Antalgorus called out the three options, and Lysiemon grimly noted that the most popular option was lodging a complaint while the least popular one was leaving the League. Their future would continue to be dominated by a polis that was at the mercy of a supposedly democratic polis and its leader who wielded his military power as though he were a king.
After the vote, the meeting concluded and Lysiemon walked briskly back to his residence. He was not in the mood for small talk with the other council members, particularly with those who had once again voted against their allegiance rather than their best interest. Amphipolis was strong enough to stand alone, particularly now that the Greek mainland would likely soon be facing a Persian invasion. Withdrawing from the League would have probably been enough to at least convince Persians to leave their polis in peace when they marched to the west and the south to exact their vengeance. Regardless, his powers of persuasion had not been enough to change the status quo, and the council had made yet another bad decision with regards to the League. He sometimes wondered why he wasted his time trying to convince them to do anything since they were so willing to follow Athens.
When he arrived at his house, he filled a cup with red wine, then sat in a chair in the open courtyard at the center of the structure. Around him, the area was bustling with the activity of five of his slaves, each tending to the late afternoon tasks associated with preparing for the evening. Vegetables were being harvested from the garden for the dinner that they were about to prepare while others swept the dust and debris that had accumulated throughout the day from the premises.
“Was it really that bad, my husband?” asked his wife, Trephena. A tall, beautiful woman with wavy red hair and a perfectly alabaster complexion, his wife was supportive and detached from the events of the polis. Lysiemon went to great lengths to ensure that she was surrounded by family and friends who had nothing to do with the business of the polis. She seemed not to mind the fact that he kept her ignorant of most things, preferring instead to tend to the garden and raise their two small children.
Lysiemon sighed and then gulped a mouthful of wine. “There are times when I wish that the council would see reason. This is one of them.”
“Anything you would like to tell me about?” Trephena asked.
Lysiemon rose to his feet and caught his wife in an embrace, then looked into her green eyes as he attempted a sincere smile. “It would only serve to needlessly trouble you, my dear.” He had considered many times before how similarly children and women were treated by their husbands. The only difference was that the wives were useful for physical gratification, while those who tried such practices with their own children were considered mentally ill. Thankfully, Amphipolis was not like Athens, where it was believed that women possessed the same mental faculties as men. Such a line of thinking was utterly insane, and was further evidence that the polis of Athens was delusional.
“Perhaps one day you will tell me what burdens you,” his wife said as she disengaged from his embrace and walked away.
Lysiemon returned to his chair and took another mouthful of wine. He realized that he could finally put a name to the powerlessness he felt. Impotence! Despite his best efforts, despite the fact that he had been there with Demosthenes when the negotiations took place, and despite the fact that he had attempted to warn his own people against the dangers that lay ahead, he was entirely unable to affect the outcome. He had acquired a seemingly powerful position, only to find that his actions did not affect the end results.
Of course there were options to consider. It would not be difficult to hire an assassin to eliminate those who stood in his way. He wondered, would it be better to eliminate Demosthenes himself, or simply deal with enough of his own detractors within Amphipolis? One would require the murder of one man, but he was a powerful man, and likely well guarded, while the other option would require hiring a small army of assassins who would need to strike quickly in order for him to gain control. Neither option sounded particularly appealing, especially considering the fact that his life as a public figure would come to a quick end if an assassin were to be captured in the act and tortured into speaking. No, the answer had to be political, but the question remained how to acquire the sort of political capital needed to alter such a disastrous course.
“My lord, there is a man at the door,” said Telale, one of his older, matronly slaves.
“Send him away. I’m not in a mood for guests at the moment,” Lysiemon said irritably.
“I already told him as much and he told me to ask you if you were tired of dealing with shortsighted fools.”
Lysiemon paused for a moment before reaffirming his decision. Perhaps this was one of the other councilmen, here to offer a political alliance. In such a case, it could prove beneficial to allow an audience. “What did this man look like?”
“He is an old, bald man with white hair. He said his name was Menphon.”
Lysiemon’s brow furled. The name was familiar to him, but he was unsure why. It was not the name of any of the council members, and it was also not anyone he had regular dealings with. Nevertheless, the mention of it triggered a recollection that seemed to come from years ago. “Show the man in, but warn him that I’m in a foul mood.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Telale. She walked away, toward the abode’s main entryway, and when she returned, she was accompanied by a man matching the description she had provided.
He was indeed old, and he wore a plain blue chiton. Lysiemon noted that a straight scar ran down from the left side of his forehead to his left cheek, and the eye in between seemed to be missing. He also noted that a sheathed sword was strapped to his chest. Suddenly recognition hit Lysiemon, and he immediately regretted his decision to allow this man entrance to his home. “Menphon of Sparta, if I’m not mistaken,” he said to his guest.
The man smiled. “It is good to see that I have not yet been forgotten. Men from my polis are expected to die in battle before they reach my age.”
“Indeed, I had assumed that you had perished long ago. I trust that age is agreeing with you,” Lysiemon said pleasantly.
Menphon made a foul expression. “A man of Sparta who is unable to fight is useless,” he said. “Now I serve my polis as an envoy to other places. Usually they keep me occupied in the Peloponnesian League.”
“So what brings you to Amphipolis? This seems a bit out of the way for a social call,” Lysiemon remarked. The Peloponnesian League was, of course, the counter-balance to the Delian League within Greece. The two alliances had been pitted against one another for decades, yet neither of them had instigated a war against the other. Many within Sparta considered their lack of action as a sign of weakness, just as many within Athens failed to understand how the Delian League could allow this alliance of oligarchic barbarians to exist unmolested. Ultimately, the two groups had come to the realization that they were too evenly matched for war to be a good idea for either of them. Lysiemon knew that Menphon was only here because he believed that he could turn things to Sparta’s advantage, and that worried him.
“I’m here because I have heard a few things. I’ve heard that the Delian League and the Macedonians have unexpectedly formed an alliance.”
“That’s not exactly a secret,” Lysiemon said.
“I have also heard that you were against the arrangement.”
“It is not as though I was allowed to have a great deal of input into the matter,” Lysiemon replied.
“Further, I heard that you were just in council trying to convince the polis to secede from the Delian League.”
“Apparently tongues wag more freely than I realized.”
“They wag freely, particularly when there is an exchange of coins to facilitate it,” Menphon said with a wide smile.
“So one of the councilors you dealt with is treasonous? You wouldn’t be willing to tell me who it is so I can have his head posted from the polis ramparts, would you?”
“Of course I’m not willing to do that,” Menphon re
plied. “Good sources of information are far too difficult to come by, even when I have coin in hand.”
“So what do you want from me?” Lysiemon asked.
Menphon looked around the courtyard, and then said, “Perhaps we should talk where we are less likely to be overheard.”
“The only ones here are my wife and those who are my property. We have nothing to fear from them.”
“This may be true, but it always amazes me just how freely information flows in centers of power.”
“Very well,” Lysiemon agreed. Come to my dining room. I’ll have them bring us some wine.”
“No wine for me. I am an old man and these days I find it hard on the stomach.”
“I am beginning to question whether you are truly a Spartan,” Lysiemon quipped as he led his guest to the house’s main dining room. A large marble table dominated the center of the long room, which was encircled by chairs, and then Doric pillars were spaced a few feet beyond those. Lysiemon closed the door and he gestured for his guest to take a seat.
Menphon settled lightly onto a chair and then pulled a bunch of red grapes from a bronze bowl on the table.
“So, please tell me what you wish to discuss,” Lysiemon said impatiently as he pulled a fig from the same bowl and popped it into his mouth. He noted with disgust that juices were running down Menphon’s chin as the old man continued filling his mouth with more grapes before swallowing what he had.
“The matter before us is that Athens, and the whole of the Delian League is under one man’s influence. Demosthenes has wormed his way into power within his polis and he wields it not only over Athens, but over the entire League.”
“If you are so good with information, you would know that we just discussed that in council. It is the council’s belief that there is nothing that we can do about this.”
Menphon laughed. “Do you know what Athens’ greatest weakness is?”
“Bad leadership?” Lysiemon asked.
“After a sort,” Menphon replied. “In Sparta, we know that the only way to run a polis is with strong leadership. Kings command the respect of their subordinates. Athens is a democracy. Every landed citizen has a vote. The amount of land is not important, nor are the accomplishments of their families, nor is their wealth. Most people who regularly participate in their government are apathetic to the issues, and even those who do have strong opinions are often misinformed. Ultimately, their form of government amounts to mob rules.”
“And this form of government is something that Demosthenes has demonstrated that he is adept at manipulating,” Lysiemon replied. “Again, I must ask what it is that you propose.”
Menphon swallowed his grapes, wiped his chin, and his voice suddenly became quiet and serious. “Demosthenes is just like any other politician in Athens. Yes, he is capable of manipulating the people, but he is also subject to their whimsy. The tide that he has ridden to political power can just as easily sweep over him and trap him in the undertow. Someone in your position could easily maneuver himself to take over the diplomatic duties for your polis within the Delian League… within Athens.”
“Why would I agree to that? I would lose my voice within Amphipolis!”
“A temporary setback,” Menphon said. “In the meantime, you could stay within the polis, you could seek out Demosthenes’ enemies, and you could help organize them. In addition, I could provide you with soldiers for your protection and instruct the agents I have within the polis to provide you with information. Once you have started this process, the unseating of Demosthenes would be within reach.”
“I am not of Athens. Do you seriously think that the people there will be willing to accept me in Demosthenes’ stead?”
“Politics are all about alliances. The beauty of democracy is that outside influences merely need to know who to befriend to gain the power they need… or just what words to use in order to cause the people to rise up against the politicians, even when doing so is against their own best interests. Foreign influences can easily be promoted, such that they dominate the discourse of an entire people, distracting them as power and coin change hands in ways that they do not understand.”
“You are unlike any Spartan I have ever met. Your people tend not to be the scheming sort,” Lysiemon commented. Sparta was known for having some of the finest soldiers in Greece, and they were renowned for their military boldness. “You believe that I am the man to do this in Athens?”
“I have heard you. You speak with conviction. You are persuasive. Most of all, you are believable. I guarantee you that Demosthenes has enemies in Athens. It would not be difficult to work within the Delian League… and without, to rally the correct people to your cause. From there, it is simply a matter of positioning them against Demosthenes. In the end, you will be able to do with Athens as you please.”
Lysiemon considered his words for a moment. It was a bold move that Menphon suggested, but it was plausible. He also knew that once the people had been turned from Demosthenes, it would not be much more difficult to usurp control over the polis itself, potentially even turning it away from democracy. “And what does Sparta get out of this?”
“Sparta gains a number of things. First, if you succeed, it does not have to stand against the combined might of the Delian League and Macedonia. Second, we can stop being enemies. Sure, it might not be politically wise to tell the people of this arrangement, but there are ways that we could work together that would be mutually beneficial.”
“And if I’m successful, you would not use the instability as an excuse to invade? Why do I have a hard time believing in a Sparta that wants to be peaceful?” Lysiemon asked.
“I’m sure you have noticed that while Sparta has maintained a strong military, it has been a very long time since it has actually been used for anything other than defense. The truth is that the polis’ rulers have turned from the ways of our past and now seek growth and power through influence. We currently have little influence within Athens, and not a great deal more within the Delian League. If you are successful, the polis would be happy that it has expanded its influence, and as a result, the entirety of Greece would be safer because the possibility of a war between our opposing leagues would be less likely,” Menphon explained.
“What you propose is bold,” Lysiemon said thoughtfully. “It bears a chance of spectacular failure, but there is also a hope of victory. We both stand united against a common enemy in Demosthenes, and it would also be a way to end our ill- conceived alliance with Macedonia. Answer me this: if I act according to your designs, would you be willing to combine your forces with the Delian League so we can bring Macedonia under Greek rule?”
Menphon smiled widely, showing his jagged and age-yellowed teeth, “Most definitely yes.”
Chapter 6
Aftermath
Thermiandra gazed at the fallen soldier, wondering for at least the thousandth time whether or not she was wise to follow the dream she’d had not so long ago. Initially she had believed that the dream was a vision granted to her by Athena, but the more time that passed, the more details she forgot, and the more she began to question whether her course of action was correct. Nevertheless, at the end of the battle she’d witnessed from a distance, she had managed to sneak onto the battlefield and immediately find a soldier, wounded, bloody, and with a birthmark in the shape of a bull.
From a high point across the river, she had observed the battle, not entirely unlike she had in her dream. She’d watched the Macedonians create a wedge between the Persian units, then pour into the gap they created. As the fighting moved away from the river banks, she had crept onto the field of battle and walked among the wounded while the soldiers fought in the distance. In her dream, she had seen a bull, which was the symbol of Zeus, the father of the gods. In reality, as she walked among the dead and dying, she noticed one man, crawling in the sand toward the river. He had removed his breastplate and his chiton, leaving his shoulders bare. When he turned over, Thermiandra had noticed the unusual b
irthmark on his shoulder. In that moment, she had no doubt that this was the man she was sent to find. Giving thanks to the gods, she dragged the much larger and heavier soldier toward the water, swam with him to the other side of the river, and then dragged him away until they found a tree under which to take shade. He had remained conscious most of the way across the river, though at some point his eyes had closed, and they had remained so ever since.
Three days passed, and Thermiandra was beginning to experience some doubts. His wounds were serious… so much so that she suspected most men would have already succumbed to them. Instead, the soldier had not awakened, and he lay wracked with fever at the trunk of the tree. He moaned frequently, but he had not uttered any intelligible words. She did not know the healing arts, and as far as she could tell, he was dying. What cruel twist of fate was it if she had followed the vision bestowed upon her by the gods, only for the one she was told to seek to die in her care?
In the time since the battle, the Macedonian army had continued marching to the east, and aside from the bodies of the slain, the area was deserted. The army had attempted a burial for the fallen, but Thermiandra had heard their generals order them to leave before all of the dead could be committed to the ground. The hundreds of men from both armies that littered the banks of the Granicus were like stinking life-size dolls that had been dropped onto the ground in awkward positions.
Echoes of Olympus (The Atheniad Book 1) Page 8
