Atlantis Gate

CHAPTER 6

The Phoenician ships and barges were beached just south of the bridging point. Soldiers and slaves worked together to off-load the lengths of intricately woven plant material. The first length was tied off the near anchor point and the first ship position. A second length of flax reinforced the first. A second anchor point had been dug during the night while they waited for the barges and two large trees already put in place.

As a second boat was moved into position and planks laid from the first, Xerxes raised his hand, halting work. He signaled to his master-at-arms and the six Egyptian engineers whose bridge had been destroyed. The master-at-arms and several Immortals hustled the confused engineers onto the planks. The confusion changed to terror as each man was tied in place between the first two lengths of flax roping, one across their back, one across their chests.

Xerxes then signaled for work to continue, savoring the desperate cries of the trapped men. More ropes were tied in to the anchor point until only the Egyptians’ feet and heads were visible, the rest of their body cocooned with strands of flax extending outward from the shore pylons. As more boats were added, and additional lengths tied in to the end, the pressure increased.

The screams of the trapped men became muted as the ropes across their chests restricted their breathing to the point where they couldn’t cry out. Every man working on the bridge had to walk past the trapped engineers, which was exactly what Xerxes had in mind. It certainly gave them a focus on their tasks.

With a crackling noise clearly heard even above the chants of the slaves hauling on ropes, the first engineer’s chest gave way and blood poured out of his mouth, covering the ropes across his front. One by one, the rest died, dying the flax red and leaving their heads dangling over the top of the cable.

Boat by boat, the two bridges began extending across the strait. And on the eastern shoreline Xerxes sat on his throne and watched. And behind him, just to the right, stood Pandora.

“I do not approve,” Leonidas said.

“Of?” Cyra asked.

Dusk was falling and Leonidas was still pressing the pace, wanting to get some more miles behind them before halting for the night. He had sent Eusibius ahead as a scout. He had not seen Idas or the Persian Jamsheed since his last conversation with both. He assumed the Athenian was headed for the coast to take a ship back to his city. As far as the Persian, Leonidas figured he would be heading north to link up with his king’s army.

“Having a child without a husband.”

Cyra laughed, causing a flush of blood to the King’s face. “What is so funny?”

“That I would care about your approval.”

They rode in silence for several minutes. “I suppose things are different in Delphi,” the king finally allowed.

“Most open-minded of you, Lord.”

Leonidas gritted his teeth and they rode for another mile.

“Do you have family?” Cyra asked.

“I have a son,” Leonidas said proudly.

“His name?”

“Amphion.”

“And your wife?”

Leonidas smiled. “Thetis”

“Just one child?”

“We have a daughter also.”

“I am not surprised you only mentioned your son. Spartans do not think much of girls, do they?”

“They are necessary,” Leonidas allowed.

“Your mother was a girl once. Aren’t you fortunate she was valued?”

“Women—” Leonidas began.

“Yes?”

“They are good for some things. To keep the home. To bring forth the children. And, yes, to be priestesses and oracle, although we do not have such things in Sparta.”

“Do you think Spartan women think like that?”

“Of course.”

“You may be a very smart commander of men, my Lord,” Cyra said, “but you know nothing of a woman’s heart or mind.”

Leonidas pulled back on his reins and came to a halt. “What are you talking about?”

Cyra also stopped. She pulled a dagger out from somewhere in the folds of her robes. She held it against the wrist of the other hand. “If I am cut, do I bleed the same as you?”

Leonidas’s forehead wrinkled. “Yes.”

She leapt off her horse, throwing her long cloak to the side. She was dressed in leather pants and sleeveless jerkin. She spread her legs shoulder width apart, left forward. The point of the dagger was toward the King.

“What are you doing?” Leonidas leaned back in the saddle, amused.

“Fight me.”

“I would not fight a woman.”

“You are old,” Cyra said. “An old man who has to hold on to his stirrup to get off his horse or his leg will not hold him.”

The smile was gone from Leonidas’s face.

Cyra slapped her chest. “I wear no armor. I don’t even have that pig-sticker you carry at your waist, your xiphos that is so feared. All I have is this leather and a puny dagger. And—” she drew the word out. “You are a Spartan. The king of the Spartans. The most feared warriors in the world. I am just a priestess.”

Leonidas shook his head. “I will not be provoked.”

“I’m not trying to provoke you,” Cyra said. “I am trying to teach you something. You have trained almost all your life. Do you think you know everything? That you cannot learn something new? You will soon be in the battle of your life. Perhaps I could teach you a thing or two that might help.”

Leonidas slowly got off the horse, his hands clear of the stirrups. He turned toward Cyra. “What can you teach me, priestess?”

“I can only show. What is learnt depends on the student.”

Leonidas cocked his head. “My first teacher in the agoge told me that. Kyros. He was a fine warrior. He started me on the path of phobologia.”

“So you should not fear me,” Cyra said. She moved forward and slashed. Leonidas jumped back, her blade missing by a few inches, his hand instinctively drawing his xiphos. He was moving forward, a jab with the point, followed immediately by the second strike he had been drilled in, an upper thrust toward her solar plexus.

But she wasn’t there, spinning gracefully out of the way. She clamped down on his sword arm, pinning it against her side. Leonidas was surprised at the unexpected move and pulling back when he felt steel against his throat, between chest armor and helmet. His eyes rotated down. Her knife was against his skin.

Very, very slowly, Cyra pulled the knife and released his sword arm. She sheathed the blade and picked up her cloak. She threw it over her shoulders. Leonidas had not moved, standing as if carved in stone. Cyra mounted her horse and rode off, leaving the king standing alone.

The weather on either side of the pass was fine, but storm clouds hovered unnaturally on Mount Oeta, extending down to the Gates of Fire. Lightning split the air and peels of thunder echoed out over the Aegean.

The sphere of black appeared, hovering a foot above the ground. A lightning bolt hit it and the darkness absorbed the strike, sucking in the power, conquering the force of nature in a blink.

Several seconds later a man staggered out of the sphere, his skin red and blistered, whatever he had been wearing seared away. His head turned back and forth, as if he were searching, but his eyes had been burned and were blind. In his right hand he held a curved sword, the metal bright and un-marked by whatever had destroyed his body.

He yelled, the sound un-intelligible and swung the blade as if he were surrounded by enemies. His movements showed training and skill despite his agony. His feet moved as he backed up. He jabbed with the sword, slashed and backed up further.

Then his rear foot went over the edge of the cliff. He tried to regain his balance to no avail. He fell over, tumbling down toward the sea-ravaged rocks below. All without a cry issuing his lips.

The body slammed into a rock, rolled down into the surf and disappeared.

In the Gates of Fire the black sphere coalesced on itself until it was dot and then disappeared.