No. All mere assertion. Yes?
But, if I bring you a piece of cheese – better, if I take you to the moon and show you it is cheese – then I have offered proof. If I cannot prove it, perhaps I can offer theories as to why it must be cheese, offering testimonies from other men who have been to the moon, or scientific evidence based on experiment – you see? And you can offer me the same sort of evidence to prove that the moon is, in fact, not made of cheese at all.
If you laugh so hard, you will certainly spoil your looks. Hah! That was an assertion! There’s no proof whatsoever that laughter hurts your looks.
Where was I? I must have been speaking of Heraclitus. Yes. He made us learn the difference, and if you rose to speak and he was displeased, that ash staff with the bronze ferrule would whistle through the air and crack you in the side or prod you in the ribs. Very conducive to learning in the young.
Weeks passed. It was a glorious time. I was learning things every day, I was exercised like a healthy young animal, I was in something like love for the first time with Penelope, and Archilogos was a fine companion in every way. We read together, ran together, fought with staves, wrestled, boxed and disputed.
Artaphernes stayed with us for all that summer and autumn while he kept watch over his tyrants and his lords. He was building half a dozen triremes to the latest design down in the harbour, and we would run all the way there to watch the ships, and then run back – twenty stades or so.
I haven’t mentioned that Hipponax’s household ran on the profits from his ships, not his poetry. Indeed, everyone called him ‘The Poet’, and we still sing his songs in this house, but he was a captain and an investor, running cargoes all the way to Phoenicia and Africa when the mood was on him, and buying and selling other men’s cargoes, too. Archilogos and I went on short trips – once across the water to Mytilene, a pretty town on Lesbos, and once to Troy to walk the mound and camp where the Greeks had camped – a perfect trip in early autumn when the sea is the friend of every man and dolphins dance by the bow of your ship. It was odd, looking across the water at the Chersonese – where Miltiades held sway. If I swam the Hellespont, I’d have been able to get home. Later, we went on longer voyages – to Syracuse and the Spartan colony at Taras in southern Italy. But we went far south, along the coast of Africa – not along the Greek coast, where I would have been close to home.
I didn’t want to go home. Home had Mater and poverty and death. I was in Ephesus with lovely people, a friend, a teacher and a woman. How deaf I must have been to the wing-beats of the furies!
Later we made the run to Lesbos many times. Hipponax owned property in Eresus, where Sappho came from, and we would beach our ship there under the great rock, or inside the mole that the old people built before the siege of Troy, and Hipponax would climb to the citadel and pay his respects to Sappho’s daughter, who was very old, but still kept her school. Briseis had gone to that school for three years, and had all Sappho’s nine books by heart.
They had a warehouse in Methymna, too, another city of Lesbos and a rival to Eresus and Mytilene. Lesbos is the richest of the islands, honey. We have a house in Eresus, though you’ve never been there.
I fell in love with the sea. Archilogos did, too. He knew that someday he would be a captain – in war and peace – and he stood with the helmsman, learning the ropes, and so did I. We made these trips in the first year, and then there were others. It was part of our studies, and never the worst part, either. But I will return to the sea. Where horses merely annoyed me, the sea charmed, terrified, roused me – like a man’s first sight of a woman taking off her clothes for him. I never lost that arousal. Still have it.
Hah – I’ve made you blush.
In the evenings, when we were at home in Ephesus, I would finish my work, put Archi to bed – he was Archi to his friends and to his companion – grab a quick opson in the kitchens and go out into the night air to explore. I had adventures – such adventures, lass. Oh, it makes me smile. One night a pair of mercenaries sat and told me stories, because they knew me from the shrine at Plataea, and they promised to take news of my plight home. That night I dreamed of ravens, and after that I really began to think of leaving, and of home. Until they came – well, it wasn’t real.
Another time I was nearly kidnapped and sold, but I put my stick in the bastard’s groin and ran like hell.
Most nights, though, I went out of Master’s door and just down our cobbled street to the Fountain of Pollio, where I would meet my Penelope. I call her mine, but she was never quite mine, although we were as far around the rim of love’s cup as to kiss.
I remember the night that Hippias came to our house, because Penelope and I had been sent together to the market earlier in the day – she to buy coloured yarn for tapestry, and me to watch that she wasn’t molested. My name, Doru, had started to have some meaning in the slave quarters. I could make most men eat my fist if I had to, but I was no bloody tyrant. In any case, Penelope and I had a good afternoon. I was able to show off my knowledge of the agora, and she showed off her practicality in bargaining. Then we agreed to meet that night. Something in the touch of her fingers – oh, I couldn’t wait.
Hippias, the former tyrant of Athens, was coming for dinner with Artaphernes. It was an odd arrangement, because Master and Mistress didn’t attend – in fact, they were at the temple, sacrificing. I think that they were away on purpose, so that they could avoid Hippias. Archilogos ended up playing the host, despite his youth, and I waited on tables. This must have been towards the end of the summer, because Darkar and I were now allies. I did his bidding without hesitation, and he didn’t question my expenses. Darkar knew that Artaphernes liked me, so he had me pouring wine as the Ganymedes. Laugh if you like, thugater. I was a good slave.
Hippias tried to fondle me from the first time my hip was close enough to touch. It was odd, because I had grown past the stage when Spartans liked their boys – smooth. I had hair, and muscles. At any rate, Hippias couldn’t keep his hands off me, and so I served him from farther and farther away, and bless them, the other slaves got in his way as well. Slaves in a well-run house will protect each other – up to a point.
If his hands were eager for me, his voice gave nothing away. He harangued poor Artaphernes ceaselessly, from the first libation to the last skewer of deer meat, on how he needed to storm Athens to lance the boil that would otherwise fester.
Let me just say that Hippias was, in fact, correct. Don’t be blinded by his enmity, girl. He was a wise man.
‘Athens must have her government changed,’ he argued.
Artaphernes shook his head. ‘Athens is so far west that she could never be part of my province,’ he said. ‘Some other man would be satrap of the west. And then – Athens is part of another world, another continent, perhaps. Am I to conquer the world to restore you, Hippias?’
Hippias drank wine. His eye had gone from me to Kylix, a smaller boy who carried water and was now serving him. Kylix slipped away from his fingertips with graceful experience, and I passed between them, helping Kylix as he helped me.
‘Young Archilogos, all your slaves are beautiful!’ he said, and raised his cup.
Archilogos tried to be polite. ‘Thank you,’ he said into his cup.
Hippias ignored him anyway. ‘Artaphernes, if you refuse me, I’ll be forced to go to the Great King. This is not a distant threat. I have friends in Athens. Aristagoras will speak before the assembly and they will give him ships. This war is coming. Athens will drive it if you do not. You will not do your duty to the king if you do not launch a preemptive attack on Athens!’
Assertion, I thought. I disliked Hippias because he was a pudgy, ugly man with greasy fingers who wanted to fondle me. Yech! But he was correct, of course. Artaphernes was an honourable man who didn’t want a war. But he was, in this case, wrong.
‘War will hurt trade, and every man in this city will pay – aye, and in your city and in Miletus. And the cost of a war with Athens – a real war, not ju
st a raid – could force taxes that would drive men to open rebellion – especially if men like Aristagoras and Miltiades bribe their way into men’s hearts.’ Artaphernes took a skewer of meat from the stand beside his couch and ate carefully, fastidiously, like a cat. ‘We do not want a war like that. Why don’t you take care of it for me, my friend? If you have so many friends in Athens, why not take a few ships and restore yourself? I could lend you the money from tax revenue. Would a thousand darics of gold finance your restoration?’
Hippias grew red in the face. ‘I don’t need a thousand darics,’ he spluttered. ‘I need an army, and the power of your name. And you know that. You mock me!’
‘You are a friend of the Great King. I never mock the king, nor his friends. If you feel that you must go to Great Darius and speak this way, be my guest. But I have neither the ships nor the soldiers to storm Athens for you. Nor is it my duty.’ Artaphernes stretched on his couch.
Hippias left soon after, when he found that none of his advances, political or sexual, were going to lead anywhere.
When he was gone, Archilogos lay on his couch and chatted with his hero. I served both of them.
Archi had no head for wine and I was already pouring pure water into his cup. ‘Why do you even entertain a man like that?’ he asked the satrap.
Artaphernes shrugged. ‘He is a powerful man. If he goes to Darius, I will not look well.’
Archi shook his head. ‘He is a petty prince from a foreign power. Surely he can be ignored?’
‘He provides me with excellent intelligence,’ Artaphernes said. ‘And in his way he is wise.’ He drank, and then said, ‘Even though he plays both sides like a treacherous Greek.’
That last was not his happiest statement. ‘He is on the other side?’ Archi asked. ‘Can’t you have him arrested?’
Artaphernes laughed. ‘You are young and idealistic. Ruling a Greek is like riding a wild horse. Like herding cats. Every lordling in these waters is his own master and has his own “side”. I have many roles – I am the oppressive foreign master, I am the ally of convenience, I am the source of gold and patronage, I am the lord who serves the Great King. I slip from mask to mask like one of your actors – never was an image more apt, Archilogos. Because I need to be many men to keep all you Greeks loyal to my master.’
He looked at us. I think he was speaking to himself. Suddenly he smiled and shook his head. ‘I am dull company,’ he said.
‘No!’ Archi protested. This was a dream, having his hero all to himself.
‘Does Hippias plot against you?’ I asked. This was daring, from a slave, but there were just the three of us, and he had spoken to me before.
He looked at me and nodded approvingly. ‘Archilogos, your slave has a head on his shoulders, and when you are an officer of the Great King, this one will make a good steward.’ He nodded to me. ‘He plots against me only to win me over,’ he said. ‘It is not a Persian way of behaving. Indeed, it still mystifies me.’ He smiled at Archi. ‘This is why I ask your mother and father so many questions, young man. Because they can explain this behaviour to me. Hippias bribes the tyrants of the islands to revolt – so that there will be a war. He will then be at my side for the war, hoping that Athens comes in with the tyrants. Then he will use me to reconquer Athens. Does that sound possible?’
I smiled. ‘Oh yes. Brilliant!’ I clapped my hands. Hippias may have been a lecherous fat man, but he could think like Heracles, if that was his plan.
Artaphernes shook his head. ‘I need to go back to Persepolis, where men kill each other over women and ill-chosen words, but never, ever lie.’ He frowned at me. ‘You understand this way of planning, then?’
I grinned. ‘I do, lord.’
‘Women?’ Archi asked, breaking in. ‘Persians kill each other over women?’
‘Adultery is our national sport,’ Artaphernes said, his voice heavy with some adult emotion that neither Archi nor I could interpret, and we glanced at each other. He had had too much to drink. ‘Every Persian gentleman covets his friend’s wife. It is like a disease, or the curse of the gods.’ He looked at his cup and I moved to fill it, but he covered it. ‘I grow maudlin. Let us forget that last exchange, young friends. Never speak ill of your homeland when among strangers.’
‘We are not strangers, I hope!’ Archi said.
‘I have drunk too much. You see? I offend my host. I am off to bed.’ The Mede got to his feet without his usual grace and headed off under the portico. I went and helped him into bed. He mumbled things that I ignored, because when you are a slave, people say the most amazing things. Then I went to deal with Archi, who had no head for wine and was puking in a basin.
At last, when Archi was on his couch with a rug over him, I went to find Penelope.
It was rare for us to have a scheduled tryst, and I was afire. I barely did my duty in clearing the andron of the refuse of a dinner party and I took only a cupful of stew from the kitchen and drank no wine. I needn’t have hurried.
The Fountain of Pollio was old then. It has since been restored, but at that time it was the meeting place of slumming aristocrats and slaves. The roof of the fountain had fallen in and been replaced with wood, and the carpenter had done a poor job. Doubtless a slave. The Ephesians used slaves for everything and had few free craftsmen. There were seats – benches, really – all along the outer edge of the round building, but they were rickety and only the strongest had a secure place to sit. Yet it was cool and pleasant to sit at night, and the view was spectacular, out over the river and down the bay all the way to the sea. The smoke of ten thousand cooking fires rose with the incense of the temples, and the pinpoints of ten thousand household lights coloured the landscape at our feet like the gold embroidery on a rich man’s purple cloak. I could look at Ephesus by night for hours.
Which was as well, because Penelope was late. I knew that she might not come at all. We were, after all, slaves. I have probably forgotten all the truly dull and onerous days, honey, but don’t forget as I tell this story that we were property, like a pot or a sandal, and our master and mistress could, without the least ill will, ruin our plans, our hopes, even our dreams. I knew that Penelope might be working or commanded to sleep in her lady’s bed.
It was past full dark when she came, and she surprised me, coming up behind me where I dozed and cupping her hands over my eyes. Of course I grabbed her hands, and of course she squealed, and one thing was leading very pleasantly to another – and don’t, by Aphrodite’s lovely ankles, imagine we were alone. There were probably twenty courting couples in that dim room, and more outside leaning against the wall, and then there were men playing polis – that’s our Greek game of cities, played with black and white counters – and women actually using the fountain. Quite a crowd. When you are a slave, honey, there’s no privacy. And no secrets.
At any rate, I’d got myself a solid seat and soon I had Penelope across my lap and one hand well placed under her chiton, and she was searching the inside of my mouth with her tongue – I shouldn’t tell you these things, honey, but you’ll know Aphrodite well enough yourself, soon, whether I tell you or not – and kissing her was like war, like hunting. My heart pounded and my head was full of her – and then she was off my lap and across the room.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said, her voice more full of anger than fear.
I had no idea what she had seen, but I was on my feet, ready to attack or defend. The fountain was not a safe place, exactly. There were some bad men in the shadows.
I saw the slim figure vanish even as Penelope called after him – a boy wrapped in a chlamys.
‘I’ll run him down,’ I said. I was instantly jealous.
‘No!’ my faithless lover protested, but I was off.
The chlamys was an expensive garment, striped with purple, and the wearer had long legs.
I ran the rich boy down in twenty steps, tripped him and landed on top of him with all my weight on his hips. Then I pulled the chlamys away from his head. My hea
rt was beating, and I was ready to kill. Even then, honey, I was a killer. I had already done it often enough that killing was like kissing an old flame. I knew the dance, and my fingers were going for the finish – eyeballs.
This was no rival, and my murderous fingers stilled.
She was a rich girl. She had pearls in her hair, and her face, even in pain, was flawless, a word poets use too often. She was probably fourteen, her hair was black and her lips red, and in the light of the house lanterns, her skin was as smooth as marble. She had muscles like an athlete and high eyebrows.
I was off her as fast as I’d taken her down.
Penelope appeared and stood between us. ‘You fool,’ she hissed, and I had no idea which of us she was speaking to.
‘I had to see where you went every night, Pen!’ the girl said. ‘Ares, you broke my hip, you barbarian!’ She looked at Penelope. ‘You have a lover!’
Penelope looked at me a moment. I’d unpinned one side of her chiton the better to reach her breasts, and it was hard for her to deny what we’d been doing. She shrugged.
‘What’s it to you, rich girl?’ I asked.
She looked at me and her eyes twinkled. It hurts me to say this, but next to her, Penelope looked like a slave girl. Like a mortal next to a goddess. A few thousand darics, a few hundred medimnoi of grain and a dozen slaves at your command give you poise, confidence, perfect skin and lustrous hair that no slave girl can match. Look at yourself, girl. Now look at Blondie – your Thracian. She’s handsome. But she’s invisible next to you. See?
Exactly. So when this rich girl twinkled her eyes at me, I reacted. And she smiled. ‘I own her,’ the rich girl said. She shrugged. ‘I suspect that you are the famous Spear-Boy, Doru of the barbarous west. Yes?’ She laughed. ‘My brother’s companion making love to my companion. Oh, I will have such fun!’ She clapped her hands together.
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