Black Salt

Black Salt - Chapter 12

 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.