Wayward Son

by Tom Pollack

  “No matter,” Cain said smoothly. “We can reconstruct the plans if necessary.” But he felt a quiver of uncertainty as he voiced this reassurance, now pondering whether the demise of the flagship was also the will of God.

  “Yes, my friend. But let us hope we have seen the last of the Persians.” As the fire danced before their eyes in the night, Themistocles urged, “Come now, let us join our compatriots in their song to Victory, our goddess Nike!”

  Cain joined the revelry around the roaring bonfire with his body, but his mind soared out over the wine-dark sea where the remains of ships and bodies still floated.

  CHAPTER 39

  Chicago: Twenty-Eight Years Ago

  AS THE BONFIRE ON the shore of Salamis faded from sight, another fire by night took center stage in Amanda’s vision.

  She first saw the blaze from high above. But her perspective quickly zoomed in so that she could distinguish a burning four-story building, set on the corner of two densely developed city streets. Except for the crackling flames, however, the setting had nothing in common with ancient Greece. This was a modern American metropolis, and crews of firefighters were battling a five-alarm blaze.

  From her vantage point, Amanda noted the block lettering of the Chicago Fire Department on a nearby hook and ladder truck. Seeing the puffs of frost emitted by the firefighters as they shouted orders and directions to each other, she could tell it was very cold.

  Now she found herself inside a smoky stairwell. A firefighter with his oxygen mask tilted back on his head was arguing forcefully with a woman dressed in pajamas holding a wet cloth to her face. On her blouse was pinned a small silver cross.

  “Sister, you can’t go back up,” the man said sternly, as he put his arm out to block the nun’s way. “I won’t allow it.”

  “Listen to me,” she replied in a voice tinged with authority. A petite woman in her midfifties, she drew herself up to her full height. “I am Sister Kathleen O’Donnell, the director of this orphanage. I don’t just work here—I’m responsible for all the children in our care!”

  “But all of the boys are safe, Sister Kathleen. I already brought them out. Now please go back down to the front lawn and attend to the girls!”

  “Are you sure they are all out? These children, especially the youngest ones, like to hide when they get scared. Let me go with you to find them.”

  “Out of the question, Sister. You have no oxygen mask. Look, I already told you they are fine. I led them out myself. I’ll go back up and double-check any hiding places, but you must get out of the building now!”

  Sister Kathleen bowed her head in assent. The fireman was right. The smoke and flames were spreading so rapidly that an escape might soon be impossible. Hurrying down the stairs to the ground floor, she strode through a long hallway and out the front entrance of Mercy Orphanage. As she descended a short flight of brick steps to the lawn, she was further unnerved by the blinding lights and blaring horns of a fleet of fire trucks, ambulances, and police vehicles.

  Turning to look at the building behind her, she saw intense flames behind the windows of the third story, the floor where the boys slept. “Thank God the fireman got them out in time,” she thought.

  But when her eyes scoured the front lawn, not a boy was to be seen.

  Another firefighter ran up to her. “Come this way, Sister,” he ordered brusquely. Sister Kathleen acquiesced when he put a brawny arm around her shoulders and steered her rapidly toward one of the command vehicles. As they made their way to the street, she could see a group of several dozen girls being tended to by paramedics. She recognized several of the children whom she herself had led to safety fifteen minutes earlier when she woke up to the first whiffs of smoke.

  Inside the mobile command and communications vehicle, she was greeted by the officer in charge. Captain Molloy was surrounded by a rescue unit, all dressed in heavy coats and equipped with oxygen masks, pike poles, axes, and halligan bars.

  Without bothering to exchange introductions, she burst out, “Where are my boys, Captain?”

  “What floor are they on, Sister?”

  “They were on the third floor,” she replied, gesturing toward the billowing flames.

  With a puzzled look on his face, Captain Molloy reached for his radio. “Anyone in the building?” he demanded. Silence. Switching to another channel, he questioned the leader of the squad stationed at the back of the building.

  “Dempsey, were any boys led out of the building on your side?”

  “Negative, Captain. We’re just going in now.”

  “But I don’t understand,” implored Sister Kathleen. “One of your men assured me that they had been escorted out of the building. Where are they now? I don’t see them here.” Fear now streaked her tone. “Please, God, let them be safe!”

  Captain Molloy quizzed the nun. “Do you remember the fireman’s name?”

  Sister Kathleen shook her head.

  “Can you describe him?”

  “He was tall, but the light in the stairwell was dim and the air was becoming quite smoky. I didn’t really get a good look”

  A shadow crossed Molloy’s face. He changed the radio channel once more. “Dispatch, it’s Molloy. Make it a point to get an incident history from every fireman. Have the reports on my desk in the morning. Mercy Orphanage, West 103rd Street. Over and out.”

  Leaning over toward the nun, he said, “We’ll see if we can get in there, Sister. We’ll do everything in our power to—”

  Just then, a loud explosion blew out half a dozen third-floor windows. On the edge of panic, Sister Kathleen leaped from the command vehicle and raced toward the circle of girls. All in their night dress, they ranged from four to fourteen years old. Swarming around the nun, they bombarded her with questions.

  “Girls, please! Have you seen any of the boys outside the building?”

  Rosa, one of the older children, silently pointed to a figure in the center of the lawn. Lying on a stretcher, a boy of about twelve was being treated by the paramedics. Even from a distance, the nun could see that the child was badly burned. His face was turned away, and a burly EMT partially blocked the view, so she did not know who it was. An IV tube was stuck into his arm.

  “Do any of you know how he got here?” Sister Kathleen questioned.

  “We’d been out here for about ten minutes,” Rosa replied, shivering. “I saw a fireman carry him out and lay him on the ground. He was shouting for the paramedics to come over. Then he went back into the burning building.”

  Sister Kathleen left the girls and ran toward the boy, but the paramedics lifted the stretcher into an ambulance parked at the far edge of the lawn.

  “Wait!” she shouted to no avail as the stretcher glided into position and the rear doors slammed shut. With its sirens revving up, the ambulance roared off in the direction of Cook County Hospital.

  ***

  Under his oxygen mask, the boy slowly came to. The young paramedic leaning toward him held his hand firmly.

  “Don’t worry, you’re going to make it, buddy. The hospital has the best burn unit in the city. Tell me something, though. Do you know how the fire started?”

  The paramedic lifted the mask so the boy could talk, but he merely closed his eyes and remained silent.

  “Well, son, good thing you made it out of the building in time. You’ve got third-degree burns on your back and stomach.”

  The boy winced in pain as the man continued, “You know, in my rush to get you to the ambulance, I forgot to get the name of the firefighter who carried you out. You’ll want to send him a nice note when you’re able. Did you see his name badge?”

  The boy muttered meekly, “I, uh…I can’t remember.”

  His eyes closed once more, and he drifted out of consciousness.

  ***

  As the ambulance swung into the emergency entrance, the vehicle was met by a team of nurses and a doctor. Meanwhile, on the hospital lobby television, a live interview with Sister Kathleen O’Donnell ba
ck at the orphanage was being broadcast.

  “But who told you that they were safe, Sister?” The reporter thrust her microphone close to the nun’s mouth, twisted with grief.

  “A firefighter in the stairwell. I don’t know who he was.” Sister Kathleen’s voice trembled.

  The reporter pivoted away from the nun and looked directly into the camera. “Fire department officials now confirm that all the boys are deceased except for one survivor, who has been rushed to Cook County Hospital. His name is being withheld because he is a juvenile. Officials have no comment on Sister Kathleen O’Donnell’s claim that a firefighter represented the situation falsely to her. All we know now is that a fireman may have been responsible for the deaths of twenty-two male orphans. Victoria Thompson, reporting live from Mercy Orphanage.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Athens, 465 BC

  THE LETTER ARRIVED IN Athens well after midnight. Cain had stumbled home from a taverna after drinking Greek spirits all night. Whereas Greece enjoyed its new peace, the ramification for Cain was unemployment, as the ship factory had been closed. Reluctantly, Cain had become a gambler to afford the rent on his small flat near the harbor. Lately, he found himself on a losing streak and had exhausted his savings. Receiving the small scroll from the waiting messenger’s hands, Cain held up his oil lamp and squinted through tired eyes.

  My dear Agathon, your presence is urgently requested! Take passage on the first ship at your disposal for Ephesus. I enclose a small sum for your travel expenses. I will have you met and conveyed via the Royal Road to Babylon. Here in Persia there are exciting opportunities, and an even more exciting future may be envisioned. Do not fail me!

  Faithfully, as ever,

  Your friend,

  Themistocles

  Cain was not entirely surprised. Themistocles was, if anything, resourceful. Seven years earlier, in 472 BC, he had been ostracized by the Athenian assembly, largely due to his abrasive arrogance in boasting that he was the “savior of Greece” at Salamis. The vote meant that Themistocles would have to leave the city for a minimum of ten years, with a penalty of death if he returned beforehand.

  After this blow, the politician’s troubles multiplied. An envious political party at Sparta had accused Themistocles of treason and had collaborated with his enemies in Athens. As a result, he no longer found it safe to remain within Greece, let alone in his native city. At first he withdrew to the northwestern kingdom of Molossia, then to Macedon, then to Asia Minor, and finally to Persia.

  All this time, Cain had kept in contact with his old friend by letter. This in itself was extremely risky, since the Athenians had officially condemned the architect of their victory at Salamis as a traitor. But Themistocles, who still had numerous admirers in Athens, used trusted couriers for the correspondence.

  Cain weighed his options. It was ironic in the extreme that Themistocles was apparently now consorting with his erstwhile mortal enemies, the Persians. Yet, years earlier, Cain had seriously considered the possibility that Themistocles, in the event of an impending Persian victory, might have been willing to do a deal with the Great King. If there were two qualities that marked his friend’s mind and emotions, they were cunning and ambition.

  What, Cain wondered, were these “opportunities” of which Themistocles wrote?

  ***

  Two months later found the friends reunited on the shores of the Euphrates River in the city of Babylon. Cain had seen nothing as grand as the Persian capital since his days in Egypt. On each side of the Euphrates, arrow-straight paved streets led down to the river, flanked by ziggurat towers, ornamental columns, and magnificent four-story mansions. An enormous astronomical observatory bore witness to Babylonian expertise in celestial matters. Magnificent brickwork attested to this people’s mastery of engineering and architecture.

  “The perimeter of Babylon is said to be fifty-six miles,” Themistocles declared as he and Cain strolled on an elevated promenade on the river’s left bank. “Can you imagine? That is more than double the distance between Athens and Marathon!”

  Cain recalled how Themistocles, one of the generals at the famous battle of Marathon a quarter century before, had always possessed a knack for folding into any conversation a flattering reference to his own exploits.

  “In your letter you mentioned opportunities. What exactly did you mean?”

  “My contacts in the royal court inform me unanimously that King Artaxerxes, the son of our old adversary, will look with favor on Greeks who support the Persian Empire. Not just any Greeks, mind you. Distinguished Greeks. Achievers.”

  “You certainly qualify for that title. But how would I be involved?” Cain asked.

  “You are involved as my associate. Tomorrow I will be officially accepting the reward the king has offered for my defection. I am sure His Majesty will be happy to make your acquaintance at our audience with him.”

  “Our audience with him? You didn’t tell me anything about a meeting with Artaxerxes!” Cain exclaimed.

  “Life would be boring without surprises, Agathon. Come, let’s head for the bazaar to get you some proper clothes. I notice, by the way, you are as trim as ever. You seem to possess the secret of perpetual youth!”

  ***

  The very next day, a phalanx of armed guards parted to admit the two Greek visitors, who passed through an enormous gate in the hundred-foot-high wall surrounding the royal palace. Inside, Artaxerxes sat on a golden throne, directly opposite a gigantic statue of the god Bel seated on an elaborately ornamented platform. The symbolism was unmistakable—the deity had chosen the monarch to aid and protect Babylon.

  Themistocles had briefed Cain beforehand on the customary etiquette, and both men knelt before the monarch. As Artaxerxes extended his hands in greeting and motioned for the visitors to rise, Cain noticed that the emperor’s right hand was slightly longer than his left. Of medium height, he had a closely cropped beard and heavy, jowly features. The only imperial-looking trait about him was the long plane of his nose.

  “Welcome, Themistocles!” exclaimed the emperor. “The year we granted you to study our language and customs is nearly over. We trust you have spent this time profitably?”

  “I have, Great King,” replied Themistocles in Persian. “I am now ready to serve you.”

  Artaxerxes, wrongly assuming that Cain knew no Persian, now switched to fluent Greek. “And your colleague today, he is the one you told us of, the designer of the armored flagship that my father once mentioned?”

  “He is, my lord. As I have informed you, Agathon’s expertise in nautical engineering and metallurgy is unrivaled. With his help, it will be possible to outfit Persia with an invincible fleet of warships. You will be able to carry out the conquest of which your father dreamed. All Greece will pay you tribute.”

  Artaxerxes smiled broadly, as if the taste of victory were already his.

  “Themistocles,” he said, “for your alliance with us we are pleased to grant you a reward. The bounty I had placed on your life will now be yours—the sum of two hundred talents. And we appoint you as our governor of the province of Magnesia. Three cities will pay you revenues: one for bread, one for meat, and one for wine.”

  “I humbly accept this appointment, my lord,” replied Themistocles, striking his breast in submission.

  “And now,” said the emperor, turning to Cain, “we would gladly hear more of your armored warship. How is it constructed, exactly?”

  Cain made a split-second decision. Having played such an important role in preserving Greek history through time, he would not participate in bringing it to a close.

  “Your Excellency, I cannot help you build such weapons for the purpose of annihilating an entire culture. True, I designed a flagship for the Greeks, but that is when they faced invaders who threatened to enslave them.”

  Themistocles’s jaw dropped in astonishment.

  Indeed, life would be boring without surprises, Cain thought as he saw the look on his friend’s face.


  “Themistocles,” said the emperor, “we wish to converse with Agathon in private. Let our ministers accompany you to the hall of maps, where they will brief you on the imperial administration in Magnesia.”

  Bowing deeply, Themistocles backed toward the doors of the throne room and made his exit.

  Artaxerxes and Cain faced each other. “You have spoken of an invasion,” said the emperor. “Who knows but that Persia herself may face an invasion from Greece one day?”

  “I hardly think that likely, Your Excellency,” answered Cain. “It was only with great difficulty that Themistocles was able to hold the Greeks together at Salamis.” It occurred to Cain that Themistocles might have promised to deliver him as part of the defection deal.

  “But our informants have told us of the new Athenian empire. Some of the Greeks, at any rate, do not lack ambitions for conquest. Athens now receives enormous tribute from many city-states. She uses the Persian threat as a pretext.”

  “All the same,” responded Cain, “I refuse to escalate the chances of war. I have lived with these Greeks for seven hundred years. I would never betray them.”

  The emperor’s puzzled expression made Cain realize his verbal blunder. Fortunately, Artaxerxes merely sighed. “I have dealt with patriotic men before, but never one with your strange sense of humor, Agathon. If you really were as clever as your reputation, you would follow your friend’s lead and join the Persian side. I should have you tortured and executed for your insolence, but instead, I will give you time to think about the matter. Perhaps a year in solitary confinement will help you to change your mind. If you agree to share the flagship’s designs with us and pledge your allegiance to Persia, your reward will be two hundred talents, the very same as the sum granted to Themistocles.”

  At a signal from the emperor, guards surrounded Cain and led him swiftly from the throne room.