The Gates of Athens

by Conn Iggulden

  The epistates that day was a man of Antiochis – the tribe of Aristides. Fresh in his post, he would have been appointed at the previous sunset. He climbed to the speaker’s stone to address the gathering, a tall and overly thin man in his early thirties with a pinched and waspish expression, as if something he had eaten disagreed with him.

  ‘Who will speak?’ he asked.

  Even in the silence, his voice was thin and reedy. It lacked the boom of a Themistocles or even the hard tone of Aristides that could send other men scurrying to do his bidding. There was no reply, as every head turned to see how Miltiades would respond. He sighed visibly, his massive shoulders rising and falling like a man giving up. He rose to his feet with a grunt of effort, leaning on a staff that ended with a crosspiece under his armpit. His son Cimon stood with him, ready to steady his father if he stumbled or fell.

  ‘I would speak,’ Miltiades said, raising his head. ‘If you wish it.’

  His beard had grown wild in the months apart, Xanthippus saw. It was still the man who had held back the wing at Marathon. The man who had almost sold his city into ruin.

  ‘I know you,’ Xanthippus said in a whisper.

  Epikleos looked back at him, narrowing his eyes at the intensity in his old friend.

  Two more men stepped forward to help Miltiades climb the last steps to the speaker’s stone. The crowd murmured at the sight, while the wailing of women and children could be heard beyond the Pnyx, the wind carrying the sound. They had gathered to learn all they could, of course, as desperate for news as any of the voting men above. Young and old, they filled the streets all around. In the distance, some of them clambered, dark as ants, on the rocky hill of Ares, where the Areopagus council usually met. On this day, the archons were all in the Assembly. No one had the will to send men to punish those people clinging there. They had all lost something with Miltiades that year.

  When he was in position, Miltiades raised his head and breathed deeply of the breeze.

  ‘I am Miltiades of the Philaidae family, victor of Marathon. I am a descendant of Achilles, who was grandson to King Aeacus, who was son to Zeus. My father was the Cimon who raced chariots in the Olympics. I named my son after him, who has reached manhood and joined this Assembly of Athenians to stand at my side today. I give thanks for my return, as I grieve for those who have not returned.’

  He took a breath and Xanthippus saw tears gleam in the man’s eyes. He was suspicious enough already to wonder at the theatrical nature of the display. Those at the back would be unable to see. Would the general wipe tears away to be sure they noticed his sorrow?

  ‘I left Piraeus with seventy triremes,’ Miltiades went on. ‘We headed east, intending to hunt for the Persian fleet along the coast of Ionia and the islands there. Yet from the first, whenever we berthed and interrogated fishermen, we heard of sightings. We were in their wake for a month at sea, I think. We ran short of fresh water and had to lay up on islands I did not know. There, I heard of colonies that had declared for Persia. Islands once loyal to Athens that had turned against us.’

  He waited for a ripple of unease to end before going on. Perhaps without realising it, he raised his injured leg a fraction to ease his discomfort, so that he stood on the tip of one toe. It reminded them all of his wound. Xanthippus watched with his head raised and tilted to one side.

  ‘I followed rumours and I paid silver to the captains of merchant galleys – to pirates and adventurers, all seeking their fortune in our waters. They said the island of Paros had turned to Persia and so I went there, widening our search, looking for the enemy. Our water casks ran dry once more and we starved. Yet I pushed on and my men trusted me.’

  He paused to sip water from a cup his son held up. Xanthippus stood very still, his focus absolute as the man continued.

  ‘We found them on Paros. The Persians had landed a hundred galleys there, two hundred, I do not know. They lay empty, abandoned, but there were horses on the beaches – huge herds, thousands of them. When we landed, they ran away. It seemed a paradise, empty of all signs of men. My captains began to land our hoplites, ready to march into the interior.’

  He took another drink, his hands trembling.

  ‘They came then, in greater numbers than I can describe. They were the slaves from the ships and the soldiers of their cavalry, all in a great rush from the trees and hills. They had hidden when they saw us coming and they caught us unawares. We fought – we made a great slaughter and spattered the white sand red as wine! Yet not all of us had landed and they were too many.’

  He licked his lips where they had grown dry and cracked. His son rose once again with the cup, but Miltiades waved him away. He went on as if he could not hold back the words any longer.

  ‘I do not know who fired the ships – whether it was one of mine or one of theirs. All the wood was dry and there was… screaming from those left within, unable to escape. The fire took hold on ours as well as theirs, spreading along the beach. Some of our crews got out to heave their hulls back into the water. Those who have returned with me to the Piraeus are the ones who were successful. The rest were cut down as they struggled to get afloat, or killed on the sand.’

  He closed his eyes for an instant, honouring the dead.

  ‘Our hoplites fought like heroes, every one. They were superb, but they were crushed and overwhelmed by men with clubs and knives, men who fought like they were possessed, with teeth and nails and savagery. We could not recover shields and helmets. I will make amends for that loss, to the families of the fallen. I can replace them, if they come to me, if there are sons to carry a shield and spear and helmet they would have inherited from their fathers. I can do that much.’

  ‘You can do more,’ Xanthippus said suddenly.

  The gaze of thousands turned on him then and he found himself staring directly up at Miltiades. The man looked ill, too sick almost to stand. He swayed as he recognised Xanthippus, and perhaps there was a sort of resignation there in the twist of his mouth.

  ‘You will have your chance to question Strategos Miltiades, Xanthippus,’ the epistates said.

  His tone was one of reproof and Xanthippus felt Epikleos touch his hip in warning. He felt his anger surge, driving him on.

  ‘I will, epistates. And I will have justice,’ Xanthippus said. He ignored the intake of breath around the Pnyx. ‘I accuse this man. He has failed Athens. I accuse him on behalf of the dead, for the blood and silver he has cost us. I call…’

  ‘Please, k-kurios,’ the epistates stammered, shocked into using a term of address for a superior. He had been made leader of Athens the night before and he was far out of his depth, unsure of both rules and precedents. The laws of Cleisthenes were barely twenty years old, but Xanthippus knew them well. ‘Please reconsider! You are both Marathonomachoi!’

  ‘Yes,’ Xanthippus replied. ‘Yes we are.’ He held Miltiades’ gaze for a long moment, until the other man was certain what would come. ‘I speak because we are. I hold Miltiades to a high standard and I say he has failed. I call a trial.’ He spoke only to Miltiades then, ill and stunned before him.

  ‘How can this be fair?’ Cimon shouted. ‘My father is wounded, anyone can see it. How can he be brought to trial when he can hardly stand?’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ Xanthippus said softly. ‘These are our laws. If you would speak in his defence, lad, you may. If not, I’m sure Miltiades can speak for himself. He is condemned by his own words, after all. I can say little he has not already admitted.’

  Cimon looked in appeal to the epistates, who could only open his hands, almost in supplication.

  ‘I will need to speak to the officials of the Assembly,’ the epistates said, looking to them for support. ‘We must select a jury. This is no ostracism. Miltiades is allowed to defend himself against such a charge. What is the charge?’

  ‘Poor leadership, fraud, theft – all you have heard Miltiades admit,’ Xanthippus said. He glanced aside to where Epikleos was rubbing a hand across his brow, his mouth
slightly open.

  ‘Then… then I should prorogue the Assembly, until this afternoon, or tomorrow. Until Miltiades has had a chance to make his defence, until… until I have had a chance to consult… Yes, yes, I think…’

  Xanthippus shook his head. He could see Themistocles watching him with an expression not dissimilar to the one Epikleos wore. Let them stare! He had made his decision and he would not let some stammering fool of an epistates allow Miltiades to wriggle off the hook.

  ‘There is no true written constitution in Athens,’ Xanthippus announced. In theory, he addressed the epistates, who still floundered and wished the day had fallen to someone else.

  ‘All our laws, all our trials, are decided by us, on the day. I have called a trial this morning. If there is business of greater importance, it can be delayed. If not, I would like to move to prosecution, defence and a vote.’

  ‘But what punishment would suit these crimes you list?’ the epistates asked plaintively.

  Many in the crowd scowled at this breach of ritual.

  Xanthippus shrugged.

  ‘For the deaths of two thousand hoplites – Marathonomachoi all? For the loss of fifty galleys and all the free men who crewed them? For the fraud in asking for a command he was not fit to undertake? What else but death can be our answer?’

  ‘Xanthippus,’ Epikleos murmured over the sound of the crowd. ‘Show mercy. He is much loved still, in some places.’

  Xanthippus bit his lip. Themistocles may have been staring at him, but so was Aristides. It was important to him to show dignity in front of such men.

  ‘Very well, epistates,’ Xanthippus said. ‘The day after tomorrow is already set aside as a trial day. I will accept a delay until then. It will give me time to examine witnesses.’

  Miltiades looked down at him with red-rimmed eyes, like a sick dog that knew it was threatened but had no more strength to resist.

  15

  Xerxes walked on pale blue marble, polished to the point where he could look down and see a coloured shadow of himself looking up. It was as if he walked across the surface of a lake on a still day.

  His father sat on his throne, fanned by slaves though the sun was sinking into the west. Dinner would follow, and at the thought, Xerxes looked for the little eunuch, Mishar, whose job it was to whisper about the Greeks each evening. He was there, dressed in a tunic of white silk, it looked like. New gold bands adorned his wrists and ankles, reflecting his rise in status.

  Xerxes felt the eunuch’s gaze on him as he approached his father and dropped to one knee. Only the crown prince and heir could adopt the pose. That was his right, judged by every one of the servants and slaves around his father. They understood such things to a perfect nicety. Even kings would prostrate themselves before Darius, full-length on the marble, so that their breath made it cloud. But not the crown prince, not the young man who would follow in his steps and rule the world. In that way, his father gave him honour – and helped secure his succession.

  Xerxes waited until his father nodded and then rose to approach. He took his father’s right hand in his and kissed him twice on each cheek, back and forth, before finally pressing his lips on those of Darius. There was a sweetness on his father’s breath that troubled him, a scent of green datura.

  ‘Are you in pain still, father?’ he said.

  The king’s eyes were bloodshot, he saw, with a faint yellow tinge to the skin. Xerxes felt a pang of something like panic. He was not ready for this, not yet! He had ridden a thousand miles to Persepolis when his spies in court had reported the king ailing. In all the days of hard galloping, he had not considered the reality that lay behind his father growing ill. Men died. Xerxes knew that as well as anyone. He had witnessed executions by the thousand, seen men, women and children killed in battle, or simply for sport. There were always more, given the way they bred. Yet his father had been the rock on which the empire stood, unbreakable, eternal.

  It shocked Xerxes to understand the man had lost weight beneath his robes and panelled coat, to see the way his throat had grown thin, so that lines of flesh stood out like wires. Darius was sixty-two years old. When Xerxes had left two years before to tour the kingdoms of the empire, he had not understood it was to prepare them for his rise to the throne.

  ‘It is good to see you, my son,’ Darius said. He smiled.

  If kings and satraps might have flinched at that expression, Xerxes saw only affection. He kept his father’s hand in his and pressed it. He felt the knuckles shift against one another, where once there had been muscle to draw the great bow or hold a sword. Xerxes found tears in his eyes and let them spill without shame. It was not so strange. Many men wept when they met the Great King.

  ‘I have Physician Ganak to help me with pain,’ the king said. ‘He argues with Master Zhou and they take turns to dose me, or burn different woods so I can inhale the smoke.’

  Xerxes glanced aside to where the foreigners stood, frowning at them. Both men dropped to the floor immediately. The Indian doctor was white-bearded and ancient-looking, but moved well enough when the crown prince observed him.

  A low rhythmic sound, like pieces of wood rubbed together, brought his attention back. Xerxes saw his father was chuckling.

  ‘I trust them, Xerxes. Do not fear for me. They know what will happen if they let me die.’

  ‘I wonder if they appreciate the full extent of it,’ Xerxes said.

  Both doctors lay on the marble, their hands up around their ears as if cradling their heads. The Chinese master was half the age of the other, but he lay perfectly still, showing good physical discipline. In comparison, the Indian was quivering, expecting death. Xerxes looked away from them.

  ‘You will grow strong again, father. You must. I am not ready!’

  To his surprise, he felt his father’s hand tighten on his own, though it was like being held by a claw.

  ‘You are. My life has been full and rich, with many blessings. No man lives for ever! Should I fear heaven? Why? It will not be so very different from life as it is now, though without the pain and discomforts of illness. I have prepared you, Xerxes. You are ready to sit this throne today. More, I have prepared my tomb, out in Naqsh-e-Rostam, in the mountains. The carvings are almost complete, yet I live – and I bless your patience. I have asked Our Lord Ahura Mazda for one last campaign. I have known sixty-two summers, Xerxes. With just a few more years, I will gather all our armies, all the host. I will bring a million men and more ships than the world has ever known. I will sail to Greece with them and I will witness the destruction of those who scorned poor Datis, who butchered our people in the surf. The men who showed us only dishonour! The Greeks! The Greeks!’

  His voice had risen and his colour deepened as his passion built. Xerxes felt a drop of spittle touch his face, but he did not move to wipe it away.

  ‘Father…’ he began.

  King Darius sat up straighter, anger overriding his physical weakness with a huge effort.

  ‘Mishar, come to me, complete your duty,’ the king ordered.

  The slave ran forward and threw himself down, his golden bracelets clinking on the marble.

  ‘Master, as you command me.’

  The eunuch rose to his feet and leaned in, his lips almost touching the king’s ear. Xerxes felt his father’s rage coming off him like waves of heat. The dark eyes were unblinking as Mishar spoke.

  ‘Master, I obey. Remember the Greeks,’ he whispered. He stepped away when the king nodded.

  ‘I remember,’ Darius said.

  He gestured his son closer and Xerxes leaned in, as the slave had done before him. He saw no dishonour in that. All men were slaves to his father, even the heir. If Darius gave the order, Xerxes knew he would not leave that room alive. The Great King’s authority was absolute and he shuddered at the thought of inheriting such power.

  ‘The Greeks talk, my son. They have told the world of their victory at the fennel field, at the place they call Marathon. Every one of our kingdoms has heard ho
w my army was broken there! It cannot go unanswered, Xerxes, do you understand? They were once the edge of empire. I would have left them in peace as satraps and vassals. Yet they chose to resist – and the world saw them resist. I have no choice now. If God is willing, I will live long enough to see the Greek cities burn. I will see Athens burn, and Sparta and Thebes and Corinth and all the rest.’ He paused to gasp for breath, staring off into the distance until the great heaves became less. ‘They call their land the dance floor of Ares, have you heard that? The one they call the god of war. They have not seen the god of war, Xerxes. But they will…’

  The king winced, his breathing growing tight. He pressed a hand into his side, under the ribs. Xerxes began to speak his concern, but Darius waved him away.

  ‘It is nothing, just a passing pain. Tell those doctors to prepare more infusions and the smoke of poppy seeds. It all helps a little, but nothing works for long. I must endure dreams of terror and strangeness.’

  He saw his son’s worry and smiled once more, though the pain was growing in him and the yellow tinge to his skin seemed to have deepened.

  ‘Go and rest, Xerxes. You rode far and fast to come to me. You are my heir, my beloved son. You will be at my side when I return to Greece, I give you my word.’

  16

  Every trial day started some time before dawn. Officials of the courts began a laborious process of choosing juries and magistrates by lot, then allocating individual court spaces around the centre of the city. Xanthippus was not surprised to be given the Areopagus. Three other courts were in use for the most serious crimes, but the great rock of Ares still had a sacred position in the laws of the city. Before the new democracy of Cleisthenes, the Areopagus had been the site of a council with almost unlimited power. Those noble archons existed still, as the reforms had not quite dared to cut them out completely. They hung on as a remnant, with all the authority of ancient tradition, but no clear role in the new order.