Black Salt

Black Salt - Chapter 37

 The captive lay on his side, curled up, one arm thrown across his face, as if that would protect him when the mob gave him another round of beating. The arm looked strong enough, where it wasn't swelling with fresh bruises, but the skin had the pallor of the invalid...or the foreigner wealthy enough for good roofs and strong slaves to hide him from the sun.

"Look at me," said Nikias. His voice a rough whisper.

The captive turned his head away from him, though he had to press his face into the dirt to do it.

Nikias bared his teeth. "Look at me!"

Even the crowd flinched.

The captive resisted a moment longer, and then he uncurled, pushed himself onto his knees, though he hesitated before touch the ground, and he wiped his hands on his skirt as soon as he could. Then he looked right into Nikias's face.

The sight so familiar, the place so strange. It strangled the words in his throat, and all he could do was look down, gaze at the man who had wrought such fury, such terror, such a storm of death. He saw the same soft skin, the same thick bald head, the same stout belly, though weeks of hiding had wasted away much of his fat. He saw the same soft brown eyes, and felt the same shudder run up his spine as he saw that as one eye looked up at him, the other strayed to take in the crowd.

Two things had changed. The stink had gone, the loathsome smell of rot and death; he now carried the odour of garlic and onions, like any other man of the city, though with less a reek of sweat. And he had shed the pure white robes of Athens in favour of a linen skirt, although he eschewed the common, plain style, and had got his with stripes of red and black.

Nikias felt the pressure of the crowd. They hungered for leadership. Brought together by no oaths and no promises, their unity was a fragile thing. No matter what reason, justice, and the gods might want, they would brook no hesitation; they would demand swift action, or they would storm over his protests, and act for themselves.

He found his voice. "You look well for a dead man... Kleon."

Kleon blinked, and sweat dripped down his face. "Nikias? Nikias, is that you? Oh, praise the gods, the nightmare is ended. They held me for- I don't know how long! The pain, the terrible pain. When this mob dragged me out, I thought I was going to be killed along with my captors, but now you're here, I know I'm safe." He bent his head, and sobbed. "Oh, thank the gods."

Nikias cocked his head. "Took you prisoner, did they?"

Kleon nodded, his face in his hands.

"Kept you bound, I suppose."

"With leather straps. They bit my flesh so I thought I'd lose my hands."

"Ah. That would have been unpleasant."

Kleon peered up at him through his hands. "Unpleasant? It was ghastly!"

"Ghostly, perhaps."

Kleon froze. "I- I don't see what you-"

He kicked him in the shoulder, hard enough to spin him around, and topple him over, to sprawl on his fat belly in the dirt.

The crowd cheered, which soured it for Nikias.

"You sit at my feet and lie to me. You sit with strong arms, flesh unmarked, and talk of bonds. My army of citizens beat you and kicked you, but the one wound you talk of has vanished in the sun!"

Kleon scrabbled at the dirt. "No, I-"

"You hide behind an army of traitors and assassins. You hide behind stolen swords, stolen bows, and let other men die for your fat, treacherous skin!

"No. No!"

"And when your great lie is torn in pieces, and your army broken down to bodies rent, blood drenching the soil, you hide again, you hide behind a new lie."

Kleon clawed at the earth, trying to heave himself up and run. Nikias let him stand, let him dash forwards, to stop at the ring of people that walled him in. He turned left, turned right, mouth wide, corners down, shoulders hunched around his neck. "Please," he said. "Please! I'll give you money. I'll give you gold!"

"It's meat they want," said Nikias. "Will you feed them? Will you give them your flesh?"

Kleon rounded on him, maddened by desperate fear. "You! This is your sin! This is all on you!"

"You-"

"I set them up. All you had to do was hunt them down! You were supposed to be good at it. You were supposed to do it quickly. But no, you fumbled every snare, you set off every trap in your own face! You had them. I gave them to you."

"The box."

"Yes, the box, fool. I handed it to you, and you let them steal it away. I had to send you one piece of help after another, until that stupid old coward ran from the library, and led you to them. Even then I had to rely on Kalliphas to finish your work. Why didn't you die? Why didn't they smash your brain and be done with you? Beloved of Athena my balls! You don't have the brains to serve Athena."

"And you do? You, who would murder anybody to get your way, and pretend to be dead yourself. What were you thinking? Were you going to walk back into the palace as if you'd been on holiday in Thebes?"

Kleon was red from shouting, but now he shone, his chest swelled, and for the first time, both of his eyes looked straight at Nikias. "I know the secrets of Black Salt," he said. "I would have been the new Osiris, conqueror of death. I would have given life to my loyal servants, and torture everlasting to those who would not serve. I would have made Egypt into a new power, and built an empire beyond the dreams of Alexander. Hear this, man of Hellas, Alexander was the dead god. But I, I am the god of life."

The crowd was poor. Young, old, they were hungry and poor. Nikias counted no Hellenistic faces among them, and few other immigrants. To the last man, to the smallest boy, they were born from Egyptian soil, and when they died, to Egyptian soil they would return. They did not understand everything that passed between the two great men, they could not.

But they did understand blasphemy.

Nikias saw tremor run through the crowd, heard the growing murmurs, and knew what was coming. He drew breath, and called out in warning, but Kleon, drunk on his dreams, never heard him. He shouted, but the voice of the crowd drowned him.

In one convulsive movement, the mob rushed together, and closed on Kleon like a fist.