by Gary Corby
“Father, will you listen to my advice on one thing?”
I was bound to accept my father’s decision on Diotima, but …
“Certainly.”
“When Anaxagoras visits, why don’t you ask him what your clay is made of?”
* * *
The house was too quiet. You don’t notice the noise slaves make until they’re gone. Onteles and I might have been sitting in a house of the dead, but in fact it was the andron of his own home, the public room at the front reserved for men. We both nursed a cup of watered wine that he had served himself.
Onteles said, “Do you know how many people came to my father’s funeral?”
“No.”
“Not one. Not a single person outside the family.”
With a pang of guilt, I realized I hadn’t thought to go. I’d been involved in the deaths of six people in the past and attended the funerals of every one of them, even the slaves. This was the first I’d missed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Someone is spreading the word Father was a traitor to Athens. Is that your doing?”
“Not me.” I guessed it was their own house slave. He had probably heard every word Pericles and I said that night.
Onteles tore at his hair, which was shorn short in grief. “What are we to do? Our neighbors, the men of our own deme, are shunning us. I sent a slave to the agora for food and she was pelted with stones by local children. Yesterday we woke to find threats scrawled across our front wall. I sent my mother and sisters to the country the moment the funeral was over. It’s an insult to my father’s memory, but what can I do? They’re safer away.”
Onteles grabbed me by the arm. “Nicolaos, you must prove my father was not a traitor.”
“By his own admission he was. How do you explain his wealth? How did he pay for that fast horse of yours?”
“I know what my father was. He liked money. Who doesn’t? Probably he took advantage of the proxeny to cheat a little. I don’t know. He must have had opportunities, and I could believe he took them. But I can’t believe for one moment my father would have turned against Athens. Father never said what his crime was, did he?”
“Only that he’d betrayed.”
“His position was hardly high enough to do much damage. Whatever he did, maybe it’s not so bad.”
Onteles made a good point.
I said, “Whatever he knew, it was bad enough to send an assassin.”
“Please help us.”
I’d read the message scrawled across the front wall on the way in. Someone had threatened to torch the building at night, with the family in it.
“I’ll try,” I agreed reluctantly. After all, I told myself, I had to work out what the man had done anyway.
“Thank you.”
I nodded. “Whoever wrote the letter to your father might have written to him in the past. Maybe there’s a clue. I want to go through your father’s correspondence.”
“Anything to end this nightmare.”
Back in the room where it all began, I spread out Thorion’s papers and read every word. There were many notes about importing pottery from Ephesus. I glanced over at the pots sitting in the room; I was probably looking at some of the merchandise. The import business was in partnership with a man from Ephesus called Brion, who was the equivalent of Thorion in his own city: their proxenos for Athens. Excellent; now I had a name.
Everything else on the desk was public business. By the time I finished, I knew more than I ever wanted to about the work of a proxenos. There were complaints from citizens of Ephesus, who felt they’d been hard done by in deals with Athenians, and wanted redress in the courts; men who looked for business contacts; lists of incoming cargo shipments, with requests for Thorion to see the goods safely into the warehouses; men who wanted maritime insurance from Athenian bankers; men who demanded an introduction to high-placed Athenians; men in search of husbands for their daughters.
I pushed the lot away from me and sighed. If I’d had to deal with all these demands, day after day, I might have viewed a murderer come to throttle me as a welcome relief. Maybe Diotima could have made sense of the documents—she was so good with written words—but it was beyond me. I missed her, and not for the first time. I wondered what she was doing in Ephesus, and whether she was happy there.
The thought of Ephesus reminded me of the question that had occurred to me at the symposium. I said to Onteles, “How did Thorion come to be proxenos for Ephesus?”
“I wish he never had been. It’s a family connection. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Nothing at all,” I agreed. “So what’s the connection?”
“Through my mother. She came from a good Ephesian family.”
“The family’s still there, I suppose.”
“Her brother, my uncle, is head of the family now. He’s a merchant trader.”
“His name?”
“Pollion, son of Hegerandros. But you can’t speak with him. He’s in Ephesus.”
“That’s not a problem. I’m going to him.”
* * *
Asia had stayed in our home for a mere day and a night, in which short time she’d managed to irritate every other slave with her superior airs. No slave, not even a temporary one, can afford to do that. I kept her apart for her own safety, and to teach me a few of the more common words of Persian. The idea of speaking another language fascinated me and I made rapid progress on the basic phrases.
We departed at first light the next morning to begin the long journey back to Asia’s home. Asia wore a secondhand chiton and sturdy sandals and had no other possessions. I carried spare clothing and basic supplies in the backpack given me by Callias, the skytale hidden within the frame.
A huge warship waited for me at the docks, and not just any warship, but the most famous one of all. I was to ride to Ephesus on Salaminia, the fastest ship in the world.
Salaminia is a trireme, fitted out with only the best equipment, crewed only by Athenian citizens who volunteered for the job. The men are paid double to be available at a moment’s notice to go anywhere a ship can go. She is used for delicate diplomatic missions, when getting the ambassador where he needs to go quickly is of the greatest importance. Each year too, Salaminia and her sister ship, Paralos, carry gifts to the Sanctuary of Apollo on the isle of Delos, one of the holiest places in all Hellas.
The crew saw us coming, and loosened the lines holding them to land even before we’d reached the gangplank. I handed Asia over, then stepped in myself, and the helmsman standing beside me at the tiller called, “Pull!” The singer began his song, the aulos player began blowing his pipes to accompany and keep the rhythm, and Salaminia moved before I’d taken my second step on board.
Two hundred men stared at me. Most of those were rowing, but all that could looked up at me on the slack of their pulls, to see what manner of man had caused them to prepare their ship for sea. I must have been a major disappointment. These men were used to carrying the highest leaders, the best generals, and the most important priests. For me to be the point of their muscle-aching efforts was a step down.
Asia had no such delusion about who was the center of attention. “What are you all staring at?” she challenged them.
I said, “Be quiet, Asia. Slaves don’t talk like that to citizens.”
As I said it, I realized she was right. None of the crew were looking at me; they were all staring at her.
My woman-child slave was dressed in a modest chiton of ankle-length, but not even the usual extra folds could prevent her curves pressing out the material in interesting places, and nothing could hide her young red lips and those wide, round, dark eyes. It made me glad of the twenty soldiers on board—archers and spearmen—except they too were staring at Asia. The two chiefs of the rowers, one on each side, both shouted at the men to pay attention to their work. I silently prayed to Poseidon for a quick trip.
The trierarch stepped easily around or over the various things attached to the deck, and said
, “Good morning. I believe our destination is Ephesus. Correct?”
It was all I could do to nod and say, “Yes please,” as if it were normal for a young man to be the sole purpose of the most prestigious ship in the most prestigious navy.
The trierarch nodded back. “The helmsman tells me it should be a fast passage, the weather will be fair. Sit down and relax.” He looked down at Asia and added, “And try to keep your slave under control.”
Sitting was easy. There was a covered deck running down the center, an unheard-of luxury on any other ship. Both sides of the deck were open so light and air could filter down to the three rows of oarsmen. I wanted to look down and watch, but manners prevented me. They might be poor—surely the only reason a man would volunteer for this duty—but these were citizens of Athens.
I asked the trierarch—the captain—quietly, why slaves were not used to pull the oars, particularly on the lowest level.
He smiled and said, “You’re not the first person to ask that question. Let me ask you one back. What do you think would happen if we put slaves in a position to take control of a warship?”
“Oh. Good point.”
“So we never allow slaves to row, only free men. On Salaminia and Paralos we restrict it further to citizens, no mercenaries or hired laborers, but that’s only because we also have sacred duties.”
He rubbed his jaw. “Mind you, I take your point. It’s tough, nasty work, better suited to slaves. Smelly too. The thranites on the top row are all right, but they practically sit against the faces of the zygios on the middle row, and the thalamios on the bottom have legs and bums dangling all over them. More than one deadly fight has broken out over a man who farts too much. The veterans fart on new recruits on purpose.”
“How do they decide who’s at the bottom and top?”
“It’s decided on seniority and reward for excellent service. A man starts in thalamio, progresses to zygio and if he’s good is promoted to thranite. There are strict rules for promotion, or there’d be mutiny.”
“Have you been a sailor all your life, sir?”
The trierarch laughed. “Me? A sailor? Poseidon protect me, no.”
“Then, why are you … that is, what—”
“What am I doing here? I paid for the ship, young man; every board, every rope, every fitting, every plank. It’s my gift to the state, because I am wealthy, part of my obligations under the liturgy, the convention that says wealthy men must spend their wealth to the benefit of the state. So I get to call myself trierarch, and strut about the deck as if I know what I’m doing. The truth is, the best sailor on this ship is him.” The trierarch pointed to the helmsman; a grizzled, burned, unsmiling man. “I’m the one who gets the glory of command; he’s the one who gives the orders when it really matters.”
The trierarch wandered off to do some more strutting and glorying.
“Salaminia,” Asia said thoughtfully. “That means the Girl From Salamis. Is that where she was built?”
“So are you from Salamis, girlie?” one of the nearby rowers called out. The men around him laughed.
“Shut your mouth!” the portside chief shouted at the caller before I could intervene. Everyone knows a girl from Salamis will spread her legs for any man.
The proreus, who is the officer in charge of the foredeck and therefore in charge of looking where we were going, said to Asia, “No, the ship is named in honor of our greatest victory at sea, over those scum the Persians in the straits of Salamis.”
Asia bristled. “You don’t like Persians?” she said.
“Does anyone?” the proreus replied.
Asia was a living, breathing, walking clue. I was sure I could get important information from her before I returned her to her father, if only she wasn’t drowned first by irritated naval officers. I pulled her away from the proreus and sat her down in the middle of the deck.
“Tell me how you were kidnapped,” I ordered. “And don’t even think about lying to me.”
Asia hesitated, and already I could imagine the lies assembling within her mind.
“It was in a dark alley,” she began.
“You walked down a dark alley?”
“The main streets were bright and sunny. They were boring.”
“Did you have a slave with you?”
She looked up at me with big, innocent eyes.
“What sort of an idiot would walk down a dark alley on their own?” I asked, incredulous.
“Master, I liked to explore the city. Some days I would wander about. It wasn’t that dangerous. What could go wrong?”
“You could be captured by slavers and sold to a brothel in foreign city, to pick a random example. Did your father let you walk about the city on your own? No wonder he lost you.”
Asia blushed. “He … er … didn’t always know I was gone.”
“Ah. He beat you when you returned?”
“No.”
Themistocles, it seemed, was one of those weak, indulgent fathers who lets his children run riot. I had no trouble imagining Asia wrapping him around her little finger.
“Very well. Go on.”
“The alley ran off the main road, which ran off the agora. It was narrow, lots of shadow, and there were boxes and things you had to walk around. It looked interesting, so I decided to see what was there. A man appeared at the other end. He walked toward me, watching. I got scared and decided to turn and run. A hand from behind went over my mouth, a big man’s hand. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. I almost couldn’t breathe because he covered my nose too. He was big and I was small and, well, it was useless. I got my mouth open and one of the fingers covering my mouth slipped in and I bit down hard before I could think about it.”
“What happened then?”
“He swore and let go. A huge blow to my head threw me to the ground, and that’s the last I remember. When I woke up, I was a slave, and Araxes had me.”
I gave her a hard look. There was a certain consistency to Asia’s tale, it sounded like the sort of child capture that happened every day, to some child somewhere in the world, but it didn’t explain her abandonment in Athens, unless it was merely a way to earn some extra coins.
Asia seemed oblivious to my study of her. She did her own musing, staring across the sea in the direction we traveled, to Ephesus.
EPHESUS
7
A multitude of rulers is not a good thing. Let there be one ruler, one king.
We drifted into Ephesus port with the sun at our backs. The boat touched lightly, a sailor jumped onto the wharf to wind a rope, and our journey came to a gentle end. I called farewell to the trierarch and stepped off, hauling Asia after me. Salaminia would touch only long enough to take on more water. Pericles had given orders the ship was not to call attention to my mission by tarrying.
Merchant ships were being loaded and unloaded all about me. Next to us was a crew of Phoenicians, a people famed for their seagoing prowess. They were bare-chested and barefoot, wearing bronze armbands, bronze bracelets, and loincloths. Their skins were as burned and weather-beaten as the ships they served. All had beards, dark, layered, and ringleted.
On the other side of us was an Egyptian ship. Her sailors had hung about them necklaces full of charms. They chattered away to one another in their own language in between much shouting and confusion. Among the crew were men who were black. I knew at once they were Ethiopians. I had heard the Ethiopians sung of by the bards in Athens. They were impressive men, tall and thin and strong and seemingly oblivious to the heat. They seemed always to smile.
Behind the wharves were warehouses and shops, different but similar to the ones I knew so well at Piraeus. Everywhere, men were in motion. Pedestrians walked past in a stream, talking with each other or engrossed in their own business. Beggars sat by the side with palms outstretched. No one paid attention to anyone in their way, and I was pushed about twice. A hand tugged at my chiton.
“What are you staring at?” said Asia. “The road into the city is
this way.”
She walked off, leaving our bags behind. I stayed where I was and called, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
She turned and looked puzzled.
“Our bags,” I prodded.
Asia drew herself up to her full, unremarkable height. “Have you forgotten I am—”
“A slave.”
I thought she was about to argue, but she controlled herself and said, “Yes, master.”
Asia picked up our bags and I followed her into the famed city of Ephesus.
The road from the docks led straight inland. We came at once upon a gymnasium and baths to our left, situated so close to the port that the air was still wet with sea spray. The road turned right and on the outer bend was an amphitheater that dwarfed the one at Athens. Did the Ephesians really have so many people?
On the right was what looked and sounded like an agora. Well-dressed men stood about, gesticulating, shouting, arguing, conferring, reading scrolls, writing notes, and paying each other money. It all looked highly confused to me, and there wasn’t a single stall to be seen.
I asked Asia, “What is that place?”
She looked at it with a confused expression and said, “Master, I don’t know.”
I stopped a passing citizen, who told me we stood at the commercial agora, where men traded entire shiploads or warehouses of goods. I’d never heard of such a thing; Athens had nothing like it.
We passed through some ornamental gates onto a smooth road. I took ten steps before I realized I walked on marble. People pushed past me as if it was perfectly normal to be treading on the most expensive road in the world. The marble road twisted left, and we walked uphill to the second agora, much more reminiscent of the one I’d left behind at home.
The agora of Ephesus was long and thin. The road we’d walked from the docks entered at the west end, and exited on the east. I found it odd pushing my way through the streams of people without being able to look up at the Acropolis. The stallholders were Hellene. They sold vegetables, olives, and olive oil in stacked amphorae; fish and eels and squid. Pottery and bronze ware had its own section, as had something you don’t see much of in Athens: apples. There were entire stalls of apples. They were a delicacy back home, where most people preferred quince. I picked up an apple and inspected it, a mottled yellow, then bit in. The sweet juice trickled down my throat. You could give me apple over quince any day. I pulled out a coin and was about to toss it to the stall owner when I realized there was a problem, a problem I’d never experienced before.
