Xanthippus watched Pericles set up the blocks for a jump out on the field, always his daughter’s willing helper. There was a part of him that wished for sons with half Pericles’ nerve and half Ariphron’s duty. Instead, they had too much of one or too little of the other.
The little boy struggled with a beam longer than he was tall, placing it on two baulks of sun-bleached pine just moments before Eleni came galloping at it. Xanthippus hissed in a sharp breath when he saw Pericles had placed himself behind the pole. If she struck it, it would hit him like a hammer.
They were too far off to hear a shout and it was too late anyway. Xanthippus watched with a sick feeling of helplessness while his daughter cleared the pole without even a clatter of hooves. Pericles cheered her, jumping up and down and waving his hands. It made Xanthippus chuckle weakly, relief flooding him. He left the column of the house and walked across the dusty field towards his children.
Eleni was first to see him coming. She tapped Pericles on the shoulder to halt his chatter and laughter. He turned in confusion to where she pointed, then grew serious, standing straighter. Xanthippus felt his heart break a little. Somehow, their reaction forced him to be stern. He wanted to laugh and spin them round, but they stood almost to attention and he frowned and clasped his hands behind his back.
‘Where is Ariphron?’ he asked them.
Eleni answered, her voice low. The pony at her side pressed its muzzle into her armpit and she patted it without looking up.
‘With his tutor, father,’ she said. ‘Is he in trouble?’
‘What? Not at all… I just saw you two playing and I wondered where he was.’
‘We weren’t playing,’ Pericles said, instantly defensive. ‘Eleni is going to let me jump. I’ve been practising and I haven’t fallen off for weeks now.’
The little boy was scuffed and bruised, giving him the lie. Without hesitation, Xanthippus pressed the point.
‘Is that true?’
He caught the slight shake of the head from Eleni, but ignored it, wanting Pericles to speak. The boy said nothing for a moment, just staring at the dusty earth.
‘No, I fell off this morning,’ he said at last.
‘Then why did you lie to me?’
‘I thought you wouldn’t let me try the jump… I don’t know.’
Xanthippus found himself wanting to clip the boy’s ear. He had strolled over, just wanting to enjoy a little of the laughter and life he saw between them. His mood had been golden, and yet in a few moments, there he was, forced to be a father and the judge of their actions. It was infuriating and he felt his own face growing red. He took a deep breath through his nose, determined to be calm as he studied his son. Boys could not raise themselves.
‘Show me,’ Xanthippus said.
Pericles looked up at him with wild hope, not quite daring to believe.
‘A jump?’
‘If you say you are ready,’ Xanthippus said, grinning at his expression. ‘Yes, a jump!’
His son gave a whoop and took the reins from Eleni as she tossed them to him. The little pony gave a surprised snort, mouthing the iron bit as it drew taut. Pericles would have been thrown from his feet if the animal hadn’t gone along with him, but it did, whinnying in indignation.
‘I’ll set up the blocks,’ Eleni said, squinting after him. She began to lift a lower one and her father waved her off.
‘Leave it as it is, Eleni. Your pony can manage it. If he stays on, it will mean more to him.’
To his surprise, his daughter hesitated. In that moment, she reminded him of Agariste.
‘This isn’t… to punish him, is it?’ she asked. ‘You’re not teaching him a lesson?’
Xanthippus sighed. He had feared his own father in his youth. The old bastard had been terrifying, somehow more of a man than he could ever hope to be. Yet time and experience had made them the same, it seemed. He shook his head. Some things were too much trouble to explain to children.
‘Just leave the jump as it is,’ he said.
She nodded curtly, clearly worried as Pericles made the turn at the far end of the field. As they watched, the boy yelled and dug in his heels, moving the pony to a canter, then a gallop. It was too fast. The boy perched like a flea on the beast’s neck, gripping the mane and reins with his knees up around his ears. He would surely fall. Xanthippus suffered a pang of fear that he would see his son killed. Did age bring worry? Some weakening of the spirit that made it harder to shrug away risk? He couldn’t… And Pericles was over, flying past in a thunder of hooves and wild yelling.
Xanthippus saw his daughter leap into the air with both hands stretched to the sky. He was smiling as she spun round and, for a moment, he was simply happy.
Her gaze slipped past him, a frown appearing. Xanthippus glanced over his shoulder as Pericles wheeled, lying flat on the pony’s shoulders and talking in a rush of excitement, patting the skin hard enough to raise clouds of dust.
Two men approached them. One was Manias, there to escort another not of the household. Xanthippus felt his good mood vanish at the bustling manner of the stranger. The moment with his children had been private and precious. He had no desire for other eyes to intrude. The gaze Xanthippus turned on Manias was not kind, so that the house slave dipped his head and flushed.
‘I’m sorry, kurios,’ Manias said. ‘This fellow is a messenger from the Assembly. He said it was urgent and could not be denied.’
‘Epikleos sent me,’ the young man said, giving a perfunctory bow.
He was breathing well but sweating, Xanthippus saw, with droplets running down his neck and making him shine. The sun was still rising. Xanthippus did not remember seeing him on the training runs.
‘Well?’ Xanthippus demanded, suddenly impatient. Dread filled him at the young man’s hesitation.
‘Epikleos sent me to say the Assembly is gathering to hear a vote of exile. They are breaking pots.’
‘Who for?’ Xanthippus said.
‘You, kurios. I am sorry. You should come. Now, if it is not already too late.’
Xanthippus felt his mouth open and close. Pericles reached them and leapt down, the reins wrapped around his fists. He had not heard and he was still beaming, looking for the praise he had surely earned. Slowly, his smile faded into confusion.
Eleni looked shocked, disbelieving.
‘Why would they do this?’ Eleni said.
Xanthippus clenched his jaw before he spoke.
‘For vengeance,’ he said. ‘But they will need six thousand votes to get rid of me. That is no small thing. It isn’t over yet.’
Without another word, Xanthippus broke into a run in the direction of the gate. Manias would inform Agariste, or the children would. The messenger fell into place alongside him, serious-faced. In just moments, they were out on the road, heading back to Athens, where cooking smoke hung in the air and ten thousand households would decide his fate.
24
The Pnyx was still filling with citizens in white chiton robes when Xanthippus arrived. Epikleos waited for him near the speaker’s stone, relief showing when he caught sight of his friend.
‘What news?’ Xanthippus said, with bitter humour. He tossed two silver drachms to the messenger and the man bowed and left.
‘Cimon called it last night at the council, for dawn. I sent someone out to you as soon as I heard.’
‘He still blames me for the death of his father,’ Xanthippus cursed.
Epikleos nodded and blew air out in a long sigh. News of Xanthippus being present was spreading and faces were turning to see him. Xanthippus returned the stares with a steady gaze, refusing to let them think he was afraid or ashamed. No speeches were allowed, not for an ostracising vote. Designed to rob a tyrant of power, they took place almost in silence. After all, some great orator might have won the crowd to his side and denied his fate. Xanthippus saw the Scythian archers were watching him, ready to bear him away to the cells if he tried to interfere with the process in any way.
�
��I can’t believe Miltiades’ son has so many willing to support him!’ Xanthippus hissed bitterly to his friend. ‘Did that family find a gold mine as well?’
Epikleos didn’t reply immediately. His expression twisted, as if he had bitten into an unripe fruit.
Ahead of them, on the Pnyx, a huge clay urn stood. Men Xanthippus had never met and would not have recognised in a crowd shuffled around it, each one bearing an ostracon, a piece of broken pottery. Each of those would have a single name scratched into the fired clay: Xanthippus. If a third of voting men put his name, if six thousand said he should be exiled, that was enough.
‘Should I stand by the pot – look each of them in the eye?’ Xanthippus whispered to his friend.
Epikleos considered and shook his head.
‘That could drive some of them to anger. Stay back, Xan – and pray. They may not have enough.’
‘There he is,’ Xanthippus said, tapping his friend on the arm.
Epikleos looked over to where Cimon climbed the steps to the great flat of the speaker’s stone. He approached the urn and dropped a piece of broken pot into it. He paused for a moment then to look down on Xanthippus. The expression was perfectly blank, the eyes hooded. Yet both Epikleos and Xanthippus felt his spite.
‘No one can hate like a young man,’ Epikleos murmured.
‘Too young, surely,’ Xanthippus replied under his breath. ‘Can he win six thousand to his side just to condemn me? I am Marathonomachos! My family are Eupatridae landowners! We feed Athenians! By all the gods, Agariste’s uncle wrote the law they are using!’
‘Be calm, Xan. There – do you see Aristides?’
‘What? He would not vote against me! He is a man of honour.’
Xanthippus felt his mouth hang open as Aristides climbed the steps and approached the urn. The man held out an empty palm, turning it back and forth until everyone understood there was no shard of clay in it. Then he shook his head and walked back to his seat. Xanthippus breathed out, his limbs feeling cold with relief. When Aristides looked across at him, he bowed, trembling.
‘That was clever of him,’ Epikleos whispered. ‘And… brave.’
The Scythian guards were looking thunderous. Cimon was gesturing angrily with two of them. No one was allowed to disrupt a vote. Aristides had risked being taken up and thrown in a cell, just to show his distaste.
‘He is a good man,’ Xanthippus said. ‘I have always known it.’
‘I pray it is enough…’
A stir announced Themistocles as he rose from the crowd like a rock breaking the surface of the sea. He was suddenly there, climbing the steps. Xanthippus felt his heart beating faster, not daring to hope.
‘If he does the same, I can still survive this. Bless Aristides. He has shown the way.’
He and Epikleos watched as Themistocles approached the urn and opened his hand. There was a piece of red pottery in it. He turned and met Xanthippus’ gaze as he dropped it in with the rest. A murmur of awe went around the Pnyx.
Xanthippus felt blood drain from his face and hands.
‘Oh no…’ he whispered.
Epikleos was wide-eyed.
‘Why would he do such a thing? I thought you and he were… friends, supporters! Damn him to hell for his betrayal, Xan!’
He had raised his voice and the Scythian archers were bustling closer to enforce silence. They bore clubs, Xanthippus noticed in a daze. The threat of violence was in the air and he dropped his hand to his waist, looking for the sword that should have been there. Instead, there was just the cloth of his chiton tunic and bare legs.
On the stone, Themistocles stepped out of the voting line and returned to the seats. He did not look at Xanthippus again. The sun reached noon and some of those who had voted went into the Agora to fetch food or a cup of wine and water. The life and trade of the city went on as the epistates called for the last votes and then sealed the urn with a strip of cloth dipped in wax. A bell rang out across the Pnyx. Xanthippus didn’t move. Though his knee and lower back ached, he stood like a soldier and endured. His expression had grown stern and he did not speak again.
The wax seal had barely begun to stiffen before it was broken. The count would be immediate and final. In theory, Xanthippus could have stepped up to check and witness each piece, but he could not move from that spot. He was rooted in humiliation. When he did not respond, Epikleos put a hand on his shoulder.
‘I’ll keep them honest, Xan, don’t worry.’
He went over and watched as tables were set up, with white cloth coverings. The tribe in control of the council that month were responsible, but Xanthippus’ own Acamantis were there as observers, checking the count on behalf of one of their most senior sons. Epikleos moved among them as the pieces were poured out and the tally began, with each inscribed shard recorded and returned to the urn. The next day, they would be tipped into some hole for household waste, back to mere pottery and not the balance of a man’s fate.
The count rose and rose, each mark like a wound as Xanthippus saw his life being undone, unwoven back to the original thread. The afternoon wore on as the officials checked the totals and compared their tally boards. When the vote passed six thousand, Xanthippus staggered a step, as if he had been struck. His knee was in pain from standing for so long, but after that, he tried to show nothing more to those who had brought him down. Cimon was staring, of course, desperate for Xanthippus to meet his eye and see the young man’s triumph. Xanthippus did not know if Themistocles remained on the seats. He did not turn to face the one who had helped to destroy him. His life was in rags.
The final count was almost seven thousand votes. It was enough. The total was announced and repeated over the rise of angry noise in the crowds. Scuffles began between those who cheered it and more who were appalled at the result.
Xanthippus could hardly see as Epikleos came down and took him by the arm to steady him. There were no tears in his eyes, but he had stood in one spot since the morning and he could not make the world sharp. It seemed soft and blurred. He dipped his head to Epikleos.
‘You have until dawn ten days from tomorrow to leave,’ his friend said. ‘I’m so sorry, Xan.’
‘I know the law. Walk with me, would you?’ Xanthippus said. He felt as he sometimes had after a battle, with exhaustion looming, but not quite able to overcome the pounding of his heart.
They did not stop to exchange words with anyone. The crowd parted. Some of them called out or tried to take his hand in sorrow. As he moved through them, there was a funereal air and many stood with heads bowed. It was as if he had already died. There was a brief scuffle as Cimon tried to get through to him, but the young man was held back by the press of others, placing themselves in between so that Xanthippus would not suffer some other humiliation. Aristides was one of those who stood in the way.
Xanthippus breathed long and slow as he reached the Thriasian gate and walked alongside the cemetery. The tomb of Miltiades was visible across the paths, away from the main road. Xanthippus was tempted to pay his respects, to congratulate the man on his son.
‘Why did Themistocles throw in his lot with Cimon?’ Epikleos asked after a time.
‘Because he does not fear him,’ Xanthippus said. ‘Themistocles wants to rule; you said so yourself. I should have listened to you. I should have… Ah, what does it matter now? Ten years! I cannot return home for ten years? What about my children? My wife?’
‘Can they not visit? I don’t know what properties you have, but if you must leave this part of Greece, there are others.’
‘Nothing like the life I know here !’ Xanthippus snapped. ‘If I move to Delphi or Corinth, or Thebes, how often will I see Agariste and the children, with days or weeks on dangerous roads between us? What do you think?’ He increased his pace, striding along the road out of the city. ‘I am finished. Athens is my home and they have denied her to me.’
He reached the gate to the estate and raised his hand to thump on the iron, hesitating before the blow l
anded.
‘I have given my life to Athens,’ he said. ‘This is my home.’
For the first time, his eyes glittered with tears and Epikleos embraced him.
‘Would you like me to come in, to help explain?’
Xanthippus shook his head, his mind already on what he would say to the children. The day had begun with a moment of happiness. It already seemed another age, another life.
* * *
Cimon was still tight-faced, his jaw aching with the effort of trying not to gloat or show his victory. He and his closest friends had retired to a tavern to eat and drink. The noon meal was usually light, but they had all been thirsty after so long in the open air. With wine, a little food was only sensible. It meant that some forty of them were still celebrating as the sun set that evening.
When the door opened, Cimon looked up blearily, wine running in his veins along with his delight. He had raised a cup to his father more times than he could remember, so that his words slurred and the room swam. Ah, but it felt right – and no one would have denied him wine enough for three men after such a victory! There were times, when he drank, that he remembered the voice of his mother. It seemed one of her uncles had been a violent drunk. Whenever her son raised a cup of wine, she would wag her finger at him and remind him of the dangers. It was sometimes hard to drink enough to drown that little voice, he thought.
The Gates of Athens Page 20
