Excerpt from Glorious Exploits by Ferdia Lennon, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

1

SO GELON SAYS to me, "Let's go down and feed the Athenians. The weather's perfect for feeding Athenians."

Gelon speaks the truth. 'Cause the sun is blazing all white and tiny in the sky, and you can feel a burn from the stones as you walk. Even the lizards are hiding, poking their heads out from under rocks and trees as if to say, Apollo, are you fucking joking? I picture the Athenians all crammed in, their eyes darting about for a bit of shade, and their tongues all dry and gasping.

"Gelon, you speak the truth."

Gelon nods. We set out with six skins: four of water and two of wine, a pot of olives, and two blocks of that smelly cheese Ma makes. Ah, it's a beautiful island we have, and sometimes I think the factory closing is my chance to shake things up. That I might just leave Syracuse and find myself a little place by the sea, no more dark rooms, clay, and red hands, but the sea and the sky, and when I come home with a fresh catch slung over my shoulder, she'll be there, whoever she may be, waiting for me and laughing. That laugh, I hear it now, and it sounds to me a soft and delicate thing.

"Why, Gelon, I feel so good today!"

Gelon looks at me. He's handsome, with eyes the colour of shallow sea when the sun shines through it. Not shit brown like mine. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes. He's often down, Gelon—sees the world as if it's filtered through smoke, no brightness to anything. We walk on. Even though the Athenians are crushed, their ships firewood, and their unburied dead food for our dogs, there are still hoplites on patrol. Just in case. Diocles gave a speech not yesterday about how you can never tell with these Athenians; a fresh batch could arrive any day. Maybe he's right. Most of the Spartans have left. Word is they're heading for Athens itself, all set to siege it up right and proper. End this war. But there are still a few about. Homesick and useless. In fact, four of them walk ahead of us now, their red cloaks trailing behind them like wounds.

"Morning!"

They look back. Only one of them salutes. Arrogant, these Spartans, but I'm feeling good.

"Down with Athens!"

Two of them salute now, but there's no life behind it. They look tired and sad, like Gelon.

"I say Pericles is a prick!"

"Pericles is dead, Lampo."

"Aye, sure, Gelon, I know that. I say Pericles is a dead prick!"

This time two of the Spartans laugh, and all four salute. Ah, I feel so happy today. I can't explain it, but it's some feeling. Those are the best ones. The ones you can't explain, and we haven't even fed the Athenians.

"Which quarry shall it be today, Gelon?"

We stand at a fork in the road, and a decision must be made. Gelon hesitates.

"Laurium?" says Gelon, at last.

"Laurium?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Laurium!"

We go left. Laurium is what the main quarry goes by these days. Someone thought it would be a laugh to call it after that silver mine in Attica that the Athenians used to fund this trip. The name stuck. It's a massive pit surrounded by a milky rock face of limestone so high there's only need for a fence in one or two spots. At one of those is the gateway in, where a couple of guards are sitting on their arses playing dice. Gelon hands them a wineskin, and they wave us on. The path down is a windy ankle breaker. A coiling brown serpent is what Gelon calls it when the muse is upon him. We can smell the Athenians before we see them. The way being all twisted blocks a full view, but the smell is something awful: thick and rotten, the air almost misty with stench. I have to stop for a moment as my eyes are watering.

"It seems worse than usual."

"That will be the heat."

"Aye."

I pinch my nose, and we walk on. There are fewer than last time. At this rate, they'll be all gone by winter. Gets me thinking of the evening they surrendered. The debate went on for hours. Diocles pacing back and forth, roaring, "Where do we put seven thousand of these bastards?" Silence. So he asks again. This time that Hermocrates prick mumbles about a treaty. Treaty, my arse, thinks I, and then Diocles says it. Not in those words, but he means the same. He says, "Do you make a treaty with a corpse?" Laughter spreads, fingers wag, and Hermocrates sits down and shuts his beak. And through it all, Diocles keeps pacing, asking us what to do. Silence. Although now it's a throbbing silence. Ready to burst. Then he stops pacing, says he has something. Something new and strange. Something that will show the rest of Greece that we mean business. That we're Syracuse and here to stay. Do we want to hear about it? "We do, Diocles!" But he shakes his head. Actually, it's too much. Too strange. Someone else should speak. But the time for that is long past. For we're Syracuse and here to stay, and we tell him as much. So he leans forward and whispers. No sound. Only his lips moving. "We can't hear you, Diocles!" So he says it. Still low but loud enough for us to hear. "Put them in the quarries." Then he shouts it: "The quarries!" And soon, nearly the whole of Syracuse is shivering with those two words: the quarries.

Excerpted from Glorious Exploits by Ferdia Lennon. Copyright © 2024 by Ferdia Lennon. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.