“Can’t do that. He’d run for help. But this is very inconvenient.”
“Tell me about it.”
He turned to Socrates. “Listen here, kid. You see this knife?” He held up a vicious-looking blade, long and jagged.
Socrates stared at the knife with wide eyes. He nodded.
“You do anything to cause trouble, I’ll stick this blade in your brother’s heart. He’ll be dead before he hits the ground. Got it?”
Socrates nodded again and said nothing. I hoped he didn’t get it into his head to try to save me.
They led us through the streets of Athens, me in the middle, them standing close enough to return the knives they’d taken straight into my kidneys if I caused any trouble. Socrates trailed behind. We passed men going the other way. They looked at us strangely. The ones who could smell me kept their distance-but no one intervened. Someone would have come to my aid if I’d yelled, but I saw no point in getting some hapless random stranger killed.
They led me to a nondescript house on a nondescript street. From the look of it-the boarded-up windows, the unswept path, the door that creaked noisily when a man within opened it-I guessed they’d appropriated an abandoned building. The complete lack of furniture within confirmed it.
They led us through the barren courtyard to an old workroom at the back. It was dark within; these windows were boarded, too, and covered in black cloth. When someone behind us shut the door, it was black as night, but I heard the small sounds of men shuffling and breathing and I knew I must be surrounded. My eyes slowly adjusted until I perceived before me a table, and behind it, standing straight as a pillar, was a man.
I couldn’t see his face, not because it was dark, but because he wore a helmet, a hoplite helmet that covered his entire face, the sort of helmet that went with a shield and spear and was worn by soldier-citizens of Athens. Yet the shadows in which he stood gave it another cast altogether. Two candles flickered upon the table between us. The yellow light shone upward into the expressionless metal face. I felt like I faced some remorseless automaton from legend. I’d thought Pericles had a talent for theatrics, but he had nothing on this man.
He said, “You are Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus.”
“I am.”
His voice had the deep, muffled, resonant quality of a soldier at arms, a quality that came from speaking through the mouth slit of bronze armor. Somehow it always seemed to make a man sound more menacing.
He said, “I seek answers.”
“So do I.”
Socrates shuffled his feet beside us but said nothing. Even he was cowed.
I sensed rather than saw the two thugs who’d caught us at our backs, deep in shadow. If it weren’t for them, I might have grabbed Socrates and run.
“The answers I seek relate to the death of the hated tyrant,” our captor said.
“I’m with you so far.”
“And those who perpetuate his plot. I greatly fear that you’re one of them. I think, though, that you must be nothing but a hired hand; a bit player in this drama. Tell me the names of your employers, and I’ll let you live.”
I blinked. “The temple at Brauron.” This was public knowledge.
“Not them. Tell me the names of your other employers. I have it on authority you’ve been bribed not to find the men who helped Hippias.”
“Would it help if I said I have no idea what you’re talking about?”
“I wouldn’t believe you. I’ve been warned what a dangerous man you are, Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus. The word is you’ve carried out three missions for Pericles, all executed with utter ruthlessness; that you’re a master of deception; that your enemies were convinced you were a bumbling idiot, right up to the moment you destroyed them. Well, you might have fooled them, but you won’t fool me.”
“That’s not fair!” Socrates protested. “Nico really is a bumbling idi-er … that is-”
“Who is this child?” the helmeted man demanded.
“My little brother,” I said. “Try to ignore him; it’s what I do.”
As I spoke, I thought quickly. How could our captor know about my past missions? The first and third had been public knowledge, but the second was a secret. Whoever this man was, he had access to information that was supposed to be discreet. Information known only to Pericles and a select number of very senior Athenians.
“There’s nothing you can say or do that will convince me you don’t understand my meaning. Tell me who’s behind the plot.”
“What plot?” I said. “I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.”
There was something odd about the man’s voice. Without the visual clues of his face, it had taken me this long to spot it, but when I looked at his arms-the part of his body most exposed to view-they were thin, and the skin had the looseness of age. This was an old man, with an old man’s voice.
“Does this have something to do with Marathon?” I asked.
“Of course it does, you fool! Living among us still are the men who told Hippias they’d support him if he returned. The traitors who signaled to him after the battle.”
“What signal?” I asked, confused. Then I remembered Pericles had told me, days ago, of a signal that was flashed after the battle. I said, “Do you know who sent the message to the Persians at Marathon?”
“That’s what I’m asking you! They must be found. They must be destroyed.”
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but whatever this is about, it’s all ancient history. Nobody cares,” I said. “Trust me on this.”
“It’s not for me to trust you. It’s for you to obey me, like any good soldier in an army, like any good citizen of the state.” He paused. “You have served your time in the army, haven’t you?”
“I’ve completed my two years as an ephebe,” I told him, becoming a bit angry. To question whether a man had served his time as a recruit was to question whether he was fit to be a citizen of Athens.
“Then you know the importance of obeying a superior. Good. You should have no problem doing as I tell you, since I am clearly your superior.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, sir. I have no idea who you are. How do I know you’re superior to me? Also, my duty is to the Sanctuary of Brauron. Duty’s very important to me-”
“I fought at Marathon!” he shouted. “My brother died there! Don’t lecture me about duty. I’ll have you know I almost slew the tyrant!”
I blinked. “You did?”
“I did. He hid behind the enemy lines like a coward, but I pushed through and almost took him with a spear to his throat. I saw the blood gush, but somehow he lived. Does that change your attitude? Will you obey me?”
“I will not.”
He drew his sword from the scabbard that hung on the left side of his belt. “Do you know how many men I’ve killed with this sword?” he demanded.
“No.”
“Neither do I. I’ve lost count.”
Or more likely his memory was failing with old age. I wondered whether his story of having attacked Hippias was even true, or whether it was the fond imaginings of an old man. If he’d fought at Marathon, he must be at least fifty years old. He swept his sword round in a great, looping arc, a smooth, practiced movement that spoke of years of hard drilling. The sword slammed edge-first into the table before him. Splinters flew. I recoiled out of sheer reflex. When I opened my eyes, the table had split in two, the destroyed halves lying to either side of him.
He held the sword pointed at me with his bony, but apparently very functional, arm.
“That will be you,” he said. “Unless you bring me the names of the traitors who assisted Hippias, the worms that remain among us. Do you understand now?”
I gulped. “I hear you.”
“Take him away.”
A sack appeared from behind and went over my head. I knew better than to resist. I heard Socrates squawk as a similar sack went over him. I said, “Socrates, don’t fight them.”
They bundled us into the back of a cart, covered us with something that smelled like canvas, and drove out of a gate and through the streets for what seemed ages, before the cart stopped and I was rolled without warning into a ditch. At least it was warm earth and not sewage.
Then a body fell from the sky and dropped straight on me. Socrates went “Oof!” in my ear. He’d landed right on top of me. With no warning to brace myself, I thought my bones had broken.
“You can take the hood off now.”
I did. Socrates struggled out of his. Our two friends with the wrist bands were still with us.
“Where are we?”
They pointed. There was the front door of my father’s house.
“Be seeing you.”
The delivery to my father’s home wasn’t a courtesy. They were delivering a message.