The Isle of Stone

14.

The scroll was still in Antalcidas’ hand when he returned to the ruins. All the surviving Spartiates glanced down at it, as if curious over what it said, but too proud to ask outright.

Frog had no such trouble. “So what do our elders require of us?”

Antalcidas gave it to him. Reading the words, Frog grimaced.

“What does this mean?” he asked. “Is it some kind of code?”

“The men will prepare themselves for the attack.”

Pushing their helmets down low on their heads, the men settled down in their positions. Antalcidas saw that a few had used the reprieve to stack several small blocks at the back of the fort, making a small stretch of cover from the bowmen behind them. But this position offered no refuge from arrows shot from the other side.

Frog had not finished his interrogation. “Tell me, Antalcidas, why are you so sure they expect a sacrifice?”

“I’m not sure. When in doubt, the Spartiate will always make the most honorable choice.”

“There are many good men here,” the other persisted. “If there’s a chance to them to serve again in the line-we should be sure. You might petition the ephors to clarify.”

Antalcidas rounded on him, sneering, “Would that make your father proud? For us to prattle back and forth like women? No-I will not embarrass our elders by begging them to make our choice for us. If you must know, that is the duty of the command you wanted so desperately. Now leave me alone.”

Frog stared at him with eyes wide. Then he bent at the waist in a mocking bow.

“Well, then! Let us all hail our lord Antalcidas, third king of the Spartans!”

Before the other could straighten up again, Antalcidas shoved him to the ground. Looking back, Frog wore a face of such undiluted hatred that it might as well have been a theatrical mask.

“You’ve made a mistake, Antalcidas.”

Antalcidas reached for his sword. “And you’ve plagued your commanders for the last time. Get up.”

Frog rolled to his feet, his blade at the ready. Facing each other, a fight was inevitable, with Frog whipping himself up into an emotional froth and Antalcidas staring back, expressionless but with every intention of making the other suffer before he died. He had not fought another Lacedaemonian since that day on the Plane Stand, and never killed one. He found himself strangely attracted to the prospect: his love of country, which was unshakable, had somehow made him more contemptuous of certain Spartans than he knew. It was nothing so simple as resenting those of modest talent but legitimate birth. Instead, he felt a powerful need to purify and ennoble his love by removing irritants like Frog from the life of his city.

Suddenly the scream of wind through bowfeathers descended on them. Antalcidas looked up-and saw the sky again filled with Athenian arrows. He and Frog crouched together next to a wall as the volley hit the ground; neither of them was struck, but a handful of the other men were caught in the open without their shields.

“You men get your equipment!” Antalcidas cried. “Forward positions, prepare to receive the enemy-”

But the Athenians had changed tactics. The wounded Lacedaemonians were limping and crawling to where their shields lay, or injuring themselves further by ripping the arrowpoints from their flesh, when another volley came on. More went down as missiles tore through their flimsy piloi. Desperate, some of the Spartans darted out to strip a few of the heavier, closed helmets from the Athenian dead.

Demosthenes had decided to send no more human waves against the breaches: he would no longer gratify the Spartans by offering them the sort of death they preferred. The conference with Antalcidas, whom Demosthenes took to be a petulant fool, had relieved him of all chivalric scruples. He would now grind the Lacedaemonians down constantly, mercilessly, and from a distance.

Reading this fury, Cleon saw there was no longer any chance for live prisoners. Looking to sea, he visualized bringing a severed human head-perhaps Antalcidas’-to the Squeezing Place. No, the institution’s traditional decorum would never allow it. Yet would they not talk about that day forever, when Cleon brought such vivid evidence of his newfound military prowess?

“The archers are running out of arrows,” Leochares reported.

Cleon supposed that this was bad news. He looked to Demosthenes, who spared him only a glance before turning to Leochares.

“Tell the line officers that a ship is already on its way from the stockade,” he said. He then added-more to gall Cleon that to inform Leochares-“I called for resupply hours ago.”