Echoes of Olympus (The Atheniad Book 1)

by Darrin Drader

  “We were called in by a neighbor, who said that there was normally a great deal of noise and activity in the house, but today there was only silence.”

  “Have you learned anything else? Did anybody see anything?”

  The captain shook his head. “They say that despite the activity, Leotas and his family were private about their affairs. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until today. You were his friend. Did you know of anything unusual happening?”

  Demosthenes shook his head. “Last we spoke, he was in good spirits.”

  “We will continue to gather information. We will let you know if we learn anything useful,” the captain said.

  Demosthenes merely nodded and wandered back to the bodies.

  Archipatra gazed at her naked reflection in the polished bronze mirror. Now approaching forty years old, she had once been one of the most desired women in Athens, but as with all women as they aged, the years were taking their toll. Her strawberry blond hair was shot through with streaks of grey, most of which started at her temples. Her large breasts, which Leotas had always taken such delight in, were beginning to sag, laugh lines were apparent at the corners of her eyes, and wrinkles had formed from her nose to both corners of her mouth. Where she had once been curvy but thin, she was now curvy and soft. It was too late in life to start over, and after today, she no longer thought that she wanted that. She donned her peplos, tied it about her waist, pinned up her hair, then regarded the dagger that sat on her nightstand.

  Demosthenes had told her the news about Leotas around mid-day. While it was obvious to her that the statesman was consumed by grief, her feelings of loss immediately turned to fury. Leotas had been many things to different people: her lover, Demosthenes’ friend, patron of the poor, loving father, and political enemy of a select few.

  Today, Archipatra was certain of two things. The first was that the only man she’d loved as much as her late husband was dead well before his time. The second was that his death was politically motivated. There was no doubt in her mind that this was not a random act of violence against a family. No, this was aimed at him specifically to weaken Demosthenes’ hold on power. Demosthenes would be too difficult of a target because of his military training and the guards he surrounded himself with, but eliminating his support would be the easiest way to unseat him as the most influential orator of Athens, possibly even his rank as General. There were many who stood to gain from this, but the one man who openly despised both Demosthenes and Leotas was Diophrastus. There was no doubt in her mind that he was the villain behind the murder.

  Archipatra grabbed the dagger and regarded its long, sharpened edge. It would be her device to exact revenge. She grabbed the blade’s hilt with her left hand, turned the blade in so it was pressed against her forearm, and then ensured that it was well concealed by the sleeve of her peplos.

  The gaunt-faced Diophrastus typically spent the mid-afternoon wandering from stall to stall at the agora. His usual activities involved trying to arrange trade deals with the various merchants who operated in and around Athens, speaking with people about what laws and policies angered them most, and finding ways to lay those issues at Demosthenes’ feet. He always portrayed himself as a man of the people, even though his words in the council clearly served only the polis’ wealthy. Archipatra would see him dead before sunset.

  She took one last look around her house, noting that every piece in here had some memory attached to it. There was the marble bench that her husband had given to her as a wedding gift. She looked at the couch, where she and Leotas had spent many passionate nights making love. There was the wooden stool she’d been standing on when the captain of the guard informed her of her husband’s death. And then there were other items scattered throughout, each reminding her of the tapestry that was her life. If all went as planned, she would never return here again.

  She left the house and hurried down to the agora, noting the usual large crowd of people gathered there. Between the merchant stalls and the various people clustered together in conversation, she knew that she might have to search for some time to find her target.

  She wandered past a few stalls, noting the mouth-watering aroma of roasted lamb wafting from one of them. “A sample of my tasty spiced mutton for such a beauty?” the proprietor asked as she walked by. Archipatra pretended that she hadn’t heard the offer as she attempted to walk past.

  “Perhaps the lady did not hear me! I offer a free taste of my mutton, which is famous throughout all of Greece!” the man said as he jumped in front of her with a small cut of meat on a plate offered toward her.

  Already seething with anger, Archipatra almost raised her left arm to slap him out of the way, then remembered that she carried a dagger in that hand, so she simply gave the man a simmering look. The merchant appeared to realize that she was not in the mood for this, and moved politely but quickly out of the way.

  Archipatra walked away from the food vendors and toward the center of the agora. She looked around, searching for the familiar form of the statesman. He was not typically a difficult man to spot. While most people wore chitons to the agora, particularly during the warm days of spring, Diophrastus always wore one of his togas. It was a not-so-subtle way of reminding people that he was a man of wealth and importance.

  She soon caught a glimpse of the blue toga and graying brown hair and beard of the man she sought. He was speaking with another man, this one with black hair and olive skin, whose toga was white. She couldn’t recall having ever seen the other before, so she guessed that he was either a wealthy merchant or an emissary from another polis. Whatever the case may be, Diophrastus’ attentions were on the man he was speaking with, and not on her. This would make her job that much easier.

  She walked through the crowd, keeping a good amount of distance between her and her intended target. While Diophrastus focused his attention on the man before him, Archipatra moved her dagger to her right hand, now holding it so that the blade was out. She adjusted the sleeve of her loose-fitting peplos so that the blade was still mostly concealed as she slowly snuck behind the statesman. She took several deep breaths as she prepared to strike. One clean blow to the base of his neck was all it would take…

  “Murderer! You’ll pay for what you’ve done!”

  The words were not from her mouth. She did recognize the voice, however. Demosthenes, his ten elite guards at his back, faced Diophrastus.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Diophrastus demanded. Archipatra didn’t have to see his face to detect his sneer.

  “I’ve known your ambitions for a long time, Diophrastus, but I never believed that you would resort to murder to achieve your goals!” Demosthenes bellowed.

  “Wait, who has been murdered?” Diophrastus asked. Archipatra was sure that his confusion was feigned. She also knew that Demosthenes was making a grave political error by confronting him here in the agora. Regardless of the death of his friend, confronting another respected statesman like this would lead to gossip, and ultimately a loss of respect for him, even despite the severity of the crime. Without a witness, there was no way to prove guilt.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know that Leotas and his entire family were murdered this morning!” Demosthenes said.

  “No, I had no idea,” Diophrastus replied. To Archipatra, his denial sounded rehearsed and insincere. Nevertheless, there were more important things at stake at the moment than her revenge. She could die today without regrets, but she knew that the entire polis would suffer if power was allowed to be stripped away from Demosthenes and given to Diophrastus.

  “You either did the deed yourself, or you hired someone to do it for you. Of this I am certain,” Demosthenes said.

  Archipatra noted that the General’s guards were standing behind him rather than at his side. This was a clear indication that they did not approve of his actions, and that this confrontation was his and his alone. This would be an important gesture should Demosthenes initiate a physical conflict and lose his life
in the confrontation. Their job was to protect him against random attacks on his person, not to back him in fights against respected political rivals. Once Demosthenes had a clear head, he would not find fault with his guards for refusing to back him, either.

  “I assure you that I know nothing of any plot on Leotas’ life, but be assured that I know he was a good man, and that his loss will be felt throughout all of Athens.”

  “Carefully chosen words,” Demosthenes said. “But ones that ring hollow in my ears!” As soon as he completed this sentence, he charged at the other man, swinging his fist, catching his opponent in the mouth. Archipatra could see Diophrastus’ head absorb the blow. He seemed mostly unaffected as he charged at Demosthenes, wrapping his arms around his midsection, attempting to force the other man to the ground.

  Demosthenes maintained his balance, and held Diophrastus in a bear hug. Archipatra saw him shift his weight to his left leg while he brought his right knee up into Diophrastus’ gut. She could hear the whoosh of air escaping from the man’s lungs as he began to crumple.

  Demosthenes held him by his toga and punched him in the face. He pulled his fist back and punched him again, and again. She realized that he intended to kill his rival with his bare hands. If successful, with this many witnesses, he would be convicted of murder.

  Archipatra dropped her dagger to the ground, then ran up to Demosthenes and caught his fist with both hands. “No!” she screamed. “This is not the way to honor Leotas’ life!”

  She could feel Demosthenes start to punch Diophrastus another time, but this time he didn’t follow through. Instead he looked to his friend, anger and pain clear in his eyes. “He did it. I know he did it!” the statesman said.

  “And maybe he did,” Archipatra said. “But you know the consequences of killing him right here and now. If you continue this, he will win. Even if he dies, his allies will succeed in unseating you. Think of what that will do to the polis. Think of the alliances you helped create that they contest. Think of the poor, whom Leotas always used his position to help, while this man and his allies sought to worsen their plight!”

  Demosthenes let go of Diophrastus’ toga, and pushed the man to the ground. “Thank you, my friend,” he said, giving Archipatra a warm gaze. “I lost control.”

  “Go home!” she pleaded. “Before anyone else sees you here.”

  Demosthenes brushed off his own toga, then spat on Diophrastus. “I promise you that this is far from over.”

  The man on the ground looked defiantly at Demosthenes, his eyes smoldering, but he said nothing.

  Archipatra grabbed Demosthenes by his shoulder and led him away from the scene of the confrontation. People were staring at them, and she knew that this would cost him politically. Still, better to deal with what would ultimately amount to a minor scandal rather than imprisonment, or even death.

  Of course, being seen with Demosthenes now meant that if she were to kill Diophrastus herself later, it would still implicate him. For his sake, she could no longer carry out her plan.

  Chapter 13

  Ephesos

  I’m not so sure that this is a good idea,” Heliodas protested as the trio walked down the primary throughway of Ephesos. Ephesos was, by far, the largest polis Heliodas had ever seen. He guessed that it was at least two to three times larger than Athens in terms of the actual amount of ground it covered, but from the inside, it seemed far more densely populated. He looked in wonder at how densely packed the houses and buildings were. He could see no remaining space that they could possibly develop.

  From the moment they walked into the sprawling polis, he could sense that people were on edge. Heliodas and Pelephon still wore their armor, and people glanced at them out of the corners of their eyes, but seemed afraid to come too close to them. The stableman had been more than happy to take their horses and their coin, but he’d said few words to them that weren’t related to business. Likewise, the people on the street had visibly taken note of their presence, but kept away. On the street corners and alleyways, people huddled together to talk, but kept their voices low.

  “This is really not very difficult. We simply walk to the ruling palace, announce ourselves as emissaries of King Alexander of Macedonia, deliver the message, and leave,” Thermiandra said. “I saw many people do exactly that when they came to Cyme on diplomatic matters.”

  “And were they all who they said they were?” Pelephon asked.

  “We only caught a few who pretended to be people they were not,” she replied.

  “And what did you do with them when they were discovered?” Pelephon asked.

  “We executed them,” Thermiandra said with a shrug.

  “And you aren’t seeing how this could lead to trouble?” Heliodas asked.

  “No,” Thermiandra said. “We are who we say we are, we have a letter from Alexander, and therefore we have nothing to fear.”

  “Unless the rulers aren’t ready to accept Alexander’s rule,” Heliodas said. “Speaking of which, who does rule Ephesos?”

  “A king named Syrpax. My father met with him many times when I was younger.”

  “And how friendly was Syrpax to Persian rule?” Pelephon asked.

  Thermiandra shrugged. “I’m sure he collects taxes and gives them to the Persians, like my father does, but otherwise considers himself an Ionian.”

  “Did,” the large blond Macedonian corrected her. “Since the battle of the Granicus, he’s claimed ownership of all of Ionia. So far the Persians haven’t challenged him to try and take it back.”

  “I don’t think Ephesos knows that,” Heliodas said. “All I’m saying is that if we go there and he decides that he doesn’t like the message, we don’t know that he won’t have us executed. We know next to nothing about him. And unlike our victory against the Persians, our chances of walking out of there alive are pretty low since we’d be so outnumbered. Why can’t we get a courier to deliver this for us and catch a ship to Athens?”

  “We do need to ensure that the message has been properly delivered,” Pelephon said.

  “Alright, the two of you are leaving me with little choice,” Heliodas said.

  “That’s correct.” Thermiandra said with a broad smile.

  “And what do you stand to gain by ensuring that we deliver it ourselves?” Heliodas asked.

  “The knowledge that the bravest man I know can handle diplomacy as well as he can handle a blade.”

  “Then I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint,” Heliodas said. He began to blush at the compliment, an unusual sensation for him. Aside from the fact that she was a beautiful woman, he was beginning to care how she felt about him. He fully understood that she had dedicated herself to the gods, and she wouldn’t turn from that, but he could imagine them together nonetheless. Since the other night, she had slipped up more than once and brushed his hand with hers, or leaned against him. Her touch was pleasant, if frustrating. He knew he’d be forced to let her go soon enough.

  They continued down the road, eventually arriving outside the palace. In Athens and the majority of the Delian League polises, palaces had either been torn down or repurposed into public buildings when democracy came into fashion. The more powerful orators maintained their estates, but the polis business was conducted in the forums. Ionian cities, having been under Persian rule the past couple hundred years, still kept the old dynasties of kings in place, so long as they paid taxes and fealty to Persia.

  The palace in Ephesos was an old Minoan style megaron, with an ornate main building and ten-foot stone walls that enclosed the courtyard and the smaller interior. The portico at the entrance to the main building was decorated with fluted Ionic pillars. He had to admit that it was artistic, majestic, and imposing at once, and it was like no structure that existed in Athens.

  Six guards stood at attention outside of the portico. Heliodas noted that their armor looked Persian, not Greek. As the trio approached, one of the guards stepped forward and said, “Halt and state your business!”


  “We’re emissaries from Alexander of Macedonia. We bear a message for King Syrpax,” Heliodas said.

  “Give me the message and I’ll see it delivered,” the guard said.

  “I am to ensure that the message is delivered to Syrpax himself,” Heliodas said firmly.

  The guard sneered. “I’ll have to clear this with the king first. It usually takes days to gain an audience.”

  “It would be best if the king saw me immediately,” Heliodas insisted.

  “Why is that?” the guard asked, offering Heliodas a menacing look.

  “I’d be happy to give that information directly to the king,” Heliodas replied.

  “Oh, step aside, Esiloch,” came a voice from within the palace entrance behind the guards. A bald portly man with fair skin and a shaved head emerged and walked briskly past the guards. He wore a robe of blue silk, and shoes with slightly up-turned toes. “I apologize for their rudeness. They are only doing their job. I’m Acus, the palace administrator.”

  “I’m Heliodas, ambassador of King Alexander of Macedonia.” Heliodas gestured to his companions. “With me is my guard, Pelephon, and my wife, Thermiandra.” Heliodas looked to Thermiandra to see if she objected to being identified as permanently linked with him, but she betrayed no emotions.

  “Come inside and I’ll announce you immediately!” said Acus, leading them past the pillars of the portico and through the heavy palace doors.

  As they stepped into the megaron, they found themselves in a large room that was decorated with numerous Persian treasures. The curtains were made of cream colored silk, and covered the majority of the walls in which the windows were set. The rugs were as much as twenty feet long and wide, and decorated with ornate patterns that reminded Heliodas of the designs he’d seen on the armor of the immortal soldiers they had fought a week ago. The room was illuminated by the sunlight streaming in through the parted curtains, but there were also torches held in sconces along the walls that would be ignited after dark. Ten guards stood stoically, evenly spaced along the walls, their right hands hovering just above their sword pommels. Each of them eyed Heliodas and his companions suspiciously.