. The worst problem he had right then was the sand that kept getting into his sandals, and rubbing the soft skin between his toes. Another man might have basked in the sun, taken his ease in the peace, but not Nikias. He carried the city's cares in his heart.

Ptolemaios faced threats on all sides; the curfew, the patrols and arrests had not diminished, but increased the ill feeling towards him. Added to the talk of curses and the cries for recompense for the bad harvests and the sailors lost to freak storms, was the uproar of the tradesmen, who blamed every day of slack business on the king.

Rathea was digging her claws in, too. She'd demanded a wedding proclamation within the week, and had declared that as queen, she would finish off Black Salt herself. Nikias feared the methods she would use. A slave girl had once nipped her ear while cutting her hair. Rathea had snipped off the girl's ears with her shears, had them dried and tanned, and then had them sewn back into the girl's flesh. He had still had his wife at the time, and Leaina had been little. He'd had nightmares about them for weeks.

"No," he shook his head. "I won't work for Rathea. I won't be her agent, nor her victim."

But the sons of Soter always married their sisters.

He rounded a bend in the shore, and saw the light keeper's house. It followed the Babylonian pattern, a baked brick exterior, concealing a central courtyard. It had once been whitewashed, but time and the sea wind had left it a dusty brown. In the city, he could understand the need for security, but on the island, he questioned it. Did the keeper fear robbery? He saw a small, Egyptian type sailing boat, made from bundles of reeds bound together, with a high prow and a single, square sail. It had been dragged up from the shore, to lean against the sea wall of the house. As he came closer, he saw it had been well cared for, and the eye of Ra on the prow shone with fresh red and black paint.

He came to the door, and put his ear against it. Hearing nothing within, he tried the door. It turned aside, and he came into a short hall that led into a courtyard, bright and open to the sun. The contrast surprised him; outside lay a sandy strip of beach, with the sea on one side, and low sandstone cliffs on the other. Within, he found green grass, tall palm trees, and myriads of purple and yellow flowers. The keeper's garden was worthy of a noble.

"You're welcome to carry away my treasure," said a man from behind him, his voice cracked and gritty. "But it seems like such an effort when you could just grow your own flowers."

He turned. He'd expected the light house keeper to be an old man, a retired sailor with a bushy white beard and eyes crazed from gazing at the sea all day and night. He'd thought wrong. Sapog, as he called himself, was a tall young man with brown skin and a tremendous paunch. He wore Greek style robes, but his leather skull cap looked like the work of some northern barbarian. He wore a band of faded red silk wound around his neck, rather expensive for a sweat rag. In spite of his belly, which he used as a rest for his hands, his face looked starved, and his eyes, which were blue, bulged out as if they belonged to a mud fish.

"Blame my father, whoever he was," said Sapog, after he'd told Nikias much the same story as Nobias. "Some raider from the north, I think. Took my mother in a raid, got her pregnant, and sold her here. She'd work off her slavery, bought our freedom, and then she was murdered the next day. Sons of pigs left me this to remember her." He pulled down the red silk scarf, and showed Nikias an old, jagged scar across his throat.

"That's terrible," said Nikias, wondering how long Kalliphas would take. He hadn't liked to send his orders through Nobias, and he had more than a suspicion that they would never reach Kalliphas. If so, it would confirm that the stench that had hung about the lumpy dwarf was guilt.

"You must be exhausted, where are my manners? You must sit, and take wine with me." He tugged on his arm, and led him through the garden to a fine cedar table, glistening with varnish. They sat, and Nikias noticed rows of vines growing in a corner of the garden. Beyond them, he saw a wooden framework, shaped like an inverted V, topped off by a bird's perch.

He leaned forward, searching the wood. "You keep a hunting bird, by the claw marks."

Sapog, mixing wine in brass tumblers, paused and gasped. "Can you really tell that by looking?"

"By the depth and spacing of the scratches, I'd say you have a falcon."

Sapog clapped his hands. "You have remarkable eyes." He handed Nikias a tumbler of mixed wine. His hand trembled.

"I'm curious. Your bird isn't here..."

Sapog looked down at his wine. He shrugged. "Oh, Horus, he's out hunting."

Nikias frowned, and lifted the wine to his lips. He had an uncomfortable tension in his gut. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of the wine, mixed with the aroma of the flowering garden, and he tilted the tumbler, and pretended to swallow. "I wouldn't think he finds a lot to eat on this barren island."

"Mice, rats. Things wash up on shore. Sometimes he steals from the temple of Isis!"

They laughed.

Nikias pretended to drink again. His throat was dry, and his head ached. He had to fight down the urge to gulp the wine. Sapog finished his wine, and poured himself some more.

"Well trained, your falcon," he said. "Expensive."

"A gift."

"A gift?"

Sapog's hands trembled again, and he rested them, one over the other, on his great paunch. "I guide men, bring them in by the safe path. Many's the time, a ship's come sailing in to shore, crew dead tired, clouds hiding the moon and stars, thunder and rain hiding the city's voice and smell. Without my beacon, that ship would turn in to shore too late, and break her timbers on the reef. Or she'd turn in too soon, and run aground on the sand bars and be stranded, just too far to swim."

Nikias nodded. "A lot of captains owe you thanks."

Sapog spread his hands and waved them across the bounteous garden. "This table, these tumblers, the seeds of the vine... Horus, my bed and scrolls, my very clothes. All so many gifts from grateful men. Not just captains, either; common sailors often come here, and bring me bread or oil or a trinket they've carved from bone." He patted his hands down on his paunch, and glowed with pride.

"And Kleon. He sent you nice things as well."

Sapog's eyes flashed, but right away his face returned to normal. "Hmm."

"You told me I have good eyes-"

"Remarkable. I said remarkable."

He waved a hand. "Right. I'm not the only one. You must see so much. And here you are, surrounded by fine things, with no one to share them with, no one to talk to. I would bet my sword you have a very fine bed as well..."

Sapog's dark skin took on a greenish hue. "Let's have some more wine," he said, and sloshed the red liquid into his tumbler with shaking hands.

"Was food all that Chora gave you, when she came for the tale of the night? I think she cuddled up to you in that fine gift bed, kissed your paunch, and let you take her body, sate that hunger you'd built up on all those long, lonely vigils in the night."

Sapog shook so much the tumbler slipped from his hand, and poured scarlet wine down his robes.

"It looks like blood," said Nikias.

Sapog turned greener, and looked as if he might be sick.

"It could be blood. But if you tell me what, and who, you know, I can get you a new robe. A clean robe."

Sapog hunched in his seat, looking down at his fingers as they writhed and interlaced on his paunch. His lips moved fast, but he made no sound. At length he looked up, and when he caught Nikias's eyes, he winced. "I-"

A scream pierced the air, and a fluttering of wings announced the return of Horus.

Sapog gasped like a drowning man exposed to air. He started up, but Nikias moved faster. He shot across the garden, and went to grab the bird, but it cried and pecked at him. He backed up, but blocked Sapog from getting to it. He noticed two things about the falcon; it had a tiny wooden pendant hanging from a leather thong, bound to its right claw. It also had a familiar smell, the acrid stink of Tanner's Row.

"Please," said Sapog. "Please let me- I have to tend to Horus."

"You want to know what the message says."

"I- Message? Uh, what message?"

Nikias tried not to laugh. "You've spent too long apart from men, Sapog. You've forgotten how to lie."

The keeper wrung his hands. "You don't understand anything."

"Shall I tell you what the message says?"

Sapog squeezed his lips shut, but gazed at him with pleading eyes.

"It's a picture." It was a picture, and it was making him uneasy. "A picture of a dead man."

Sapog's jaw trembled, and his eyes rolled. He stumbled backwards, and tried to sit, but he knocked over his chair, and crashed down on his backside. "No," he said. "That's a lie."

"You let Chora get too close. The circle didn't care that you passed on shipping reports, but that's not what she wanted, was it? Kleon was searching for the circle, and he found you. I'm sure you didn't give them up at first, but after you took her, after you slept together, you fell in love."

Sapog looked at his hands, and shook his head.

"Maybe he promised to keep your secrets, and you were so naive and love sick you believed her. You told her about the circle. When they realised what Kleon knew, they murdered him, and Chora came running to you, looking for protection. But you'd been betrayed by her already, and you'd seen what your precious circle could do. You killed her!"

"No! It didn't happen that way."

"You're a dead man, Sapog," he said. "The circle has given up on you."

"You're lying!"

"They've sent their men here to kill you."

Sapog's jaw shook so much he had trouble forming his words. "K-k-kill? They wouldn't. There were oaths..."

Nikias grinned. He loomed over the fallen tower keeper. "The circle of Black Salt tried to murder king Ptolemaios. You've already admitted treason."

Sapog's jaw fell slack, and he stared up at Nikias, his blue eyes glittering with tears.

"You're mine."

He had to get him away from there, as fast as he could. The man had been right about one thing; he had lied about the message. The picture on the pendant was of a small boat. He hustled Sapog out at sword point, his hands bound with that red silk scarf.

Chapter Sixteen

Nikias walked Sapog at sword point out of the house and down to the cove. He held him there until Kalliphas turned up at the prow of a rowing boat, ten armed guards under his command.

"I got your message," said Kalliphas, walking up the sandy beach.

"Really. I'm glad you told me that, because I was about to have you chained up in a rat hole for abandoning your post to go fishing."

Kalliphas blushed. "I let that ugly dwarf go back to Kleon's house, but I set two men to watch him."

Nikias smiled.

"Do you believe that he-"

"Have your men take this fellow back to the barracks. No one talks to him, no one talks about him. He's a ghost without a shadow."

"You can't do this," said Sapog.

"We will see. Kalliphas, you stay with me."

They tore the keeper's house apart. Working together, Nikias and Kalliphas searched every scroll in Sapog's study, and then smashed his desk to flinders in case it had a secret compartment. They stripped the sheets off his bed, checked them for sewn-in pockets, they ripped up his mattress, filling the air with duck's feathers, and then they cracked apart the frame. Nikias had seen men keep scrolls, gold, and even a rolled up army banner in the hollow leg of a bed. Sapog, it seemed, favoured other methods of concealing his secrets.

They explored the garden, stabbing the dirt at short intervals to check for shallow-buried boxes. They pried under the roots of the palm trees, and climbed them to check for anything hidden up in the hearts of the trees. Kalliphas slipped as he came down one tree, and twisted his ankle on a pebble. "Gods below! Nikias, this is useless. I don't know why you suspect the light keeper, of all people, but there's nothing here."

Nikias wiped sweat out of his eyes with the back of his arm. He'd grown so used to wearing the bracers that he only noticed them when he felt the warm leather against his brow. "I'm sure I had more endurance when I was your age," he said.

Kalliphas leaned against the tree, and rubbed his ankle. "It's been a week since the murders. Now Kleon's slave girl kills herself, and you immediately decide that she and the keeper were part of the plot?"

"She wasn't part of this plot, but she was working for Kleon. No, not as a mere fetch and heft slave! She was sleeping with the keeper, I know that. He's part of the circle, I know that, too."

Kalliphas put weight on his foot, and winced. "I think you're guessing. You're afraid that the king will lose patience, and start listening to Rathea. Go after Black Salt with the army. If it comes to that, we'll all be bathed in blood, one way or another."

Nikias sighed. "You've got me all summed up, Kalliphas. Shame I'm not behind Black Salt."

"If you were, I would be too."

Nikias had a strange feeling. He studied Kalliphas with narrow, searching eyes, but the young man revealed nothing unusual except discomfort when he walked on his hurt ankle.

"Get that bird," he said, pointing at Sapog's falcon.

"What? Why do you want that?"

"I'm hungry, and I want something tasty for supper."

"But-"

"Get the bird, and rest your ankle. I'll finish here."

He left Kalliphas in the garden. The skin itched on his healing wounds. The bracers had proved excellent at shielding his arms from further injury, but they trapped sweat, and irritated the knife slash. Just then, though, something else was making his skin itch. The sweat gave him an idea. He went to the kitchen, where Sapog had an earthenware oven. The room smelled of saffron, honey and raisins, and it had a tinge of salt.

Good. He wanted salt.

He went through the man's pots until he found the salt jar. He took off the lid and tipped it up, and made the salt cascade on the floor like snow. He shook the pot, and something else fell out, a little scrap of papyrus.

"I have you."

Chapter Seventeen

He shot out of the kitchen, the papyrus tucked in the money pouch at his belt. "Come on," he said to Kalliphas.

Kalliphas had his hands full with the falcon. His hands dripped red where the bird had gashed him. "Already?"

"No time to play. Bring that bird!"

He led Kalliphas to the small temple of Poseidon on the western tip of the island, where the sailors flocked for a blessing before they went fishing. No one wanted to carry a couple of king's men, but he told Kalliphas to offer gold, and they soon found a ride. He sat up at the prow for the whole journey, unable to enjoy the warm sun, or the brilliant view of the city. Not long after, they came to the royal harbour. The harbour guards cursed at the fisherman, but they all but threw themselves on their faces when they say Nikias leap out of the boat.

He raced from the royal harbour to the barracks, Kalliphas struggling to keep up, swearing one moment at his swollen ankle, and the next at the bloodthirsty falcon. His hobbling gait, coupled with his odd grey hair made him look even more like an old man.

"Take me to the prisoner," said Nikias to the surprised old clerk in the barracks office.

"Prisoner? We have no prisoners," said the clerk, a shaky greybeard.

"What? No pri- Ah!" He slapped his forehead, and rounded on Kalliphas. "You take me... Take me to our guest."

"Can't we drop this vicious harpy off at the kitchen first? And I'd really love to see a doctor."

"Are you made of soft lead? Is your iron getting rusty?"

Kalliphas grunted in frustration, then he stood to attention, stamping his feet by reflex. He gasped with pain, but he managed to suck it up, and lead Nikias away.

Minutes later they came to the dark cellars under the barracks house. Cold, dim, and damp, they often made Nikias think of old stories of king Minos and the Minotaur. Today his mind was too full to ponder ancient tales, and he soon pushed Kalliphas aside, taking the lead as they went deeper into the cellars. He knew them better than any young officer, and soon they stood outside the cell where the men had taken Sapog.

"Any trouble?" said Kalliphas.

The guard outside the cell rubbed his arm. "He struggled a bit; he didn't want to go in there."

Nikias moved to the door, but Kalliphas held him back. "Dangerous?"

"No," the guard shook his head. "He's so fat that Morpho strained his back from shoving. He went to the doctor. I hurt my arm, but it's okay."

"Come on," said Nikias, and he stabbed his finger at the bar that held the door shut.

The guard snapped to attention, and he lifted the bar.

Nikias threw the door open and pushed past Kalliphas and the guard, both of whom tried to get in first to make sure it was safe. His eyes struggled to make anything out of the shadows in the dingy little cell. One high, barred window let in a trickle of light, but all it revealed was a man's shadow. The air tasted bad, like sweat and filth. The guard got a lamp and held it over his shoulder, throwing a light on the room's occupant. Nikias felt a pain in the centre of his chest, like a punch in the solar plexus.

Sapog bent towards him, kneeling as if making obeisance to a king. His hands rested on his great paunch, and his head was bowed. Stretched behind him, reaching up to the bars in the high window, his silk scarf shone red in the light, all the way down to his neck.

He'd strangled himself.

Nikias whirled around, his hands squeezed into tight fists. He saw the guard's eyes open so wide they seemed to be all white, and his face went first pale and then green. Kalliphas leaned around the guard, craning his neck to see into the cell. When he realised what had happened, he shoved the guard aside, grabbed the lamp, and pushed forwards to bend over the corpse.

"I swear, sir," said the guard. "I didn't hear a thing. He didn't cry out. He didn't even squeal."

"No wonder," said Kalliphas. "He stuffed this rag in his own mouth."

Nikias still couldn't speak. All his hope, his excitement at having got closer to Black Salt, had drained away, replaced by sick, helpless fury. He wanted to grab the guard and shake him. He wanted to beat the life back into Sapog. He'd worked so hard to get this far. How could the man steal it like this? How could he dare?

"You're relieved," said Kalliphas, and the guard almost ran from the cell.

Nikias rounded on the young officer. "When did you get a promotion?"

"I had to send him away."

"When I woke up this morning, I was the king's battle lord, not Kalliphas. That rock headed monkey needs to be punished."

Kalliphas raised his hands in a calming, soothing gesture, as if he thought he could treat Nikias like a recalcitrant horse. "I thought the Hellenic word was strategos."

Nikias sighed. The stab wound on his arm hurt, and he tried to rub it through the bracer, but the leather proved too thick.

"That man is already in Hades, sir. You saw his face. Iakos, that's his name, he let us both down, and if you punish him you'll just make him think he's useless."

"He is useless!"

"Give him another chance. Show him there's still hope, that you still trust him. I promise you, he'll never make this mistake again."

Insubordination!

Nikias wanted to lock Kalliphas in the cell until he learned to obey. Then his eyes slipped to the corpse, still hanging from the long silk scarf, and he realised how stupid this was. He couldn't afford to battle his men, he couldn't let his frustration at failing to hunt down Black Salt make him turn on them and make them enemies.

He had enough enemies.

The anger flowed out, and he felt tired. He drew his dagger. Kalliphas froze, which made him laugh. "Peace, young grey pate. I am done with our argument." He grabbed the scarf, and cut it. Sapog keeled onto his face.

"There were so many things I wanted to ask you," he said to the corpse. "What is Black Salt? Why did you try to kill the king, and Kleon, and... Me?"

"I thought Kleon told you about that," said Kalliphas.

"He told me what he knew," said Nikias. "Or what he suspected. But why here, and why now... And where they are!"

He kicked the body, and then felt guilty.

"You found something at his house, sir."

He had. He'd forgotten about that. "A scrap of papyrus, with Egyptian writing. I wanted him to tell me what it meant."

Kalliphas frowned. "Can you read Egyptian?"

"No, I don't know what it says."

"So how can you be sure...?"

He laughed. "I found it in the salt jar."

They eyed each other. Kalliphas shook his head. "That's as weak as butter in the sun."

"Unless you've got something stronger? Then let's go find ourselves an Egyptian."

Chapter Eighteen

As they were leaving the barracks, a runner with sweat rolling down his face dashed up to them. "You weren't in your office, sir," he said.

Nikias rolled his eyes. "I had noticed." He turned away.

"Sir, I bring an urgent message."

"I have work to do."

"Sir, please. It's from the king."

Nikias shut his eyes and massaged his brow. "What does Bull G- What does my king command?"

"There's a problem. You're needed at the palace."

Kalliphas straightened up. "I could take the note and find someone to read it."

Nikias looked at him sidelong. "Come along," he said. "I need someone I can rely on to watch my back. If we don't finish soon, the palace is going to become a slaughterhouse."

Chapter Nineteen

They marched into the palace grounds. Nikias began to feel he'd spent enough time in the hard sun. His head hurt, his mouth had gone dry, and his tongue felt thick. As they approached the palace, he looked down into the royal harbour, at the shining blue water. He licked his lips.

They passed the first of the palace gardens, and a young man rushed out, a slight youth with floppy hair and a fuzzy scrap of beard. He ran at Nikias.

Nikias paused and half-drew his sword, and the young man skidded to a halt. "What did I tell you before, Leonadorus?"

"Leontas."

Nikias ignored him, and started on again. Kalliphas, who had tensed when he saw Nikias go for his sword, relaxed and followed him a pace or two behind.

Leontas yelped, and scrambled to keep up.

"Sir, we didn't get a chance to talk before-"

"You were too busy pissing yourself."

Kalliphas snorted with laughter.

"Sir, I really love your daughter, and I want your blessing for our marriage."

"If you want a blessing, go to a temple."

"You said I couldn't keep her safe. I've thought about that, and I've heard the talk of the city. They say these madmen attacked you, with your daughter right there. They attacked you, and they ignored her."

Nikias clenched his jaw, and spoke through his teeth. "You think the bronze talons are my only enemies?"

"If I take her to another city, Syracuse or Thebes, no one will know she's your daughter. We could even go to Athens."

Athens! The boy dared to suggest Athens. Nikias shot him a scowl that left him frozen.

They marched into the palace. Leontas stood outside, watching.

Chapter Twenty

"The gods demand it!"

They entered the great hall, a vast chamber filled with ranks of marble columns to support the post and lintel structure. The walls were swathed with green and blue silk drapes, and the gilded columns gleamed. There were no windows, but burnished brass mirrors reflected light in from the garden, and made the hall glow. Incense burners scented the air with the perfume of roses. The varnished cedar throne glittered with pearl studs, and had enough thick red and purple cushions for a man to sink down and sleep.

Ptolemaios was not sleeping.

He perched on the edge of the throne, chewing his nails. Beside him, Rathea sat upright, her face hard and regal. She wore a silk himation the colour of blood.

"The gods cry out for it, and in our mortal pride we ignore their will. But you cannot go against the gods. That is why they send us these afflictions, to mortify our will, and lead us into the way of obedience."

Garantzis, high priest of Poseidon, was the oldest man in Alexandria, and he looked like the oldest man in the world. If he had once had any flesh, time had wasted it until it left him with a skeleton wrapped in skin, baked nut brown and wrinkled by the sun. His face had so little meat it looked like a skull painted brown. In spite of his rank, he wore the simplest of undyed linen robes, and carried a staff carved from a tree washed up on the shore, a gift from Poseidon. Some men said he was a thousand years old, and had sailed, as a boy, with Jason. Some men would say anything, but the most conservative agreed he had to pushing a hundred, and yet the older he got, the more zest animated his skeletal frame.

His yellow eyes burned.

"If we do not satisfy the gods, if we, who count our age in years and not in aeons, call ourselves wise and mock the divine command, the gods will smite this city, and cast it below the waves."

Ptolemaios drew breath, and leaned forward to speak, but Rathea put a hand on his upper arm, and he fell silent.

"Please speak on, dear Garantzis," she said.

"My lady is wise to desire to follow the gods' will. She will make an excellent queen."

"Not yet, I fear," she said, looking sideways at Ptolemaios, who slumped into the cushions of his throne.

"But soon! Soon," said Garantzis. "A royal wedding must take place. These deaths, these killings, this time of unrest... These plagues, drownings and unnatural storms! They are the signs of Poseidon's wrath."

Ptolemaios rallied. "We have yet to hear from the Delphic oracle. We must know the right, the propitious day."

"When you act to please the gods," said Garantzis. "Every day is propitious."

"The- The city is far from safe. The circle of Black Salt menaces us all. I do not fear for myself, but for my dear, my beloved sister. Until-"

Rathea broke in. "Here comes your guardling now. Brought news have you? Come to tell us you've killed the chief of these bandits, and spiked his head outside the palace?"

Nikias bent his head, frowning. "No spikes yet, my lady. I was told-"

"Then why are you wasting your time here?"

He struggled not to show his frustration. "A messenger came and-"

"Get back outside, and scour every filth-riddled gutter. Don't come back without that head!"

He bit his tongue, and backed away, bowing. When they got to the end of the hall, Kalliphas spoke in an angry whisper. "What a waste of time, and so unfair! We might have made a breakthrough, and they had to waste our time-"

Nikias patted his shoulder, and jerked his head at the manservant hurrying towards them.

"My lords, you must attend the king and qu- You must attend the king. At once!"

Nikias gave him a bland smile, and Kalliphas rolled his eyes, and muttered about waste. They marched back along the length of the hall, but it looked as though nothing had changed. Garantzis had gone into another harangue, and he emphasised each point by banging the end of his staff against the floor. Ptolemaios flinched each time.

"The gods rule earth."

Bang.

"And the heavens."

Bang.

"And the world below!"

Bang.

"Mortal safety is not in your hands, oh king. The gods do not love a coward. They love the obedient servant!"

Bang.

Ptolemaios put his head in his hands, and massaged his temples. He looked pale and queasy, and the dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept for a week. With his best servants murdered, and the circle's bronze dagger haunting every shadow, and with bloodthirsty Rathea needling him daily about marriage, a sentence worse than death in her case, it was no wonder that he looked so weary and hunted. Nikias had seen that look in the eyes of a Scythian black haired fighting bear, thrown into a pit with hungry dogs every day at noon, gambled on by a roaring crowd. In the early days, the bear had fought with savage instinct, and torn the dogs apart. After some weeks, though, the beast had learned something; you could see it in his eyes. He'd realised that it didn't matter how many dogs he killed; there would always be more.

It was the look of dead hope.

The bear had kept fighting, but it fought with half its speed and power. One day, facing a Thracian mastiff, it had batted the dog into a fury and then left its own throat exposed. The mastiff had sprung up and bitten through the bear's neck, ripping open windpipe and arteries, and let out a crimson torrent that had soaked the bear's black hair.

Nikias had been in the crowd that day, hunting a gang of pickpockets. He'd seen the bear give up. He'd seen it choose to die. That was what he thought of, when he looked at Bull Gut's face.

"I hear your words, Garantzis of Poseidon," said the king. "The gods rule the water in the sea, and the blood in my heart. I am nothing before-"

Rathea hissed. "You are king!"

His jaw trembled. "Y-yes. And as commoners must obey me, I must acquiesce to the gods' will. Let us say... Three weeks?"

Rathea winced.

"Two!" he said. "Two weeks from now. Will this please the gods?"

Garantzis ruffled his brow, and appeared to sink into a state of reflection, but Nikias caught him exchange looks with Rathea. Then he beamed, and threw his hands wide as if to embrace the king. "The gods will take you back into their hearts. They will love you, and they will shower your kingdom with treasures. Your fields will be abundant. Your armies will be magnificent. Your line will not fail in a thousand generations."

"Thank you," said Rathea.

"Your children-"

"Thank you, noble priest," she said through her teeth.

Garantzis bowed, and walked out.

Ptolemaios shrank, and hung his head. He looked a beaten man.

Rathea tried not to grin. "Oh, it's you two again. Well? Have you strangled the Nemean lion while we've been fixing fate?"

"You-"

"As you're here, you may as well listen. You heard about the wedding. That's very good. Now look you," she eyed Nikias with venom. "I want this circle nonsense finished. If anything disturbs my wedding, you will pay with your right arm."

He had heard many threats in his time. Few bothered him. This one chilled his insides, and left him pale.

"And that is just the start! Your pretty little daughter is almost old enough to be married off."

He tensed, and had to clench his jaw to keep from shouting.

"If you don't sweep away the bad salt, I'll do such things to her that no man will want her. You won't be able to buy her a husband, no, not even if you were Croesus himself!"

He fixed his eyes on the floor, and didn't dare to move. His hands itched for his sword.

"That's enough. Go."

He stood still for a moment. If he struck now...

"Are you still here? One more thing. Get your men ready. I want you to draw up lists of all the dissidents, the deceivers, the reluctant subjects..."

This surprised him. "Lists?"

"The plague-ridden, the constant debtors, oh, and the violent. Get your men ready to seize them all."

"Seize them!"

"This is an old house. It's going to need cleaning."

Chapter Twenty One

Nikias marched back into the city, Kalliphas hurrying to keep up. "A purge," said Kalliphas. "She's talking about a purge!"

He didn't answer.

"Writing those lists... It'll be like writing an order of death!"

"Really? You worked that out."

Kalliphas gave a frustrated sob. "Chief, if we write those lists... Every person on them will die. And you know what's worse?"

"Yes, I know."

Kalliphas answered his own question anyway. "We won't just be writing those death orders. We'll be-"

"I know!"

"We'll be the executioners!"

Nikias shook his head, and marched faster, forcing Kalliphas to strain to keep up.

"Chief... Nikias. I can't do it. It'll be murder. I didn't join the guard to murder citizens."

"Then leave," said Nikias.

Kalliphas froze, and Nikias felt his eyes burn into the back of his neck, but he kept on marching towards the city.

It took Kalliphas a full minute, but he decided to follow, because Nikias heard him run up. "I can't leave," he said, gasping for breath.

"Yes you can."

"...Well you can't!"

Nikias slowed down, and stopped. He drew his sword, and looked at his warped reflection in the iron. He felt as cold and heavy as iron.

Chapter Twenty Two

"Well? Can you read it?"

The scribe wrinkled his brow and then his nose. He peered at the papyrus with watery green eyes. "Did you fish this scrap out of the sea, mm? It stinks of salt!"

His office was neat, too neat. The walls, inside as well as out, had been whitewashed, the floor tiles formed a mosaic image of the bird-headed god Thoth, and he gleamed. The old man sat in a hard, high backed chair, in contrast to his bent spine. He had tufts of grey hair poking out of his nose and ears, and a few wisps oiled flat across his weathered brow. He smelled of rancid oil.

"I don't care about the smell," said Nikias. "Can you read it?"

"Mm? Some sailor's hobby is it?"

Nikias and Kalliphas exchanged puzzled looks.

"Listen old man, this is important. A lot of lives are riding on this horse."

"Gliding? Mm, I see, it flew out across the bay and splashed down."

Nikias turned his back on the scribe, and bit down on his frustration.

Kalliphas leaned closer to the scribe, and yelled in his ear. "This is important guard business! For the king!"

"Mm, good."

Kalliphas waited for something more, and when the scribe did nothing, he threw his hands in the air, and turned away. "Your turn," he said.

Nikias crouched down in front of the scribe. He took a gold coin from his purse, and saw the scribe's eyes sparkle. "Good," he said. He pointed at his eyes, and then at the papyrus. "Read."

The scribe snatched the coin.

"Well?"

"This is old Egyptian," he said. "You have to go to the, mm, the library."

Kalliphas groaned.

Chapter Twenty Three

Maybe it was the breeze, blowing in from the sea. Maybe it was the stink from the harbour, where the bustling ships had got so packed together that they almost couldn't move, and what few gaps remained had been plugged with small boats, turning the bay into a mass of jostling wood. Sailors and fishermen swore at one another, blocked in, trapped by the need to finish business before dark, and the curfew. Fresh fish could smell appealing, but after they'd lain in a heap in the hot sun, they let out foul humours that clogged the nose and made the eyes weep.

Maybe it was the breeze itself, not cool as a breeze should be on a summer's day, but warm and uncomfortable. It should have made him feel more alive, but instead it felt stifling. Nikias wanted to leave the city. He longed for the green farms of Hellas, and the clear mountain air of Parnassos. He had to shove his way through the thronging streets, where every face was a stranger, perhaps an assassin coming to make another attempt on his life, and the few who did recognise him averted their eyes in fear, and cursed him when he passed on.

The curfew might have saved lives, he would never know.

It had not made him friends.

"It reeks like Hades," said Kalliphas, voicing his thoughts. "I'm starting to believe Garantzis. We must have offended the gods."

He ignored him. He'd heard the same story half a dozen times each day, as if the citizens shared a single mind. They longed for something to break the gods' curse, and restore their lives to normal. They would welcome a royal wedding, even if it did make Rathea their queen. If Black Salt made no more trouble, the people would forget them, oblivious to the danger. They might even believe the wedding had appeased the gods, and Black Salt had served only as an agent of Olympian will.

What would a wedding accomplish?

They'll be happy for a day, he thought. "Then her purges will make their lives worse than they are today."

"Sir, Nikias, even you can't stop a royal wedding."

He froze, and stared at Kalliphas with his mouth hanging open. "I never- I didn't- I wouldn't!"

Kalliphas blushed. "Sorry! I thought- I mean, we heard what she said, and I thought you might..."

"What? I might what? Commit treason?"

Kalliphas swallowed, and pushed his palms outwards. "Woah, no, I didn't mean-"

"I'm no gods' cursed traitor!"

Kalliphas's jaw fell open, his eyes went wide, and he waved his hands. "No, no, I- You-"

Nikias felt anger like an ember that smouldered in his heart. It hurt, and yet it felt enticing, as if the pain might somehow change to fierce joy if he let that ember burn. He looked at Nikias, and felt its heat in his eyes, and for a moment the young officer with the grey hair of a grandfather didn't look like a man. Nikias saw his eyes, big, soft and weak. He saw his neck, where the veins stood out, easy to slash. He saw his bare chest, broad and strong, but easy to pierce with a blade, even those pathetic antiques the circle favoured.

He looked at Kalliphas, but all he saw were targets.

In fear, then, that he might do something stupid and irrevocable, he turned his back on Kalliphas, and marched towards the library at top speed. As he went, he wished that Kalliphas would leave him alone. He wished the king would leave him alone, that the entire city would stop begging him for protection when everything he tried made them more upset.

All I want is to be with my family, he thought. Just us together, away from all the intrigue, the stupid crimes and the hateful crimes, away from all the murders.

All I want is to keep my family safe. Why is that so hard?

He turned a corner, and the marble walls of the library rose before him. An oil warehouse across the street had burnt down overnight, and the once-pristine marble was stained with greasy black soot all down one side. The other sides had escaped worst of it, but the marble still bore thick black marks, left by the roiling tendrils of smoke. The air stank of bitter smoke, rancid olives, and burnt flesh.

It brought Nikias out of his reverie of fury, as he stopped and took in the scene of destruction. The warehouse had been built of wood, with wattle and daub walls painted with whitewash. The fire had reduced it to a heap of ashes, and the few beams that had survived the fire now jutted out, black and jagged like black stumps of broken bone.

He saw wooden buckets lined up along the ruin, and a few haggard old Egyptians now raked the ash, looking for burning coals. Perhaps they had owned the warehouse, or had worked there. Perhaps they were just good citizens, the kind who would give a thirsty man a drink of mixed wine in a clean cup.

Kalliphas had caught up. Facing the ruin, Nikias felt glad to see him.

"Garantzis will weave this into a wedding dress," said Nikias.

"Although he speaks for the world below, he sure clings to this one."

Nikias laughed.

They went up to the entrance of the library, but they couldn't go straight in. The way was blocked by a throng of tubby men with black beards, hooked noses, and shabby yellow and blue robes. Their clothes had a silken glimmer, but when Nikias got closer, he saw they were just cloth, with some kind of pretty dye. The men ranted at one of the librarians, an Egyptian scribe with no eyebrows. Nikias recognised their language as a variety of Carthaginian, similar to Lorcas's tongue, but he didn't speak it. Neither did the scribe, who affected a haughty air, and talked down his nose at them in Egyptian. He was flanked by a couple of burly, spear-equipped guards, from the library's private detachment. The men of Carthage took stock of the spears, and switched to passable, if accented Greek.

"Secrets of our trade," one of them said.

"Craft secrets!"

"Mysteries of art!"

"Give us back our scrolls!"

At first the librarian cupped his ears, and frowned. Then he gave a fake gasp, and nodded. "Oh, so you do speak a civilised language."

This incensed the Carthaginians, who cursed at him.

"When you jabber like that, I really can't make out what you mean."

"Give us back our blessed scrolls!"

Nikias had heard enough. "King's business," he shouted in a parade ground voice.

The men of Carthage turned, and regarded him with beetling, bushy browed eyes. "You call this a kingdom?" said one

"You call this a business?" said another.

Even the harassed scribe didn't look pleased to see him.

"No one likes us," he said to Kalliphas.

"Association with the guard has a high death rate," said Kalliphas.

"You can't treat us like this," said the burliest trader, a man with eyebrows so thick and a hairline so low that he looked as if he was covered in black fur.

"Just move aside," said Nikias. "You'll get your scrolls back after the library scribes have copied them."

"Stolen them!"

The scribe cleared his throat. "Actually, we keep the originals. You can have the copies, once we have finished them, if you ask for them in a civilised manner."

A hush fell on the crowd, and then the Carthaginian traders began to roar louder than before.

"I don't have time for this idiocy," said Nikias. He sidled up to the burly, furry man, twisted him by the shoulder, and swept his feet out from under him. The trader thudded down on his back. Nikias cradled his head on the way down, and made sure it didn't smash and splatter his brains over the steps of the library.

The crowd fell silent again, but he could sense danger in the air.

"I am chief of the king's guards," he said. "And I am hunting men who tried to kill him."

He paused, and eyed them.

"I need to get in the library. If you stand in my path, you will be helping the assassins. I will arrest you, and chain you up in a cell."

He saw their faces blanch. One man spoke up. "Carthage will not accept such treatment of her men."

"Carthage is a long way from here."

They helped their leader up, and left the library, muttering and cursing under their breath.

The scribe with no eyebrows led them into the library. The air was cooler inside, and it had a musty smell. The wooden floor creaked underfoot. So little light reached inside the building that it felt like walking with eyes closed. Nikias blinked several times, and as his vision began to adjust, he made out rows and rows of book shelves. The wood was old and cracked, and every shelf was laden with scrolls, parchments and papyri, thousands of them. From somewhere deeper in the building, he heard the sound of numerous pens, scribbling as they copied every book brought into the city.

Kalliphas banged his shin on a bookcase. "Ga! It's far too dark in here!"

The scribe said nothing, but the way he wound through the library suggested contempt.

"You there," said Kalliphas. "Get some lights going."

The scribe didn't bother to pause or turn. "You saw the fire."

Kalliphas started to curse, but then he sighed, and settled for muttering under his breath.

They came to the chief librarian's office. Nikias felt uneasy. The last time he'd been near the library, he'd spoken to Kleon. Kleon! His old friend had still been alive, even if an assassin's venom was flowing in his blood. Back then he'd been angry, furious that anyone would dare try and murder him. Now his anger had cooled, and what he felt most was fear. Not for his own life, but for his family.

Unless he stopped them, Black Salt would strike again. They might have learned from their mistakes, and make the second wave an unstoppable onslaught. The city would fall into chaos. He had to stop them. And yet, even if he did, Bull Gut's marriage to Rathea would unleash a purge that would turn the streets to rivers of blood!

"Well?" said the scribe. "Did you come here for a reason, or do you just like the smell of wisdom?"

Nikias realised he'd been lost in his thoughts, and they'd been waiting for him.

"Come on," he said.

They entered the chief librarian's office. Someone had chipped a hole in the wall, and sunlight shone in, to be reflected by a burnished bronze shield set high on the opposite wall. The makeshift mirror cast the librarian's desk into brilliant light, although it left the rest of the chamber in deep shadow. The librarian was an old Egyptian with a high forehead, a nose like the beak of an ibis, and eyes like black olives. A bowl of dried dates and figs sat on his desk, and he kept chewing the shrivelled fruit all the time. It lent the air a sweet scent, but the librarian's fine linen tunic bore many little marks, from where the juice of the fruit had slopped down.

"No, no, no," he said. "No time." He squinted at the parchment on the table in front of him, hummed, sucked his teeth, and then he laughed. "Ha, no. Wrong, wrong, wrong!"

Nikias and Kalliphas exchanged a raised eyebrow look, and then Nikias leaned over the desk. "I'm here on the king's business," he said.

The scribe with no eyebrows slipped out, shaking his head. Nikias had a feeling the man was laughing at him.

The chief librarian spat out a date seed, which clanged in a copper bowl on his desk, splashing both the parchment, and Nikias's thigh. "Hrrm hrrm. Wrong, all wrong!"

"I really am," said Nikias. "Don't you know my face? I've been here since-"

"Oh, the grammar is all right, I'll grant you that much. Well, it's passable. And the language is Sumerian, yes, I'll grant you that."

"You will?"

Nikias felt baffled. He often encountered violent, dangerous men. He often met liars and thieves. On occasion he dealt with nobles, who preferred to pretend he didn't exist and wouldn't matter even if he did. This was the first time he met someone who didn't even notice him.

The chief librarian popped another date into his mouth, and bit into it. Sweet brown juice trickled from the corners of his lips. "But the language, though written in 'Sumerian'," he waggled his eyebrows for emphasis, "has late Babylonian syntax! You must see what that means!"

"I must?"

He peered at the parchment. It looked as if a chicken had waded in ink, and then danced all over it.

"It's fake! It's not Sumerian at all, just a forgery put together by some half-clever scribe with gambling debts. He's got a good hand with the pen, but if the guards catch him scribbling this kind of thing, his days of forging will be over. Whoosh, chop, no hands!"

He spat out another seed, and cackled.

"That's all very good, but I'm here from the guard, and I need you to-"

"But that's not the funniest part! This 'story'," he waggled his eyebrows, "is written on parchment. Parchment! They didn't even have parchment in Sumerian times. Poor chaps had to do all their writing on clods of clay. Imagine! If you wanted to have a copy of the Iliad, you'd need a building as big as this library, just for that." He shook his head. "Poor Sumerians."

Nikias felt an urge to strangle the old librarian until he was as dead as the Sumerians. He fought it down. He felt the blood hot in his body, as his frustration rose. He couldn't think of a better man to help him decipher Sapog's note, but he'd never expected to find anyone so oblivious. He needed to catch the old man's attention. He made a silent prayer to Athena.

She answered him.

He swept the forged Sumerian story off the table.

The chief librarian was so surprised he swallowed a date seed, and then he coughed it out.

Before the old fellow could say a word, Nikias whipped out the note, and slammed it down on the table, so hard that the copper bowl tumbled over the side, spilling moist seeds all over the floor.

The chief librarian stared at him, and then he stared at the note. A change came over his face. His big black eyes showed a rim of white, his juice stained lips fell apart, and a thin stream of dark saliva trickled down his chin.

He bent over the note, and his lips quivered. At first Nikias thought it was a sign of dotage, and then he saw the old man was forming words.

He was reading!

"Tell me what it says. Translate!"

The chief librarian looked up at Nikias, and all of the vibrant energy and humour he had shown before had drained from his face. His eyes were wide, his lips and cheeks were slack and pale. His hands began to tremble. He looked like an old man, a frightened old man.

"You. Y-you..."

Kalliphas shot forwards and banged the table. "Stop wasting our time, you dithering old skeleton."

Nikias put a hand on Kalliphas's arm. He didn't want the old fellow to have a heart attack.

"I, I can't."

"You have to," said Kalliphas.

"This is very important," said Nikias. "It is a matter dear to the king's heart. He will thank you for your aid."

"But I can't. Who are you fellows? What are you doing in my library?"

"We work for the king. Isn't there something you need? Something you could use around the library? A new roof, perhaps, or an extension to house more scribes, so the copying can go faster. You might like to have stouter walls and more guards, to keep out the trouble makers who object when you 'borrow' their scrolls."

The chief librarian took a deep breath, and some colour came back into his face. He chewed his lip, and then he put three dates in his mouth at once. "Maybe. Maybe..." His eyes flicked back and forth, from the scroll to the men, and to the door.

"Please."

The chief librarian looked into the middle distance, eyes glazed, as if he could see something invisible to the others. At last he nodded. "I'll need your help."

The chief librarian led them out of his office, and into the stacks. He swivelled his head, and blinked at the scrolls as if surprised to see them. The library looked dim after the reflected sun in the office. It made his companions into eerie shadows, and Nikias tensed up. His hand slipped onto the hilt of his sword, but he pulled his hand away. The librarian looked so nervous that his heart might give up at any moment. Even so, Nikias moved with caution, and tried to keep his back to a stack or a wall. He didn't like it when he couldn't see danger coming.

"We didn't come here for a tour of the building," said Kalliphas.

"Hrrmhrrm, yes," said the librarian, as he weighed a scroll in his hand, and peered at the title. "Oh, no!" He put it back, and Nikias noticed he'd left it in a different place from where he'd found it. He led them away, shaking his head. Now and again he glanced back at them, and he jumped every time he saw they were still there.

Kalliphas folded his arms, and tapped his foot. "We didn't come here for our health, either, oh sublime master of knowledge."

"Endormax, call me Endormax. My mother did, and I can't think why. I always wanted to be called Thothmes, for the god, you know. Thoth... I try to do your work, but life among mortals is hard."

Nikias and Kalliphas exchanged a look. Kalliphas stroked his sword, but Nikias shook his head.

"Listen, Endormax, this is urgent. We need you to-"

"Read that scroll, eh, young fellow?" The old librarian picked his way along a shelf as he spoke, and every time he examined a scroll, his hands kicked up a puff of dust.

"Well, yes-"

"And you think old Endormax is a withered ancient? An old dotard who dribbles down his tunic, and can't remember what a sparkling young guard said to him but a minute ago? Hrrmhrrm?"

Nikias blinked.

"Perhaps you think old Endormax is wandering about his library with all the intelligence of a drunken sailor in a street of perfumed whores!"

Nikias and Kalliphas exchanged another look. This time, Nikias saw his confusion mirrored in the younger man's face, the way his eyebrows pushed up, and his lips formed a twisted circle.

"I need this, I need that," said Endormax. He gave up on one shelf, and switched to another. "Well, you should have learned to read first, shouldn't you? Hrrmhrrm."

Both men were too surprised to be angry. Nobody ever spoke to them this way. Plenty of men cursed and threatened them, but no one ever talked to them as if they were small boys. It gave Nikias a sense of exasperation mixed with amusement, and a tinge of vertigo.

"Do you plan to teach us?" asked Kalliphas, his words soaked with sarcasm. "Because I don't think we have enough time."

Nikias frowned at him. "We were hoping we could borrow your learning. Who better to read a mysterious note than the master of the library?"

"Mm. It's not as easy as that, dear gods, no. This note," he waved it at them, "is written in patchwork Egyptian."

"Patchwork?"

"A word from the third dynasty, another from the fifth. Language changes, you know. Something our forger friend never learned!"

"But it's all Egyptian," said Kalliphas.

"I understand," said Nikias. "I can't grasp half the things my daughter says to me. I know all the words, but she makes them into a different language."

Endormax turned his big black eyes on them, sniffed, and shook his head. "I try, Thoth knows I try. Hrrmhrrm. So, we can't read the note without matching each word to the age from which it was borrowed. We have to get original Egyptian references from those ages, and then line them up with the writing in the note."

"So let's get started," said Kalliphas.

Endormax sighed. "What do you think I've been doing?"

Kalliphas blushed. Even in the dingy stacks, his face glowed red.

Once again, Nikias had the feeling of being a small boy. He pictured himself in his father's garden, in Athens, listening to his white haired old tutor reprimand him for being a wastrel who'd never learn.

"Let us help you," he said.

Endormax twitched, and his face twisted as if he wanted to smile and cry at the same time. He raised a hand to his mouth, just like when he was eating dates, and looked surprised when he found it was empty.

"You need to find this sign," he said. He showed each of them a picture from the note. Nikias got a hawk, and Kalliphas got a sifting basket. He set each of them to search a different row of shelves, while he looked for several other old Egyptian papyri, which he promised would help them to interpret the note.

Nikias had searched many houses, ships and wagons. He'd seized contraband and stolen goods, and sometimes he'd rescued victims of kidnap. Never before had he hunted a maze of scrolls for a fugitive word. Everything he did kicked up little clouds of dust that hung in the air and tickled his eyes and nose. He had little idea what the scroll he needed would look like, other than being written in Egyptian, which he couldn't read.

The library was quiet.

He worked along a shelf, looking for anything Egyptian. He began to feel uneasy. Something cold crawled through his belly.

The library was quiet, except for Kalliphas, a few rows away, cursing at the scrolls, and someone else, walking in a slow, cautious manner.

He went back to his search, but the cold feeling got worse, and he felt chilly sweat break out on his brow. He didn't understand it. The library was safe. No thieves ever bothered to come here; there was no gold, no treasure but learning, and thieves never troubled themselves over that. It wasn't hot enough to make him sweat.

He heard those footsteps again, and then the creak of a door.

He looked at the scroll in his hands. It wasn't even in Egyptian. What a waste of time! His heart kicked in his chest; he dropped the scroll, and headed out of the stacks. When he saw the door, he started to run.

"Nikias?" called Kalliphas. "Is that you?"

He didn't have time to answer.

He burst through the door, into the blinding light of day.

Through the crowd, he saw Endormax, running as fast as his old legs could go.

"No!"

He ran.

Chapter Twenty Four

Endormax had a head start. He had already crossed the square in front of the library, and had managed to put a crowd between himself and Nikias.

It looked as though the warehouse fire hadn't scared the stallholders who liked to work in that square, for they had wheeled along their handcarts and trolleys, and raised up their tents of red, green and blue, and now they sold sugarcane, dried figs, honeyed apples, and many kinds of meat rolled and baked in pastry. One stallholder put on a puppet show, and he'd drawn a crowd of children who gaped in awe at the story of Teta the magician. Nearby, a hairy, barrel-chested man danced on his hands, and juggled swords with his feet. The square had the enticing yeasty aroma of a good bakery, and was alive with the stallholders' voices, urging people to buy their wares, and the laughter of children, delighted at the shows.

Nikias dashed down the steps, and plunged into the mass of people. As soon as he entered the crowd, he lost sight of Endormax, and as men and women packed close upon him, he couldn't make out any landmarks to guide him. He shoved his way through the press, trusting his instinct to guide him.

From outside, the crowd had looked like a pleasant scene. Once in it, he found it felt too hot, people jostled him, and a little girl with pigtails ran stepped on his feet as she ran, screaming with laughter. The sweet scent of honeyed apples and dried figs was replaced with the up close smell of human bodies; their sweat, one woman's unwashed hair, and the rancid oil another wore, or worse, the excessive amounts of perfumed powder that an elephantine old woman wore, they combined in the air to assault his nose.

He kept moving towards the other side, but something odd was happening. The crowd kept getting thicker, so that every way he looked, he saw a bigger mass of bodies. He moved up from shoving to shouting, but he couldn't hear his own voice. He stepped it up, and began to use a vicious combination of elbow jabs and toe stomps to clear a path.

It worked.

He started to make progress, albeit with a trail of moans and curses at his back. He was careful around small children; quite apart from their delicate bones, they tended to bite. He burst out of the crowd, sweaty and tired. He found himself at the near end of the street where he'd last seen Endormax.

The aged librarian had vanished.

Nikias didn't waste time cursing fate and the gods. He hurled himself down the street, running as fast as he could. No matter how much of a head start the old man had, he could never outrun a soldier in his prime.

He kicked up dirt as he ran along the unpaved street, and bits of grit got into his sandals. He ignored the irritation. The buildings on either side were two-storey brick houses, but this had to be a poor neighbourhood; the walls hadn't been whitewashed in years, and the bricks were crumbling. The second storey of each house, which blocked out the sun, and left Nikias running through shadows, was really no more than a wooden shack. Flimsy, in comparison with the brick of the first storey, it was also light enough not to overstress the cheap brickwork.

The street curved, and kept the far end hidden from view. He pushed himself to pass the middle, expecting to catch sight of his quarry. He had so many questions for Endormax. Now he remembered Kleon had said he'd suspected the circle had a man in the library. Endormax was one of them!

He passed the middle of the long street, and skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust, his jaw slack.

The street was empty.

"It's the ring of Gyges all over again," he muttered to himself. He looked back to check. Perhaps Endormax had burrowed under the earth, or he had grown wings and taken to the air, but he was not on that street.

He frowned, and turned hard eyes on the rows of houses. Another suspicion formed in his mind. "Why this street? Why not flee to a ship in the harbour, or a boat on the canal? Why not make for a stable, and ride a horse out of the city?"

Could it be that Endormax had led him to the circle of Black Salt's headquarters?

He began to backtrack, looking at the houses for a sign that the librarian had gone inside. He saw nothing, but he kept looking. As he did, he heard the wooden creak of someone walking on old floorboards. He looked up, and saw a young mother, baby in one arm, lean out of an upper window, an earthenware jug in her free hand. She sprinkled water on flowers that hung in a basket outside her window.

Frustrated, he looked down, and tried to kick the grit out of his sandals. The action made the annoying particles dig deeper between his toes.

He heard that creaking again, and shook his head. He'd come so close. He'd been in the same room as Endormax. If only he'd known!

The creaking sounded again, and this time he noticed it wasn't coming from in front; it was coming from behind him. Probably just another housebound mother, tending to her duties. It must be a poor area, he thought. The women here can't afford to keep a slave. He heard the creaking noise again, and it sounded familiar. He wasn't sure why, but it reminded him of the library.

The library. Endormax had tricked him at the library. He spun around, and shot his gaze at the upper storey of the house. He saw a high forehead, and big black eyes peering at him over a beak of a nose, all in an instant, and then they vanished.

Somehow Endormax had got up on the roof of the house!

It might have been prudent, he later reflected, to have gone into the house, and climbed the stairs.

He didn't care for prudence. He rushed at the house, grabbed hold of a jutting brick, and scrabbled up it. The crumbling bricks offered him many hand and foot holds, although they made no promises to hold his weight.

It was a promise they couldn't have kept. He got halfway up the wall, clawing at gaps where bricks had crumbled out, and put his foot on a brick that jutted out at the corner, planning to use it as a step to heave himself up. He began to lift his body, and he caught the edge of the roof with one hand, and was reached up with the other, when the brick broke.

His legs fell out from under him, and yanked his reaching arm away. He scrabbled at the wall with the swinging hand and both feet, scraping skin off his fingers and toes. The sudden drop jerked his left hand, which still clung to the edge of the roof, and he felt himself slip. He came to halt, hanging by his fingers, and as dust fell from the edge of the roof, he saw he had moments before he would crash back down to the street.

He willed strength into his strained fingers, and felt along the wall until he found a cleft that would hold his other hand. He tried to dig his feet into the wall, but all the gaps and crevices seemed to have shrunk. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, and then he put all his force into heaving himself up the wall. With a supreme effort, he got his right hand up to the edge of the roof.

He let himself hang for a few moments, gasping for breath. Sweat rolled down his brow and into his eyes, and though he wanted to wipe it away, he couldn't do a thing about it. "Enough," he muttered, and, using every muscle in his body, he pulled himself up to the roof.

As he crested the top, he saw three things: the blinding glare of the sun, a man's silhouette, and the brick that smashed into his face.

The brilliant light was replaced with abyssal darkness, tinged blood red.

His body felt like Icarus on the wing, lofty and free.

The envious earth rose up and struck him. It pounded the breath out of his lungs, and shook his brains around his skull. Pain followed the blow, a bitter shock in every part and limb, and left him stunned. It felt as if his body was a great brass gong, Endormax had struck him with a hammer, and now his whole body was ringing with agony.

He tried to stand. His legs refused to lift him. He tried again, and succeeded in crawling to his hands and knees. His hands, scraped and smeared with blood, caked with brick dust and dirt, trembled. The blood in his head seared his face from within, in time with his heartbeat.

He heard a scuffling noise from somewhere above.

"Endormax!"

By the sound of it, the old librarian had decided to retreat. Nikias heard his footsteps receding. Through the pain filled haze, he pictured Endormax, pushing his aged legs to carry him across the rooftops to some distant haven. He would tuck himself up in a corner, and by the time he was found, it would be too late. Worse yet, he had the note!

If he escaped, Nikias would lose his one clue to the identity of Black Salt's members.

Dark anger heated his blood, and flooded his limbs with new energy. He jumped to his feet, and though it made him dizzy, he threw himself at the wall, and began to climb again. He drove himself with the madness of fury, and snatched handholds out of bare brick. He raced up the side of the house, and hauled himself over the edge, and on to the roof.

The sunlight blinded him again, and sparked off fresh pain in his head. Endormax had smashed a brick against his temple, and the pain radiated out, and reached deep into his eyes. But the day light blaze had no silhouette this time. No enemy crouched, waiting to strike.

He stood, and felt the roof, a wooden lattice covered with a mat of palm leaves, bend and creak under his weight. He scanned the rooftops. Looking north he saw the harbour, and the blue expanse of the sea. To the north east he saw the mausoleum, while the bulk of the city lay to the south. The houses in this area looked ramshackle, and many of the wooden second storeys looked rotten or dried up. If he put a foot wrong he could twist an ankle, or even crash through someone's roof.

Endormax didn't appear to care about the danger. Nikias saw him leap, like an old, bald mountain goat, and land with a thud on a house to the east, startling an old fish wife, who charged at him, waving a knife slathered in fish guts.

Nikias laughed. Then he had a cold, sick feeling in his gut. If Endormax got himself gutted, he couldn't talk! Nikias had a lot of questions for him.

He took a run up, and jumped on to the next house. The roof groaned, but it held. Encouraged, he pushed on. The houses here were terraced, single-storey buildings, except for an occasional gap for a narrow alley. For the most part, he was able to run along them, but now and again he came to a house with a second storey, and then he had to clamber over or around it, praying to the goddess as he went that the wood would hold him.

He lost sight of Endormax, but the sight of the fish wife, still red faced and howling curses, buoyed him up. She had a fierce look, but Nikias must have looked tougher than the aged librarian, because she satisfied herself by scowling at him. She also pointed down. He looked over the side of her house, and saw that the street had widened into a road, and the market was out. A red tent lay below, one side was pushed in, and the stall holder, a fat man with a wild beard, was shouting unintelligible curses at someone Nikias couldn't see.

He smiled at the fish wife, who made a vicious gesture with her blood stained blade, and then he vaulted over the side, and smashed in the other half of the red tent.

If the bearded stall holder had been upset before, now he broke into a real rage. He picked up a fat melon from the wreckage of his stall, and rounded on Nikias, waving the fruit over his head. Nikias whipped his sword out, and with a single upward cut, he sliced the melon in two. The halves of the fruit tumbled at the stall holder's feet. He looked down, at the perfect halves, and then up, at the sword thrust over his head, and a droplet of sweet melon juice splashed on his face. His face went ashen, and he fell on his backside, hugging his knees and trembling, flanked by the halves of fruit.

The street had been noisy with the chatter of the market, louder than ever since the librarian dove off the roof, and crashed into the melon stall. Now it fell silent, and Nikias felt fifty pairs of eyes burn into his face. The hush helped him in one respect; it made it easy to hear the slap of the librarian's sandals, as he hared away.

Nikias gave chase.

Moments later, he found himself at the edge of the mausoleum. He preferred not to come here; the once grand headstones, now cracked and weathered, overgrown with moss and weeds; the fresh open graves, waiting to claim their next occupant; the wreaths and bundles of flowers, set down by a shaking hand, wet with tears, and then left to wither and fade under the callous eyes of heaven. Above it all reared the Sema, the grand monument to Alexander. He had never cared for it. So many battles won, so many nations conquered, and where were the sons, to carry his name? The city was his child, home to thieves, whores and murderers. If even Alexander could not do better in death, what hope remained for a lonely Athenian soldier, far from home, and surrounded by enemies?

Such thoughts rushed through his mind as he chased Endormax into the graves around the mausoleum, and brought their allied feelings. He couldn't afford to waste time on useless woe, but he couldn't push them away. He concentrated on the pain in his face, where Endormax had hit him. That brick had been damnably solid. He imagined the satisfaction he would feel when he cornered the aged traitor, and the deeper, more lasting, grim pleasure he would take in hunting down his allies in the circle.

Endormax dodged around a massive marble lion, and dashed across an empty plinth. He disappeared behind a row of headstones, but Nikias saw he was coming to a low stone wall, and for all his surprising agility, the old man was rushing upon his own doom. He put on an extra an extra burst of speed, and caught up to Endormax just as he came to the wall, but the librarian surprised him; he raced at the wall, made a mad leap, and vaulted over it.

"No! You evil old mountain goat!"

Not to be outdone, not willing to be beaten at the last, Nikias summoned greater strength, and threw himself at the wall. He caught it with one hand, and swung his legs up, imitating Endormax's vault. Momentum carried him over, and he dropped to his feet on the other side, in a narrow, paved cul-de-sac. The landing jarred his ankles, and woke up the pains in his back, from where he'd fallen from the house.

He started to run out of the dead end, but his legs hurt too much, and forced him to limp. Cursing under his breath, he walked out, and found himself in a broad clean avenue, lined with fruiting fig trees. The air smelled sweet and clean, and the houses on either side spoke of wealth and opulence.

He saw Endormax, limping more than he was, making with the dregs of his strength for the double doors of a house across the way.

He gave chase. Neither of them could run, but Nikias had an edge. Endormax had put him to a good race, but the librarian was feeling his age.

He was also closing in on a house. Unfamiliar to Nikias, the Grecian marble facing, with gilded Corinthian columns, suggested treasures matched to taste. What went unspoken was the strength to watch over and protect those treasures. Nikias saw that Endormax might have done him a tremendous favour, by leading him to the very house of his enemy. But a house like that required arms and men to bear to bear them. Once inside, Endormax might be safe, at least until Nikias could assemble enough soldiers to strike the house. However, if this really was the bastion of the circle of Black Salt, the men inside would never let Nikias go and fetch his own army. They couldn't afford to gamble with their lives.

They would rush out and kill him.

"Why did you run?" He hoped the words would distract Endormax, would hold him in place, long enough to catch him. "Why did you run from the library?"

Endormax shook his head, and hobbled towards the house. It was still out of reach.

"Tell me about the note. I don't care about you, Endormax. You're old and unimportant. You could disappear. Tell me about the note!"

"Oh no," said the librarian, speaking over his shoulder. He shook his head. "I'm not some brainless gutter beast for you to trick and snare. You won't get me that way."

He'd closed the distance between them, but Endormax was still beyond grasping distance, and he was getting near to that door.

"The circle is a gang of murderers. They tried to kill the king. They tried to kill me! Help me stop them, before it's too late. The king will reward you, and I will protect you."

Endormax half-turned, his face flushed. "You don't know a single thing about Black Salt," he said.

Nikias paused, as surprised as a fox cornered by a ferocious chicken.

"You run around the city, chasing and threatening good men. You wave your sword around as if it gave you the authority of Olympus!"

He shook his head. "I work for the king!"

"And you should be glad he doesn't know how clueless his servants are. If you really understood the circle, if you really grasped the meaning of Black Salt, you would be helping us."

He thought of his first encounter with Black Salt. He remembered the flashing bronze blade, and the pain as it slashed his flesh.

"Helping you?" He struggled for words. "By all the gods, yes, tell me why I should help you."

Endormax started to speak, but then the door behind him creaked open. He looked back at it, gasped, and started to move.

"No!"

Nikias chased him. The brief pause had let him catch his breath, and he was able to run again, but even though he shot after the librarian, he wasn't able to catch him before he disappeared through the doors.

Nikias knew he would be safer outside, and his long-honed warrior's senses told him not to follow Endormax into the house. He ignored all his intuitions, and plunged through the doors before they could shut.

Once more he found himself in darkness.

Chapter Twenty Five

Nikias threw himself through the open door, and saw Endormax had already passed through the large, clean entrance hall, and was rushing down a narrow passage, screaming with all his strength. Nikias didn't stop to look around. He took in a few flashes of marble walls, high slit windows that let in golden shafts of light, ornamental wooden pillars, and the tiles of a colourful mosaic under his feet, but his focus was all on the fleeing librarian. He pushed on after him, though he bought the effort with pain that shot up from his ankles, through his knees and hips.

He rushed into a short hall, and heard dull thuds resound with his steps; the floor here was tiled with wood. Little light trickled in, and his vision was reduced to shadows; he caught glimpses of pictures on the walls; they looked like portraits, but he didn't have time to stop and take them in. All he got were fragments; a dark eye here, a black hood there. Those faces leered at him out of darkness, like demons peering in through windows to the halls of Tartarus. Then he was out of the hall, and into a large chamber, even darker than before. No light entered this room.

He skidded to a halt, and threw his eyes left and right, but though he squinted and strained, he could see nothing. He heard harsh breathing from deeper into the chamber, without a doubt his quarry, weak from exertion, gasping for breath, but he couldn't tell where the librarian had gone. He knew he was in a much bigger room than the narrow hall by the quality of the air, and the way his first few steps had sounded. The air smelled sweet, and he recognised an odd fragrance, the same one that had hung around the men of Black Salt from the first time he'd met them.

He heard a thud and a clunk at his back. He whirled, but no menace assailed him. Even so, he knew the door he'd come through was shut; someone had closed and barred it. He couldn't get out that way.

Silence fell. Endormax had stopped shouting once he'd got into the dark chamber. Now it seemed that he had even stopped breathing. Nikias knew there had to be at least one other man in there with them, and more likely many more. The skin on his back tickled and crawled, and his heart, beating fast already, now shook with cold fear.

He drew his sword. As if on cue, he heard a creaking noise, from in front and behind, and all around. It sounded like the noise a sapling makes when you bend it. He knew that sound all too well; it was the noise of drawn bows. His heart jumped, and chilling sweat rolled down his face and body. His only hope lay in the darkness; it concealed him. Endormax had led him into a ring of archers. If they saw him, even for a broken second, it would be enough to pierce his body from all directions, and kill him a dozen times.

Taking care not to make a whisper, he started to back up, hoping to find the wall, and perhaps a way out of the trap, before it could claim his life.

Someone spoke, a single word, both familiar, and terrible. "Now!"

He felt he should recognise that voice, but his mind was taken up with the noise that followed. He heard the sound of two pieces of wood, scraping together, and then a creaking groan. Nikias hunched, his feet so tense that his toes felt they would tear through the soles of his sandals, and make deep gouges in the floor.

Apollo cut the sun from his chariot, and let it fall from the heavens, down into this room, to fill every finger's width with burning, searing light.

Nikias flinched, and shielded his eyes with his arms. He clung to his sword, but it did him no good; all he could see was a blaze of gold that dimmed to an aching field of unspotted redness. He heard men gasp and swear, and, worse by far, he heard a sound he knew from his soldiering days, as men drew yet more bows. At any moment they could fill him with arrows. Time slowed down, and every breath took an age. He expected to feel their shafts run through his body, and hurl him down to darkness and death.

He waited, and didn't dare to hope, but as the moment stretched out, and his body remained untorn by arrows, he began to suspect they had some other plan for him than simple murder. They wanted something from him, perhaps just to torture him in revenge for the way he had hunted them. He felt certain, in his quivering heart and icy bones, that the one reason they would spare his life, was to make him suffer something worse than the swift release of death.

The blinding haze wore away, and though it left his eyes feeling swollen and sore, he was able to open them, and see. The chamber was built in a circle, with an upper gallery lined with archers. The ceiling was open to the sky; he saw a lot of wooden boards, hanging from their hinges, like a lot of gates to the air. The sun by itself would have blinded anyone who'd adjusted to the gloom, but the men who'd planned this trap hadn't been willing to rely on that by itself. As well as the roof that opened, there stood men in the gallery above, who held great shields of burnished bronze. The shields acted as mirrors, and their bearers aimed their rays at Nikias's face, tracking and blinding him.

One of them shouted at him. "Drop the sword."

He did know that voice. He'd heard it before, two weeks ago, on his last visit to Lorcas.

"I hoped you were dead," he said.

"I told you to drop the sword."

Nikias tried to look at him, but every time he raised his eyes, the men with the shields shot beams in his eyes, and forced him to look away, blinking and shaking his head. He sighed, caught between fury and exasperation. "If you want my sword, come down here."

"Let it go, or my men will fill your heart with arrows."

The threat made him angry. "If you want to shoot me, do it now! But you don't, or I'd be dead already."

He heard whispers. Sound carried in a strange way in that round room, so even a low voice seemed to multiply, and become the murmur of a fierce host.

"Ha!" he said. "I was right. You planned this trap for a foal or a lamb, not the king's own lion. Submit now, and I will see you do not suffer overmuch from his judgement."

He heard a sound like a zooming wasp, and felt a tearing pain in his right cheek. He gasped, bent over, and put his hand to his face. His fingers came away dripping with blood, and the fresh wound stung.

"Drop the accursed sword, or the next one goes through your leg!"

Rage boiled up within him. "All gods damn you! Cowards! I was right about you. Traitors and cowards, every one of you!"

"To the hells with your leg. Shut and bar your mouth, or I'll send a shaft through your skull!"

"Oh yes, great king. Most certainly, great king. I'll do anything that you say, great king. You foul, stinking, unwashed barbarian! You're a real giant when you're standing behind a wall of archers. If you had any courage you'd come down here and face me, sword to sword!"

He half-hoped his words would sting the murderer, and goad him into coming down for a personal duel. He didn't believe it would happen, but he was angry enough to gamble on it.

"I-"

"You ran. You murdered a helpless, unarmed old man. Then you ran. I chased you across the city, and you never had the strength of heart to fight me. You couldn't do it then, and you won't do it now, because you and all your kind are cowering rats!"

That was a real test. If any of these men had the fire and the freedom to kill, they would do it now. If not, they had a plan for him.

The lull lingered on. Although they tried to keep the mirrors trained on his face, he was able to twist his head in such a way that he could scan the upper balcony with the corner of his eyes. He couldn't make out the detail of the archer's faces, but he saw their bows alright, arrows nocked and drawn. He saw those deadly shafts shiver with tension. If even one of those men grew tired...

He kept waiting, and as he waited, he searched. There! As soon as he caught sight of that shaven head, that bronze skin and those distinctive high cheekbones, he couldn't help but look straight at him. Zalm. "I knew it was you," he said.

The assassin glared down at him, his blue eyes cold and hard. His face, though bronze, looked paler than before, and dark shadows under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights and pain. "I told you before, you owe me your life. Put the sword down and we'll consider that debt repaid."

He almost laughed. "You're insane."

"You're alone, and surrounded. This could be your last day in the light. Don't waste it."

"You're in more trouble than you know. A hundred people saw me chase your puppet here, and everyone in this city knows my face. My best officer was right at my heels, and he can call the entire city guard. When they come, they'll drag you out, put you in chains, and take you before the king. Do you know what he did the last time we caught a traitor? He had us chain his hands to his feet, and toss him in the harbour. You should have seen him try to swim. That goes for all of you," he said, glaring at the archers. He got a small reward; he saw them shift and murmur.

Zalm must have sensed the mood. He pointed at a couple of men, and gave them a hand signal. They lowered their bows, and bent to some task out of sight, while their fellows kept their weapons aimed at Nikias. He didn't have to wait long to see Zalm's plan; the two he'd picked out raised their weapons again, and this time they didn't hesitate. They shot him.

Two arrows struck him, in his chest and solar plexus.

His sword fell from nerveless fingers, and clattered on the floor. He doubled over, and fell to one knee, his mind eclipsed by agony. His diaphragm and lungs locked up tight, and refused to let him breathe. He felt as if he had been punched by Herakles, and more, that the demigod had reached inside his chest, and even now was squeezing his lungs in a grip that could crush rocks to powder. His vision swam; he fell forwards, terrified he would drive the arrows deeper into his body. He only just managed to catch himself with his hands.

"So much for your strength," said Zalm. "So much for your bravery. That's one more time that you owe me your life!"

He heard the words, but they came as if from a distant mountain peak, and he couldn't puzzle out their meaning. And something else troubled him, a sight he couldn't understand: The shaft of an arrow, lying on the floor in front of his face. But the arrow looked odd; it had a thick wooden stub where the head should be.

He kept fighting to breathe, and at last his will won out. He drew a shuddering breath, and felt stinging tendrils writhe through his chest.

"You're an accursed hound, a nuisance we have to remove. And yet you're far too valuable a man to kill out of hand." Zalm sighed. "Believe me, Athenian, it's a shame. My back hasn't been the same since you stabbed me, and that after I made such an effort to spare your ugly hide. I have not slept out a single night, and I'm forced to spend my days locked up in this house, because the rest of you dogs are sniffing after my blood."

He was starting to feel strong again. He listened to Zalm's words with the edge of his attention, the rest concentrated on suck air and life into his lungs. He'd never been shot with an arrow before, not even a blunt. He decided he never wanted it to happen again.

Zalm was still talking. That was okay, he thought. The longer the murderous barbarian talked, the better. It meant he wasn't doing anything worse.

"...so I'm glad to have you here. I've been so lonely, and I've been hoping I would meet you again, under different circumstances. You can tell that I'm a holy man, can't you? The gods listen to me."

"This is... Your idea... Of holy work, is it?" he said, and he twisted his neck to look up at Zalm. And then he grinned.

Zalm's handsome face twisted in rage, and he jabbed a finger at his men. No sooner than he'd made the gesture, another pair of blunt arrows whistled through the air, and struck Nikias in the back and side. It felt like a massive punch in the kidney, and the short ribs, and he made him rear up in shock and pain, before falling on his other side, and curling up. He clenched his teeth to keep from screaming, but he couldn't hold in the long, agonised moan.

"You have no concept of my work!"

"Is this... How you would... teach me?"

"Yes! I'll teach you. I'll teach you! Again. Shoot him again!"

One arrow clipped the back of his head, made his sight blur, and his skull ring with pain. Another smacked into his arm. If it were not for the heavy leather bracer he wore on each forearm, he knew it would have smashed the bone. As it was, it knocked his hand away from the floor, and made it flail. Deprived of support, he crashed down on his face. The impact worked his lungs like bellows, and forced the air out of his lungs, leaving him gasping and weak.

A song of whistling sighs filled the air, and a rain of hammers fell on his unprotected back. He lost count of how many times they hit him. He couldn't speak, he couldn't think, and he could only breathe in tiny gasps, for when he got in a little breath, the arrow would thump his back, and squeeze it out. His mouth flowed with blood, and the smell of his own bloody flesh filled his nostrils. He would never have believed a man could take such a beating and live. He felt like a cut of pork on a slab, pounded by the cook's cudgel.

The torment last longer than he could reckon. At first he burned with fury, but, as the arrows beat the strength out of his body, and left him helpless, fury turned to fear. He pictured himself a mass of cracked bones and pulped organs, slathered with glistening blood. He felt sure death would claim him, but the agony went on. It lasted so long that it exhausted his fear, and left him an unthinking, unfeeling mass. He lived, and yet it seemed that life and death were the same; all was pain.

There came a pause, and he was so battered and drained that he didn't realise until it had gone on for a long time. He opened his eyes, and saw a fawn coloured leather boot, and the flowing green silk of Persian style trousers. He couldn't look up any higher without moving, and he couldn't move. For the time being, his tortured nerves had ceased to scream, but he sensed a peculiar tension throughout his body, that suggested he not try to move or speak, or even breathe too hard.

"Have you learnt your lesson?" That voice again, mangling the common tongue with odd, thick accents. It sounded so strange as to be almost comical, like the garbled rant of a stage player performing a common role: the barbarian buffoon.

Zalm waited, and when he spoke again, some new note had entered his voice. Satisfaction, perhaps? "For all of your talk, you're still weak. Weak in the meat, weak in the bones, and weak in the mind."

The heart stirred in Nikias's chest, a defiant pulse, but his flesh was too weary to respond.

"When I first saw you, I saw your scars, and then I thought you were strong. Your scars lie. I made you helpless with a little spray of blood."

He remembered that. He'd never seen the trick before, never imagined it.

"Even though you must have known you couldn't defeat me, you still gave chase."

And I ran you down, he thought.

"And here again, you chased our man, all the way to our home. To what end? You're helpless, broken and alone."

No, he thought. Not alone. Kalliphas will come. He'll work it out and find me. He has to.

"And what's the worst thing of all? Worse than giving away your secrets for me to steal. Worse than carrying on a useless chase. Worse than running into our trap, and giving up your flesh to death."

His heart shuddered and kicked. He felt blood spread out from it, through his chest, down into his legs, out into his arms and hands. With that flow came life and strength, or what scraps of each he had left. And as that warming red flow renewed his life, it also renewed his pain. He felt heat grow in his heart, first a smouldering cinder, then a flame, and then a searing torch. He felt as if Zeus had hurled the lightning from high heaven, and lodged it in his heart.

"The worst thing," said Zalm, "the worst of your mistakes, was not when you failed to save the thieving locksmith, or when you failed to catch me, and it wasn't even when you ran here and let us take you without a fight. Your worst mistake was coming after us."

His pain found a voice. "You are Black Salt."

"Yes. But we didn't try to kill your king, and we didn't try to kill you."

That the man could lie to him, even as he lay there, helpless and close to death, it appalled him. It enraged him. The bolt of lightning burned in his heart, and revivified his limbs. With strength he hadn't known he possessed, he leapt up from the floor, and hurled a fist at Zalm's face.

Zalm parried the blow with a sweep of his hand, and he had to gall to laugh as he did. Nikias sagged against him, and then the smile died on Zalm's face, his lips drooped, and his eyes glazed. He stared at Nikias, aghast. "What did you do?"

The punch had been a feint. Zalm looked down, and saw the handle of his own knife jutting from his chest, clenched in Nikias's left hand.

The barbarian sobbed, and then his spirit rallied, he grabbed Nikias by the throat, and squeezed with both hands.

Nikias felt his face get hot, and his eyes bulge out. Zalm's hands had the strength of a draft horse. He clawed at them, but it was useless. His vision started to fade, and he heard a distant, keening song. He tried to pry a finger away, but he didn't have the strength. Then he tried to claw Zalm's eyes, but the barbarian leaned back, and his arms were longer. Everything faded except those blue eyes, brilliant with hate.

Then he remembered the knife.

He reached for it, searching by touch down Zalm's ribs until he found the blade. He grabbed the handle, twisted, and pumped it.

Zalm screamed. He gripped Nikias's throat with even greater force.

He pumped the knife handle again. Zalm howled. He pumped it again, and this time, Zalm's agonised cry sank to a moan.

Creatures of darkness swept him aloft on wings of shadow, and carried him into night.

Chapter Twenty Six

He woke with a start. His hands flew to his throat, clawing at hands that were no longer there. He gasped, and he put so much effort into breathing that he choked, and wracking coughs shook his body. After a moment he came back to full wakefulness, and he was able to lie back, and let his fighting instinct relax.

He lay on a hard wooden bed, in a little room with a high, slit window; it was too narrow for him to climb out, but it did reveal that Apollo had returned home rest, for the sky was black. An oil lamp burned on a table beside the bed, casting dim yellowish light around the room. It shone on his skin; his clothes and weapons were gone. As soon as he noticed that, he tried to leap out of bed, but the slightest movement cause his back to clench in a solid knot of pain. He fell back down into the hard wooden bed, and that too set off the bruises in his back, and made him jump out of bed in a convulsive attempt to escape.

He slipped and stumbled forward, and fetched up against a rough wooden chair facing the table. He leaned over it, sobbing with agony. He stayed that way for some time, because every little twitch or shudder made his body flare with pain. If it hadn't hurt so much, he would have marvelled to be alive. As it was, he mused, the world below would be a welcome respite.

After a time, he regained enough free awareness to take in his surroundings, and think about his choices. The room was small and clean, and though he might be locked in, he wasn't bound. That came as a surprise. Perhaps he'd looked so battered and pitiful that his captors hadn't thought of him as even a possible threat.

A mistake.

The air tasted sweet, and carried that same pungent aroma he'd come to rely on as a sign of Black Salt. If they were able to hide every other sign, this always marked them. It wasn't a lot of good, though. He knew it himself, but what could he tell his men? You can't hand a man a scent.

"Dogs," he said, surprised at how rough his voice sounded, how dry and sore his throat felt. "We should have run you down with dogs."

He heard a noise from outside, which sounded, to his surprise, like a man laughing.

He had not only been beaten and strangled unconscious, stripped naked, and locked up, but he was also being laughed at. He couldn't take that thought. It made his jaw clench, and his brow furrow, and his hands squeezed the sides of the chair, until his wrists trembled with the tension. He wanted a sword, he longed for his sword.

He cast narrow eyes around the room, but he saw no sign of his weapons, or the rest of his possessions. He did notice a piece of folded white cloth on the seat of the chair, and maybe he could have used it to strangle a hapless enemy, or wrapped a rock in it, and made a flail, but in his current state, he couldn't even have swung it. And besides, his captors hadn't left any rocks lying around.

"This is the neatest cell I've ever seen," he said.

Again, he heard laughter. It made his blood run hotter. He decided to break the chair apart, and use one leg as a makeshift club. It was a good plan, he thought, the best he could come up with, given the materials at hand. But when it came to the effort of reconstructing the chair, his body argued. In fact, it went on strike. He had the chair a little way off the floor, when his back seized up, and a spasm of pain made his hands fall open, and the chair tumbled down on its side, spilling the white cloth over the wooden floorboards.

"Blood of the gods!"

He bent to right the chair, and try again, but this sent another jolt of agony from the small of his back to the base of his skull, and made him jerk so much that his legs gave way, and he crashed down on the floor beside the chair. Everything went black, and he spent an uncertain period in a heap on the floor. When he came back to himself, he saw blue suns burst in front of his eyes, and lightning race up and down his spine. For the first time since boyhood, he felt utterly helpless.

Thoughts of torture came to mind. He had his nails, his fingers and toes, the softness of his eyes and genitals, the hollows of his nose and ears... Without strength, without a weapon, without comrades to guard his back, he felt so vulnerable. It sickened him. And more, as long as he was locked up here, he couldn't watch over the city, his friends, his daughter...

The thought of it made him angry, but it was a despairing, futile rage that left him cold inside, with tears streaming from his eyes. Leaina, without him, what could she do? How could she be safe? That boy, that child she favoured, what good was he? How could he protect her? She was exposed.

He found himself on the rim of a vast well of dark, chilly, poisonous water. If he stayed where he was, he would fall in and drown. He had to act. Even if it meant that his fears took on human form, that those tortures springing up in his heart became real, he had to face them. To stay locked in with his fears, that was unbearable.

He gripped the edge of the bed, and hauled himself upright. His eyes fell on the white cloth, and he saw it wasn't just a piece of fabric, but a long white robe. He had no shame about his body; he wrestled naked at the gymnasium every week, but in this place he welcomed anything to guard his flesh, even thin cotton.

He pulled on the garment, gathered his strength, and tried the door. It opened at his touch, and he stood in the doorway, through which he saw another room, similar to the one behind him, but larger. A man sat facing him across a table. His sword lay on the table, glimmering in the light of an oil lamp that hung overhead. Nikias hated to be framed in a doorway; it made you an easy target for a fugitive with a bow. Astonishment conspired with his aching muscles, and forced him to stand where he was.

"Please sit down," said the man. He had a high forehead and long white hair, which made him look like a snow-covered mountain. His pale, wrinkled skin suggested a lifetime of closeted study, but his clear brown eyes, his craggy nose and jaw, and the calm smile on his withered lips spoke of strength, even if age had diminished it.

Against his instincts, Nikias lingered in the doorway. The sword lay before him, almost within arm's reach. All he had to do was leap forward, snatch it up, and he could make the man his slave, to answer all the questions that had driven him for so long. More than that, he could hold the man, use him as a hostage, and perhaps escape from this prison.

"You're safe with me," the man said. He spoke as one long used to leading men; he had quiet authority, and warmth. That added to Nikias's surprise. This was unlike any interrogation he had ever carried out.

He opened his robe, and revealed a bruise on his chest, one of many that marked his body. "Your notion of safety is baffling," he said.

Again he heard that laugh, a low chuckle.

"You find this funny? You think it's a good joke to rain blunt arrows on the king's man?"

The infuriating old goat laughed louder.

"I tell you, Ptolemaios will flay a strip of your hide for every mark you leave on my body!"

The old man laughed so hard that Nikias wanted to charge at him, grab him by the neck, and throttle him until his brain burst out of his ears. He started to go for it, too, but the beating he'd had at Zalm's command had left his body as stiff as boiled leather. Any sudden movement sent pains shooting up and down his back. All he could do was shuffle towards the table, and the sword.

The old man watched him, humour dancing in his eyes. "There is no king here."

"I'll do it myself."

"Can you?"

Nikias ground his teeth together, and continued his slow, frustrating shuffle. If this is like old age, he thought, I pity all my grandfathers.

"Haven't you asked yourself the obvious question? Why am I alive?"

"As soon as I get my hands on that sword..." he paused for breath, and noticed a fine layer of sweat had blossomed on his face."You'll answer a lot of much more interesting questions."

"Come to that, explain the sword," said the old man.

Nikias paused again, and this time it wasn't for breath. He frowned at the blade. It was almost within reach, but the closer he got, the more futile it seemed to grasp it. He was still too weak to fight, and the men here had bows. The old man had showed no signs of fear, so either he had no qualms about torture and death, or he knew something Nikias did not.

It troubled him.

"I can't," he said. "I can't explain it. I can't understand why you kept me alive."

The old man waved his hands at the chair opposite him. "Sit," he said.

Nikias grasped the back of the chair, and leaned on it, but he shook his head. It made the man laugh again, which heated Nikias's blood. "Did you keep me here just to amuse yourself?"

"You have given me few opportunities to laugh in recent days. My heart is not so pure that I can stop my laughter now."

"Your heart is not pure at all! Spying, betrayal and murder; are these the works of a pure heart? Your men have attacked my friends, threatened my king, and even tried to kill me!"

"I don't doubt that you-"

Nikias couldn't let him talk. Once the words had begun to flow, he couldn't hold them in. "Your men have wounded this city, and even if we heal it, there will be scars, scars of distrust, scars of fear. And worse, your idiotic attempt at a coup not only failed, not only left us frightened and angry, but it's opened up a door for something even worse than you..."

He trailed off, unable to say all the things he feared, should Rathea come to power. He'd said enough, or far too much already, in this, the house of his enemy, but it wasn't enough to endanger anyone else. He didn't know if the circle was aware of Rathea and Ptolemaios's impending wedding, and he was certain they couldn't know about the purge she had already begun to plan.

They'd proved they were murderous. In the face of a purge, would they run blood mad?

"Sit. Please sit. Oh very well then, don't sit! Stand, loom over me, and bask in your pain."

He blinked. "What?"

"You enjoy pain. I don't know when it began, or why, but you wear it like a robe of state. I saw your scars, the one that knife man gave you. You heal fast, but only on the outside."

Nikias felt his anger evaporate like a morning mist on the sleepy sea. It left him puzzled and uneasy.

"Sit down! I could have cut your throat myself, and I, as you see, am better suited to a coffin than a cutlass."

The man raised a gnarled hand, and pointed at Nikias's forehead. He waved his hand in a slow spiral, and then lowered it to point at the chair. At first Nikias felt more puzzled, and a little amused, and then his legs felt weak, and his body grew heavy. He resisted, but his body betrayed his will, and he pulled back the chair, and sat down, leaning his elbows on the table, and resting his chin on the back of his hands.

"That's better."

"What did you do to me?"

Again that laugh!

"I did everything I could to make you trust me. I preserved your life, even though you had almost killed my best agent."

"That Zalm-"

"I tended to your injuries myself, though of course you wouldn't remember. I let you rest, I gave you water, and clothes, and then I waited for you to recover. Enough to talk, at least. And more, for a man like you, the biggest sign should be this."

He lowered his eyes.

"My sword."

"If you want proof that I mean you no evil, I don't know of anything better. Words are free, but iron..."

He fell silent, as Nikias gazed at the blade. Though he kept his face blank, his mind was a roaring chaos. He meant all that he had said. If he'd been stronger, he might have made the man his prisoner without any talk. Duty demanded it. Security, of the king, of the city, and of his own family cried out for it. And yet...

"I owe you nothing," he said. "If you meant me no harm, you should not have tried to murder me. As it is, if you swear that you and your men won't try to stop me when I want to leave, I'll listen to your words. That is all I can give you."

The old man chuckled once more, but he stopped himself when he saw the look on Nikias's face. "I'm sorry," he said.

"You're sorry? You can pile one sorry on another, and you'll scale Olympus before you satisfy me."

He shook his head. "No, I'm sorry that my laughter upset you. When I was younger, ignorance made me cry. As I grew in age, if not wisdom, my tears turned to laughter." He leaned forward, and frowned at Nikias. "I may not climb to Olympus, but your ignorance would reach up to the stars!"

Nikias's jaw dropped, and he stared at the old man, too shocked to be angry.

"I've got your attention now, yes? So be it. There are vows I have made, and I cannot break them, even at the cost of my life. You have to accept that. I'll make it easy for you, as far as I can, but you'll have to use your own mind to fill in certain...gaps. First, before the gods, I swear on my life that neither I nor my men tried to kill you."

If he had been surprised before, he was now amazed, and his body felt weightless. He snorted with laughter. "You saw the scars yourself! Who did that, my barber?"

"You are scarred, yes-"

"By a bronze blade! I've seen them; your men all carry them."

"Yes, but-"

"And the man had your stench about him. What is it, some spice, some herb?"

"He may have-"

"And there's Zalm! He killed Lorcas in front of my eyes. Came damn close to killing me, too. Same things again: the bronze blade, the smell. The murder."

The old man sat back, and pressed his lips together, arms crossed over his chest. He turned his head, and looked away from Nikias, long enough for his anger to subside, long enough for his blood to cool. At length, he sighed, and shook his head. "I'm supposed to be better than this, at control. But the lie that has been forced on you is so massive, so complete, I almost despair of correcting it."

"Go ahead," said Nikias. "Correct me."

"My name is Phaedrus. I am the master of the circle of Black Salt, at least in this city."

"There are more of you?"

Phaedrus grinned. "I am a Hellene, much like you. Once my city tried to rival Sparta. This was after they fell to Alexander, and my people believed they were weak. We were wrong. My city was sacked and her lands despoiled. They didn't just kill us all; they decided to make an example of us. They killed our beasts, burned our crops, destroyed our homes and tools, and told us that if we left our land, we would be massacred."

Nikias curled his lip, and snorted. "They let you live? That doesn't sound like the Spartans."

"Ah, but you haven't heard the genius of their plan. They devastated our land, and then they ploughed it with salt."

He nodded. "Yes, that sounds more like it."

"They left us there, but they set up armed camps around the borders of our land. Without beasts or boats, we could only leave by walking, and we were so many, they would have seen us and stopped us. We had water, but the streams were poor for fishing."

"You must have got hungry."

"We starved."

In spite of himself, Nikias began to feel uncomfortable. He didn't want to let Phaedrus, if that was a real name, get his hooks into his heart, but he could picture the devastated land, the hollow cheeks of the children, the wasted, waxy skin of the elders, as they exhausted what few caches of food they had managed to hide. With no tools they couldn't even make shelter, let alone rebuild their city. With no beasts they couldn't eat, and even if they'd had them still, they couldn't have ploughed and farmed land sown with salt.

The devastation had been complete. The punishment, total. Except...

"That's one of the worst stories I've ever heard. It doesn't have the simple, blood soaked butchery of the Assyrians, or the divine ingenuity of the gods, but it's breathtaking for its calculated cruelty. I pray to Athena my queen to be never hears of it, for the sake of our people and our wretched enemies. But..."

Phaedrus gave him a tight smile. "It's missing the most important part."

"Did you turn to cannibalism? Did you eat the very earth? Or perhaps some god descended to feed you. Otherwise the Spartans must have shown you mercy, and that's hard to believe."

"A god did walk among us, though by oath I cannot tell you his name. We came to the limit of starvation; seven of every ten had died, and we buried them with our hands, until we became so weak we couldn't even do that. Their flesh turned black, and the stench made us sick. I was a child, and when I tried to walk, I shook like a dying grandfather. The last of us gathered in a ragged circle, and we kept each other alive by talking and singing. When we couldn't talk, we whispered, but the night came when even the whispering ended."

Nikias leaned forward, drawn in by the story, engaged in spite of his misgivings. With every word, he told himself the old man was evil, a chief of murderers, and his tale was just another weapon. He believed it was true, because he had the scars and he felt the bruises, but still, the story tugged at his heart.

Phaedrus rested his head in his cupped palm, and stared at the sword. His eyes glittered with moisture. "I don't know why he came. I believe it was because when he looked down from heaven, we were the most pitiful creatures on the face of the land. I can't tell you what he looked like. All I can tell you is that he shone." He sighed, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "He came to me in the night, touched my head, here," he tapped his forehead, "and I felt strength flow into my limbs. I felt I could run, or even leap. I wanted to sing! But he told me he had a task for me, and if I did it faithfully, it would save my people."

Nikias felt a tingle run across his skin, and his heart skipped a beat. It seemed that his body thrilled to the story. In an effort to control it, he bit the inside of his lip, hard enough to draw blood. The pain and the blood taste reminded him what was real: pain, captivity, threat.

"Salt had poisoned our land. He showed me how to remove it."

"Impossible!"

"When I took it out of the ground, the salt was black."

"No," he said, and shook his head. He made a fist, and thumped the table, making the sword ring. "No! That can't be done."

Phaedrus looked at him, calm, unmoved by his disagreement. "He spoke to others in the night, and gave them many tasks. By dawn, he was gone, and the land..."

He squeezed his eyes shut, and massaged his temple, his lips pinched together. He couldn't accept it, no matter how emphatic the old man appeared. He was a liar!

"The land was green."

Chapter Twenty Seven

The pungent aroma of the house had tasted sweet at first, but now it made his head ache, and his stomach twist. The white cloth robe he wore scratched his skin, as if it was line with minute fishhooks. The Spartan walls and furniture spoke, not of austere devotion to a god, but of the harsh privations of a prison. Even Phaedrus, if that was his name, had appeared to change. His high head rose like a spur of rock thrust up from the sea, his white locks were foam of the waves, and in the night, ships would come sailing for home, only to founder and break on this jutting, tearing stone.

He pushed his chair back from the table, leaned forward, and rose to his feet, although dizziness made him clutch the edge of the table for support. "No more," he said, eyes squeezed shut in an effort to contain the pulsing ache in his skull.

"You can't go," said Phaedrus.

Nikias laughed, but his humour tasted bitter. "So much for your promises," he said. "You are free, but you can't go. Ha!"

"You must wait until I finish the story. You have to hear it for yourself, or you'll never-"

"I don't want to." He threw off the dizziness, and stood upright, glaring down at the old man. "I don't want to believe it. I don't want to understand it. You're a lot of filthy rogues, and I'll see that Bull Gut roasts you, and then feeds you to the beasts of the sea, to appease Poseidon."

He half-turned, and then he remembered the sword. He snatched it up, and began to walk towards the door at Phaedrus's back. The sword felt heavy, and his every step hurt, but anger and frustration increased his determination. Even if his body wanted to lie down and melt into oblivion, he was in charge, and he was walking out.

Phaedrus wrung his hands, his aged skin as pale as his snowy hair. "There's so much you don't know, so much you've let slip or forgotten. Please-"

Nikias paused. Something in the old man's words called to him, reminding him...

"You're right," he said, turning and looking over his shoulder, although it sent a spike of pain through his neck. "I have missed something."

Phaedrus half-rose, and appealed with his hands and with his eyes. "Yes. I knew you were an intelligent man, and I knew I could make you understand if you gave me a chance-"

Nikias curled his lip, and shook his head. "No, not more of your idiotic stories, you old fraud. Thank you for my sword. You can have the robe back; I'll get it cleaned and sent to your condemned cell. Now, where are the rest of my things?"

Phaedrus threw his hands down, and a storm broke on his brow. "I tell you about a gift and a mission from a god, and you ask for trinkets! By my lord and protector, and I know why he chose you. You're incurably dull witted!"

"I suppose that means you're not going to give them back. So be it, I'll walk bare footed. Maybe the king will flay you, and have me sandals made from your hide." He turned his back on Phaedrus, hoping he wouldn't see the old monster again until he was hanging by the neck from a tree.

He heard Phaedrus leap up, and knock over his chair in his haste. "Wait!"

Aggravation rose like steam, and came out in a shuddering sigh. He turned, and raised the sword, just in time to catch the old man before he could reach him. Phaedrus froze, the point of the sword a hair from his left eye. He held up both gnarled old hands, palms front. "Look at me," he said. "An old man, no weapons, no threat. What harm can my words do?"

"I tell you, I've had enough. Confess! That's what I want from you, a full confession, with the names and addresses of your servants, swordsmen and spies."

"I confess that a god visited my people."

"Not that again-"

"I confess that he gave me a mission."

He made a throat cutting gesture with the sword. "Shut up!"

"I confess that he gave me a gift."

As soon as he said those words, Phaedrus sprang forwards, and grabbed Nikias by the arm and the temples. Nikias, caught halfway through his threatening gesture, froze for a half-second, shocked that the ancient would try anything so stupid. By the time that his brain accepted that, yes, the mad old fool was attacking him, Phaedrus had clamped one hand on his wrist, the other on his head, fingers and thumbs splayed across his temples.

Nikias still held the sword, and he could have stabbed Phaedrus in the body or the neck, or he could have reached down and slashed his leg, forcing him to fall. But when those images flashed across his mind, he felt an instinctive revulsion; in spite of how much he hated the man, and in spite of all of his experience in battle, he couldn't bring himself to spill an old man's blood. Not unless the old man had a weapon.

These thoughts took less than a second to rush through his mind, but by then, something odd had begun to happen. His skin, where Phaedrus gripped it, felt warm and it tingled. This was true of his arm, and more so of his temples. He felt a hot glow emanate from those withered old hands, and pass through his skin and bone, and into his body.

"What are you...?" He trailed off, for as the warmth grew, his resistance dissolved. When he found his muscles weakening, he tried to shrug Phaedrus off, but for a frail ancient, he had impressive strength. He held on to Nikias, in spite of all of his attempts to pull away or push him off.

Nikias saw, to his horror, that he couldn't get free. And worse, the heat had moved from the surface of his temples, to deep inside his skull, and still it grew. He felt as if Phaedrus had pushed a pair of smouldering brands through his temples and into his head, where they flared into scorching life.

The burning pain grew so intense that he tried to scream, but his lungs and his lips refused to work as he willed, and nothing but a soft moan escaped him.

Phaedrus whispered. "It'll be over soon."

He'd faced death before, but never like this. The heat spread to every scrap of his skull, and then, step by step, it crawled down the fibres and bones of his neck. He pictured his brain blazing, and the blood and nerves in his neck glowing red and then white hot. The heat spread down into his back, where it continued to sink through him, and it stretched out, radiating from his spine to encompass his chest. It moved through his ribs, and he felt it inside the bone. It seared his liver and kidneys, and it entered and expanded within his lungs, so it felt that he was breathing fire. By then it had spread down into his feet, even to the nails of his toes, and out, through his arms to his hands and fingers. At last it surrounded and then pierced and filled his heart. By then he was beyond screaming, as his being was consumed from within.

At some point he'd shut his eyes. He opened them now, but he didn't see the same small chamber. In the tiny part of his mind that could still think, he expected the room to glow with the brilliance of the fire within him, but instead he saw darkness, like the sky at night.

He was not alone. Reason and memory told him that he was still in a room in the house of Black Salt, held in Phaedrus's unnatural, powerful hands. Sight told him that he floated in the space between stars, and here too he was held, in the vast hand of a being like a man, but much greater. It shone with the sun's light, it breathed life and celestial music, and it held him as a father holds his child, in a firm, loving grip.

He had worshipped Athena all his days, and she had helped and guided him many times. Yet he had never seen a god until now. He had never imagined the splendour and majesty, or the compassion they had to care for a creature as small as he was. He felt that compassion in himself; the fire in his body remained just as intense, but now it had a new quality, a welcome joy, a pleasure like nothing except the feeling he'd had as a boy, when his father and mother had returned home from a trip, and held him in their arms. He remembered it now; he'd felt safe, happy, and loved. He saw too, how as an adult and a father himself, he'd striven to recapture the first part, but he'd too often forgotten the other two.

The fire faded. Like a stream in the sun, becoming a trickle and then a dry gully, the light and the heat left his body as if they had never been. More, they left his mind struggling to hold on to a vision that belonged among the stars, and not in a house in a city on the Egyptian coast.

He came to his senses, sitting on the cold floor, his back leaning against the door. He blinked, and looked at his hands. He saw the fine hairs, and the network of blue veins under the tanned skin, the reddish ridges of his knuckles, and the thick, scarred fingers that stretched away from them. He turned them over, and studied his palms, the paler skin, the sword callus, and the thousands of nigh invisible lines. Every one of them seemed charged and pregnant with meaning. He recalled seeing a column carved by an Assyrian hand, to commemorate the rule of Sennacherib. He'd had the same sense then, as he'd looked at those carved forms of men, with their thick wedge bears, their big eyes and sneering smiles, and their gods with the bodies of bulls and lions. He'd known there was a message in that carving, but he'd lacked the language to read it, and so it had eluded him.

Just as the message of his hands now eluded him.

"That was only a pinch of flour," said Phaedrus. "And where did you go?"

For once he felt no desire to deceive, to craft a verbal trap. "I left my body, and I saw the stars. I saw the gods as stars." His answer surprised him. He hadn't known he could be that honest.

"That was only a pinch of flour. Imagine if I had baked you a loaf of good bread."

He couldn't take in the man's words. His hands still held infinite mystery; they almost seemed to glow with it. That sweet, pungent scent hung in the air, and now it tasted finer than any perfume of roses. He heard a song, too, a soft, sad song, like a lover's lament, painful and yet hinting at subtle pleasures.

Everything he looked at carried that same sense of deep meaning, of mystery and wonder that he could not penetrate. He began to feel dizzy and he shut his eyes, but his memory brought him visions of stars and faces, of beauty that shone with stellar fire. He felt as if he could fall into that beauty, and be lost forever. More, part of him wanted to do that. He knew it would mean abandoning his post, his duty, his power, his loving, delightful and disobedient daughter, and he almost laughed at the thought.

He snapped open his eyes, alert to the danger. He could not give in to that kind of temptation. He looked up at Phaedrus, and even there, in that pallid, wrinkled old man, he saw so much life and hidden strength, he thought he was back among the stars, gazing at the gods.

"What have you done to me?" he asked.

"My story, I confess, was not about farming."

He rubbed his temples, and the back of his neck. Even this simple touch awakened energy, and sent tingles deep into his head, and down his spine. He noticed something then, but the old man disrupted his thoughts.

"Our work is not to improve the land, although we can help the men and women who work it. The black salt that we seek is not a weapon of devastation, not in the bodily sense. It is spiritual poison, and we are doctors of the spirit."

He half listened to the old man's speech, while he concentrated on pursuing that elusive feeling. He focused on it, and at first it seemed so small that he couldn't catch it with his whole mind. He chased it around his body, and when he paused for breath it sprang on him from all sides. He realised why he couldn't catch it before; he'd thought it was a tiny thing, but it wasn't, it was huge, it covered him all over. It was in every patch of skin, every fibre of flesh, and deep within and through the marrow of his bones.

His body felt exquisite.

"My bruises," he said. "What have you done to my bruises?" He didn't wait for an answer. He stood, moving with the caution that pain had taught him, and when he felt no warning twinge or ache, he jumped up. Before, it would have cost him in agony. Now his body felt so light he wanted to spring and dance.

"By the goddess, what have you done to me?"

Phaedrus laughed like an indulgent grandfather. "Look a little further and you will need no teacher."

His hands bubbled and overflowed with strength. He picked up his sword, and from the corner of his eye, he caught Phaedrus stiffen. He ignored it, and made the blade whirl and sing. Then he turned to the old man. "You waited for a long time. You left me in pain for a long time."

"Had I eased your suffering while you slept, you would have forgotten it. You have to know pain to embrace health."

"Hmm. It will last? It's not like one of those stinking draughts the leeches cook up, that make you numb for a day, and then leave you screaming all night?"

Phaedrus shot him a nasty grin. "I could put them all out of business... If I cared to."

Nikias hefted the sword. It felt light, lighter than he ever remembered. He flexed his arms and thighs, and tested his back. He didn't need a mirror to tell him how it looked; he could have searched his chest all day, and he still wouldn't have found the tiniest blemish to show that he'd ever been bruised.

"Time is short," said Phaedrus.

Nikias smirked. "What is time to an immortal?"

Phaedrus raised his eyebrows, then the corners of his mouth crept up, and at last he exploded in laughter. Through chortles and hoots, he spoke. "You have a very exalted idea of me, young Nikias. A very exalted idea."

"So you can still die." He took the sword in both hands.

Phaedrus stopped laughing. He wiped his eyes, and shrugged. "You don't have to help me."

He didn't need to hear it. He hadn't forgotten about the murders, or about Rathea and the coming purge. He hadn't forgotten his own scars, which, unlike the bruises, had not faded. Duty still weighed on him, and fear. But something had changed. He could pretend otherwise, but he'd know.

"If I don't give you to Bull Gut..."

"You should do your duty," said Phaedrus.

"Even if it costs you your head?"

"Do your real duty, and it won't cost me anything. Except, perhaps, a diseased finger."

"Explain."

"I've been waiting for the right time, the time when you could hear me. I could have told you long ago, but even if you had listened, you would not have heard me."

He dropped the sword on the table, and leaned against it. He waved his hands in a 'hurry up' motion. "Yes, yes, I trust you now. The goddess knows my heart. She also knows I have to punish the murderers."

"Yes. A man once joined my circle, intelligent and powerful. He'd learned enough of the world to know his salvation lay in service to that which lies beyond. Or so he made me believe."

"He lied."

Phaedrus looked down, and twisted his hands together. He looked his age. "I have taken oaths. I can't tell you his name. But he is the man behind the murders. Stop him, stop them."

"But why the bronze knives, the incense, why the fakery?"

Phaedrus raised one eyebrow. "Are you asking me?"

It hurt like a low blow. "He betrayed you. And then he set you up for the fall."

"There are secrets men can learn, even men with... Impure hearts. Once we discovered his intentions, we expelled him, but that was not enough. We couldn't subject his memory to a purge."

Nikias winced.

"So now he is on the outside, with hidden, stolen knowledge. That is bad. More, he knows he cannot suborn and take us over, his original plan. So he intends-"

"To set you up and have you killed. Then to replace you."

"And dominate men's hearts more fully than any mortal tyrant."

Chapter Twenty Eight

A week ago, he wouldn't have believed it. No, even a day ago, had someone suggested to Nikias that he would turn his back on the Black Salt investigation, take sides with the leader of the secret group, and help him by hunting a traitor in the city's aristocratic ruling class, he would have laughed, would have found it too astounding to take offense.

A new day was coming.

He rubbed his beard, which had begun to itch. He'd neglected to wash it in a couple of days, and now he was paying the price. He ignored the irritating sensation, and turned his eyes on Phaedrus, who stood in front of the table, rubbing his hands together. He noticed again how the man's appearance seemed to change. At first he'd looked like a snow drenched mountain, and later, like a shining immortal. Now he looked as ancient as an immortal, but heir to the wearying ills of age.

"I need a hint," he said.

Phaedrus gave a tired chuckle. "I have filled your night with hints. How many more can I give you?"

He made a wide circle with his hands. "This is not a small city. The people here are not all of one land, or language. The best place to hide a gem is a treasury, and we are not short of treasures."

"This is a flawed gem," said Phaedrus. "But remember, I have taken oaths."

"Oaths, yes, oaths... Promises that protect the one man who wants to kill you. I think the goddess would understand if you ignored that kind of oath."

Phaedrus drew himself up, face twisted, a mask of the furies. "Do you think I am not tested day and night? The strength of your oath is the strength of your heart. If the heart fails, no medicine will save you."

He put up his hands in an appeal for peace. "I apologise. I didn't mean to burden you with another test." Inside, he fumed. His fears were well founded. Alexandria had swelled, and her people could harbour any number of villains. It had taken persistence, ingenuity and outright luck to find Black Salt, and they were a large, organised group. To find one man...

As he struggled with his thoughts, he saw a shadow fall across Phaedrus's face. A moment later, the man swayed, and then sagged. He turned and caught the edge of the table, but his hands slipped. Nikias shot over to him, caught him, and helped him to sink into a chair. He stood over the man, and watched him, his brows pressed together.

"Am I your dying grandfather, that you look at me with such pensive eyes?" His voice had changed, he sounded weak and petulant.

"I could let you fall next time, if you'd prefer."

He laughed. "Sit, sit. And thank you. I don't like to admit I need help, but this body has served the god for a long time. It's been some time since I kept a late watch, and my body has no thanks."

Nikias sat. "I wouldn't have believed you could-"

A thunderous crash roared through the building.

He half-rose. "What in-"

A second crash sounded, followed by screams.

He snatched the sword. "We have to go."

Phaedrus wavered. Nikias saw the two faces of him; the strong, wise servant of Olympus warred with the tired, frightened old man. "I can't-"

Nikias threw the table aside, grabbed the man under one armpit, and hauled him to his feet. "This is a raid. That damned old man, Kalliphas! I thought I was lying, but he's outdone himself, just when I needed him to be incompetent!"

Phaedrus planted a hand on his chest, and tried to shove him away. "Leave me here. You need to get out before they find you."

"They won't hurt me, you old fool. They're trying to rescue me!" He felt warmth in his chest, and amused surprise. He heard a new scream, and it turned to sickening embarrassment. "They can't hurt me, but it's prison for you, or worse. Come!"

Phaedrus gave up the effort to push him, and tried instead to pull away. That didn't work either. Nikias gave up trying to reason with him, and turned his attention to escape. He dragged the old man towards the far door, the one he hadn't gone through, at least not while conscious. He had a struggle to open it with his sword in hand, and Phaedrus in the other, fighting to escape, but he managed it. On the other side he found a short hallway, lined with similar doors, and a staircase at the other end. The stairs ran up and down.

He heard the clash of arms, and the low, hoarse cries of battle from below.

"Which way, which way? Phaedrus, there must be a back exit. How can we get there?"

Phaedrus shook his head, and moaned. "Leave me. We're lost if you stay. Just leave me!"

"Who's staying? Not me. Damn you, you old idiot, we're not lost yet, but if you don't tell me the way, we will be soon."

Phaedrus folded over, seeming to cave in on himself. If he'd looked old and weak before, he now looked as ancient as a mummified corpse.

Nikias ground his teeth together, and threw a glance at the stairs. The sounds of battle grew louder with every second. The men of Black Salt may have been caught by surprise, but they had rallied to the fight.

"Listen to that," he said. "They don't know you convinced me. They're fighting for you. They're fighting to save your withered hide. They're dying to save you!"

Phaedrus looked stung, and new fire kindled in his eyes. His lips quivered, and then firmed into a thin line. He straightened his spine, and brushed off Nikias's hand. "This way," he said, and walked towards the stairs.

Nikias weighed the sword in his hand, and followed, watchful for danger from below. Phaedrus led him up the stairs, and into another hallway, similar to the last. He moved with evident purpose, but also with the short, shuffling steps of an old man. Nikias had to fight down the urge to hustle him along, and he couldn't stop glancing over his shoulder. He kept expecting his own guardsmen to rush up the stairs and confront him with raised swords. Men he had trained.

Men he knew like brothers.

Not one of them would understand what he was doing. He saw at once the futility of trying to explain it. If he faced them now, he didn't know what he would do. In their zeal to rescue him, they could cut down Phaedrus and a hundred men like him. He couldn't let that happen. The sword weighed heavy in his hand, and he asked his heart, can I fight my own men?

Can I kill my brothers?

He prayed to the goddess that he wouldn't have to find out.

Chapter Twenty Nine

They climbed to the third level, and Nikias hustled Phaedrus along a dark, narrow corridor. This building was of stone, but the floor here was laid with wooden boards that thudded and shook with their feet. The farther they went, the more Nikias missed his sandals. He didn't relish the thought of trying to run through the city barefoot. Better, though, to have no sandals but a chance at justice, than to have sandals, and no chance at all.

"I pray this won't take much longer," he said.

"There's no other way," said Phaedrus, puffing, already out of breath. The further they got, the less he seemed like a being of inscrutable wisdom and power, and the more like an out of shape old grandfather.

"We are at least heading for a real exit, right? We're not just running through your house for our health."

"We walled off the back entrance, and blocked all doors to the rear staircase. The only way to get in or out the back is by coming up here." He grinned. "It's involved, but it's sec-"

"Hsst!" He froze, and held a finger to his lips.

"What is-?"

"I heard something. Hush."

They stood still in the darkness, listening.

Phaedrus groaned. "I can't hear a thing. Really Nikias, we can't afford-"

"You're right. It's quiet down there. The fighting is over."

Phaedrus paused. "Oh."

"We just have to hope they don't-"

He heard the heavy beat of footsteps on the stairs.

"Gah!" He grabbed Phaedrus by the arm. "No more time. Let's go. Go now!"

He ran, half-blind down the hall, dragging Phaedrus behind. The sound of running men grew behind them. Up ahead, he saw the next flight of stairs, descending to the rear door, and freedom. It stimulated his legs to work harder, but as soon as he saw it, he heard shouts from behind.

"There are more of them up here!"

"Hey, you. Stop!"

He threw himself down the stairs three and four at a time, and Phaedrus belied his aged appearance by racing down almost as fast. He couldn't stand the pace, however, and broke down on a landing midway to the ground level, wheezing and gasping for air. Nikias patted him and tried to coax him up.

"They're seconds behind us, old spy master. Play the mountain goat a little more."

Phaedrus shook his head, his face pale and waxy. "I can't. I can't do it."

He heard feet on the stairs above.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

No more time for niceties. He hefted the sword in his hand, glared at Phaedrus, and put the edge to his throat, hard enough to dig into the skin. "Move!"

Phaedrus scrambled to his feet, and if they'd had Olympic matches for octogenarians, he'd have taken gold for stair sprinting. He hurled himself down the stairs, and Nikias had to push to keep up. He began to worry less about capture, and more that the old madman would break his legs, or his neck.

If they had kept up that pace, Phaedrus would have hurt himself, he was sure of it, but the momentary burst of strength was all he needed. Moments later they landed on the mosaic tiles of the ground floor, in a tight alcove, walled off except to the stairs and the rear door, which stood open.

Nikias's spine tingled. He had a creepy feeling, but he didn't have time to analyse it.

"Come on," said Phaedrus, and rushed out.

Nikias chased after him, into what turned out to be a private graveyard. His bare feet hit soft, cool grassy turf, welcome after the hard tiles and floorboards in the house. The air carried the sweet scent of night blooming flowers. He chased Phaedrus across graves and between headstones, towards a small barred gate in the low wall that surrounded the graveyard. A pair of small mausoleums, like minute stone houses, flanked the gate. In the dim light of the moon, he saw trees creeping around the mausoleums, and the shadows they cast looked like fearsome warriors.

One of the shadows drew a sword.

"Stop," he shouted.

If Phaedrus heard him, he didn't show it. He ran to the gate, and tugged at the bar that held it shut.

Men rose from their shadowy ambush, and rushed down on Phaedrus, swords raised to hack him apart.

"No," shouted Nikias. He thrust up his own sword. "He's mine! That one's mine!"

The men paused, and he heard them gasp and murmur. "It's the chief! It's the boss! He's alive..."

Some inkling of his situation must have penetrated Phaedrus's skull, for he let go of the bar, turned away from the gate, and flicked his eyes across the two groups of soldiers, and then he looked at Nikias. His eyes grew wide, and his jaw trembled.

Nikias couldn't hold his gaze. He faced the men. "He's mine, I said. Bind his arms and search him for weapons."

"He's one of them," said one soldier. "Kalliphas said they captured you. We thought they killed you!"

"Yeah," said another. "You don't take vipers prisoner; you burn their nest, and kill the ones that try to wriggle free."

Nikias heard running, cursing and harsh breathing behind him, and knew that his pursuers had caught up. He no choice now but to ride his authority. "That man is their leader," he said. "He's the snake chief. I have to take him to the king. These are orders from the king. He wants to see their chief for himself. He wants to watch him die."

The soldiers shifted and muttered, but that was something they could understand.

They stripped Phaedrus, and bound him. Then they gathered the rest of their prisoners, and Nikias saw how few had survived the raid. Then they marched them to the barracks. Through it all, Phaedrus said nothing, but his eyes burned into Nikias without cease.

Chapter Thirty

Once the prisoners were locked up in the cells below, and he had posted guards he could trust, Nikias went to his quarters, bathed, and changed. He had welcomed the white robes before, but now the touch of it made him feel guilty. He had lost his former clothes. He supposed they were still back at Black Salt's fallen refuge. Perhaps he'd send someone to collect them, but it could wait.

He put on a clean loincloth and a white linen skirt with a black band at the hem, and he strapped on his second best leather belt and scabbard, to carry his sword. He didn't bother with a tunic or cloak; the night was warm and the day would be hot. He missed his amulet, the shield of Athena. And his arms felt naked and strange without the comforting weight of the leather bracers. Last of all, he strapped on his second best pair of sandals. They had been a gift from the king, and although they felt comfortable, something had gone wrong in the tanning process, and they carried the smell of wet goat.

The door opened, and he turned, sword half out of the scabbard before he recognised the familiar grey hair and startling contrast of the young, handsome face under it. "Kalliphas."

"Still jumpy?" He walked in and shut the door behind him. His ankle still pained him; he winced with every step.

He slid the blade back into the scabbard. "You took your time," he said.

"I was just making sure the prisoners were secure; don't want them to do a Sapog."

"That's not what I meant."

Kalliphas sighed, and hung his head. "I know. You left the library without a word, and by the time I knew you'd gone, you'd raced halfway across the city. I had to question fifty different people before I found out where you'd gone-"

He felt heat rising in his chest, and tension in his jaw and shoulders. He didn't want to hear any more from Kalliphas. "It's not good enough."

Kalliphas flinched, and then he nodded. "You're right. Of course you're right-"

"You left me there all night. Why did you come just then?" If he'd come sooner, I could be happy, he thought. I wouldn't have to worry about yet another traitor, about being used as a weapon in a secret war. I could hang Phaedrus, Zalm and all the rest of them, and go home with a light heart.

Kalliphas straightened up, like a soldier on parade. "Sir," he said, eyed fixed on a point a little past Nikias's shoulder. "If I had rushed in waving my sword, they would have killed me. I did the job. I watched the house, and sent word to the barracks for an assault team. We found and watched all of the doors, all the places they might try to escape, or to move vital personnel. We waited to strike in the night, when we expected the bulk of their men to be asleep or at least fatigued."

He remembered hearing the clash of arms. "From the sounds you made, I'd say they weren't as sleepy as you'd expected."

Kalliphas gave him a wry smile. "No sir, they were not. I don't know who trained them, but they were well-drilled and ready to resist. We counted about fifty men in the house, but they fought like a pack of mad dogs. Counting the prisoner you took, ten men survived."

"Ten!"

His heart and his stomach lurched. As chief of the city guard, he should be proud that his men had outfought so many foes, and if he'd heard that news a day before, he'd have been ecstatic. "You all but wiped out Black Salt in one stroke!"

Kalliphas's brows knitted together, and he cocked his head. "We did, sir. We did."

"There are almost none of them left. They couldn't play the furies even if they wanted to."

"After we tell the king, there won't even be that many," said Kalliphas.

"By the goddess, you're right. He'll have them hacked apart and then he'll have us tie the bloody chunks to a line, and he'll fish with them. We can forget all about them."

"After we're done with them, Black Salt will be as much trouble as the wings of a fish."

It was tempting. Could he forget what had happened at Black Salt's secret home? Could he turn his back on Phaedrus and his secret war? He sat on the edge of his desk, frowning into space, wrestling with thoughts at once repulsive yet magnetic.

Kalliphas broke in on his inner argument. "Sir, there was one small problem. We caught Endormax; we found him cowering under a bed. And you captured the master of the circle, but one man was missing..."

He looked at Kalliphas through the corner of his eye. "Missing."

"The one you fought before. The fellow who murdered that poor locksmith. I can't remember his-"

"Zalm!"

Kalliphas beamed. "That's the one. Such a weird name, I couldn't-"

He bolted up. "You checked the bodies."

"Uh, twice."

"Check them again."

"Sir, I-"

"What about the graveyard behind the building?"

"What about it?"

He ground his teeth together. "Send someone to look for fresh graves. He might be dead."

Kalliphas stared at him. "Might be?"

"Just send someone!"

"Sir, you look pale. You can't have had any rest, and I don't know what they did to you. How about you lie down, and-"

His eyes grew wide, and he looked at Kalliphas as if the man had sprouted flowers from his nose. "Lie down? With that insane killer roaming loose? He doesn't know!"

"Doesn't know what?"

He clamped his jaw and lips shut, and squeezed his hands together until he felt as if the bones would snap. Zalm could not have heard his conversation with Phaedrus. He could not know he'd changed his heart. After the raid, if the man's body was able to carry him, he would come back for revenge. If he heard how Nikias had 'chased' and arrested his leader... Nobody in the king's party would be safe with that man free, least of all him.

"Sir, I need you to talk to me. I have to know what happened."

He rounded on Kalliphas so fast the man took a step back. "I'm in charge here, Kalliphas. Double the street patrols and double the guard on the prisoners. Alert the palace guard, too. And find my daughter!"

Chapter Thirty One

He hurried to the palace at dawn, as the sun rose like a golden orb, and the gulls screamed and chanted to greet it. The clear sky promised another day of unbearable heat, and the wine merchants had already begun to man their stalls, in preparation for the thirsty crowds. As the sun rose, a breeze carried in from the sea, and he caught the familiar tang of salt water. It should have refreshed him. On any other day it would, but anyone who'd looked at Nikias could have told, by the pallor of his skin, and the deep shadows under his eyes, that he hadn't slept all night.

With every step he took, he heard an echo from behind.

He hadn't wanted a pack of dogs to watch him, he wasn't going to get himself captured two days in a row, and besides, Black Salt was all locked up. Where was the danger? In spite of his arguments, Kalliphas had insisted that he take a squad of guards with him, pointing out that if Zalm was still alive and able, he had to be reckoned a threat.

Kalliphas had done more than set guards to watch him. "This audience can wait. It's too early to see the king," he'd said. "And you look like something we dragged out of the harbour. Take your time and rest, sleep. Then we can talk to the king when you're ready."

"I'm ready now," he'd said, and gone on his way, leaving Kalliphas to manage the guard house in his absence.

The brilliant sun made his eyes sore, and he paused to massage them. Kalliphas had been right; he should have had some rest. Even so, he couldn't have. The pressure in him to move, to act, made any kind of lull unendurable. Every which way he looked, he saw one more problem. He'd captured Black Salt, yes, and that ought to please the king. But Phaedrus had convinced him he'd been chasing the wrong people, which meant the real traitor was still alive and free, and he had not the slightest tattered rag of an idea who or where he was. Moreover, he'd been forced to take Phaedrus prisoner, and he wasn't at all sure the old man would understand it. If he hadn't pretended to chase the old man, if he hadn't locked him away, he might have jeopardised his own liberty, and then who would ever know about the traitor? He told himself he'd done the right thing, but he felt bad about it.

And then, as if matters weren't bad enough, Zalm was out there. In his present state, weakened by worry and lack of sleep, that was perhaps the worst part. If he'd understood Phaedrus, then Zalm had never been involved in the murders, he'd only acted to protect the secrets of the circle. He'd even held back from killing. He would have no such inhibitions now.

"Sir?"

The guard's voice made him jump. "Gah! What is it?"

"You... You stopped moving. We were worried, sir."

He realised he'd been standing, rooted to the spot, lost in thought while his hands rubbed his eyes and face. His body felt like a sack of wet sand, and his eyes felt as if they'd been left out in the sun, halfway towards becoming raisins. An involuntary image entered his mind, a mental picture of a soft, clean bed. He sighed. Just then, that thought was more attractive than Aphrodite.

He scowled, straightened his spine, and forced himself to march. "Come on," he said. "We're almost there."

***

"We heard you were dead," said the guard. Even leaning on his spear, he towered over Nikias, and the foetid air that spilled from his thick, stubbly lips suggested a diet of pickled rat. "Isn't that right, Hogoth?"

Hogoth looked like a sack of butter, beaten into almost human shape, but melting and sagging. He had an unruly mop of grey hair and a bushy beard, so thick it made it impossible to tell how old he was. He said something in his own language, a thick stream of guttural consonants, accompanied by blasts of spittle.

Nikias couldn't tell what he'd said, and he didn't care. He knew these two jokers by sight, but he had no idea why they were manning the palace gates. Given the hour, it couldn't have been choice duty; perhaps they had been posted there as a punishment. "Open the gate," he said.

The first one, whose name crawled on the edge of his memory, sucked his teeth. "Can't do it just like that. There are bad men loose in the city, and we're here to keep them out."

He tilted his head, and his brows contracted. "Listen to me... Gathgut-"

"Gathgud!"

"Right, Fatgut. I'm in charge of the guards. There was a danger to the king's life, and I protected him from it. Are you really telling me that you're going to bar entrance to the man who imprisoned the circle of Black Salt?"

Gathgud harrumphed, and started to speak, but Hogoth kicked him. Gathgud glared at his stubby sloven of a comrade, and then straightened up, as much as he could, until he looked almost like a soldier standing to attention. He fixed his eyes on Nikias's left ear, and spoke with a kind of surly politeness. "Pass, honoured lord."

Nikias told himself to ignore the man, and he was halfway through the gate when Gathgud hissed at him. "Things are going to change."

Chapter Thirty Two

First the king was in bed, and they waited. Then the king wasn't in bed, so sorry, he was out with friends in the city. Which friends? Nikias would go and speak to him, so the palace staff looked for someone who knew, because the king had left so late that night, none now awake had seen him. Nikias contained his growing frustration, and mention of the king's late antics reminded him of his own testing, sleepless night. The two compounded threatened to overturn all social judgement, but then a messenger came, sweaty and exhausted, clothes thrown on with hands shaky from the hour. The king's friends in the city? But no!

"No?" said Nikias.

The king had not gone to stay with friends, he had gone further abroad, to hunt and feast through the night at a lodge outside the city. What lodge? "Oh, there must be a note or a record somewhere." But where? He began to rush about the palace, thrusting his nose into room after room, rousing the servants of the night from slumber, creating yet more confusion and questions to vex and irritate Nikias.

"Does no one in this palace know where the king has taken himself?"

And then Rathea appeared, and although the early darkness did not add to her beauty, neither did it conceal her ugliness. "You're the master of iron, aren't you, Nicky? Who should know, but you?"

"I have been detained on his majesty's business. Am I supposed to have the only working memory of the king's men?"

"It's good that you said 'men'. It gives me a little more delight in your tongue. Why, I might come to like it so much that I'll take a piece of it to keep."

"My tongue is not yours to take," he said.

"Not yet. After my marriage..."

He pressed his lips together, to shut in the words that rose in his throat, clamouring for release. He turned his back on Rathea as he turned his back on the palace. Wherever the king was, he wouldn't find him here.

By the time he got back to the guard house, he felt exhausted. He was surprised to have a messenger turn up and ask for him almost as soon as he'd set foot inside. "You're to come to the royal palace at once," the sweating, gasping runner said.

Kalliphas, who'd been his steadfast companion all the way, spoke his thoughts for him. "The palace?" he said. "But we've just come from there!"

The runner shrugged. "I don't know about that," he said. He ran a hand through his mop of unruly hair, and it came away glistening with damp. "All I know is, the king's expecting you."

Nikias sighed, and turned a longing glance up the stairs, to where his room and his bed waited for him.

Kalliphas raised his hand. "I'll go," he said. "You've earned your rest. You need it."

As soon as he heard his desires reflected in the words of another, he knew he couldn't satisfy them. "Whatever I've earned, I am the king's man, and my greatest need is to serve him. Although sometimes I wish-"

Kalliphas cleared his throat, and flicked his eyes at the messenger. Nikias took the hint, and led them out into the street. Once they had started, he felt new enthusiasm at the thought of telling the king about their success, and he and Kalliphas soon outpaced the tired runner. Nikias still found himself tormented by worries, like a mass of hydra's heads snapping at his heart. He felt some temptation to forget about Phaedrus, to dismiss the vision as a dream. Presuming the supposed traitor did exist, well, wouldn't he be happy now? Wouldn't he be satisfied now that his enemies were locked in chains under the royal barracks?

Another, better part, rose in him, and told him to remember how many times the circle of Black Salt could have killed him; if they had been a mere pack of wolves, they would not have let him live.

Once again they passed along the promenade and by the royal gardens on their way to the palace. For some reason, he thought of the beasts kept for the amusement of the king. He remembered the golden fur of the lions, and their gleaming white teeth. He remembered how peaceful they looked at rest, which seemed attractive just then, and yet how savage they could be; he'd been present when a stray dog had wandered into the gardens. It must have been beaten by its owner, for its muzzle was swollen and bloody, and it had lost its sense of smell. The dog had scrambled under a hedge, and then it had caught sight of the king's party on the far side of a small green meadow. The king had been munching on roast game bird, and a piece of flesh had slipped out of his greasy fingers. The dog, lean and starving, had rushed across the meadow, intent on the scrap of meat.

Nikias winced at the memory. The injured beast had seen nothing but that morsel of food. He'd run right past the nose of the lion, the king's surprised guests had had time to make game on its chances, and it had looked as if the dog would live, when the lion, with an almost imperceptible effort, had raised one paw, and with a touch that looked as light as a breath of wind, it had sliced the dog open from snout to tail.

The sight was ugly and nasty enough, but what had made it memorable, for Nikias, was the surprise in the dog's eyes. They had widened, just like a man's eyes, and its jaw had fallen slack, at least until the pain had caught it. The ill-used brute had not had any idea of the danger it was running into.

"I pray I'm not like that," he said to himself.

"What's that, chief?"

He'd forgotten about Kalliphas.

"Nothing. Not much. By the gods, I hope it's not much. Come on, we're almost there."

Hogoth and Gathgud must have finished their shift, because the guards had changed. In their place stood a pair of clean, upright soldiers, their spears long and sharp. "Sir," they chorused.

"Here to see the king."

The soldiers frowned, and eyed each other, uneasy.

"Come on," said Nikias.

"Sir," said one of them. "The king's not here. He's at a hunting lo-"

"No," said the other. "He's in the city, with friends."

Nikias and Kalliphas looked at each other.

"Is this a joke?" said Nikias.

Kalliphas took a step forward. "We got a message from the palace. From the king."

One guard scratched his nose, and the other chewed his lip. Then he moved closer, glanced around, and spoke out of the side of his mouth. "You didn't hear this from me," he said. "But a fellow did run out of here when we came on duty. Only thing is, he's not the king's servant."

"Not the king's servant?" said Kalliphas.

Nikias squeezed his eyes shut, and massaged his forehead. He had a feeling he knew what was coming, and he didn't want to hear it.

"He was one of 'her' boys."

Nikias spoke through his teeth. "Koprathea."

Chapter Thirty Three

They trudged back to the guardhouse. Kalliphas tried several times to strike up a conversation, but Nikias didn't want to listen, and he feared that if he started to say what was on his mind, he'd be the one chained up for treason.

When they got back, he collapsed into his bed. He didn't even have the strength to take off his sandals.

He woke to a blurry, confused view, and a feeling of being shaken. He blinked, coughed and tried to brush off the grasp on his shoulder, but as soon as he lay back down, that hand grabbed him again, harder. He moaned. "For all gods' sakes, let me sleep."

"And lose the other half of my kingdom?"

He went still. That voice... With care, he raised one eyelid, and waited for the chaos of light to resolve itself into colour and form. He saw dark hair bound back in the Egyptian style, dark bulbous eyes over a hooked nose, and thick, cruel lips. Below the face, the rest was a cascade of resplendent blue and gold silk that flowed like a waterfall, but never quite succeeded in concealing the king's massive girth.

Ptolemaios caught his eye tracing the contours of his silken outfit. "You like it?" He rubbed the material between fingers and thumb, and a slight smile played about his lips. His eyes gazed into an invisible distance. "The merchant who sold it to me said it was woven by the daughters of Aphrodite, on the peak of an island mountain in the sweet water oceans of the misty north."

Nikias groaned. "Did you wake me up to talk tall stories? I was better off in dream land."

Ptolemaios's brow twisted in a frown, and his thick lips pushed out in a pout. He looked just like a spoiled child confronted with reality. "Get out of bed, you lazy beast! You've let me down, Nikias. You've let me down badly." He turned, and started to pace back and forth, although the room wasn't big enough for a man of his size, and he kept bumping into the desk or the bookshelves.

Nikias rolled onto his back, and took a moment to test his arms and legs. Bones? In place. Ligaments? Tight and sore, but still tied on. Meat? Fatigued, but strong. He took a deep breath, raised his legs, and then rolled onto his feet, and faced the pacing king. "Sir, I have news for you."

Ptolemaios paused, and turned to look sideways at him. "Oh you have news, do you? Is this new news, or old news? Have you done great deeds in your sleep?"

"Black Salt-"

"Why didn't you come to the palace?"

He froze, and had a felt as if he was swimming in confusion. "I did."

"Why did you ignore my messenger?"

"I, what- But that guy was one of her men..."

Ptolemaios rounded on him. "Fool! You're supposed to be my shark, but you have the brains of a jellyfish! I planted him in her garden-"

Light flickered. "Then he was working for-"

"Don't interrupt me!" He rubbed his jaw with trembling fingers. "You should have come to me as soon as you caught them."

The injustice of it felt like a torture. "But I did!"

"And you let her drive you away! By the gods, I understand it; I've been forced to hide in my own palace..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

Nikias started to see what the king must have done. Horrified at Rathea's wedding plans, and her growing insistence on being involved in matters of state, he must have sent forth contradictory stories about his location: hunting, visiting with friends, etc., and then he must have hidden himself right in the palm of her hand. He grinned. In spite of himself, he was impressed. It was a bolder move than he ever would have expected from old Bull Gut.

"It was working, too," said Ptolemaios. "I was having the first shred of peace in weeks. And then you barge in, yabbering about ten times accursed Black Salt, calling up a storm. If you'd just sidled in like a sneaky gutter rat, you could have told me what you'd done, and everything would be fine."

He stiffened at hearing himself likened to a gutter rat, but Ptolemaios talked on. It made Nikias a little jealous, to be able to say what you wanted, without any concern other people's hearts. You could blame everyone else for your own faults and mistakes. You could be free. But when he looked at Ptolemaios, gesticulating and frantic, he laughed at the idea.

"Sir, please, I want to help you, and I don't understand what's wrong. We've captured Black Salt. They're no longer a threat."

Ptolemaios laughed, and it sounded like a death rattle. "No longer a threat," he said. "No longer a threat... Tell that to Pompus."

Nikias blinked. Then he frowned. "Pompus? What does he care about Black Salt?"

"He cares," said Ptolemaios. "He cares very much. Or let me say...he cared."

Chapter Thirty Four

He felt unclean. He'd spent the day before running and searching, fighting and suffering torments, and through it all he'd sweated in the punishing heat. He'd changed his clothes a couple of times, and slept a little, but he hadn't had a chance to bathe, to scrub the sweat and the dust from his skin. When he saw what was left of Pompus, he felt dirty in a different way.

When he'd first stepped inside the doctor's chamber, and seen the man slumped over on his knees, his forehead resting on clasped hands, he'd had the absurd idea that he was praying. From their last, brief conversation, he knew that Pompus was -had been- a devout follower of Asklepios. However, when the king bade him look closer, he saw the painful joke in that impression.

The room stank of drying blood and filth; the man's bowels and bladder had emptied, perhaps when he felt the blade plunge into his neck. His white robe was torn, and a little blood had trickled down, to stain the chest, but most of his vital fluid had spurted up, to paint the ceiling, and then ahead, to drizzle the wall and the inner face of the door.

Just at a glance, he knew who had done this. He had seen it before.

"You see?" said the king. He didn't wait for an answer. "Had you spoken to me sooner, I could have answered Rathea and her pet priest Garantzis. I could have put the wedding off, perhaps forever."

"Is the wedding all you care about?" asked Nikias. He paused, surprised by his outburst.

"Why are you so upset? I didn't think you even liked Pompus."

Pompus's wreath had tipped off his head, and splashed down in the blood, its green leaves turned red with blood. In life, he had acted the vain peacock, but in death, the last little scrap of dignity had been ripped away. In the past, Nikias would have laughed to knock away that wreath, and reveal Pompus's bald head in all its shining glory. Now it gave him the same mix of anger, sorrow and nausea that he would feel if someone kicked a child.

Worse yet, the manner of the death spoke to him in a voice that no one else could hear. It painted a picture of Lorcas in his last moments, helpless and pleading. He hadn't so much been killed as been used; his very blood had become a blinding weapon. Pompus, too, had been used in death; this was a message from Zalm.

"I..."

He was spared the trouble of explaining himself, for an outcry sent them both rushing out of the doctor's room.

"The harbour, the harbour," came the cry.

They ran up, to a higher level of the palace, to a private hanging garden, with low walls and a view across the city, and the harbour.

News about the breaking of Black Salt had yet to spread through the city, and the watch had yet to change its rules about the curfew. As a result, the harbour was once again packed with ships and small boats, as countless fishermen, sailors and merchants strove to conduct their business in the hours of daylight, tide and the gods be damned.

He couldn't tell where it had started. Perhaps a couple of merchant vessels had got into a deadlock, and a third, guided by a yawning, bleary eyed pilot, still halfway into dreamland, had rammed straight into them. Perhaps some crafty captain had sailed at night, and then run afoul of the morning rush. Whatever the cause, the harbour was crammed with floating wood, jammed together, and he saw smoky red flames dance in an ever widening circle, that threatened to trap and roast every sailor in that mass.

The sailing vessels were pressed together so close that the water made no barrier to the leaping flames, and the men who saw their danger had begun to run and leap from boat to boat, but the flames had spread in a ragged circle, and those who were caught within those flickering walls, smashed at their boats and at one another, frantic in despair. Even at that distance, he could hear the screams.

Chapter Thirty Five

He ran to the barracks, and led all the men he could to the harbour, where they spent the remainder of the day pulling men off their boats and ships, or out of the sea, when they'd chosen to swim rather than dare the advancing flames. The whole area reeked of charred wood, and the sun hid behind a bank of thick black smoke, that turned the day into choking night.

He'd taken all of the soldiers he could spare, leaving just enough to secure the prison, and his ranks swelled with common people, who banded together on their own initiative, to help the sailors. He was surprised and pleased to see the fervour with which they helped that mass of sodden, terrified men. Of late he'd seen so little kindness among men, he'd forgotten it could exist.

The first time that he reached out to a terrified sailor, cornered by flames, and hauled him off to safety, he felt such elation in his heart, he thought a god had come down and breathed new life into him. It spurred him to press on, and he rescued many more, often running from boat to boat, using ropes, boards and other jury rigged tools to save men from their ships. In spite of their job, many sailors couldn't swim a stroke, and when the fire forced them to risk a leap into the water, they often floundered, and more than one drown. Worse yet, for more than a few, the only way off a burning ship was to jump into the space between vessels, but as every captain struggled to get his craft out of the fiery trap, those who chose to take that leap pierced the air with hideous screams, as the moving ships and boats crushed them, or pinned them until the water sapped their strength, and exhausted they drowned.

Indeed, the first wild joy of playing the saviour soon gave way to grim effort, as he found fewer and fewer people to pull from the floating wreckage, and more and more bodies left by those he had failed to reach in time. Part of his mind told him that he wasn't to blame, that he couldn't have saved everyone, but each new corpse seemed to whisper in reproach, to ask, again and again, why didn't you come for me? I needed your help, but you never came.

The salty water of the sea soaked his arms and legs, and made them itch and sting. His hands bled where countless minute splinters stabbed them. The smoky air clawed his lungs, and made his breath rasp, and ash coated his hands, and made them look strange and disturbing.

He worked on, no longer able to save anyone, but left with the gruesome task of fishing bodies out of the harbour. His soldiers and city guards worked alongside him, and every man he saw had eyes that shone with tears. When they came to drag out the body of one lifeless little girl, one of the oldest and sturdiest men in the guard, Gontes, fell to his knees and wept. Two of the younger men led him back to the barracks, crying so much that he could barely walk.

Nikias kept at his task until the sun had fallen, and he couldn't work any longer. His entire world tasted of bitterness and ashes.

And then he was at the palace, with the time in between a blur, and his grip on the present just as weak. Garantzis spoke with the flow and fire of true enthusiasm, and it seemed he held his audience spellbound, but Nikias couldn't tell one word from another. "...sign of the gods. We must not put off the wedding another day, or a worse tragedy will befall us. You, do you not agree?"

Nikias became aware that all eyes were on him. He frowned, and tried to puzzle out the priest's meaning, but all he managed to do was notice the little patches of spittle that had gathered at the corners of the man's mouth.

Garantzis huffed and sighed. "Perhaps you do not share my feelings about delay, but even you will admit this is a message from the lords of fate."

"A...message?"

"This catastrophe. This loss. It is a sign that the king must wed, just as I foretold."

Nikias didn't recall that Garantzis had foretold anything, but at last he understood what the man was talking about. He looked at his hands, black with ashes, smelling of smoke and salt water. He pictured Gontes, on his knees and weeping. He saw the lifeless face of the girl, her eyes staring at him with an accusation he could not answer.

"Why must the god shout, priest?" He fixed Garantzis with eyes red from smoke, set in a face blackened with soot and ash. "Why must the god shout? Why can he not whisper?"

Garantzis gawped at the question. He must have grown used to people fawning and bowing, pleading with him as if he were the god himself, that to be struck at with a jagged edged query left him stunned. Worse yet, a murmur ran through the court, and it didn't favour the old priest. Nikias even caught a smirk on Ptolemaios's thick lips.

"You- You cannot-"

"I was pulling men from their boats all day," he said, and felt a fire ignite in his gut, as if he'd picked up a stray cinder, lodged there, smouldering all day, and now it had found matter to burn. "I ran the decks, and fought the flames. I carried them back to shore, the living and the dead. Where were you?"

"I?"

"When our people suffered the god's wrath, where were you?"

Garantzis looked stricken. For the first time, his youthful zest fled him, and he stood revealed, an old, weak and quavering man. "I- I-"

Rathea rose from her throne. "How dare you talk at Poseidon's minister that way?"

He turned to face her. "How dare he speak when all his intercessions have failed? How dare he speak when his-"

"Be silent!"

"Sister, dear," said Ptolemaios, "Nikias has served us well. He is clearly exhausted from labours that were a better fit for Herakles than a mortal-"

"Oh brother, be quiet," she said.

The court fell silent, but Rathea didn't show any sign that she noticed.

"You there, gate keeper, watchman, go back to your cudgels and spears. You lost your right to speak when you let my dear Pompus die."

"I lost the right? No man of Athens can lose that right!"

"This is Alexandria."

The entire court was silent, watching the pair of them, like the crowd at a bout of boxing.

"This is Alexandria," he said. "But you're not queen yet."

He heard perhaps a dozen people suck air through their teeth. He knew he'd gone too far, but the heat inside burned too hot, and he couldn't have held the words in.

Rathea smiled. "But I will be tomorrow."

She glanced at Ptolemaios, who pressed his lips together, and looked green. He shot Nikias a pleading look, but he couldn't hold his gaze. His eyes rolled left and right, like a boar ringed by hunters. At last he sighed, and nodded.

Rathea beamed in triumph, her eyes glowing with cruel light. She spoke to Nikias, but she didn't bother to look at him. "You have worked hard, and you are tired. Go away and rest. We will deal with the important things."

Nikias saw he was being dismissed, and he realised, in spite of his longstanding friendship with the king, he would never have the same authority or liberty he had so far enjoyed. He knew, as well, that if he wanted to do anything for Phaedrus, he had to do it now. "I beg leave to ask for a stay of execution for the prisoners."

"Why?" she said.

"I believe that we may have been deceived as to their guilt."

Rathea shook her head. "Oh no, they're guilty. And they will all die tomorrow. It can mark our wedding."

Chapter Thirty Six

He washed himself, but no effort could get that stink out of his nose. As he lay on his bed, it didn't take long for him to sink into a slumber, and he fell to a broad plain, where the land lay under the shadow of endless clouds of smoke, where the soil was smothered with greasy ash, and where his own skin was as black as a burnt wick. He held his hand up, and rubbed the palm.

A wind rose, and whipped his face.

The darkness proved to be an outer layer; he smeared it away, and revealed bone white flesh underneath.

The wind screamed.

No, not just white like bone, it was bone. The ashes and filth had silted up until he'd appeared to have a real, whole body, but under the dirt he was a mere skeleton.

The wind, no longer content with mere protest, roared across the dark plain. It picked up a layer of ashen dust, gathered it into a dark cloud, and then hurled it at him.

He braced himself for the blow, but it didn't strike like a hammer. Instead it felt like being caressed by a lover with gritty hands. He laughed.

The wind fled, as if incensed at his disdain. The air fell quiet. Nothing stirred, and no one spoke. There was no one to speak. He came to notice his own ashen stink, and the taste of burnt wood on his tongue. His eyes felt sore and swollen. If he'd had a mirror, he would have bet they've have looked as red as the eyes of a basilisk. He grew lonely, and, bereft of a challenge, he felt useless and desolate.

But the wind had not finished with him yet. At first he heard it as a keening sigh, and then the sigh grew to a scream, but it didn't die away this time, no, it rose higher and higher until it wasn't sound any more, instead it was something harder and more piercing than mere noise. As it raced across the great black plain, it scoured the earth, tearing away the ashen topsoil, and revealing a pale glimmer underneath.

At first he started to laugh at it again, but the laughter died when the wind raised so much ash and abrasive filth that it made a solid wall. He knew that this time, the wind would not leave him alive; it would scour him with merciless force until nothing remained to show that a man had once stood on that plain of death.

As the dark wall advanced, he saw a figure move within it. At first he thought he was wrong, but no, it was no trick; something or someone had risen within the cloud of ash. He looked harder, and saw a colossal shadow, as if a titan of the old stories had returned to the land to torment men.

The cloud was almost upon him now; the wind howled in his ears, and teased and pushed his filthy body. He knew he had little time, and he felt a sudden urge to run, or to dig a ditch and hide, but he knew it would be useless. Besides, the figure had gained a partner. There were two of them now, vast shadows that swirled and shifted when he tried to make out their details.

The wind hurt so much that tears began to stream from his eyes, and his face felt as if it was submerged in an icy lake. He leaned forward, and wrapped his arms around his face, but he would not turn aside.

He peered over his forearms, his eyes narrow slits, and willed the shadowy figures to resolve. He knew it was important. This was a chance, and he had to take it. He started to see features on the first shape, but then his vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. Frantic, he cursed and blinked, and looked again.

Now he made her out: a woman, mighty and stern, and wearing a crown of human skulls.

As he studied her, trying to recognise her face, she looked at him with vast, dark, hollow eyes, and he felt her hate like a hand crushing his heart. He shuddered and looked away.

With moments left, he forced himself to study the second figure. This one marched with the wind, a mighty warrior with a strange face, and in his fist, a terrible dagger.

What time he'd had was gone. He knew that with his next breath, that vast dark storm, and its shadowy masters would fall on him, and rend his body to atoms. But in that final breath, before his sight turned black, he saw one more figure approach. This last one, he knew held the key, and he strained to make it out.

Then the living cloud engulfed him, and he felt as if he was being stung to death by an infinite swarm of furious bees.

Chapter Thirty Seven

The door flew open and slammed against the wall. He started up in his bed, half in and half out of the nightmare world. He saw nothing but deep gloom, and for the span of a heartbeat he thought he was still in the midst of that destroying storm of smoke and dust. Then he heard the thud of running feet, and the sound of a man's breath; rapid, shallow gasps, as of a runner who was trying to catch his breath.

He tried to move without making a sound, hoping to slide out of the end of his bed, and get to the weapons rack by the wall. His visitor must have heard him.

"Nikias!"

He cursed under his breath, and threw himself into a roll, that carried him out of bed, and onto his feet. He landed with a thump, and he heard the other man gasp.

"Gods damn you Nikias, don't do that!"

The voice sounded familiar, but he was concentrating on finding a weapon. The darkness and the leaping roll combined with the disorientation of being wrenched out of sleep, and he found that though on any other day he could have entered the room with his eyes closed, and walked straight to his sword, this time his questing hand met the sharp corner of his desk.

Hot pain surged through his fingers. "Gods below!"

"No, don't shout!" He heard panic in the interloper's voice. "If you make a noise, they'll get me."

Nikias's thoughts sang with outrage. You expect me to let you encompass my murder, and even to help you do it in silence?

"Men! Guards! Soldiers of the king! Kalliphas, curse your slow feet and slower brain, come to me!"

"Oh gods, no!"

The intruder threw himself at Nikias, and shoved him off his feet. He stumbled back, caught the edge of the table in his side, and then fell against the weapons rack, and made a clattering racket as he dropped. His knives, swords, and even an axe swung, clanged, and then hit the floorboards, and every thunk and clank made him flinch, as he strove to get his hands, feet and body away from the lethal rain.

He scrabbled for a weapon, but already the intruder had closed in on him, and he felt a cold thrill in his skin as the man pressed the sharp edge of a sword against his neck. "What do I have to do to make you be silent, and listen to me?"

He felt hot breath on his face, and caught the tangy odour of olives, garlic, and cheap wine. The scent was familiar, and so was the voice.

"The gods must have stolen your senses...Halfhand."

The man above him gasped through his teeth, an ugly sucking sound, and he huffed, and he shook as if snakes writhed under his skin. "The gall of him! Even caught naked by night, with a blade to his neck, and living now only by my goodwill, and still he will not, cannot say my name."

"We've made enough music between us to set the city dancing," said Nikias. "I'd say it's more than goodwill that stays your hand, and it is still, for see, the blade licks but it does not bite."

"Apollophanos. Say it. Apollophanos. If your men rush us, I'll send you down to the world below before they take me. Say my name or die."

He listened in the gaps between words, straining his ears to catch the sound of sandaled feet pounding the stairs, and the hiss of iron unsheathed as his men came ready to attack. Until he heard that sound, he was at the bastard Spartan's mercy.

He'd have to buy time.

"You didn't come here to prattle of names."

"I-"

"You came because you're afraid."

Apollophanos choked and snorted, and then he drew back his sword, and smashed Nikias in the temple with the pommel. It felt as if his head had cracked open, and his brains had been crushed. White light seemed to flare inside his eyes, and even with his jaw clamped shut, an agonised moan escaped through his teeth.

"Afraid am I?" said Apollophanos. "I'm not afraid of you."

The pain made him angry. He'd worked so hard, and endured so much. "Since the first day I heard the name Black Salt, men have been trying to kill me. I've been cut at, pummelled with blunt arrows, beaten with bricks and almost strangled. But from the first, even the first would-be assassin, they struck at me from the front, while I was armed and standing. Alone of all my enemies, you have crept into my chamber at night, like a thief of life."

Apollophanos reeled back, and Nikias's eyes had adjusted enough that he could just make out the outline of his head, shaking.

"You've always been a coward, Halfhand, a titan before battle and a squithering mouse on the field."

Where were those guards? Had 'phanos killed them? The very idea brought him close to laughing.

He had half a mind to call them, to rouse them with a shout, while he had the pitiful Spartan staggered, but danger can do strange things to a man. If Apollophanos saw his death or capture become certain, he might become certain, to Nikias's misfortune.

He heard a low murmur from the Spartan, and at first he thought the man was cursing him as the dregs of wine died in him. Then the sound grew louder, and he realised that Apollophanos wasn't cursing at him; he was crying.

"Why didn't you kill me?"

His jaw fell slack in shock as pity crept into his heart, to oust his rage and fear.

Apollophanos spoke in a voice made thick with tears. "Why didn't you cut my throat, instead of leaving me with a crippled hand and a shivering, shadowed heart?"

He remembered it then, the green fields of Thebes red with blood, the Spartan host shining in their burnished armour. He remembered the din of battle, the weight and heat of his armour, the ache in his arms from thrusting his spear. His phalanx had fixed the Spartan line, while his master's cavalry came around and took them in the flank, trampling the supposedly invincible Spartans.

He remembered the youth before him, the dark curls of his first beard dripping with sweat, but how he'd fought; he'd smashed Nikias's spear, and they had fallen to fighting with swords. Then the Spartan line had broken, and the youth had faltered. Nikias remembered seeing his chance; he'd slashed at the man's neck, but the youth had flailed out with his hand, in a desperate attempt to save his life. Nikias's sword had bitten through his hand, casting a rain of fingers at their feet.

The young Spartan had fallen on his knees, his eyes round with shock. Nikias had knocked the helmet off his head, and raised his sword to finish it, when the boy had thrown himself forward, scrabbling at his ankles, begging for his life. Nikias had felt little but disgust and irritation, but something about seeing the brave Spartan reduced to a pleading child had raised an inkling of pity in his heart.

He'd kicked the kid away, and watched him run, weeping, from the broken line. He'd seen one of his cavalry troops bear down on the boy, and slash his back, but the boy had kept running, all the way, as he'd thought at the time, to Sparta.

He came back to the present, the bed chamber, the scattered furniture and weapons, the weeping man, trying to wipe away tears with a solitary thumb. He got to his feet. Those useless guards still hadn't roused. They were probably exhausted from toiling in the harbour, but that didn't excuse them. He'd drill them barefoot in the parade ground, march them on the burning stones until their feet wore down to nubs!

"Apollophanos," he said. "When we fought at Thebes, you were just a boy."

"Older than many in my ranks, and still I screamed and fled!"

He hated Halfhand for making him feel so much pity. "Blessed Athena, repair the man's memory! You fought me to a standstill, fool. You broke my spear. You almost killed me. The only reason I beat you was because our cavalry ripped your rear into bloody pieces."

"But I begged for my life. I knelt before you, and kissed your feet."

"Every man fears death, Apollophanos. Even Socrates argued for his life before they poured out the hemlock. You were a boy, and war was still a game. You're older now, and you've grown."

"I haven't changed so much," he said, his voice firmer now. "I pleaded for my life before. And tonight... I wanted to kill you. I wanted the courage to kill you, and end my shame, but I couldn't do it. I came here to throw myself at your feet one more time."

"Speak sense!"

"I came to beg you again. Save me, Nikias. I need your help."

Chapter Thirty Eight

He lit a little oil lamp, which bathed the room in a dim yellow light which made weird reflections on the weapons scattered from their rack. Apollophanos lingered in a corner by the door, and no matter how Nikias tried to coax him to sit, the maimed Spartan would do no more than take a single step, and then shuffle back, his shoulders hunched and eyes rolling. He looked like a horse Nikias had once owned, a handsome chestnut with great wind and agility.

He had journeyed to Libya on a mission for his king, and come to a land of desolate plains, where the few green plants had vicious barbs, and the few streams gave brackish water. One day his horse had bent his head to chew a shrub, and disturbed a hiding scorpion. The tiny monster had stung the horse about the lips, and sent it away to scream and thrash.

Nikias had lost three days in walking the beast down, and then in calming it until the pain and swelling went away. He had feared that the horse would die, but it was great, and the monster's barb had delivered but a droplet of venom. Somehow he had gone on with his journey, finished the king's business, and returned to his home, his wife, and his little daughter, as she was then. The horse had gone back to his stable. But the injury had worked a change in it, and thenceforth, never would the beast leave his stable, though called or tempted with honeyed carrots and lettuce leaves. Once back in his own home stable, he shied away from the paddock gate, and refused to be seen outside in the light of the sun or the moon.

It surprised and saddened him to find that he could look at Apollophanos and see him under the aspect of a frightened, wounded beast. In the past, he had always enjoyed a feeling of greatness whenever he had looked at Halfhand, as if by having stood fast and beaten that man as a boy, he had somehow stood against, and broken, the indomitable strength of Sparta. Now, when that sense of triumph rose, it came not in purity, but like a cup of mixed wine left out too long, it had the sour taste of regret.

He caught the Spartan eyeing him, a question in his moping brows. "Don't look at me like that," said Apollophanos. "I didn't come here for your pity."

He felt sudden heat in his chest. "Good! You'll get none."

The Spartan flinched. He tensed his legs and shoulders, as if to spring to the attack, but before the thought could become deed, he sank back into his shadowy corner. "I'll get nothing for this but a knife in my back," he said.

"That's not the help you want, is it? I can do better; bow your head and I'll take it off clean."

Apollophanos rolled his eyes. "I hope that's not a joke, for your wife's sake."

He felt himself redden. "Don't speak of the departed."

"Hah! I'm not the only one with a secret. Before I came to this pass, I searched into your life."

Nikias ordered his body to relax. "You came to me. I hope you didn't waste your time."

Apollophanos began to speak, but the words died unsaid, as they heard heavy footsteps on the stairs outside.

The Spartan rolled his eyes, and his hand leapt to his sword.

Nikias held up the palm of his left hand, and jerked his right forefinger at Apollophanos's scabbard. The Spartan ground his teeth, but he obeyed, and let his sword slide back into its sheath.

Those heavy feet thudded along the hall outside, and then they halted, outside the door.

There fell a pause, and both men held their breath. Then came a knock at the door, three taps that sounded like a drum tolling for the dead, and made Nikias's heart jump with every thud.

He pressed his lips together, and his brows crowded his eyes. He called out in a parade ground voice. "What?"

A man spoke, in the voice of a powerful soldier, but muted out of respect for his commander. Respect, and fear.

"Sorry, sir, it's Yakius. Me and the boys, we were, uh, on duty downstairs, and we, um, heard... Noises."

He spoke through the door. "You heard... Noises."

"Yes, sir."

"Your attention to duty is remarkable, Yakius. You hear noises from above, perhaps the din of battle in the dark, as assassins come to kill me under the cloak of night, and yet you wait five, or even ten minutes before you come."

"Er..."

He coated his words with thick sarcasm. "I wonder what your idea could have been. As it is, I think you must have been all full of worry and concern to let those poor assassins have their chance."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Idle will! If you hear noise of battle or moonlight murder, run, Yakius. Run to it with all the men your shrieking lungs can summon, or run from it, with all the might in your legs, but run. Don't sit on your rump for five minutes puzzling whether mice can wear metal."

"...sir."

"You are dismissed."

He listened at the door as Yakius trudged down the stairs.

"You do have a way with your men," said Apollophanos. "I'm amazed they still sign up to serve you."

"Kindness and cruelty were allied in dark times."

"And we? Can we be allies now?"

He studied Apollophanos's face, his bloodshot eyes and sagging jaw, and the way he held his powerful body, not upright, but listing, the spine bent as if weighed down by great stones.

"You come upon me in the night, and rave about enemies and secrets. By the flush in your cheeks, and the twilight sun in your eyes, you've been drinking since you rose. You-"

"I'm not weak! I drink, yes, to be sober is to remember, and my memories are a torment, while wine is the gods' own blessing. But I'm not weak. And what you call raving, these secrets, these enemies, they are real. Come, let me tell you about yourself, Nikias. I'll prove a thing to you."

He screwed up his face, as if he'd caught a whiff of some foul stink. "I don't want to know what you've learned by listening at doors, and peering over fences."

"Then the murders, do you want to hear, do you want to know about them? The truth?"

"I'm not sure you could tell a dried fig from a rat dropping."

"Black Salt didn't try to kill the king."

He stiffened, and a chill crept across his back, and made his hairs prick up. "You killed one yourself."

"I killed a boy, paid to dress up and play the part of a murderer, to wave a knife and scare the king."

He felt as if the floorboards were falling away beneath his feet. "You can't pay a man to die."

"But you can find a boy with a lone mother in debt, a youth desperate and daring, ready to try his hand, yes, even against the king, if his legacy is gold and strong arms to save and protect a weak old woman."

Nikias suck in breath to argue, and found he had no words to throw at Apollophanos. "...the one who came at me. Tell me."

The Spartan laughed. "Oh, we had to battle titans to get your sacrifice."

"My...sacrifice?"

"No one would dare to attack you. When we told them to strike at you, they blanched and fled." He laughed again. "We had to find a boy who'd never set foot here before, taken in a slave raid from some far off village. We bought him, and promised to buy free his family once his bloody work was done. He got so skittish we had to drug the fool, and at the last, when his guide pointed you out to him, at the fight, he had to poke the boy with his sword to drive him at you."

The room seemed to spin, and the strength drained out of his legs. He collapsed onto the edge of his bed, and sat there, frowning at a knot like a leering face in the floorboards.

"We had to drug him, and we poisoned him, too."

He shook his head. The words didn't make sense any more.

"He had to scare you, just enough to believe in the threat, to make it personal. And you had to survive. So we poisoned him. Even so, you must be getting old and slow, because he made a mess with your blood."

"You used me."

"Of course we used you, Nikias! We couldn't kill you, everyone was afraid to try. We all knew that if you survived, you'd hunt us, and you'd never stop. But we found a way to turn you on our enemies. Like a hunting hound, we gave you a taste of their blood, and set you loose."

"You used me like a dog."

Apollophanos started to make another joke, but Nikias couldn't hear him over the blood pulsing in his skull. He ground his teeth so hard that he felt they would crack. His heart felt like an iron ball, searing with red heat. He leapt to his feet, bore down on the Spartan, and struck him on the temple with such force that his head rocked back, and his legs gave way.

He stood over Apollophanos, and glared down at him as he lay senseless on the floor. "I'm no man's dog, you murdering coward."

Chapter Thirty Nine

Apollophanos had opened his eyes, blinking like a pup fresh from a bitch's teat, and when his sense had returned, he had begged him to stay, his voice thick and nasal from the blood that clogged his nose and glistened as it congealed on his lips. "It's death if you leave me."

"You think you'll live forever with my floorboards for your bed?"

He'd gone. Against the Spartan's pleas and threats, he'd left the man, but first he'd put him in the care of four of his most trusted men, with orders not to leave him alone for the time of a breath. He'd wanted to set Kalliphas to guard the man, but decided against it; his brain made him too valuable to waste on guard duty.

The king gave him a royal welcome.

"All gods damn you," he said, rubbing at bleary, swollen eyes, and tugging a crimson cloak over his fleshy torso. "Why can't you leave me alone? It's tradition to grant a condemned man his peace, but you, you're worse than the blowfly of Athens."

"Gadfly."

Bull Gut narrowed his eyes, and peeled his fat lips back from his yellowish teeth. "If I say blowfly, you say blowfly. Don't forget I'm your king... For now." He sighed, and sagged in his throne. "Once Rathea-"

"Once Rathea what?"

He didn't jump. Nikias gave the king credit for that much; the man managed with just a fleeting wince, little more than a tightening of the flesh around his bulbous eyes.

Rathea walked into the throne room with rather more grace than her brother. She contrived to make her yellow silk gown glide over the floor, but the diaphanous fabric failed to disguise her heavy belly and dugs, or those brawny arms. Ptolemaios had styled himself 'the condemned king', and Nikias felt the force of it. Their union would be unnatural, yes, and an affront to any self-respecting gods, but for a man with the king's appetites, it also promised to be simple and plain torment.

"Once I what?" she said, and her throne creaked under her weight.

Ptolemaios shot him a pleading look, something more familiar every day.

"My words are for the king," he said.

She sucked her teeth. "I'll be the king tomorrow."

Ptolemaios choked. "You-"

"One flesh," she said, looking at him with hooded eyes. "One blood. One bed."

His anger died in his throat, and he took a sudden interest in the hairs on the backs of his hands.

Nikias felt more pity for the king, then, than he had ever felt for any creature.

"So," she said. "You woke up my beloved, at this godless hour, to whisper secrets in his ear. Whisper to me. Or by the gods below I'll see you spiked up and swinging by your ears... Tomorrow."

They should have been brothers, he thought. She was born for a man's body. As she was, her existence was an insult to womanhood. But what he said was "I hope to serve you, your majesties, with my ears and my whispers and my sword." He didn't want to, but he saw no choice. He told them the story he'd had from Apollophanos.

Rathea showed herself cold and hard, harder than he'd expected. She showed no change, but her eyes narrowed as he spoke on, and her nails dug into the arms of her throne. The king betrayed his warrior image, for his eyes grew wide, his lips fell apart and his jaw sagged. By the end of it he was pale as the white of an egg.

"And the traitor?" he said. "His name. Give me his name."

"The Spartan demands assurances. I-"

Ptolemaios pounded the arm of his throne. "I want the name!"

Rathea put her hand on his arm, and he was so surprised he fell silent. "This is more important than a name whispered on the wind."

"Yes," said Ptolemaios, nodding. "Bring him here, and I'll- We'll question him. Gods curse him, the man saved my life. Was it all a play? Am I a fool to make fun at? I will not be mocked!"

"Zalm has come here once before," said Nikias.

"Twice," said Rathea.

"Be that as it may, my guardhouse is secure, and I don't want to risk exposing-"

"May the king of hell swallow your guardhouse," said Ptolemaios, lurching to his feet, his face growing redder with every heart's beat. "It's my guardhouse! He's my man, and that makes him my prisoner! Go and fetch him."

"Perhaps our good and loyal servant should stay here," said Rathea. "If he is so concerned about our safety, perhaps he should remain, and watch over us in these nights of blood and shadows."

Nikias shook his head. "I can't. I have to-"

Ptolemaios jabbed him in the chest. "You have to do what I tell you! And I tell you to stay." He glanced at his sister, and glowered at Nikias. "Stay on this spot, with us. Have your men bring this...creature."

Nikias ground his teeth together, but he bowed his head.

Chapter Forty

They came back too fast. He saw that later, though at the time he was glad be rid of the latest delay. But when four guardsmen marched into the courtroom, sweating and cursing under the weight of the covered litter, he knew something had gone wrong. They let the litter drop, it crashed against the floor, and the man riding would have been bawling for their hearts on a skewer, had he been able.

But he was not able.

"No," he said, shaking his head.

The guards drew themselves up as he approached the litter. A blue sheet had been draped over it, tied with hasty knots at the corners, and one had come loose on the walk. In that hall, lit by candles and oil lamps, the sheet looked black as the mouth of an open grave.

He reached out to the sheet, felt the rough fabric as he brushed it, and then he crushed it in his hand, and tore the sheet away.

Apollophanos lay as if in sleep, the sleep of a man drowned and washed up on shore. His skin had lost its ruddy hue, and gone the blue of rotting fish. The mocking smile had fled his face, which had swollen like an overripe fruit, and what expression could be made out on that puffy flesh was a wordless scream. Only his eyes, those dark Spartan eyes remained as they had been, and they glared at Nikias. Though he heard no words, those eyes accused him with the force of a shrieking plaintiff.

The moment he threw the sheet aside, the corpse stole his heart and mind away, but a few fragments of his senses remained to him, and with one he heard the queen. She didn't speak, or cry out as he wished he could cry out.

She sighed.

He noticed, as well, with a part of his soul that never slept, that the guards, his guards, did not form a line for inspection or further orders. They stood around him, in a loose square, and though their blades remained sheathed, no hand strayed far from the hilt.

He felt as if Poseidon was shaking the land, and readying the great wave to crash down and wash him away. He felt as if the earth was about to turn to water, and drown him. Those blades, once his own, were now ready to hack off his head. He saw his cause lost, and wanted to run, but he knew, if he ran, he would die even faster.

Ptolemaios rose from his throne, and snatched up a lamp. He lumbered over to stand beside Nikias, and his jaw fell as he looked on the bloated corpse of his pet Spartan. "By gods above and below," he said, "what does this mean?"

Nikias flicked a glance at the queen. She remained on her throne, and she looked comfortable. A smile played about her lips, and her stubby fingers danced upon the arms of her throne. He saw, too, the sergeant of the guards, a man named Ollipantos, exchange a look with the queen.

The king leaned over the corpse, and stroked Apollophanos's stump of a hand with trembling fingers. "He saved my life," he said. "How can this be?"

He didn't know. Nikias saw the situation, but the king stood oblivious. Nikias envied his ignorance, and hated him for it. The fool, the beast of wine soaked blubber lived like a fat little prince laughing at the play of buffoons, while all around him swords and poison worked in darkness to steal his throne.

And the worst of these wore a lover's mask.

"Treachery," said the queen.

"Yes," he said, giving the guards his back. "Treachery. Treason within my own guard!"

"Or worse," she said.

"This man saved my life," said the king. "Be he a guard or a common strangler, I want his murderer staked up on the walls of my house, with burning lead for eyes!"

Nikias faced him. "He came to me for protection, and he was murdered in my guardhouse. I'll bring you the murderer, and I'll bring you boiling lead."

Ptolemaios gave him a fierce grin, and he thought he had a chance.

Rathea spoke. "Treachery. In your guardhouse. But why did he die?"

"That's damnably obvious," he said. "The traitors bought his silence with iron."

"Or did you silence him, so he couldn't reveal your story for the lie that it is?"

"I don't have to trade fables and fantasies with a woman! I've bled for the king. My men have died for the king!"

"Your men? Or the king's men? And as for blood-"

"I-"

"And as for blood, who risked his own to save the king?"

He remembered the bronze dagger, flashing before it fell. He remembered the killer's face, young, and frightened. He felt the weight of him when he heaved him off his feet, the oil that made his skin shine and slip in his grasp, and the half sweet stink of incense that hung about him.

"See?" said Rathea, smirking at the king. "He doesn't bother to deny it!"

The injustice of it choked his throat, yes, so the words couldn't pass it. They churned and boiled in his chest, and his face heated until it had to be red as iron in the fire. Wordless, his body spoke for him. He raised his arm, and thrust the fresh, livid scar at Rathea.

"A sweet scratch," she said. "And a lucky one. Without that mark, who would ever believe your story about a second assassin?"

Four, there were four assassins at work that day, and two of them successful. He wanted to shout it at her, to tear the words out of his breast and fling them at her, but duty was duty, and he stood in the presence of his king.

The king wrestled with his own red clawed imps. "Apollophanos saved my life, once. Nikias has served me well these many years."

Rathea's lips were decked with spittle. "He bends his knees, yes, and bows his head. But who rules the street? Who commands the spear? He is a threat to you, but you will not see it. Open your eyes, my heart. Look!"

Nikias cooled his fires enough to find his voice, though his hands itched to snatch up the sword, and strike. "This is madness. Zalm hunts us through the night, and a traitor slays us with poisoned blades and poisoned words. We can't fight among ourselves."

"That's right," said the queen. "Around our own fire, we should see justice done."

She gave him a smug look.

Silence came among them, and grew, until the king saw every eye upon him. His hooded eyes looked as dark as night, and he pressed his fat lips together so they trembled and grew bloodless, the muscles of his jaw writhing. Nikias hated him for his weak heart and weaker mind, and pitied him all the same.

"My heart, my love," said Rathea. "I ask only justice."

Nikias ground his teeth together to keep from cursing her idea of justice.

"Justice," said the king, his brow furrowed. "My people's crops fail, and they blame me. Their boats burn and they blame me. They look for rain, and when Apollo's car rides across a clear sky, they blame me. Peltsmen, herb doctors, salt traders, trinketeers, and baby murdering merchants from Carthage," he shot Nikias a fierce look, "besiege me every day. Their demands never end. I favour one, and ten fall to their knees, wailing at the injustice of kings."

Nikias stared at the king, bewildered and angry. Just then, he felt he could have happily bewailed royal justice, but he didn't dare. He sneaked a glance at Rathea, who sat perched on the edge of her throne, her hands gripping the armrests, nails digging into the lacquered wood. She looked as shocked and dismayed as he felt, for which he gave silent thanks to the goddess.

"And if it is no rag and fish seller, it is a hungry man with ambition in his heart, a sword in his hand. They come from afar, they walk my streets, and as if that were not enough, now they whisper and strike in my own house. Justice! Where is the justice for kings?"

Rathea gasped. "You have to be strong," she said in a rush, "you have to make the-"

"Shut up sister," he said. "I know what I have to do."

She went red and then white and she started up from her chair, her fingers turned to claws.

"Sit down! Sit, gods curse you, or the world will call you by your true name."

He spoke with such fury that she obeyed, her mouth as wide as a whore's legs.

Nikias took his chance. "I'll get his killers, and this traitor, my king."

Ptolemaios sneered. "Had you done your work, I'd already have my traitor, spiked up on Pharos tower, as a sign for the world, the strength and justice of Alexander's city."

Nikias winced, and bowed his head. If he had hated the king, he now hated himself, for the remark cut to the bone. He had failed, and all that had followed could well be laid at his door.

"I should have you flayed and hung from the walls of the guardhouse, to remind the men of their duty."

Had any other man said that, he would have drawn his sword, and sheathed it in the wretch's heart. Before his king, he held his silence.

Rathea found her voice. "Yes. That's exactly what I-"

"Koprathea."

She gave a muffled shriek, and looked away.

"I don't care what you would do, my sister. And you, I don't care what you promise. I've had no sleep for a month, trusting one creature or another to end this torment. You all fail. I'll do it myself."

Once before, Nikias might have laughed to hear that from Bull Gut. But now, something had changed in the man. Perhaps he was finally learning to be the king, and not merely play at it. But if so, what kind of king would he be? He saw Rathea's reflection in the king's eyes.

It frightened him.

Chapter Forty One

In the end, the king decided to hold Nikias at the palace, until a trustworthy guard could investigate the Spartan's death. Rathea had demanded Ollipantos do it, and he had opposed with equal vehemence, for he suspected he was her man. Ollipantos himself had looked sickly green at the thought of investigating his chief, and he had been visibly relieved when at last they had agreed on Kalliphas. The king had approved it, and Ollipantos had withdrawn to deliver the command. He had left his men, however, to watch over the king.

In other words, to watch Nikias.

They eyed him, and he eyed them. Soon they gave it up. He had been the guard commander since before they had joined up, and those men, who stank of the sweat that ran down their backs and stained their skirts, were not going to pull him down.

Now Rathea...

He studied her from the corner of his eyes. She sat on their edge of her throne, her hands gripping the armrests as if she feared it would buck her off. She ignored everything except the king; her hooded eyes burned into his back, and her jaw worked in silence. She stared as the gambler stares, when his lands, his linen and his very skin ride on the last roll.

And then came Ptolemaios, he of the bull's neck and the bull's gut. He stood with his fleshy back to the grand hall, facing the doors, watching and waiting. The signs of privilege showed in his body; the rolls of fat that made his belly a shapeless lump, and his meat-strong arms. He was rightly named; he had the outward appearance of a bull set to pasture, but no one could see through that thick, sagging hide. No one could say if he had a bull's heart, to match that bull's girth.

The waiting made his legs itch. He wanted to escape. He wanted it worse than he had wanted to break free of Black Salt's grasp. The irony of it made him want to laugh and weep; there, taken by enemies, he had found safe refuge. Here, in the house of his friend and king, he waited in fear, perhaps for punishment and death.

And he had to wait! If he left them, even if he walked with the speed of a drugged tortoise, they would say he ran, and Rathea would call it proof of treachery.

He had to wait, or die.

Chapter Forty Two

Kalliphas nodded as he passed Nikias, before bowing to the throne. The work of the night had shadowed his brown eyes, and made his face almost as pale as his grey hair. He walked, not with the bold stride of a young officer, but with a crooked shuffle, and he winced with every step. If he'd looked old before, he now looked ancient. Yet the look he gave Nikias suggested daybreak and triumph.

The court rang to the rattle and groan of his entourage.

They walked behind him, weary defeat in every step, clanking in their shackles: four men, three of them old and scarred, and one a scrawny youth who looked barely old enough to tie his own sandals, let alone carry a sword, but the sheath hung empty at his side, just the same as the others. Nikias knew them all, for he had made a point of learning about the men who served under him. What he'd learned about these men had made him embarrassed on behalf of his city.

When Hamia had been stationed on the Necropolis gate, he'd extorted bribes from grieving mourners to let them visit the graves of their dead. You had to watch your kit around Lortz, the one with the missing eye and the scarred lips, because he was always pawning things to pay his gambling debts. And Snicken, who had pink eyes and a dreamy smile, he was barred from every brothel in the city. The youngest, Horosis, kept his eyes on his toes, and never raised them. His slender hands trembled, and his eyes and nose streamed.

They did not come in irons out of goodwill and love of justice. Ten guards followed, their faces and feelings hidden by their helms, but their spears spoke for them.

"My lord king," said Kalliphas. "For the news I must bring you, my heart would of shame." Though he looked old before his time, his voice rang through the court.

Ptolemaios frowned at him from his throne. "Did I ask about your heart? Speak to women and gods of your shame, but tell me what you have found."

If Kalliphas felt stung, he gave no sign. "When Ollipantos gave me your command, I thought it was vain to seek treachery in the guard."

Ptolemaios shifted in his seat, and bared his teeth. "You would call a royal command vain?"

"It is hard to believe any man could betray a great king."

Ptolemaios twisted his lips, but the honey in Kalliphas's words eased his ire.

"You speak of betrayal and treachery," said Rathea, leaning forward. She looked exhausted, but a kind of frantic energy burned in her eyes.

"My sister is not a patient woman," said the king, smirking at her sidelong.

"The men I bring were seen to visit the Spartan, in my commander's room, before he died."

Rathea started up, and thrust her finger at Nikias. "They helped him do it!"

Kalliphas shook his head. "He had already left."

"Oh." She subsided, and threw herself back into her throne.

Nikias sighed, and found, to his surprise, that he had been holding his breath. In spite of everything, he had been afraid, more than he wanted to admit to himself. He felt glad that they had settled on Kalliphas. He didn't want to imagine what kind of investigation Ollipantos would have made.

The king looked fierce. "So they killed him for themselves?"

"They admitted to acting on the orders of another."

"Who?"

"Yes," said Rathea. "Tell us who!"

Kalliphas paused. "Very well." He glanced at Nikias, and smiled.

Nikias nodded. "Go ahead."

"I'm sorry."

Nikias was still frowning and puzzling over that when he felt strong hands clamp down on his arms, legs and head. They heaved him up in the air, so he had no leverage, no strength to fight. Then they slammed him face down on the tiles of the floor, so hard he felt his nose crack, and his mouth filled with blood.

Through the pounding in his skull, and the shock of the attack, he heard the words, as from a great distance.

"There is your traitor, my king. Nikias the forsworn. Nikias the murderer."

He braced against the darkness that tried to swallow him. He tensed his back, twisted and kicked, and tried to break free of the hands that held him down. They were too many, and their strength too great, but he did manage to raise his head, though it cost him a blow on the back of his skull, that made his eyes shake and sent a lance of pain deep into his brain. He raised his eyes and saw the king shrink in his throne, aghast. Rathea perched on the edge of her seat, eyes afire, lips twisted in a triumphant grin. He looked at Kalliphas, who stood tall and straight, the image of a loyal servant. The irony sickened him.

He tried to speak, but the blood pouring from his smashed nose choked him, and the men who held him tried to silence him with cuffs to the head. He spat blood, and gasped. "You," he said, glaring up at Kalliphas.

Kalliphas turned away with a look of distaste, giving Nikias no more consideration than he would a filthy gutter dog. "What shall I do with him?"

It was Rathea who spoke. "Work the king's justice on him," she said, trying not to grin.

Ptolemaios stirred. "I can't... He's served me for..."

Not for the first time, Nikias wished Bull Gut had a bull's heart. The king had lost his air of strength and decision. One again he was the timid, vacillating creature who'd come to him for counsel, time and again.

There was hope.

"My king," he said, "I-"

This time it was a kick. He caught a glimpse of the sandaled foot out of the corner of his eye, and even caught a flash of the purple filth between the man's toes, before it struck him sidelong across the eye, cheek and jaw. The kick rocked his head, and made his vision flash and whirl. He slumped, but his captors hauled him to his feet, though he couldn't stand unaided, and needed their strength to keep him from tumbling onto his face.

Through the pounding in his temples, he heard her voice. He hated even the sound of it, but he had to hear, he had to know.

"There is only one justice for traitors," she said.

"But-" The king sounded small and lost.

"We must show the city our power. It must be done, or a fresh crop of traitors will spring up with every dawn. Kneel!"

He tensed, thinking she meant him, but the treacherous guards held him in place. His right eye felt sore and swollen, and refused to open. He peered with his left, and saw Kalliphas's other prisoners on their knees before the king. Sweat trickled into his eye, and distorted his sight. He couldn't do a thing about it. The prisoners looked dazed and befuddled. When Kalliphas drew his sword, they cowered, and begged for mercy.

Mercy had fled the court.

Kalliphas eyed the king. "By your will, majesty."

"Please, your majesty," said Hamia. "We only done what he asked."

Kalliphas jerked his head at one of the guards, who silenced Hamia with the butt of his spear.

Ptolemaios pulled back in his throne, as if he welcomed even the tiniest distance between himself and the condemned men.

"You must," said Rathea.

He pulled away from her, as well. His dark, hooded eyes, used to bloodshed in the arena, shone with tears, and scoured the court for refuge. He even locked eyes with Nikias.

By the goddess, thought Nikias, he's pleading with me.

The king held his gaze for long, painful moments, and then his fleeting, useless hope died. He drew a long, shuddering breath, and looked down at his hands. "Do the king's work, old captain," he said.

It gratified Nikias to see Kalliphas flinch. His appearance was a sore spot, after all, and he could hardly correct the king, let alone rebuke him.

Kalliphas faced his men. He raised his sword, and then he let it fall. At first the prisoners looked excited and hopeful; he'd let them live!

The soldiers raised their spears, and plunged them, one by one, into the backs of the condemned men, gleaming iron tearing through meat, lungs and hearts. The youngest one, the boy Horosis knelt at the end of the row, and he had time to see his fate approach. He broke down and bawled, and yellow piss poured down his legs and steamed on the tiles. When the spear plunged into his back, he let out a keening wail like a baby girl, then choked as bloody froth guttered from his lips.

Ptolemaios kept his eyes on his hands, and never once looked up, but he flinched at every cry.

Then it was his turn. His captors dragged him before the thrones, beside the row of dying prisoners. His nose filled with the salty stink of blood, mingled with a mixed reek of fear: sweat, piss and filth. He slipped on the wet tiles, and the guards let him fall, to crash onto the soaking floor, and other men's blood stained his face and body. He spat and tried to heave himself up and away from that sickening place, but they kicked him and held his legs, and one man knelt on his back, crushing his lungs, leaving him wheezing and helpless.

Kalliphas spoke. "I have your leave to end it?"

The king said nothing.

Rathea answered. "For the leader, something special. A spectacle. We must teach the city to loathe treachery. Take him to the darkest hole you have."

Chapter Forty Three

Somewhere in the dark hours since the Spartan's fatal visit, Apollo had hitched up his chariot, and begun his journey across the heavens. Light shone from the east, no brighter than a candle in a bronze mirror, and it cast much of the city in shadow. Above, red clouds loomed over the city, as if the sky of water had gained a bloody twin.

In the months and years passed, he would have thought to meet no one at that hour, no one to see his pain and humiliation as six of Kalliphas's pet guards marched him from the palace in chains, their brothers left behind; the court needed cleaning. Yet the curfew he'd made had spurred the people to uncommon energy, in their race to squeeze every drop of trade from the hours of light. If it as death to be about your work at night, it was also death to miss the first second of light.

Already the docks thronged with fishermen working on their small boats, and the few merchant sailors whose vessels had survived the fire now commanded incredible prices for the hire of their craft, while those who had lost theirs were willing to grab any chance to make up for the loss. They haggled and argued, cursed each other for beast spawn and cacodaemons, but they always came to terms; everyone needed the sea trade. The city would starve without it.

Starvation had crept into their brains when the harvests failed. The talk of a curse had swelled it, and the curfew, too, had swelled it. Then came the fire, and so many holds, so many jars and jugs, barrels and crates of food had burned or been swallowed by the sea. Young boys splashed out of the water, their hands stuffed with spoil from the bottom, but it was spoil, and it would spoil, for the salt water tainted everything it touched.

With the fire, hopes had burned, and hunger grown. The docks were crammed with men and women, the few with food selling it dear, the many paying twice and thrice the common sum, and squabbling over the little they got.

The water of the harbour lay in the shade, black as rotten blood, and twice as black with the ruin of burnt ships still creaking and grinding on the waves. Some men would have called it evil luck, or a murderous trap, but they didn't care. The sailors and fishermen rowed through the water, weaving around the floating wreckage. Some even hauled it out of the water, seeing treasure where others saw but waste. Not all of the wood was burnt to ash, and once dried it could be cleaned up and used again, and if it proved to be nothing but a ruin, you could still sell it to the tanners.

The crowd had risen early to work, and they went to it with energy and humour; they traded jokes and sang songs, but when they saw the party coming from the palace, silence crept among them.

A greybeard fisherman, with a red rag for a hat, stood on the deck of his little smack, chewing dried dates while his sons stowed the nets. He watched the soldiers march along the king's road, and spat a gobbet of brown spittle on the path. One of the soldiers scowled at him, and he lowered his gaze, but he wasn't alone. The soldiers got hard looks, and with every footfall, the dock grew quieter.

Silence reigned on the docks. Silence ruled the city. Silence could hide any number of secrets, any amount of anger, any depth of woe. Like a secret, the word that is not said may sound the loudest in your heart. In Nikias's heart, there was everything except silence.

Kalliphas. Kalliphas. Kalliphas.

The name came again and again. Every time his sandal struck stone, he heard it.

Kalliphas.

Every breath he took was a whisper in his ear.

Kalliphas.

Every time a guard's scabbard slapped his thigh, or the butt of his spear tapped the ground, every time a gull cried in the air above, or a child saw the soldiers, and ran crying for his mother, every time he saw a poor man working at his boat, rushing to seize the hours of light to feed his family, and that man looked at him with eyes of anger, sorrow, pity, confusion and hunger, and never dared to speak his heart, he heard them speak nevertheless.

Kalliphas.

I should have seen it, he thought. By the light of the goddess, I should have seen it. By the blood in my heart, by the oaths I have sworn, by the scars in my meat, I should have seen it.

"Nikias the forsworn," he whispered. "Nikias the trait-" he choked on the words. His gut twisted, and his head felt too light and too heavy. The earth swayed away from his feet, and then jumped up at them.

He stumbled, and the man at his back shoved him forwards, and the shackles on his legs tripped him up. He fell, and threw out his hands, but the bonds on his wrists made it hard to catch himself. He hit the paving stones with his palms open, but twisted and fell on his shoulder. The shock ran through his whole body, and made him gasp.

The soldiers paused, and formed a semicircle. "Get up," said one.

"On your damn feet."

"You ready to die?"

That one, with the crop of red spots where his eyebrows should be, raised his spear, and Nikias saw death crouched on the gleaming tip. Pain and bitter sorrow stole his reason. He saw himself, as in a dream, standing beside the king a thousand times, at court, in the sunlit square, in the storm-washed street, on the creaking deck of a warship. He'd let the king use his mind as a sword, his body as a shield, and now he was cast aside, treated worse than a rusty blade, worse than a diseased hound.

He lay on the ground, and spat the words up at them. "Nikias the traitor! Nikias the forsworn!"

The one with the spear and the red spots reversed his weapon, and brought the butt down to crack him in the temple. He fell on his back, searing pain in his temple, hot blood running down his face.

The guards broke more than his skin. They broke the silence.

Half a hundred people gasped. Then the voices started, soft at first, a distant hum. The guards didn't notice yet. They kicked him, and prodded him with the butts of their spears.

The murmur rose. One young fisherman shouted at the guards. "You're a bad watchman. You can't do that, watchman!"

The guards looked at the youth in surprise. "Did it speak?" said one.

"A squealing gull," said another. "Give it no thought."

The youth stood his ground. "You can't do that, watchman!"

Nikias looked up at the boy; saw his fresh, youthful skin, and his innocent brown eyes, like those of a trusting puppy. The boy didn't know him. If he had known him, known he was the reason his father and brothers were up before dawn, fighting for a spot on the dock, would he still have spoken up? Or would he have joined in and helped Kalliphas's wretched beasts of men beat him?

Any other day, the irony of it would have made him laugh, but not today. It didn't matter. He wanted to shout at the boy, to make him run, but the kicks and blows had made his lungs seize up, so it was all he could do to breathe.

Red Spot approached the boy. "The king has a new watchman," he said in a carrying voice. "And he don't tolerate meddlesome sea scum!"

The boy's father climbed out of his boat, and came up alongside his son. He had the same soft brown eyes, but his chest and arms were massive from years of hauling crates of salted meat. "The boy didn't mean no harm, sir," he said, putting his hand on his son's shoulder.

"He's got no call to question a king's man," said Red Spot. "I've a mind to teach him a lesson."

The father frowned. "I'll teach him right enough," he said, and cuffed his son's face.

The boy's eyes shone with tears, and he started to bawl. "It's not right," he said, flushed and choking. "It's not right."

Red Spot sneered. "He hasn't learned. I'll show you how to teach your son."

He started towards the boy, his spear held in both hands like a hammer.

The father blocked his path. "You'll not lay a hand on my son," he said.

Red Spot tried to shove past him, but the old man grabbed his spear, and held it fast.

Nikias fought for breath. He had to warn them. The cursed fool was gambling his neck. He tried to get his breath back, tried to shout, but all he could manage was a choked whisper.

"You god's cursed bastard," said Red Spot, white with fury. "I'm about the king's work! You try to stop me, that makes you a traitor!"

"Leave me boy alone!"

Red Spot realised that he couldn't outwrestle the man, so he stopped trying. He let go of the spear, and the man sighed, thinking he'd won.

Nikias knew he was wrong. He'd seen it before, on Greek soil as well as Egyptian. Men wrestling over a weapon get caught up in it, they forget the point. But a soldier, an experienced fighting man, he knows this. He'll give up the weapon, if he can trade it for something better.

Red Spot didn't have a sword. Instead he drew his dagger.

Nikias found strength from deep within, struggled, and found his feet. He felt a hand at his back, and shrugged it off. He stumbled forwards, for the shackles made his legs as nimble as broken sticks. He hurled himself at Red Spot, and had the satisfaction of seeing him stagger aside, and crash face down into a bucket of crabs.

But when he fell, his hands were empty.

He heard the spear clatter on the flagstones, and then a bubbling moan that sickened him. As he turned, the fisherman fell; he crashed down on his back, that dagger jutting out of his throat.

His sons stormed out of the boat, shouting and cursing as they came. They seized Red Spot as he screamed at the crabs that nipped him all over. His own men rushed in to help him, and to grab Nikias again. They came too late to help Red Spot. The fisherman's sons, crying with grief and fury, piled on him, and held his face down in the crab bucket. He yelled and thrashed, his voice choked and strange. When he came up, Nikias saw the sea beasts had their claws in his mouth, up his nose, and one had driven its pincers up behind his eyeball, and made him weep blood.

He fell on his face, screaming in that broken voice, and his own men backed away, uncertain, while the rest fought with the fisherman's sons. Perhaps they were more humane than their leader, or perhaps they were unmanned by the sight of him, rolling on his face, uttering mangled noises. Whatever the reason, they held back from doing more murder, and contented themselves with beating the fisher boys with the shafts and butts of their spears.

The fight ended almost as soon as it began. No matter what fury was on them, the fisher boys were unarmed children against strong spears. They clustered around their father's body, held their ground, but ceased to attack the guards.

Relief showed in the gaping eyes and slack mouths of the soldiers as they drove Nikias away from the docks with the butts of their spears. Red Spot staggered alongside him. Face in his hands he walked blind, his mates guiding him on. Blood leaked between his fingers, and made red splashes on the paving stones. Nikias cursed him for his murdering heart, and cursed himself for failing to prevent it, and most of all, he cursed Kalliphas.

Kalliphas the traitor. The poison in the cup, the knife at the throat, the stolen spear thrust through the heart of the city.

Another death, one more, lay to Kalliphas's tally, and the day was still young.

Chapter Forty Four

Though they left the dock, they couldn't get far from the harbour, and the stench of burnt wood stayed with them, driving away the usual scents of the city: fresh flowers and baking bread, raw sweat, and running sewage. The burnt stink wafted in from the harbour, overpowering the tang of saltwater, and even the aroma of gutted fish. Nikias even smelled it through the blood clotting in his nose, as if the scent had reached inside him, had soaked through his skin and laid down ashes on his bones.

If Rathea held true to her promises, she would flay the skin and then the meat from his body. Should she reach his bones, would she find black ash and the fragrance of wood smoke? His brain had proved as useful as ash, his heart as valuable as ash. If he died now, would the people remember him as anything but the traitor who turned the city's fleet to ash?

Red Spot groaned with every step, one hand clasped over his wreck of an eye, the other feeling along with his spear like an old blind man. His hands were stained with blood, and his skin had turned a pallid yellow. Another had taken the lead, but he had shifty grey eyes and he'd broken his spear. The others looked sick and wan. When they'd left the palace, they'd been swaggering heroes. Now their shoulders sloped, and they moved with a furtive step, eyes downcast, and flinching with every sound.

Dawn had come, and washed the stones of the path from black to dark grey, and the city folk had risen in force. Those who'd got a bargain at the docks came hurrying along the way, clutching their sacks and baskets. They gave the soldiers a wide berth, and some sucked their teeth, or cursed, or spat when they passed them. Where before Kalliphas's dogs would have turned on them in fury, they now looked aside, and clutched their spears for comfort.

A pair of men stood guard at the barracks gate. One was young, with creamy skin, and no hair on his well formed jaw. The other had a curly yellow beard almost as great as his stomach. He leaned against the wall, yawning and blinking in the light. The beardless youth snapped upright, his spear at port arms. "Who are you, and why do you come?"

His companion gave them an apologetic shrug. Then he saw the solders' prisoner, and went red and choked.

"Get out of the way, you gods cursed fools," said Red Spot, but the command had leaked out of his voice.

The youth looked back and forth between the men and his companion, his brows raised, his lips pursed.

"It's the chief! It's the buggering chief," said the other sentry.

The younger one looked at Nikias, and his eyes narrowed. "What in all gods' names are you men doing?" His voice shook, and the spear wavered in his hands.

"I don't have to answer to you, boy."

He might have had skin like cream, but he had a man's heart. He squared his shoulders, and gripped his spear lengthwise, so it barred their path. "I'm on watch. You can answer to me, or you can stay out here until the titans come back to life."

"For gods' sakes," shrieked Red Spot.

The lead soldier with the broken spear glared at the boy. "We're here by the command of Kalliphas and the king, taking a traitor to the cells. Now lower your spear and let us in." The effect of his words was spoiled by the way he kept glancing over his shoulder, fear flickering in his grey eyes, as if he sensed Nemesis stalking them from the waterfront.

The young guard chewed his lip, and his eyes flickered between Nikias and his captors. He looked close to giving in, when his partner stepped up beside him, and raised his own spear, to level it at Red Spot. "I'll shit rubies before I'll believe the chief's a traitor."

The younger sentry took the lead from his companion. He gritted his teeth, and pointed his spear at the lead soldier.

Moments before, all had looked bleak, as if the very world had turned against him. Now Nikias saw through the traitors' trick. They hadn't suborned the entire guard. How could they? Kalliphas had brought a few men into his conspiracy, and they the worst men the guard could offer. Everything had seemed hopeless, as if he was already dead, but now he felt the whisper of the goddess in the sound of his pulse, the call of Athena, goddess of wisdom, of guile, of war.

Seize your chance.

"These men are traitors and murderers," he said. He used his battlefield voice, and was gratified to see his captors flinch. "I found evidence of their plot, and in their boldness they come to destroy it. Call out the g-"

He didn't see the blow, but he felt it. The butt of a spear swung into his gut, and knocked the wind out of him. He doubled over, choked by pain.

"Shut your filthy mouth or I'll cut off your lips," shouted one of Kalliphas's men.

But it was already too late.

The stout, bearded guard rushed forward with a shout, and whirled his spear overhead, to bring it with crack against one man's head, and he used the rebound to sweep it low, and smashed another's knee. His younger partner followed his lead, and charged Kalliphas's men, swinging his spear like a cudgel.

Red Spot saw two of his men fall the instant battle was joined, and what courage he'd had fled. He dropped his spear and ran, one hand clasped against his face. In the blindness of his fear, he ran unarmed back towards the dock, his empty scabbard a reminder of the dagger he'd left in the fisherman's neck. From where he knelt on the stony street, curled around his pain, Nikias saw him run. The goddess whispered to him, and he knew he would never see Red Spot again.

With their former leader fled, and two of their number down, one unconscious, the other squealing in agony, the rest of Kalliphas's traitor crew lost heart. Broken Spear tossed his useless weapon at the young guard, and dashed away. The two who remained fell to their knees, and cried for fair quarter.

Nikias clambered to his feet, and peeled his lips in a savage grin, made hideous, he knew, by the bruises around it and the blood that down it poured. The loyal guards saw him in the sun, saw the triumph and the fury and the blood, and they exchanged nervous glances. He felt no fear.

With the dawn had returned his hope.

Chapter Forty Five

He took command of the sentries, had them lock up and gag their new prisoners. They were for turning out the guard, marching on the palace, and hurling Kalliphas into the sea, without his hands, feet and lips. His blood stirred, and his fingers closed on the hilt of his borrowed sword, squeezed until they hurt.

But traitors were like rats, it struck him. For every one that you've caught in the light, two dozen of the vermin still hide in the shadow.

He daren't trust the guard.

Instead, he learned the names of his two loyal men, for blooded they were, and ready. The one, stout as a barrel, his chin as hairy as if he'd never looked at a razor, called himself Gygas. The other, as if to spite his pretty face and soft skin, styled himself Ajax.

He sent Ajax to the palace. He looked young, fresh, and innocent. If Kalliphas felt anything when he saw the youth, he thought it would be envy, that a man should look so young and fine, when he would live out his years to the jeers of "grandfather" and "ancient". Such thoughts would upset his mind, and distract him from the trap.

Once Ajax was away, he led Gygas up the royal road. They heard angry murmurs in the crowd on the docks, and hurried past. The dawn lit up the royal way like burnished bronze, and gilded the grasses and trees. He led Gygas to a copse of olive trees, withered and stunted in the Egyptian climate. There they waited, and watched the road.

The night had passed in sickening revelation, the hours before dawn in betrayal and shame. Action had brought him out of his sorrow. Action had given him hope, and hope, strength. Now they waited, and as they lingered, his strength ebbed away, his sense of conviction dulled, his life itself seemed tarnished. The sword drooped in his hand, but he didn't dare sheathe it, in case the moment came, and found him unready. But when his eyes drooped, and he yawned for the third time, he saw the strain, and feared his body would submit. He found himself leaning against one of those twisted olive trees, exhausted almost to collapse, his body a mass of hurts. He felt the rough bark against his skin, and caught that subtle fragrance, and in an instant he stood in a grove on the slopes of Mount Parnassos, overlooking the painted temples of Delphi. Apollo's chariot rode across a brilliant blue sky, and the air was still cool in the dawn, and tasted clean and fresh, with just a hint of incense from the temple of the oracle. He stood, not quite in the city of his fathers, but on his own soil, and free.

The hand of Gygas, patting his shoulder, brought him back to the heat of Egypt, and the reek of Alexander's city. He shrugged the hand away, blinking bleary eyes. Dream thoughts wafted through his mind, and he wondered if the tree had shared its wishes with him, or if it had spoken to him as a picture, and reminded him of his own desires, true and deep.

He saw movement on the road, and shoved aside all idle thoughts. He peered through the twist of branches, and saw four, no, five men, marching from the palace.

"Bastard has the heart of a crab," said Gygas.

Nikias grunted in agreement. Kalliphas had come, but he'd brought three personal guards, as well as Ajax. Doubtless Rathea and Ptolemaios had demanded he leave the rest, or he'd have brought even more.

He'd sent Ajax with a message: the guard had accepted his leadership, and locked away their old master for treason, but the common people had massed on the docks, getting ready for a riot over food. Kalliphas was not such a fool as to leave the guard leaderless in the face of a riot, and even from the palace, anyone could have seen the mass of city folk gathered on the docks. That part of the message had been no lie, and Nikias feared he would have a catastrophe on his hands, even if he beat the traitor.

Another catastrophe, he thought.

He ground his teeth together, tightened his grip on the sword, and filled his lungs. "I need him alive," he said.

"He might not make that easy. Besides, you can't let a traitor walk," said Gygas.

"Do what you must with the rest, but I need what's in his head."

"I know how to get at that." Gygas hefted his sword. "Let's take them!"

"They're too many to rush head on. Wait until they pass."

"I'm no god's cursed coward, to stick a man in the spine."

He scowled at Gygas. "We have no choice. What will do to you if we fail? To your family? You think they'll be merciful because you fought like Achilles and died like Leonidas?"

Gygas pressed his lips together so hard Nikias could see the white even through his luxuriant golden beard. He lowered his eyes, and shook his head. "Be it as you will," he said.

They waited for Kalliphas to pass.

Chapter Forty Six

His linen skirt was ripped, and a cut had parted his leather harness at the shoulder, so it no longer held firm against his broad chest. Bright blood flowed between his narrow brown eyes, and painted his cheeks like a garish whore. But he still had that grey hair, and with Nikias's sword tip nestled in the hollow of his throat, fear made him flinch and tremble, and he looked ever more the aged man.

They'd rushed in, he and Gygas, and each killed their man. Ajax took the third bodyguard in the back, felling him with a knife in the back. He still stood off by the trees, staring at his blood soaked hands. Kalliphas had been too shocked by the attack to realise he was alone, and he'd come at Nikias with his sword, but by then he was one man against three. He'd taken slashes high and low, shallow wounds, but it was his own bodyguard who'd betrayed him; the dead man lay in his path, and Nikias had driven him backwards with a feigned thrust at his face. He'd trip, crashed down on his back, and Nikias had kicked away his sword, and made him his prisoner.

He'd taken laurels for sword fighting, and gold and honours for his service in war. He knew how victory was supposed to taste. This tasted like ashes and salt water.

"It's over," he said. "Your plots and schemes and insurrection. Done! The king will have you hanged from the tower of Pharos, for every ship and crew and captain to tell the nations what befalls a traitor."

"If you're lucky," said Gygas. "If he doesn't fling you off the tower himself."

He hadn't asked Gygas to speak, but the man had earned himself a voice, after he'd proven he had a fighting heart as great as his beard.

Or his gut.

"He speaks the truth," he said. "Ptolemaios has a...changeable idea of justice. And as for his sister..."

A change came to Kalliphas. His face turned pale, lost those twitches and tremors, his mouth set in a hard line, and the muscles of his jaw bunched. "Rathea." His voice sounded different, grating. He sounded as if he'd taken a blow to the throat.

"Yes," said Nikias. "She's fierce. She doesn't forgive."

Kalliphas spoke with difficulty. "Kill."

"I expect she will, once she's done with you. What do you say, Gygas?"

He scratched his jaw through his beard. "I hear she feeds human flesh to those monster weasels of hers. I've heard they prefer it fresh and running with red blood, and if she don't feed them for a day or two, they're not so particular as to whether it's cut up and cooked, or...still attached."

Kalliphas contrived to look paler.

"I liked you once," said Nikias. "And for the sake of that, if for nothing else, I'll protect you, as far as I can. You've got to give me something, though. I need you to put a name to the rest of your traitors. And I need you to confess, to tell the whole story to the king; how you planned the murders, how you set me up, how you killed Apollophanos when I came close to catching you out."

He spoke again, and winced with every word, as if he had a shard of metal dug into his throat. "It won't change anything."

"Seems like you want to die," said Gygas, kicking Kalliphas in the leg. He drew a dagger, and pressed the point against his temple, so blood started from his skin. "I'm more than pleased to help you."

"Step back," said Nikias, glaring at him.

"He deserves to die," said Gygas. "All them things he done. He's paid for death."

"Yes," said Kalliphas. "Kill me."

Nikias began to feel outnumbered and overwhelmed. "What god's cursed words are these? Gygas, put that thing away. And you, Kalliphas, I'm offering you safety, safety and justice, and a chance to make your peace with men and with gods, and I won't let the bloody handed queen set her weasels on you. Yes, you'll die, but not today. You can live, and you can help me fix this burnt wreck of a city, before... Before it tears itself apart, and we all drown in black, bitter water."

He hadn't known how he felt until he spoke. Once the words began, they gushed out in a flood, surprising him as much as the others. He took his sword off Kalliphas's neck and drove it into a patch of earth nearby.

Gygas sheathed his still bloody dagger, and backed away, eyes wide. Kalliphas stared up at him, his face harder, more twisted in defiance than ever before, and then it melted away. Tears grew fat and glistened in his eyes, his lips quivered, and he sobbed.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have listened. I'm sorry. It's all gone bad, and I don't know what to do and I'm sorry."

Nikias shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. "You can help me make it better."

He squeezed his eyes shut, and then he looked up at Nikias. "I'm going to die."

He pressed his lips together, and felt his brow contract. He didn't want to feel sympathy for the man. When he remembered his betrayal in the court, it was easy to hate him. But looking down at him now...

He tried to be gentle. "You are going to die."

Kalliphas shut his eyes again, and the tears flowed, more than before. "It won't change anything."

"It's justice, and the people have to see it done. More than anything else, they have to believe it's real, or the king is just a man, and the guard are just a gang of armed thugs, and the city will rot."

"You don't understand. Even if you kill me, you won't stop him."

Nikias frowned. He shot a look at Gygas, who raised his eyebrows, shrugged, and shook his head.

"You won't stop him," repeated Kalliphas. "You can't. I was a good guard, once. He caught me and changed me. He'll catch others, and you'll never stop him. He'll come back. He'll come back again."

"Who?"

"The dead man."

Apollo's chariot had carried the sun higher, and the royal road shone with the full light of morning, and the promise of a hot day. Nikias felt the warmth of the sun's light on his skin, but under his skin he felt as cold as if it were the darkest night of winter.

As if some sylph of the air had heard his thoughts, a breeze whispered through the trees and bushes of the gardens, and he felt a creeping itch between his shoulder blades, as if some murderous spirit watched him, unseen. His eyes were drawn to the hedges and trees that lined the path, and hid the gardens from view. He saw green leaves, the bark of branches, and colourful little fists of flowers, not yet open to receive the sun.

He also noticed an empty patch of grass by the copse of trees, where Ajax had stood. The absence disturbed him, and reminded him of how he and Gygas had hidden among those trees, with blades ready for murder. He tried to dismiss the idea, told himself the boy had wandered off to pass water, but it lingered, uncomfortable as an itchy wound.

Gygas looked unmoved and unimpressed. "This talk of dead men and doom is making me sick," he said. "We should have his head off, traitor and beast that he is."

"We'll take him to the king. It'll be dangerous, he left more traitor guards there, but if we go together, we can-"

"Listen to me!"

Gygas spat in Kalliphas's face. "We've had enough lies from you, traitor."

"Listen!" Kalliphas hauled himself to his feet, agony evident in the twists of his face.

Gygas raised his sword, and Nikias yanked his own out of the earth, but Kalliphas held up his hands, his head bowed.

"Listen to me! You've already won, and you can cut my head off, but listen first!"

Nikias and Gygas exchanged sidelong glances. Gygas shook his head, and made a fierce throat slitting gesture.

Nikias lowered his sword. "Speak the truth, Kalliphas, or stand cursed in the sight of the gods above and below."

"I am a traitor, yes. I admit it before the gods, and I'll pay my life for it. But I'm not the master of traitors. He waits in the city, hidden from living sight. He is dead, but he commands the living, as he commanded me. When all of our work was done, he was to come again, not as the king, but as the king's greatest servant, and secret master. He is not alone, and-"

Gygas gave an exasperated sigh. "This is a lie!"

"Gygas-"

"No! This talk of dead men and whisperers and secrets and slave kings, it's all evil and lies!"

"Stuff your beard in your mouth, man! Come, Kalliphas, if you can tell truth, tell me his name."

The corners of his mouth turned up, and a hint of laughter shone in his red, weeping eyes. "You know his name."

"Then tell me where he is!"

Kalliphas paused. "May the gods forgive me my betrayals. He stays at the Sema."

He heard that rustling again, followed by a deep, throaty roar and a soft thud of feet, running across grass. In the same moment, he saw Kalliphas's eyes grow too wide, and his mouth gaped in a scream.

Moving on instinct, he hurled himself to the side, meaning to drop and roll, his mind flying with images of spears and arrows, even as the noise of bounding feet made him think of horses or dogs. Something hit him a glancing blow, and he felt a rough surface brush his skin, and weight, and strength, and warmth.

The impact broke his roll, and he fell headlong, sprawled half and half across paving stones and soft grass. By luck and the grace of the goddess, his head hit the earth, but the slabs smacked his legs and short ribs, and sent spikes of agony through his bones. He cursed, and crawled to his feet. The fall had knocked the sword from his hands, but he saw it, gleaming in the grass. He ignored Kalliphas's scream, and Gygas's furious swearing, intent on getting the blade. He didn't yet know what had come among them, but he would rather have swum in boiling water than faced it without a weapon.

He snatched it up and whirled around. What he saw sent a painful tremor through his heart, and made his legs and arms grow weak.

Kalliphas still stood, but his face was as white as octopus meat, and three deep red gashes ran parallel from his left shoulder all the way down to his right hip. They ran with blood, and blood coursed down his chest, his belly and his legs. The author of his wound circled around him, a great yellow cat, as big as a horse. Where it walked, it left bloody paw prints, and its long, sharp teeth showed pink and red with blood.

Gygas stood off, on the other side of the beast, bent over, his sword held straight out in both hands, and curses poured from his lips, almost as free as the sweat that soaked his face. Nikias found he had adopted the same posture, and his hands already hurt from the strain. He wanted to call to Gygas, to make a plan, but fear stopped the voice in his throat. He had faced Spartans, Rhodians, Cretans, all kinds of Hellenes, and many barbarians as well, and yes, he'd felt fear every time, but it had never gripped him with such strength.

The beast padded towards Kalliphas, who shrieked, and flailed at it with his hands, like an unschooled child. It turned its head, rolled dark, fierce eyes, and then it swung a paw at him, with a movement so lazy it was almost contemptuous. The paw did but brush his arm and face, yet it opened deep cuts in his flesh, and for a moment Nikias saw the white of his meat, before the wounds welled with blood. One claw had almost found his eye, and as the blood poured down his brow, it seemed he wept crimson tears.

Pain and blood blinded him, and he fell to his knees, shrieking. "For the love of Athena, Nikias, help me! Please, help me!"

His legs were paralysed by fear.

Thoughts rushed through his mind. What does it matter? Minutes before I was ready to hang him, what does it matter if the beast tears his chest open and eats his lungs?

"Please Nikias, please!"

He felt tears run down his face.

It matters. No matter what he's done, it matters.

He sobbed, but he gripped the sword, and tensed his legs. Then he sprang forwards, screaming as he went, and slashed at the cat's ribs.

But the beast moved fast.

One moment it was right in front of him, and the next it had twisted around, sinuous as a snake, and swiped at his legs with one terrible paw.

His body raced his mind. If it caught him with those claws, it would all be over. One slash would cripple the strongest man, and without his legs, he would die. No sooner had he seen it move than the answer came to him, sped by the will of the goddess.

He leapt.

He sprang up with more power and speed than he'd ever knew he had. Those claws cut through the air, but somehow he out-sped them, and came down on his feet, whole and unharmed.

He turned on the spot, slashing at the air in case the cat had chased him, but it stood off a little way, prowling and watching.

"The gods must love you," said Gygas, who now stood on his right.

"Pray that you're right."

"Or they're setting you up for something even worse."

He had a sudden urge to grab Gygas's beard and yank it out.

The cat hissed at them, and started forward, but they jabbed at it with their blades, and it backed away, but they couldn't drive it off. Instead it turned back to Kalliphas, who knelt in a growing puddle of his own blood, his arms folded over his chest, hands covering his face. The leather harness he'd worn had been ripped and left in shreds that hung from his shoulders and waste, and blood gleamed on the dark leather.

Maybe it was the action, or maybe it was just that he'd survived it, but something had hardened Nikias. It might have been a lion, but it was still just a cat, or so he told himself. "Come on," he said, and ran at it, shouting and jabbing with his sword. Gygas followed his lead, although the words he shouted were less than complimentary.

"I hate you Nikias! I wish I'd stayed in bed this morning! I wish I'd been born in Scythia!"

Their rush seemed to surprise the beast, which backed away, and then bounded to the right, back onto the paving slabs of the king's road. Nikias felt his heart lighten as he saw that, and he half believed they could chase it away, and everyone would leave with their lives.

As they circled, he caught a glimpse of a man's figure, a shadow among the trees. Tall, broad and powerful, with a scalp that shone in the sun.

"The boy," he said. "Where's Ajax?"

Gygas looked at him, a question on his lips, but the lion didn't give him a chance to speak.

It crouched and then sprang at him, muscles bunched under that yellow fur. It bounded in, just under his sword, and took a shallow cut on the back, a thin red snake across shoulder and spine. It didn't stop it, didn't slow it; the cat showed no sign it had felt the cut. It hit him, both paws thumped into his chest, and he crashed down on his back, and the air whooshed out of his lungs. Then it ran up his body, claws tearing at his chest, and gaped over him with those terrible jaws.

It happened too fast for Nikias to think, but again his body acted for him. He slashed at the lion, and opened a red gouge in its flank. It screamed, scrabbled off Gygas, and limped away a few paces, before pausing to licks its wounded flesh.

He edged forwards, blade high, guarding Gygas as he waited for the man with the great beard and the great heart to climb to his feet.

Gygas didn't move.

He edged closer still, afraid the lion would spring on him, as it had Gygas. In the background, he heard Kalliphas mumble and whimper. He wanted to scream at the man to be quiet, but he also welcomed the least sign that he was alive, that he hadn't left him all alone against a monster.

He got close enough, and flicked his eyes down, every wary of the beast. Gygas lay on his back, still breathing, his eyes glazed, and red froth bubbled from his mouth with every breath. He looked smaller than he had, which puzzled Nikias, until he saw that the man's chest had been crushed in.

His vision blurred, and he wiped the tears away with the back of his hand.

Kalliphas alone was left to save, if saving him were possible with such wounds. His face looked bone white, and the bloody pool around his knees looked much wider than before.

Nikias crouched, kept his eyes on the beast, and found Gygas's sword by feel. He had to pull it out of the man's hand. When Gygas released it, he choked, shook, his back arched, and then he lay still.

Such a torrent of dizzy nausea came on him, he thought he might fall. He gritted his teeth, held on to the swords, and dug his toes into the earth. The sickness passed. The sorrow, he knew, would remain.

He backed away, moving in a half circle, trying to keep the lion in view all the time. Every step awakened new pains in his body, and ugly fears in his mind. He tried to smother them and crush them, but he couldn't. He tried to concentrate on each step, letting nothing in but the present, but the lion would look at him, and snarl, and the blood would glisten on its jaws, and fresh panic turned his spine to ice and his bowels to a bag of snakes.

He had almost reached Kalliphas when he saw something move through the air; a pale object flew from the trees on the right, in a perfect arc, struck Kalliphas in the face, and started him shrieking again.

He saw it in the blood, on the grass: a man's hand, with youthful, creamy skin.

The lion snarled, and bounded forward, to spring at Kalliphas. Nikias swung both blades together, and felt flesh rip and bone shatter, but by then the beast had pounced on his traitor friend, and torn a red, wet, ragged hole in his throat.

As he stared in shock, in agonising loss, he believed the lion would rear up and rend him, but it lay atop Kalliphas, gaping and panting. It took a terrible effort to look away from those gleaming teeth, but when he did, he saw why it didn't move. In his wild attack, he'd hacked apart the lion's spine in two places. It made a feeble effort to bite him, but its paws lay useless on its last victim's chest.

His own sword was stuck in the lion's back, so he pulled out Gygas's blade. The lion rolled its eyes, and stared up at him as he raised the sword. A fleeting memory passed through his exhausted mind, and he recalled that as it lacked a shaggy beard, like Gygas had, this must be a woman among lions. He thought of Rathea, and then he slashed its throat.

Chapter Forty Seven

"You must be blessed in the sight of the most high."

Nikias turned, and saw Zalm, sitting atop a handsome horse, all white except for a patch of black hair over the eyes. The assassin wore a green silk tunic, flowing blue trousers, and red sandals that looked too small for his feet. He had a sword strapped across his back, and two daggers at his belt. He looked strong, too strong; he appeared unmarked, for all the ordeals he had faced. Looking up at him, Nikias felt a twinge of envy for the man's freedom to appear and disappear, to kill whom he chose and call it justice, and through it all, never to suffer the smallest disfigurement.

He felt all these things, and exhausted besides, and no words came.

Zalm grinned down at him. "Blessed, or cursed above all men."

He found his voice. "Ajax," he said.

Zalm shrugged. "I don't understand your barbarian words." He laughed.

"Ajax. The boy. The boy you murdered, so you could set your pet cat on us."

"He had a sword, and a knife, and he had you. I have never killed any man who stood unarmed."

He remembered Lorcas, on his knees and mewling. He remembered Pompus, and shame grew in him, until fury burned it out. "You lie. You lie! You run around my city, murdering at will, and call me the barbarian!"

He lunged at Zalm, but the killer trotted out of reach.

"You're angry," said Zalm. "You should be. They've used you as ill as they've used me. But who do hate more, me? Or the man at the Sema?"

With those words, he shouted at his horse, and galloped away, towards to the city.

Nikias hefted the sword, thinking to throw it, but Zalm was already out of range. He caught his face, mirrored in the iron. Beaten, bruised, ugly with wet blood and dried, he looked like a denizen of Tartarus. "Blessed am I? Blessed? I hate you both. I hate you all!"

Then he was done with shouting. He sheathed the blade, sticky with lion's blood, and started to run.

Chapter Forty Eight

Nikias raced on foot as long as he could, and when he reached the end of the royal road, and came upon a gathering crowd of half-starved, stinking citizens, shouting abuse at the king, ever so nearly within earshot of the palace, he found himself stuck. "Let me through," he shouted.

"Give us bread, you monster," replied a man too bold to be quiet, too timid to step out of the crowd.

He paused to think.

The Sema stood in the city centre, an ugly mass of cranes, winches, wooden scaffolding, surrounded by the shanty town that had built up around the work site Ptolemaios's grandfather or great grandfather had commanded the tomb be built. A generation and more of workers had come, lured by the promise of the king's gold, seduced by longing for fame, fame they might win, and immortality, by hitching their work to the chariot of the young god who died.

They had not counted on the pride of the Ptolemies.

Every king who reigned, every man who wore the crown and sat the throne, conceived a new and grander plan of the tomb. Alexander's glory was to be their glory, and their visions were glorious, of temples, towers, statues, a new pyramid...

And the end of all these dreams was this, a stunted stone tomb, surrounded by cranes, winches, and wooden scaffolding, a pebble in a pile of sticks.

A pebble he could not reach.

"Give us bread, or run back to the palace."

"Yeah, give us bread and meat."

"Give us your sandals and your harness to boil and eat. It'd be better than the scraps we've fed on these past days."

Men, women, he couldn't tell; their voices had the same raw, desperate quality. They stank of the sea, of ash, of sweat. They were furious, crazed by hunger, and many had sticks, rocks, hammers, hand knives, even a sword here and there. And where were the guard? Fighting amongst themselves, or hiding behind their gates, it made no difference.

If he didn't win the crowd, getting to the Sema would be a lost problem; he'd never even leave the dock.

He pitched his voice for the battlefield. "Don't you know who I am?" He paused, and then he drew his sword, and held it overhead. "I am the sword of the king!"

As one man, the crowd took a step back.

He pressed on, praying they wouldn't notice the sweat running down his brow, arms, spine. "You see the blood? This is the blood of lions. Who among you can sup at my table? Who among you, to break his fast, will slay him a lion?"

He stepped forward.

They stepped back.

"Come to me now, he who would feast on my flesh. Come, and be strong, or I will eat your heart and drink your blood!"

He pressed forward, never daring to break his even pace. If he faltered, if he walked too fast, they would see the fear, if they hadn't seen it yet. But somehow, in spite of his nerves, in spite of his sweat and that shaking heart, he marched right on.

Before him, the crowd broke.

First one, then two, then a dozen and more, they slipped away, and the few who remained looked about, saw their isolation, and ran.

Nikias marched on toward the Sema.

But a curious thing happened. At first he heard whispers, and saw eyes watching from alley mouths and rooftops. Then he noticed the patter of feet at his back.

The patter grew to a din, to a thunder, and men and women both shouted, "A lion! A lion!"

Nikias came to the Sema, an army at his back.

Chapter Forty Nine

If you sat a stone box in the patch of mud left by a horse's hoof, and piled up sticks and reeds atop it; if you began to make a pyramid out of pebbles, and grew bored with half a base; if your parents gave you all the pieces of a marvellous, slender tower, which you never raised above a second storey, and left the rest strewn about, as if Poseidon the earth shaker had sent his strength against you, and toppled all your fancies, then you would have a good picture of the Sema as it stood when Nikias came to it.

But you would not hear the roar of those hundreds of tired, hungry, furious people, who had been drawn by the noise, perhaps by the prospect of judicious looting, and been captured by the excitement of the crowd. And you would not have tasted the air, and caught the scents of cook fires and dung pits, and the harsh aroma of oil for swords, spears, and axes, too familiar to Nikias for him to have mistaken it for anything else. And you would not have seen Zalm's horse with the white flanks and black brow, trotting free around the edge of the work site, with no trace of the rider.

At first he thought Zalm had already raced in, but on a closer look, he saw a patch of blood on the horse's neck, and a handful of arrows lying where they had fallen, and one or two standing upright where they had pierced the ground. He looked again at the mess of wooden scaffolding, the workmen's huts, the base blocks laid down to support structures never built, perhaps never to be built. He looked, and saw the head of one man, and the arm and shoulder of another, and he caught a third peering around the side of one of the biggest blocks of stone.

They had bows, and covered positions, dangerous for one man to assault. Had Zalm seen them, or had they taken him by surprise? He half-hoped they'd killed him, but he wouldn't believe Zalm was dead unless he himself dismembered and burned his corpse.

Pitching his voice for battle, he spoke. "I've come for the occupant of the Sema."

First there was silence. Then he heard a muttered argument, and at last a man shouted up at him. "Step a little closer, and we'll send you to him!"

He sighed through gritted teeth. He hadn't expected it to be that easy. "I-"

The shouting mob trampled down his voice.

It was hard to pick out words, impossible to catch a meaningful sentence, but the gist was unmistakable.

Here is the sword.

Here is the lion.

Here is death.

He struggled to raise his voice over the shouting mob, but all he got for his effort was raw pain in his throat. He though he heard some of them call him a king, and he wondered, for one or two heartbeats, if this was the way with kings. Had Alexander been carried to power, not on the strength of his will, his vision, but on the shoulders of a raging mob?

He shook off such questions. Shouting wasn't working. He had to try something else. If he did nothing, he would lose whatever control he had over the crowd, his ragged army of the streets. It might disintegrate; it might go mad and burn the palace and the city. He couldn't command these angry people as he could an army; they had no discipline.

So he gave the crowd his back, and thrust his sword in the air.

That made them silent, but silent wasn't enough.

He let his sword swing to the horizontal, and stabbed it at the Sema.

The crowd screamed, and he felt the dirt under his sandals tremble with the rush of a thousand pairs of feet. They swarmed around him, so many and so close that he felt the air wash his skin, and caught the scent of dried sweat and fresh sweat, breath of garlic and onion, of piss, filth, bodies not washed for month, salt of sweat, salt of the sea, raw fish, dried fish, rotten fish, good food and bad food, and fear and excitement and treachery and hope and then blood and death and exultation.

They fought with stones and sticks, they fought with old worn axes, one burly sailor had a length of mast, which he swung and crushed a traitor guard's head. Arrows whistled and hissed, and felled a man, a woman, a boy... The mob swarmed through the work site, rushing down dirt paths, and clambering over blocks of stone and frames of wood. They came at the archers from all directions, and tore them apart.

The fighting seemed to last for hours, but when it was done, the sun still hung low in the sky. It was morning yet, and what a morning. Bodies littered the Sema. One man lay on his back, his eyes glazed and staring at the sky. He could have been sleeping but for the six arrows in his chest. One rogue archer had thrown aside his bow, fought with his sword until it broke, and dropped it in favour of a stout wooden post. He'd brained three men before falling; a woman had wrestled him while her little boy had crawled under his legs and slashed his calves, and then, when he'd crashed to his knees, the woman had held him while her son stabbed into his lungs. In his last moments he had shoved the woman away, grabbed the boy, and cracked his neck.

The woman knelt beside the archer's corpse, cradling her son's body in her arms, staring at him in wordless incomprehension.

Nikias had fought in many battles, commanded many armies. He had never seen this kind of mob frenzy. You could lead an army; you could command soldiers, but this? No one could control this. Ptolemaios couldn't do it. Rathea couldn't do it. This was just a beginning; if it grew, if it remained unmastered, the city was days from tearing itself apart.

Cold sweat trickled down his back.

He pushed aside his fears when he saw it wasn't done.

They had gone on. Without waiting for orders or guidance, they had pressed the fight all the way to the tiny stone house, the true tomb of the dead god. And without instructions or commands, they had known what to do with the occupant.

They dragged him out of his hiding place. They held his arms and legs, they beat him when he struggled, and spat on him when he cursed, they kicked him, half strangled him, and poked him with blades until his will broke, and he fell to sobbing. They carried him out of the site, and dumped him at Nikias's feet.

He looked down at the captive, and his eyes went wide, his jaw fell, and the sword slipped out of his hand.

"Impossible," he murmured.

Chapter Fifty

The captive lay on his side, curled up, one arm thrown across his face, as if that would protect him when the mob gave him another round of beating. The arm looked strong enough, where it wasn't swelling with fresh bruises, but the skin had the pallor of the invalid...or the foreigner wealthy enough for good roofs and strong slaves to hide him from the sun.

"Look at me," said Nikias. His voice a rough whisper.

The captive turned his head away from him, though he had to press his face into the dirt to do it.

Nikias bared his teeth. "Look at me!"

Even the crowd flinched.

The captive resisted a moment longer, and then he uncurled, pushed himself onto his knees, though he hesitated before touch the ground, and he wiped his hands on his skirt as soon as he could. Then he looked right into Nikias's face.

The sight so familiar, the place so strange. It strangled the words in his throat, and all he could do was look down, gaze at the man who had wrought such fury, such terror, such a storm of death. He saw the same soft skin, the same thick bald head, the same stout belly, though weeks of hiding had wasted away much of his fat. He saw the same soft brown eyes, and felt the same shudder run up his spine as he saw that as one eye looked up at him, the other strayed to take in the crowd.

Two things had changed. The stink had gone, the loathsome smell of rot and death; he now carried the odour of garlic and onions, like any other man of the city, though with less a reek of sweat. And he had shed the pure white robes of Athens in favour of a linen skirt, although he eschewed the common, plain style, and had got his with stripes of red and black.

Nikias felt the pressure of the crowd. They hungered for leadership. Brought together by no oaths and no promises, their unity was a fragile thing. No matter what reason, justice, and the gods might want, they would brook no hesitation; they would demand swift action, or they would storm over his protests, and act for themselves.

He found his voice. "You look well for a dead man... Kleon."

Kleon blinked, and sweat dripped down his face. "Nikias? Nikias, is that you? Oh, praise the gods, the nightmare is ended. They held me for- I don't know how long! The pain, the terrible pain. When this mob dragged me out, I thought I was going to be killed along with my captors, but now you're here, I know I'm safe." He bent his head, and sobbed. "Oh, thank the gods."

Nikias cocked his head. "Took you prisoner, did they?"

Kleon nodded, his face in his hands.

"Kept you bound, I suppose."

"With leather straps. They bit my flesh so I thought I'd lose my hands."

"Ah. That would have been unpleasant."

Kleon peered up at him through his hands. "Unpleasant? It was ghastly!"

"Ghostly, perhaps."

Kleon froze. "I- I don't see what you-"

He kicked him in the shoulder, hard enough to spin him around, and topple him over, to sprawl on his fat belly in the dirt.

The crowd cheered, which soured it for Nikias.

"You sit at my feet and lie to me. You sit with strong arms, flesh unmarked, and talk of bonds. My army of citizens beat you and kicked you, but the one wound you talk of has vanished in the sun!"

Kleon scrabbled at the dirt. "No, I-"

"You hide behind an army of traitors and assassins. You hide behind stolen swords, stolen bows, and let other men die for your fat, treacherous skin!

"No. No!"

"And when your great lie is torn in pieces, and your army broken down to bodies rent, blood drenching the soil, you hide again, you hide behind a new lie."

Kleon clawed at the earth, trying to heave himself up and run. Nikias let him stand, let him dash forwards, to stop at the ring of people that walled him in. He turned left, turned right, mouth wide, corners down, shoulders hunched around his neck. "Please," he said. "Please! I'll give you money. I'll give you gold!"

"It's meat they want," said Nikias. "Will you feed them? Will you give them your flesh?"

Kleon rounded on him, maddened by desperate fear. "You! This is your sin! This is all on you!"

"You-"

"I set them up. All you had to do was hunt them down! You were supposed to be good at it. You were supposed to do it quickly. But no, you fumbled every snare, you set off every trap in your own face! You had them. I gave them to you."

"The box."

"Yes, the box, fool. I handed it to you, and you let them steal it away. I had to send you one piece of help after another, until that stupid old coward ran from the library, and led you to them. Even then I had to rely on Kalliphas to finish your work. Why didn't you die? Why didn't they smash your brain and be done with you? Beloved of Athena my balls! You don't have the brains to serve Athena."

"And you do? You, who would murder anybody to get your way, and pretend to be dead yourself. What were you thinking? Were you going to walk back into the palace as if you'd been on holiday in Thebes?"

Kleon was red from shouting, but now he shone, his chest swelled, and for the first time, both of his eyes looked straight at Nikias. "I know the secrets of Black Salt," he said. "I would have been the new Osiris, conqueror of death. I would have given life to my loyal servants, and torture everlasting to those who would not serve. I would have made Egypt into a new power, and built an empire beyond the dreams of Alexander. Hear this, man of Hellas, Alexander was the dead god. But I, I am the god of life."

The crowd was poor. Young, old, they were hungry and poor. Nikias counted no Hellenistic faces among them, and few other immigrants. To the last man, to the smallest boy, they were born from Egyptian soil, and when they died, to Egyptian soil they would return. They did not understand everything that passed between the two great men, they could not.

But they did understand blasphemy.

Nikias saw tremor run through the crowd, heard the growing murmurs, and knew what was coming. He drew breath, and called out in warning, but Kleon, drunk on his dreams, never heard him. He shouted, but the voice of the crowd drowned him.

In one convulsive movement, the mob rushed together, and closed on Kleon like a fist.

Chapter Fifty One

He couldn't see it, from where he stood, with the creak of wooden boards under his feet, the gentle sloshing of water, the feel of the wooden rail, rough in his hands. He couldn't see it, but he could picture it. The crowds, jostling and murmuring as they lined the king's road, some few standing on the very spot where a lion, the lion, had slain a good man and a bad, though the palace slaves would have left no sign. They would talk, guzzle down cheap mixed wine, and chew the bread the king had given out "to celebrate the glorious day."

Those loaves had saved the kingdom, he'd heard some royal baker joke. Stuffed with olives, onions, and strips of meat, they would bring many men and women and tearful children back from the edge of starvation, and if they couldn't preserve the kingdom, they could, and would go a long way to restoring faith in the king, faith vital, faith needed, faith that had almost been shattered by the tale of a curse.

But kings do not live by bread alone. And curses need stronger medicine yet. So the people of the city, young, old, wasted by hunger and fattened by trade, stinking of the gutter, fragrant as rose petals, draped in rags and hand me downs, elegant in star patterned silks, all that could walk, crawl or be carried would mass together on the edge of the king's road.

And then would come the king. First would march the trumpeters, clad in the leather sandals and plain linen skirts of the common soldier, they would play their gleaming instruments, a call to alert the crowd. After them the drummers, marching in time with the beat. The honour guard would follow, a column of the best, handpicked warriors. They would wear glittering helms, with tall plumes, red, green and blue. They would carry a wide shield on the left, with engraved and enamelled scenes of battle: Diomedes charging the walls of Troy, Achilles come as death to Hector, Herakles, his hands on the neck of the Nemean lion. They would carry a long spear in the right hand, and, visible or not, he knew a clear eyed watched could see a single drop of dry blood at the tip of each spear: they had marked their weapons with the lion's blood.

He took it as a compliment.

Behind the honour guard would come the litter, a huge work of cedar beams, inlaid with gold and silver, and on it a pair of cushioned thrones, and an image of frowning Poseidon rearing up behind those royal seats, his fierce eyes glaring with the light of rubies, a star sapphire on his forehead, a trident in his hand, and this again had been anointed with the blood of the lion.

Ptolemaios would sit, swaying a little as twenty slaves laboured to carry the weight of all that wood and finery, as well as his own fleshy body, and his sister at his left. Whether he would smile to sit on that swaying throne, under Poseidon's furious gaze, Nikias could not say. He would live, he would keep his throne, he would suffer no more from Black Salt, neither the originals, set free that night, expelled from the city that dawn, nor the false ones, dead and dead and dead. He had survived, and the people, feasting on his bread, were already telling stories about how he had summoned the lion slayer, and could do so again. He had survived, and now he would marry his sister, as had his father and his grandfather and all the Ptolemies.

But he had survived.

The procession would go from the palace to the temple of Poseidon, where Garantzis would play his part. The king would wed his queen, bells would ring, drums beat, wine flow, and the city would feast and dance and sing.

He couldn't see it, from where he stood, but he could picture it. And as the water lapped at the hull, the banks of oarsmen pulled, and the ship pulled away from the dock, the corners of his mouth turned up.

"Father, call a doctor," said Leaina. "There's something dreadfully wrong with you."

He eyed her sidelong and raised one eyebrow.

"You're...by the gods, I'm scared to say it. You're smiling!"

He laughed then, and ignored her squealing protests as he hugged her and kissed her brow.

He let her go, and she brushed her long golden hair, and adjusted her sky blue dress.

"Leontas didn't come after all," he observed.

"Oh, don't be silly," she said, examining her face in a small brass mirror. "He's below decks. Can't stomach the rocking."

He shook his head, and looked back at the city as, one oar stroke after another, it moved away. "You did say he was a Spartan, didn't you? I think you said he was a Spartan."

She hit his shoulder with her palm. "You promised to be nice."

He heard steps on the deck behind him.

Leaina sniffed. "What's she doing here?"

He turned, and saw her. She wore the long flowing dress of a free woman of Athens, this time deep sea green, with a black lace trim. It clung to her form, suggestive, yet revealing nothing. Flowing silk sleeves protected her arms from the sun, but he would rather have looked on those hands than on Aphrodite's bare and succulent breasts. On her head she wore a wide brimmed silk hat, green to match her dress, and over her face, a white veil.

Leaina saw his eyes, and she scowled. "It's a fine thing to take your family to Hellas; I've always wanted to see it for myself. But to drag along your whore..."

His eyes blazed. "You will not use that word again!"

"Well it's true. She's nothing but a perfumed harlot, and if you really loved mother, if you had half the honour you yammer about, you'd pitch her over the side-"

"I won't hear these words from you, girl."

"I'm not a baby girl any more; I can say what I want. What're you going to do? I'm a lioness too. Are you going to slay me, now?"

He ran a hand through his beard, and threw his hands up in exasperation. He faced the veiled woman, and made a mute appeal.

"Oh," said Leaina. "So you're going to ignore me now, I see, I'm only your daughter, you can't have me embarrassing you in front of your whore."

The veiled woman stepped towards her, and Leaina backed away until she ran up against the rail. "Don't you come near me, you awful harridan!"

"Leaina," said the woman, in a lilting, musical voice, not untouched by laughter. "Did your mother raise you to speak that way?"

Leaina scowled, and raised her fist, but the woman in green reached up, took off her hat, and pulled away her veil. Golden hair tumbled down her back, and he saw that sweet face, so beautiful it made his heart ache.

Leaina turned red, and then she turned white. Her lips quivered, tears welled in her eyes, and she fell to her knees. "You-" Her words drowned in sobs. "I thought you-" She shuddered with weeping. "He never said!" She looked up at him, and he felt tears start in his own eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?" Her eyes rolled, and then she gave a start. "And I called you a whore! The gods will curse me!"

Janina held her and stroked her back and her long hair. "The gods will understand."

"Well I don't understand!"

Janina looked up at him. "My love, I think you can tell her now."

He looked away, at the oars moving through the seawater, at the gulls crying overhead, at the city, anything to avoid his daughter's tear stained eyes. He'd imagined this moment a thousand times, and dreaded it. His fleeing eyes paused for a moment on the waterfront. Empty and quiet, for the first time since the coronation, he saw a figure standing there, alone, a tall, powerful man, with a shaven head, his right arm swathed in bandages.

Zalm waved his left hand in a lazy, mocking salute.

Nikias looked at his girls, but he couldn't keep his eyes from straying back to the docks.

When he looked again, the figure was gone.

"Love is the best thing in this world," he told his daughter. "But blades are sharp, and hearts... You must protect it. Sometimes leather and bronze and iron are not enough. Sometimes, a lie can be stronger."

Janina beamed at him, but Leaina gazed up, her eyes red and streaming with tears. "I knew you had enemies, but... Why did you lie to me? Why hide her and not me?"

Janina smothered a laugh, and luck or Athena's grace kept their daughter from seeing it.

"Daughter... You know me very well. How could I hide you, when I have never been able to control you?"

She leapt up to punch him, but the blow became an embrace, and Janina joined them, and they held each other, and it was enough, it was all he had wanted, all he'd waited for, all he'd prayed for those many nights.

As one, they turned their backs on the city of the dead god, made their way to the bows, and watched the horizon, with hope, and love, and happiness, for they were a family, and they were going home.

***

Thank you for reading Black Salt.

If you enjoyed this book, you might like to read Jacob Magnus's other books, available at Smashwords.com.
