by Gary Corby
Diotima opened an ornate chest of carved wood and buried her head inside. She rummaged about. “There’s nothing in here except knives, and some stuff made of leather that looks like it’s for fighting, and there’s a sword at the bottom.”
“That’ll be Archeptolis’ war chest,” I grunted.
She closed the lid. “Do men really keep bridles in their chests?”
“I don’t know. I never owned a horse until recently.”
I’d checked the small chests to either side of the bed. And looked underneath. I opened two closely louvered doors. “I think this must be a cupboard. We might have better luck here.”
It was indeed a cupboard, full of clothes and bags.
“What is this stuff?” Diotima ran her hands along one of the dresses, shiny like I’d never seen before. I put out a hand. The material was unbelievably smooth and cool to the touch.
Diotima continued, “Whatever it is, I want some. It’s so light! Can you imagine wearing this?”
I could imagine Diotima wearing it. The idea was quite exciting.
The cupboard was quite spacious, deep and wide. Diotima and I worked our way through the contents without any luck.
The only thing left was an expensive-looking rack made of carved cedar. I opened the doors. “Here’s a scroll rack. The cases are identical to the one stolen from Thorion. No surprise there, I suppose, but they were foolish to use their own when they wrote.”
Voices were approaching from down the corridor. Mnesiptolema and Archeptolis. It was definitely them. We looked at each other in panic.
“They must have returned early,” Diotima whispered. “Nicolaos, what will we do?”
There was no escape. We had no time to make it out the window, and even if we did, we’d be spotted immediately by the guards below. If we went out the door we’d run straight into Archeptolis and Mnesiptolema. There was no explaining our presence in their bedroom.
The footsteps stopped at the door.
“Just a moment…” I heard Archeptolis say. “Curse it, I dropped the key.”
There was nothing for it. I pushed Diotima into the cupboard. I ran to the door, thanking the Gods for the quiet rug, snatched the block, and ran back to the cupboard, jumped inside, and pulled the doors shut behind me.
The door opened.
Diotima and I were wedged among the clothing. I could hear my own breathing, so loud despite my desperate attempts to silence it, I wondered they didn’t open the cupboard to see what the noise was. But the surrounding cloth must have muffled the noise, because they didn’t. I listened for Diotima. I couldn’t hear her breathe, but I felt a rustle as she moved slightly. The louvers on the doors were canted downward. I didn’t think they’d see us unless one of them crouched and peered upward or, please Gods no, opened a cupboard door. That thought made me ease back and place clothing between me and the light. It was small cover.
“I gave that slave something to remember, didn’t I, Nessie?” Archeptolis boasted. “Striped his back for him.”
“So you did, my dear.” Mnesiptolema reassured Archeptolis. It was as if she were speaking to a child.
I heard the rustle of clothing. Were they undressing in the middle of the afternoon?
The lid of the war chest opened and shut. I longed to peek through the louvers, but didn’t dare.
“Some of these cushions are stained,” Archeptolis complained. “Oh, do look at this one. And it had my favorite scene too: slaves being tortured.”
“You’ll just have to embroider some more, dear.” That was Mnesiptolema speaking.
Metal clinked, then snapped.
A whip cracked. “Please! No … no … aah!”
“Silence, slave. Did I give you permission to speak?”
“No mistress, but I—”
The whip cracked again. Archeptolis let out a yelp of pain, then groaned.
I could stand it no longer. I edged forward enough that I would see through a crack if I put my eye to it. Diotima was already forward. She had one eye screwed shut and the other glued to a gap between the louvers. She pulled back and looked at me, her eyes as wide as dinner plates and her mouth a giant O. She turned back to whatever it was she saw.
I found my own gap, and had to stifle a shout of surprise. Archeptolis was stark naked, facedown on the bed. His legs were spread, his ass pointed straight at us. The cheeks rose like twin mountains of quivering red flesh that reminded me of one of those Persian desserts. His wrists were shackled with slave bracelets, the chains were locked to a pair of the rings in the wall.
Mnesiptolema stood over him. She was dressed in the sort of outfit worn by slave drivers—a leather belt from which to hang the whip and tools, and a leather jerkin—but hers were gleaming black with oil polish, and the silver studs gleamed. Her breasts pushed through holes in the leather. A variety of whips hung from her belt, like a slave overseer, and one she swung back and forth in her hand.
Mnesiptolema raised her arm and cracked the whip across the back of Archeptolis. I saw his back was already striped and realized the thin, white scars were the result of previous whippings.
“Do you still want a room like this?” I whispered to Diotima.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she whispered back.
Mnesiptolema ceased her whipping when the blood began to drip from his back onto the bedcover. Archeptolis groaned constantly. Now Mnesiptolema began spanking Archeptolis on his behind. When the flesh became red she hit harder and harder. Every slap made a sharp cracking sound. Archeptolis moaned with obvious pleasure. Mnesiptolema grunted in rhythm with her strikes, her face a contortion of fury.
“Roll over, slave.”
Archeptolis rolled over, his back raw and bloodied. No wonder the cushions were stained. It must have hurt, I wondered he didn’t scream.
Mnesiptolema snapped silver bracelets round Archeptolis’ ankles and chained his feet to the corners of the bed. She walked slowly along the side, bent over, and began to play with him.
Archeptolis moaned.
“Silence, slave.” She cracked the whip across his thighs.
Archeptolis whimpered but shut up.
Watching Mnesiptolema play with Archeptolis caused a certain stirring in my own blood.
I glanced at Diotima to my side. Her eye was firm against the gap in the door; she must be seeing everything. Her mouth was one large O of astonishment.
As I watched I could feel myself grow more and more excited. What they did on the bed was nothing like what I dreamed of doing, but it didn’t matter. They were having sex, and that was the important thing.
Caught in the cupboard I noticed, as I had when we hid behind the tapestry at the warehouse in Ephesus, how very nice Diotima smelled. I put out my hand. She must have felt the movement because she took it in her own. I squeezed. She squeezed back, but she didn’t taking her eye off the action. Did she hold my hand for comfort, or because she was excited too?
Mnesiptolema stepped up onto the bed and stood above Archeptolis.
It was all too much. I had to do something. Now or never. I let go of Diotima’s hand and edged mine to Diotima’s bottom. I waited for her reaction. She still peered through the crack, but I felt her press back the slightest amount. So I put my other hand on her breast.
She gasped, slapped my hand away, and turned to me. “No, Nicolaos. What are you doing?” She said it quietly but with force.
“I would have thought that was obvious,” I whispered. “I want to have sex with you.”
On the other side of the doors the bed creaked in rhythm. Mnesiptolema moaned loudly.
“In here?” Diotima fairly shrieked. Fortunately the groans on the other side drowned her out.
“Aren’t you even a little bit excited, Diotima?”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!”
Diotima looked away. I saw her face was flushed, but whether the emotion was anger or something else I didn’t know. She took a step toward me.
“Nicolaos, I—”
“Ooh!”
That was Archeptolis.
“Aah!” That was Mnesiptolema.
At least someone got to have simultaneous orgasms, I thought sourly.
All was silence in the room. Diotima and I didn’t dare continue our argument.
After a long pause Mnesiptolema said, “Time to dress for dinner, dear.” She spoke in an entirely normal voice, as if the recent wild sex had never happened.
“Yes, dear,” Archeptolis said. “I’m afraid your dress is stained.”
“I’ll get another.”
Uh-oh. Diotima too realized the danger. I quickly pressed through the clothes until my back was to the wall. I edged along into the corner. Diotima squeezed into the other back corner. I took a deep breath and held it.
The cupboard door opened enough for an arm to reach in. A hand groped about, feeling the dresses.
“No, not that one,” Mnesiptolema said to herself.
The door opened farther. Light spilled into the center. Only the large amount of cloth and the size of the cupboard prevented Diotima and me from being illuminated. Even so, I could see Diotima clearly, and she stared back at me in horror. If Mnesiptolema poked her head in …
The hand crept toward me, like a giant white tarantula. I shrank back as far as I could. She felt each dress as her hand moved along the line.
All our movement had stirred up dust. My nose began to tickle. I told myself firmly not to think about it. If I didn’t think about sneezing, the feeling would go away. The hand crept closer. Thinking about not sneezing made me want to sneeze. My nose tickled more.
Her hand hesitated, and she stopped talking. Had she noticed something?
I was almost cross-eyed watching her fingers, but I didn’t dare move now. The fingers lifted, the tarantula was about to strike.
“Remind me to have the slave turn out this cupboard. I’m noticing dust in the air.”
Don’t sneeze … don’t sneeze …
The fingers relaxed, felt along the top of the dress and caressed the material. If she went any farther I’d be—
“This is it.”
She grabbed the dress off its hook, pulled it out, and shut the door.
The moment the light disappeared I put a hand to my nose and squeezed hard while I exhaled gently through my mouth. The tickle disappeared.
Mnesiptolema and Archeptolis dressed, and left the room. I could hear my heart pound in my ears.
We waited a few moments, to make sure they weren’t coming back, then quickly exited the room ourselves. The corridor was empty. We stopped outside my door.
“What do we do now?” Diotima asked.
“You heard Mnesiptolema. It’s time for dinner.”
“The hard part will be to face them across a table without staring in horror or bursting out in laughter. Maybe both. Do you think Themistocles knows?”
“Who can say? Maybe it suits him to have a son and daughter behave like this.”
“I can’t imagine how.”
“It gives him a certain hold over them. Mnesiptolema doesn’t matter, but can you imagine the reaction if men knew about Archeptolis? He’d be mocked until he suicided.”
“Are you sure? There are lots of Athenian men who get up to some pretty weird things with each other.”
“But that’s different, it’s between men. To enjoy being beaten by a woman? No, it’s either suicide or ridicule.”
Diotima had an odd expression on her face. “But you think it would be all right, if it was between men?”
“Happens all the time. You know that,” I said, as a matter of fact.
Diotima hesitated. “Nicolaos? You wouldn’t … that is, with your men friends, do you … uh…”
Diotima blushed bright red. She couldn’t even bring herself to ask the question. Diotima’s morals were conservative enough to please the most prudish old woman. It comes of having a mother who’s an erotic courtesan.
“Me? No. I like girls. I like you, Diotima.”
Diotima’s face was pure relief. “Keep it that way,” she said firmly. “I’m going to my room to change. And you better wipe yourself down, and change your chiton.”
I watched her swaying behind retreat into her room and the door shut behind her, and heard the bolt fall into place. Then I cursed myself for an opportunity lost. It had been the perfect moment to invite myself into her room. Or for her to invite me. What was wrong with the girl? Or was it me? Was I doing something wrong?
16
Whoever obeys the Gods, to him they particularly listen.
I opened the window in my room next morning to see bright sunshine, and Barzanes in the garden, barefoot and wearing a pair of loose white trousers and a white vest of a material so thin and translucent it could not possibly have done him any good. As I watched, he bent to pick up sticks and twigs and place them in the stack in his arms, a task so menial no ranking Persian lord should have consented to it. I was intrigued, so I woke Diotima to go for a walk. By the time we arrived, we found him before a brazier, in which burned a fire.
The vest Barzanes wore was held by a girdle of fine white cloth wrapped about his waist three times and tied at the front and then the back. His chest was smooth and perfectly visible beneath the material. Knowing Diotima’s penchant for male chests, I glanced at her to see what effect this one had, and I was relieved to see she wasn’t staring overmuch.
As I watched, Barzanes untied his girdle. I thought he was about to take it off, but then he tied it again. He went to the brazier. A table stood beside, on which was a small pile of apples, a flask, a bowl, and two vases of flowers, one of hyacinths, the other of anemones, whose name means wind and whose petals are the color of fresh blood, and on the ground a pile of sticks and another of wood chips.
Barzanes added wood chips to the fire and poured in a thin stream of milk from the wooden flask into the brazier. The fire died with the milk and then flared up. Barzanes stared into the flames without blinking. The smoke from the fire was sweet and I realized the wood chips he’d thrown were cedar.
I didn’t think he’d seen us approach from the side, but he said, “I will chant the prayer in Greek.”
I curse the Daevas, the evil spirits.
I declare myself a worshipper of Ahura Mazda, a supporter of Zarathustra,
Enemy of the Daevas, lover of Ahura Mazda and his teaching,
I praise the Amesha Spentas, the seven good angels,
I worship the Amesha Spentas.
All good comes from Ahura Mazda.
He finished the prayer and threw the sticks he’d gathered onto the fire. No Hellene ritual is complete without the sacrifice of an animal; I looked around for Barzanes’ sacrifice, but there was none, not so much as a rabbit or a pigeon. It seemed the wood was the sacrifice.
“It’s a beautiful prayer, Barzanes,” Diotima said.
“It is more than beautiful. It is truth, the prayer we call the Fravarane.”
“You could not possibly have spoken so in our language unless the words were ready.”
“I translated the Fravarane into Greek long ago, in the hope the Hellenes might hear the words of Zarathustra and believe. Despite my efforts, the Hellenes of Ionia do not comprehend.”
“Ahura Mazda is your God?”
“Ahura Mazda means, in the ancient language, Wise Lord, who created the world and all the good things in it, and all mankind, including you.”
“Ahura Mazda must be Zeus then.”
“Was it not Zeus who killed his own father?” Barzanes asked.
Diotima hesitated before saying, “Well, yes, but there was a good reason. You see—”
“He raped several women.”
“Not all at once! But yes, there were one or two incidents—”
“Four or five, and your King of the Gods once arranged for a man to have his liver eaten out for all eternity.”
“Prometheus had it coming to him.”
“A man must choose between Ahura Mazda and the Lie,” Barzanes carried on over her, seemingly unaware
he had angered Diotima. “It is surely obvious your Zeus could never compare to Ahura Mazda who is above all earthly passions.”
Diotima said, “Oh, come now. Can you really look around you, Barzanes, and tell me Love and War and Lust and Death don’t rule our lives? Wisdom and chaos and motherhood and the madness of wine and the beauty of music, they and the seasons and the sun are what we Hellenes worship, and anyone with the wit to open his eyes can see they’re as real as a smack in the face.”
I grabbed Diotima’s hand in case she decided to demonstrate the reality of a smack in the face.
“You fail to mention ethics,” Barzanes said. “A typical Hellene omission.”
“Ethics come of philosophy.”
“Your philosophy is the imaginings of mortal men, and therefore incapable of perfection.”
“I’ll have you know, Barzanes, I am a philosopher.” Diotima was openly angry now.
He said, “It is religion which defines right behavior. My vest contains a pocket. You see it here in the middle of my chest?”
“The empty one? Yes.”
“It is not empty. Within this pocket are all the good deeds I have done, and all the evil I have committed. I hope, when I take them out and examine them, that the good will outnumber the bad.”
His hand chopped through the air like an axe and his voice rose. “Your Gods are little better than bandits. They lie, and cheat, and fornicate with whomever they can catch.”
“When you’re a God, you can get away with these things,” I said.
“Not even your Gods can escape judgment. It is sung in the Gâthâs, all who die are led by the angels to a narrow bridge across a vast chasm. The angel Mithra, who walks in shadow and dispenses justice, waits upon the bridge, and judges the hearts of those who cross. Friends of the Lie will be cast off the bridge into the chasm of molten iron to spend eternity in Worst Existence, but if you are a friend of the Truth, you will pass on to the House of Best Purpose.”
“Mithra, who walks in shadow and dispenses justice” … it sounded like his own job. Did Barzanes think he was Mithra?
As we walked away Diotima whispered, “Is he sane? I’ve never seen anyone so convinced of his own righteousness.”
“I’m thinking of that pocket he’s wearing. I wish we could get a look inside to see what’s there.”
