Black Salt

Black Salt - Chapter 03

 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 treat me like the villain, he thought.

"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," 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. Nikias saw they were all turned away from the arena, and he knew something was wrong. 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 for you, too?"

Nikias approached 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 up-close, 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; since days long past, the thumb was all he had left of 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 than 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. To 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.

"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."