The Circle of Six: Emily's Quest (Legends of Eostra) Read online

  Glaucon raised his hand. “You have shown me a strange image, and they are strange prisoners.”

  “Like ourselves,” Socrates replied, “and they see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave?

  “True,” Glaucon said. “But how could they see anything but the shadows if they were never allowed to move their heads?”

  “And,” Socrates said holding his hand up, “of the objects which are being carried in like manner, they would only see the shadows?”

  “Yes,” Glaucon said, “I agree.”

  Jumping at your own shadows, Daimon thought. Sounds boring. His mind wandered with his eyes as he searched for Spartans. Nothing. He saw the sun gleam on Alexi’s large cheeks. He was sitting on one of the vendor’s wagons, tearing at a leg of chicken. Daimon chuckled.

  After a while he heard Socrates winding up.

  “This entire allegory,” Socrates said, “you may now append, dear Glaucon, to the previous argument; the prison-house is the world of sight, the light of the fire is the sun, and you will not misapprehend me if you interpret the journey upward to be the ascent of the soul into the intellectual world according to my poor belief, which, at your desire, I have expressed–whether rightly or wrongly, who knows.” Socrates cleared his throat and continued. “But, whether true or false, my opinion is that in the world of knowledge the idea of good appears last of all, and is seen only with an effort; and, when seen, is also inferred to be the universal author of all things beautiful and right, parent of light and of the lord of light in this visible world, and the immediate source of reason and truth in the intellectual. And that this is the power upon which he who would act rationally either in public or private life must have his eye fixed.”

  Daimon was confused. What was Socrates saying: get out of the darkness of ignorance and into the light of knowledge? What did that have to do with shadows?

  This man sounded like his mother. Before Daimon could ponder it further, he saw a rustling at the edge of the men listening to Socrates. He counted six Spartan youths striding through the agora. Daimon dashed past the soldiers who were now drowsing, supported by their spears, through the audience and up to a sleepy Alexi.

  “They’re here.” Daimon said and kicked Alexi’s tilted chair from underneath him.

  “What...?”

  Daimon instinctively placed his hand on the hilt of his blade and strode through the stalls, just far enough from the boys not to be noticed.

  “Are you mad?” Alexi puffed, wiping sweat from his brow as he caught up.

  “Just making sure they cause no trouble.”

  “And what will you do? It’s us against a small mob.”

  Daimon ignored his friend’s pleas. The Spartans finally stopped and struck up a conversation with Helena and her friends. Daimon’s blood boiled. They were strutting with their short leather underpants covering nothing, their bronzed chests glistening in the sun. The girls swooned at the foreigners. The tallest placed his arm around Helena, Daimon’s Helena, and laughed at something she had said. She smiled nervously.

  Without thinking, Daimon pushed through the crowd, strode up to the boy, looked up into his eyes and said, “What business do you have in the capital of the poli this day?”

  They all stopped talking. Helena was shocked, but before she could speak the lead Spartan boy looked down his hawk nose at Daimon and growled, “Who is this dwarf?”

  To Daimon’s surprise Helena blurted out, “He’s not a dwarf.”

  Encouraged by Helena’s support Daimon said, “I’m personal aide to General Xenophon, you oaf.”

  Daimon’s head reached the tall boy’s chin. The Spartan would be eighteen, a good two years older than him, but he couldn’t back down in front of Helena. The boy hadn’t removed his arm from her shoulders.

  “And what will you do to us, dwarf?”

  The group tightened around the girls, hands resting on their swords, their shadows blocking the sun. Daimon needed to think fast.

  He flicked his blond hair aside and said, “Leave the girls alone. Find somebody of your own kind to bother.”

  “Well, boys, did you hear that? The Athenian squire doesn’t like Spartans.”

  “I just don’t like what you stand for.”

  “Too quickly do the Athenians forget the Spartan bravery against the Persian kings. Who demolished Xerxes and sent him scurrying, with only 300 men?”

  Another of the Spartan boys called out, “The Spartan King, Leonidas.”

  “What nonsense,” Daimon said, “he jeopardised the entire Athenian army movement with such stupidity. You’re traitors, only serving your egos.”

  The taller boy smiled and stroked Helena’s hair. She squirmed. His grip tightened.

  “Leave the ladies alone,” Daimon warned.

  “Or what?” said the older boy. He placed his tanned, Spartan lips, slightly open, against Helena’s cheek. He let them linger against her porcelain skin, holding her head so she couldn’t move.

  Daimon’s skin burned. He saw the fear in Helena’s eyes. Charging, he knocked the boy away from Helena. He had to lead the mob away from the girls. He punched another boy hard in the face. Alexi, taller than the Spartans, rammed two heads together, but the other boys pounced on them both. The screaming girls scattered. A fist hit the side of Daimon’s head. He went down, dizzy. Others jumped on him. He felt the first of the kicks in his side. He heard a bone crack. His? Agony in his side. He grabbed for his sword but couldn’t find it. Another sharp kick to his belly. He couldn’t breathe. He saw the looming shadows from the billowing Spartan himations and their helmeted heads block out the sun. Alexi groaned on the ground, blood on his lips.

  And then the strangest thing happened. Two small birds, one red and the other brown, flew from nowhere, squawking their high-pitched screams into the flailing Spartan arms. Their sharp talons and pecking beaks caught the boys by surprise. Bobbing in and out like a frenzied snake, the birds drew blood and ripped hair from the bullies’ heads.

  Daimon saw Athenian soldiers pushing through the crowd towards them. His mother would kill him. He grabbed Alexi and dashed away from the town centre.

  And the chase was on. For the rest of the afternoon Daimon and Alexi dodged and hid with the Spartans and their angry shouts never far behind. The mob stalked their prey down the shadowed streets and over cobbles, turning over anything in their path. An old lady was pushed to the ground. Daimon hadn’t reckoned on there being other Spartans in Athens that day, but the swarm grew like a cloud of angry bees.

  Daimon and Alexi darted in and out of streets, doubling back on the angry mob, confusing them, using to their advantage the maze of streets that wound up into the hills from the city centre. Daimon’s long hair was wet with perspiration, his arms dragged loose at his side. He knew the confrontation he desperately avoided would soon take place. He gripped his sword. He was good with a blade but he had never killed anybody.

  The two boys finally found refuge in two tall clothes baskets next to the wooden stairs of an old, yellow-stained home.

  Daimon looked longingly at the blue sky and saw the late afternoon clouds stretch towards the coast. He closed the lid and enjoyed the shadowy respite. It dawned on him how stupid he had been. What was making him so angry? Could it be his father?

  When the sounds of slapping sandals subsided, Daimon looked through a slit in the lid of the basket and was face to beak with the red bird that had saved him. For an instant

  their eyes met. Her feathers were light, brilliant red, her eyes rimmed with a deep black that matched her sharp beak. The bird squawked and flapped its wings defensively.

  “Quiet,” he hushed. He shooed the bird.

  The other bird squawked in the distance. Daimon pulled his face back into the basket like a startled turtle. What were these birds doing here? They saved him and now in their stupidity they might draw his enemies’ attention.

  Within minutes the Spartan boys e
ntered the top of the street, their faces ominous in the afternoon silhouette. Growls and sticks and swords dragged on the cobblestones. The mob drew closer to the spot where Daimon and Alexi lay concealed.

  The attackers banged on doors of the homes in an attempt to find their target. They eventually banged the door of the home where the boys lay curled like unborn children.

  Daimon heard one of the Spartan voices just outside his basket. “Look what we have here. A little birdie. Come here, little one. We won’t hurt you.”

  Daimon suddenly realised they had grabbed at the birds. Their squawks rang across the alley. He would stay hidden. But in the scuffle with the birds, a Spartan boy knocked over Daimon’s basket. Shouts of victory charged the air as they saw Daimon roll out before their eyes. The Spartans forgot the birds and turned on Daimon’s flailing arms and legs.

  The snarls on the faces loomed above Daimon. Alexi’s wide belly was stuck in his toppled basket. They kicked him savagely while his arms protected his face.

  Just then a round woman wearing an apron burst out from the house waving a broom. She shouted curses on the boys’ heads. The startled mob tried to grab Daimon who was still curled in the foetal position.

  The two birds resumed their air strikes, pulling hair in each pass. The attackers cowered. Daimon saw their confusion and snatched the broom. Wielding the instrument like a seasoned swordsman, with controlled breaths and balanced footwork, he crashed, thrust and parried against the attackers. After all his years as the general’s sparring partner, this he could do. But a broom against real blades? With elbows high he smacked the broomstick against the boy who had kissed Helena, so hard he cut the boys ear and blood trickled down his cheek.

  But his efforts were too late for Alexi. Pinned against the stone wall, defending his own face, Daimon watched in disbelief as a Spartan sword split the side of Alexi’s face. His friend’s scream echoed across the rows of homes as the other boys turned on Daimon. The sun glinted off the Spartan’s raised blade above Alexi’s neck.

  In a fury of panic, Daimon ripped free from his attackers. Swinging and stabbing his broom, he disarmed the taller boy hovering over Alexi. He grabbed the Spartan’s blade from the ground, dropped to one knee and drove the blade right through the boy’s thigh. The Spartan dropped, screaming, blood spilling onto the cobblestones, mixing with Alexi’s Athenian blood. For a very still moment both fear and fury filled the mob’s eyes.

  Just then Daimon heard the rhythmic clapping of soldiers marching towards them. How would he explain this? The Spartan bullies took their deflated anger and, carrying their fallen, retreated into the shadows. The round woman helped Alexi, stemming the blood with her apron. He would live.

  Squawking, the red bird drew his attention to the brown bird lying prone on the ground. He picked it up, folded its wings and slid it into his own blood-dripped tunic. The red bird swirled and swooped around his head, urging him to follow. He had to think. The boys would be back once the soldiers left. They wanted him. He had to hide. He told the woman to give Alexi to the soldiers and tell them to take him to General Xenophon’s quarters. He turned his back on her barks of derision, dropped the offending blade and followed the red bird through a series of back alleys and into the hills outside town. Where was it taking him? Why was he following a silly bird? But why would a bird know to save him? Daimon slipped on sharp stones as he stumbled up the valley. The brown bird nearly fell from his robe. He lifted his bruised hand to steady the stunned creature.

  He hadn’t been this far from town before and that surprised him. The bird disappeared behind a bush. He squeezed through the thorny leaves, scraping his arms. On the other side was a shadowy entrance to a cave.

  “Yes!” he said aloud to the bird. He would hide here until he figured a way out of this mess.

  Chapter 2

  Cave of Shadows

  ATHENS, ANCIENT GREECE,

  EARTH

  Daimon’s hair hung over his face as he gently prodded the brown bird. Thick beams of yellow sun filtered into the cave, bouncing off the high, round walls; the cool air softening the heat from outside.

  The red bird wouldn’t settle. It flew around the cave banging off the walls. He patted the air with his hands. The bird eventually calmed, settled on a high rock and watched him from a distance.

  He stroked the brown bird again. Was it alive? He blew on its face, ruffling its wispy brown feathers. They were more a reddy-brown, he thought. He tore off a piece of his robe, dabbed it in a puddle of water and gently wiped the mud from its beak.

  “You’re a cute little soldier, but why did you help me?”

  The red bird flew down and landed on the rock next to its friend, glanced warily at Daimon and nudged the brown bird, squawking repeatedly.

  Daimon hushed it. He looked over his shoulder to the cave opening. His breathing eased.

  The brown bird eventually stirred, stood and flapped its wings, banging into the walls of the cave until it also realised it was safe. It landed next to its bird-friend where they both watched Daimon, occasionally blinking at him.

  Daimon walked to the cave entrance, squinted outside, walked back to a clear piece of sand, sat and pulled off his sandals. He emptied out the stones and washed them in a puddle. After drying them with a corner of his robe, he pulled them back on.

  “What do I do now?” he said loudly to the cave, which politely echoed a diminished version of his voice back to him. For fear of his voice escaping into the town centre, he kept his further thoughts to himself.

  Should he have let the Spartan have his way with Helena? She wasn’t his, after all. She had many suitors. But he thought he saw something in her smile for the first time today. But Alexi said her kind teased all the men that way. They keep their options open and have fun with the servants.

  Alexi was right. His thoughts were foolish. They could never be. But that Spartan… No, she was scared of him. She needed his help, regardless of whether she could be his. Lucky he was there.

  But what should he do now? Go back and tell the general. She would back him up. Was Alexi really well? He would set things straight. His friend’s father was a moneylender and carried real weight. They’d believe him over the son of a sandal maker, especially one who was dying of the black tongue.

  He pressed hard on his left toe to stop a trickle of blood that ran down his foot. When the bleeding stopped, he reached into his leather pack and pulled out a loaf of round bread and some water. He drank deeply and washed the blood and dirt off his face. He tore the bread and offered crumbs to the birds.

  The brown bird turned away, but the red bird waited until he dropped the crumbs before pecking some off the sandy rock surface.

  “So you’re the adventurous one,” Daimon said to the red bird. It looked at him, as though it understood. “What am I doing, talking to birds? Don’t you know what trouble I am in?”

  The red bird tried to see inside his satchel.

  “Nothing here,” he said patting its feathers as it rummaged.

  And the thought of Socrates came to his head. Was this old man an adventurer? A pioneer in thinking? He watched the shadows of the birds dancing off the cave walls and laughed. Dancing at our shadows. What did the old man mean? Was he saying all men are born to a way of thinking based on their own birth places? That we are chained to our way of thinking and we don’t know the real world? That must be what Socrates meant by the light: knowledge and reason beyond our own experiences. Was that like the hero in Homer’s tales? The hero brings new knowledge back to the villagers–who are still sitting in the dark, a new light for them. Maybe it’s not just about courage and honour.

  His head hurt with the thought of it all. But it was intriguing. Was this experience part of his own journey?

  Daimon looked at the softening shadows in the cave and sighed, grateful he wasn’t in the scorching sun. He would stay the night and head back in the morning, provided the Spartans hadn’t found him.

  He found a larger spot and lay d
own. His hand touched a smooth round stone. Brushing off the dust, he held it to the light. It changed colour in the streams of sun. It had fine inscription on it, like a drachma, but he had never seen a currency like this before. The stone was transparent. A ray of purple light reflected off the disc and to the opposite wall behind the vines.

  Intrigued, he cut away vines and scraped lime and crust from the cave surface. He paused and looked at the birds as they hopped closer.

  “Aren’t you curious?” he said to the red bird. He turned back to his work.

  An outline took shape in the wall. It was a large circle etched into the rock, taller than him. Inside the circle was a pentagram, a five pointed star. Small words and pictures, like ancient scribblings, were carved into the rim of the surrounding circle. Maybe Persians had been here many years ago, hiding from the Athenian army. But he remembered the pagans and their use of the pentagram to communicate with their gods. Maybe this was a special burial place.

  “Good birds, look here.” Daimon laughed at himself talking to the birds again. He reached up and rubbed his fingers into the top of the circle. “It’s a dagger. But I don’t understand these wavy lines in different directions.”

  Daimon dug his fingers into each inscription, carefully blowing the dust from the grooves. As each of his smeared fingers rested on an engraving, he would press it. He tested picture after picture and nothing happened. He pressed two pictures at a time. Nothing. He thought it might have been a trapdoor, like the ones in the tales.

  Bored, Daimon flopped onto the sand, leaned against the circle wall, and rested. After a while he wearily picked up the bread and continued eating. He lifted the loaf to the birds, but when they flew away, he shrugged and ripped off another piece and shoved it in his mouth.

  Abruptly, Daimon heard voices at the cave entrance. The two birds swarmed around his head.

  “Can you hear that?” he whispered to the birds. For a moment he thought their swarming was to warn him.