by P. K. Lentz
“Yes,” Styphon was forced to concede. The identity of the proposed intermediary between Eris and her would-be assassins hardly escaped him.
“Look, Styphon,” Agis said, lowering his voice further still. “I will not insult your intelligence any further. I know you know what I ask of you. You needn't give answer yet. I leave with the dawn not to return for some number of days. In the meantime, when you're not fucking your wife, give some thought to whether ridding your city, and your flesh-and-blood, of this blight is not worth the risk. Will you do that for me, Styphon?”
“Of course, sire. Agis.”
“Good man.” The king halted and let more space come between them. His hand came to rest at the nape of Styphon's neck, where it squeezed just slightly, his iron ring of kingship pressing into his flesh. “And should you choose to report what I've said to Brasidas, which I understand is a possibility, well, you will still be a good man. However, a misguided one, and one whose death I would soon regret having to cause.”
The ringed hand affectionately patted Styphon's cheek.
“Now get off to your marriage bed and do your duty as a citizen,” he said, smiling, not needing to offer reminder that it had been his guards who built the bed.
* * *
That night he performed his duty as many times as he could, and the following dawn he stood and watched the army set off. At the head of the column was Agis, flanked by his elite bodyguards and his bald, staff-bearing Minoan seer, and at its rear went the covered behemoths, the katapeltai, drawn by teams of oxen and accompanied by the men trained to operate them. These machines and their crews were the concession of Agis and his allies of the Gerousia to the majority of ephors who might otherwise have tasked their own favorite, Brasidas, with subduing walled Pylos. In the face of division, there had been compromise: king's leadership, polemarch's methods. For supporters of either side, there was advantage to be gained in victory and blame to be reaped in defeat, but when it came to one matter, no man of Sparta, not even Brasidas who argued for an eventual end to the institution of Helotry, disagreed.
Pylos, the city of slaves which two years prior, under the guidance of Demosthenes, had revolted and won its freedom, must be ground to dust. Its population, having proven its disloyalty, was to be given no second chance at servitude. Rather, its streets were to be emptied of living souls, every last one sent to the afterlife, their homes thereafter to be given over to other subjects whose loyalty was unquestioned.
* * *
15. Omega
They slipped out of Athens by the Itonian Gate, which now that Athens was a subject city was but a set of pylons, its stout wooden doors unhinged. The main streets were alive with Scythian police and armed collaborators questioning bystanders in the hunt for escaped prisoners, but by using patience and observation, they carefully evaded notice.
Dawn was breaking by the time they reached the appointed place outside the city, an old broken footbridge over the river Ilisos. They settled in a secluded copse on the riverside, in sight of the bridge, where Demosthenes sat on a fallen elm and ate from the bread and cheese which Thalassia had thought to bring him from Phormion's. Seated beside him, she flicked stones at various inanimate targets on the far side of the gently rolling current, hitting them every time.
Having eaten, Demosthenes found a place to rest his head whilst his partner's keener eyes kept watch. He kept silent and did his best to narrow his awareness in time and space, to think nothing of the past or future, or of gods that did not exist, or of multi-layered universes that did and were filled with pleasure palaces built on exploded suns. There was only the flesh on his bones, the one yellow sun that warmed it, chill mud under sandaled feet, fish grazing the rippled surface of the lazy river ahead. These things were real, and so was she beside him, Thalassia. Since her death, she had become more human and he less.
Somewhere in the middle, they had found a place of understanding.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, giving away that she could not, in fact, read minds.
He answered without delay: “I was thinking that I should very much like some roasted chestnuts once they're in season.”
His companion saw it for the lie it was, of course, for even if she could not read minds, she did read fluently the unspoken language of deception.
She laughed knowingly and said without rancor, “That can probably be arranged.”
As Phormion had not revealed Omega's identity, they were to know him by the fact that he would carry Phormion's cane, the Egyptian one of ebony which long ago had been a gift from Demosthenes to his cousin. Before much more time had passed, a lone figure walked cautiously up to the bridge from the direction of Athens, bearing the black stick in hand. At the river's edge he stopped and looked around, at which point Demosthenes stood, drawing the man's gaze. At this distance Demosthenes did not recognize him, if his face was a familiar one, but a short walk up the bank, under the man's watchful gaze, offered a better look.
Omega was a stout figure, thick of neck and limb, with a square chin, hard face, and closely-cropped hair, almost a stubble, that conformed to the shape of his skull... and Demosthenes did know him as an acquaintance, met on several occasions. He had been a trierarch of some repute during the war, winning the award for valor in the naval battle at Chalkis. His family was a wealthy and prominent one, and as a boy he had been close friends with Alkibiades.
“Greetings, Thrasybulus,” Demosthenes addressed the younger man as they reached the bridge. Thalassia stood in his shadow a pace behind.
Thrasybulus—Omega—broke neither his silence nor the hard stare which he split evenly between the two before him.
Judging that the tone of the meeting was to be less than cordial, Demosthenes adjusted his own manner to match. “You know what we did,” he said curtly. “We are in Athens one more night. We would see our time put to good use in your cause.”
The man who had been a captain in Athens' now nonexistent navy scowled and grated, “Had you come to me yesterday and told me your plans, more men freed from chains might have retained their freedom instead of being recaptured by Spartans and their sycophants. We would have been prepared.”
“We operate on instinct,” Demosthenes said, knowing that Thalassia smirked inwardly, if not openly, at the borrowing of her sentiment. “Plans laid by us are not necessarily plans.”
At length Thrasybulus growled reluctant approval. “An impressive feat,” he said. A note of bitterness could not be concealed. “What else do you have in mind?”
“We come to ask that of you,” Demosthenes answered. “Shall we walk?”
Together, the two men in front and Thalassia behind, they crossed the bridge, Phormion's cane tap-tapping on the boards. They continued onto the small, dusty track beyond.
“Even if you succeed in restoring the democracy,” Demosthenes said, “Sparta will only send another army to subdue a city lacking walls. If Athens is to be free again, Sparta must met a broader defeat. That is what my companion and I work toward—on other fronts than this. But while we are present in Athens, I would see our actions coordinated with you, that they might not catch you by surprise... again.”
Appearing skeptical, or perhaps just permanently annoyed, Thrasybulus slowly came to nod. “Last night changes things,” he reflected. “We have yet to learn what Isodoros will do in response to your provocation. The greatest likelihood is a fresh round of mass arrests, perhaps killings, to prove to his patrons that he is up to the job of keeping order on their behalf.”
“If I may?”
The interjection came from Thalassia, whose tendency in such encounters as had until now been to let Demosthenes speak for them both. He gave his silent approval, which was entirely for the sake of their audience, and she proceeded.
“Have the prior harsh actions of the tyranny diminished support for your cause?” she asked.
Thrasybulus lowered his brow and eyed Thalassia with suspicion. His gaze flicked to Demosthenes briefly, then back.
Suddenly Phormion's Egyptian cane flew up in his hand and arced toward Thalassia's head. Demosthenes took a step back, surprised but not worried, while the blow's intended target easily blocked the attack with a hand that shot out from under cloak. A heartbeat later, she wrenched the stick from Thrasybulus' grasp and set its scuffed, tapered tip against his neck, where it settled into the hollow of his throat.
The resistance leader did not retreat, and his face showed no fear. “I only wished to see for myself what I had heard,” he said. He hooked a finger over the cane to lower it, which Thalassia allowed him to do. Gracefully righting the stick in one hand, she offered him the jackal-engraved handle. Taking it, he asked of Demosthenes, “Is she what they say she is?”
“Yes and no. Ask the shades of the twenty Spartiates who died at the jail.”
“Twenty?” Thrasybulus echoed incredulously, the first crack in his stony composure. “We had heard eight.”
“Twenty,” Demosthenes swore, “or may Zeus and Apollo wither me with plague. Only seven fell by my hand.” He was sure Thalassia would not begrudge him the exaggeration. As for the two gods he had invoked, they could go fuck themselves. “Now, you might answer her question. What has been the people's reaction to the tyranny's crimes?”
Thrasybulus pondered a moment, answered, “Every harsh deed of the new regime causes men's longing for the old ways to increase and our cause to gain followers. What of it?”
Demosthenes attempted no reply, but yielded to Thalassia.
“The tyrant's heavy hand speeds his demise,” Thalassia said. “The more harm Isodoros inflicts on Athens to restore his image in Sparta's eyes, the more your own support will swell. In the short term, more Athenians may suffer, but ultimately when you make your move, greater numbers will be ready to stand behind you, or at least stand aside.”
Omega absorbed her words before evidently rejecting them. “I won't welcome seeing more good men and their families lose their property, their liberty, their lives, for the sake of speeding a counter-revolution. I want my city back, not a ruin.” His brine-worn features shook in an emphatic negative. “No. If you two truly wish to aid our cause, then kill Isodoros. The tyranny is not united behind him. There are at least two factions riven by various petty disagreements, who agreed only reluctantly to unite behind him. I'll wager that his removal would set them to fighting again. I have begun laying plans for his death myself, but I sense you are capable of achieving it significantly faster and with less... waste.” His eyes were on Thalassia.
Demosthenes likewise looked to Thalassia, who barely flashed him a glance before answering on their behalf, “We shall do it tonight.”
A smile cracked Omega's features, then vanished, replaced by his perpetual scowl. “Then my faction shall lay plans for the aftermath. And perhaps a small celebration. But...” He leveled an intense look at them. “I implore you to cause no more chaos until then. As I said, I desire freedom for our city and our people, not a shade-filled ruin.”
“We shall spill no more blood but the tyrant's.”
Their purpose discharged, Demosthenes was eager now to end this encounter,. Still, learning what he could of a friend's fate was worth a small delay.
“What news have you of Alkibiades?”
“He was taken to Sparta,” Thrasybulus answered grimly. “For members of the Board of Ten, such a voyage was followed soon after by the return of their bodies for burial.”
“They were strategoi,” Demosthenes mused. “Alkibiades was—”
“Along with you, Alkibiades resisted them the longest,” Thrasybulus correctly observed.
“Sparta will find a use for him,” Thalassia interjected. “Alkibiades will make sure of it.”
Knowing of Alkibiades what even a childhood friend such as Thrasybulus could not—his would-be future as a traitor to Athens in the same future, now unwritten, in which Demosthenes was to die in a ditch in Sicily—he readily accepted Thalassia's assurance. Omega seemed less sure.
“Who remains of the Board?” Demosthenes asked.
“But one,” Thrasybulus replied. “Your fellow hero of Pylos, Kleon.” He breathed a humorless laugh. “Last year, I regretted not having been present to see you bloody his fat face during the Spartan jailbreak. How little our old squabbles matter now.”
“Where is he? Gone to ground, I imagine.”
“No, in fact. He is presently in Corinth in the hope of pushing its democratic faction into a coup.”
The news caused Demosthenes to share a thoughtful look with his partner. Perhaps, when next they passed through Corinth, they might test whether Kleon yet bore a grudge. For Demosthenes' own part, no longer was there room in his heart for petty hatreds—only that hatred which counted most.
“Thank you,” Demosthenes said earnestly to Omega, halting on the trail and prompting the others to follow suit. “It is a noble task you have undertaken. This evening, my partner and I shall see to the matter discussed before taking swift leave from Athens. I hope we shall meet again one day.”
“Aye,” Thrasybulus concurred. “May Fortune bless your efforts this night, and all others.”
“She will, friend,” Demosthenes said. “I give her no fucking choice.”
* * *
16. Tyrannicide
They reentered the city before the sunset curfew and hid until nightfall near the home of Isodoros. Then, in near total darkness thanks to a thick blanket of clouds hanging over Attica, their faces smeared with kohl, they crept into sight of the tyrant's residence.
Four Spartiates stood sentry on its front gate, the approach to which was lit by oil lamps, while two more walked the mansion's perimeter. The added security made sense in light of last night's events, but leave it to Equals to live up to the reputation they only partly deserved by assuming an attack would come in the form of a frontal assault. Equals by and large were no dumber than any other man, but what they were was obedient to a fault and obligated—nay, bred—to keep their mouths shut when given bad orders.
Frontal assault was surely an option, since Thalassia could dispatch them all with ease, but that was not their intent tonight. Rather, they surmounted the low garden wall at the rear of the residence, waiting until the two sentries were around corners. Once in, they took shelter briefly behind a pair of massive decorative amphorae, and when they were sure the coast was clear of slaves and any guards Isodoros might have posted within, they swiftly crossed the unlit garden of low shrubs to arrive at the smooth exterior wall of plaster. Yellow or some bright color by day, it presently appeared dull gray against the deep blue of night. Set into it above their heads was a small window, currently shuttered, which could only lead to one or the other of the master's bedchamber and the women's quarters.
Demosthenes crouched with back to the wall and let Thalassia mount his shoulders. Then he stood, putting her head above the window sash where she listened carefully for several seconds before using a thin piece of copper to gently open both sides of the shutter. She slipped inside and few seconds later sent down an arm, which Demosthenes clasped. She hoisted him, and he climbed inside as soundlessly as he could then crouched by the wall, letting his vision adjust while Thalassia carefully re-closed the shutters above his head.
“Women's quarters,” Thalassia informed him in the lowest of whispers, her lips tickling his ear. “Five sleepers. Follow me.” Her hand found his and clasped it tightly. Her vision, of course, required no time to settle, and she used that advantage now to guide him as they crept across the tile floor like the assassins they were to shortly become.
She stopped at the wooden door to the master's chamber. As was typical, it was equipped with a lock for such times as the man of the house required privacy with some flute-girl or concubine. Thankfully, at present, the door stood ajar. Thalassia pushed it open, producing a faint creak. When no sound of stirring or movement came, they pressed on into the room where presumably their target lay sleeping.
Thalassia pivoted to set the door back in place, at the small
cost of another creak, then guided Demosthenes' hand to the lock and whispered in his ear, “If anyone makes a sound, bolt it.”
He understood the reason for the instruction—for all of the second which elapsed before he was compelled to follow it.
“Who is there?” an occupant of the room called in a breathless whisper.
Demosthenes slid the bolt home, gently, while Thalassia vanished in darkness on a course for their target's bedside. A second later he overheard her say, in a sultry whisper, “I need your cock in me.”
Either she meant to buy herself a few seconds of confusion or, more likely, she was toying with her prey.
To the sound of fainter, unintelligible whispers, Demosthenes ventured forward and perceived as he came closer Thalassia kneeling upon the bed alongside the chief tyrant of Athens, holding to his throat the dagger which was the only armament either of them carried this night. Her other hand held a silken pillow over Isodoros's face. His labored breaths hissed through it.
Demosthenes asked his fellow assassin in a whisper, “What are you waiting for? Just kill him. He might cry out.”
“I told him if he does, his family dies, too.”
Demosthenes chose to assume this was a bluff. “Just do it!” he urged.
“Sure, but it's your city. I thought you might want to yourself. If not, you could have waited a block away.”
“Just—” Demosthenes started, but he finished with an angry sigh, drawing his own dagger. Coming up beside Thalassia and setting a knee on the bed, he aimed the tip of his dagger at the tyrant's throat, and with scant hesitation, drove it downward. A gurgle sounded as black blood rushed out, soaking the edge of the pillow which Thalassia pressed harder onto Isodoros's head.
