The slave with the eyeliner was finished and stepped back, bowing low. Tisibazus opened his eyes and snapped his fingers. At once a mirror was placed in his hand. He examined the work of his slave critically and smudged the eye shadow upward at the end of his eyebrows with his baby finger before telling the slave working on his hair, “Enough. Bind it up.” While the slave complied, with another snap of his fingers Tisibazus summoned a jewel box. He selected several rings, and then he gestured for his sandals.
Standing, he was a tall man, over six feet but slender, and he had impressive, thick black hair, brows, and beard. Naked, he could have been taken for a soldier, but he was dressed now in turquoise silk robes over purple silk trousers, all embroidered with peacocks. Beside him, Zopyrus looked almost dowdy in his gray silk trimmed with gold filigree.
“If, on the other hand, they prove reasonable―as I expect―and surrender earth and water, then I will present them with the documents naming me Satrap of the Peloponnese and will assume office at once. Why do you think I brought such a large baggage train and three wives? I expect I’ll be here until the Great King captures Athens. Then I hope to be able to go home. After they’ve seen what our armies can do, they will be more submissive.”
“But you could be in great danger until then!” Zopyrus warned in genuine alarm. He did not think the Spartans would make docile subjects even if they, contrary to his expectations, were reasonable enough to offer up tokens of submission in the form of earth and water.
“I don’t think so,” Tisibazus answered, inspecting his manicure carefully. “The Argives are only awaiting my signal. They will come to provide me with a bodyguard.”
That sounded better, and Zopyrus relaxed a little.
A slave entered, bowing low. “The Spartans have sent for you, my lords.”
“Excellent,” Tisibazus responded, signaling to his colleagues.
“The Spartans request that you go to their place of Assembly, to the Canopy,” the slave told them. “You are to put your case to the citizens directly.”
Tisibazus raised his eyebrows and remarked, “I’m not sure we should lower ourselves to talking to rabble.”
“These so-called kings are singularly powerless. They cannot even tell their Assembly what to decide!” his colleague answered.
“Go back and tell the Greeks that Persian ambassadors do not talk to riffraff,” Tisibazus ordered.
The slave bowed deeply and backed out.
“You know, there is something very fishy about these kings,” Tisibazus admitted. “My body slave claims that your wife’s eunuch overheard talk that the Spartan kings are both away. Allegedly one of the kings is in Arkadia and the other in Aegina.”
Zopyrus thought about that for a moment and started to put two and two together. He became excited by what he deduced. “Maybe they are! Do you remember? When we asked who they were, they said they were the descendants of Herakles, but any member of the royal family could claim that. Maybe they weren’t the kings at all! Maybe they are no more than younger brothers; that would explain why they have no real authority here.”
“Didn’t you say you’d met the younger brother of one of the kings?”
“Exactly. I recognized the man as one of the two men who had been at our meeting, but he said he was the king’s younger twin―”
The slave was back, bowing low again. “My lords, the Spartans say you must come to the Assembly or return to Susa.”
“What did you say?” Tisibazus demanded, thinking he had misunderstood something.
The slave bowed deeper and pleaded in a whine, “My lord, forgive me if my words displease. I am only a messenger.”
“Send the man in here!” Tisibazus snapped, with a dismissive gesture.
The slave scuttled out, leaving the three Persian emissaries staring at one another.
“They are surely mad.”
A Spartiate was in the doorway. He was dressed in armor over a red and black chiton with a red himation over his shoulders. He had a high forehead formed by receding blond hair over a round face. He bowed his head. “You wished to speak to me?” he asked in Greek, and Tisibazus waved at Zopyrus to reply.
“We do not understand this request to come to your Assembly,” Zopyrus explained. “We appreciate that you have your own peculiar customs, but ambassadors of the Great King are here with a personal message for your kings and have no business with your commoners.”
The man swallowed and was obviously uncomfortable. Apparently he had enough breeding to be embarrassed by the obstinacy of his compatriots. “My lords,” he replied, bowing his head to the ambassadors, “there is no one in Sparta willing to present your case to the Assembly. The ephors say the request is improper and they will not voice it.”
“And your so-called kings?” Zopyrus said the word “kings” in a way that suggested he had not been fooled.
“Our kings are not in Sparta,” the man admitted. “Their representatives likewise refuse to put your proposal to the Assembly. Either return to your own king with a negative answer, or come and argue the case yourselves.”
Zopyrus translated the message, gratified that his suspicion had been confirmed. Tisibazus frowned in annoyance at having been tricked earlier, but it was too late to change that. He decided, “We will go and talk with this rabble, since their cowardly officials will not. Come!”
They took two chariots, their guide in the first with Tisibazus and Zopyrus with the other ambassador in the second. They found what looked like six to seven thousand men standing about in the shade of a large stoa and apparently arguing among themselves like a bunch of craftsmen bickering in a market. At the front of the stoa was a row of chairs filled with old men facing the rabble. In front of them stood the five men who had received the ambassadors, but there was no sign of the two pretenders who had hoodwinked the ambassadors three days earlier by impersonating Sparta’s kings.
Zopyrus could tell by the way Tisibazus moved, in long strides that made his robes flutter about him revealing his ankles, that he was very angry. He gestured irritably for Zopyrus to join him. “Ask them where they want me!” he ordered.
But already the chairman of the five officials was making gestures and calling for order. Across the stoa, conversations died and eyes turned toward the front. Tisibazus strode to the center of the open area, the sun glinting off the gold embroidery that edged the peacocks on his robes.
Tisibazus raised his voice. “Men of Sparta! The Great King, King of Kings, Lord of Persia, Master of the Medes, Conqueror of Armenia, Cilicia, Lydia, Babylon, Phoenicia, Syria, Assyria, Egypt, Nubia Arabia. Subjugator of Cyprus, Rhodes, Samos, Chios, Lesbos, and all the islands of the Aegean; Sovereign of Parthia, Bactria, Caspia, Susiana, and Paphlagonia; his Magnificence, Darius the Great―sends you his greetings and reaches out his gracious, God-touched hand to you in friendship. All praises to the Great Ahuramazda! His Awesomeness has sent me and my colleague on a journey lasting half a year just to bring you his munificent offer of peace, and to assure you of his benevolence toward you. Although he has never seen your valley or city, still he is prepared to embrace you, to enfold your homeland and hold it to his bosom, making it an integral part of his vast and eternal empire.”
There was a growing restlessness among the audience. Tisibazus concluded that the Spartans, like young children, had short attention spans. They were too dull to follow lengthy discourse, it seemed, and needed to have things worded succinctly. “His Majesty, Great King Darius, is prepared to accept you into his service and extend his peace and protection to you without demanding the usual―and seemly―tribute that he has every right to demand. He does not ask you to send him a thousand tetradrachma to compensate him for his troubles, nor even five hundred horses for his stables, nor a hundred virgins for his―” At this point in Zopyrus’ translation of the ambassador’s speech, he was interrupted.
The uproar was so loud and hostile that Tisibazus found himself shouting just to be heard above the uproar. “All he asks a
re tokens! Mere tokens! Nothing but earth and water!”
Zopyrus shouted out the translation, only to be answered by an unmistakable roar of: “We’ll give you earth and water!”
Several men lunged out of the crowd and grabbed the Persian emissaries roughly, shoving them backward as the entire crowd surged forward. Zopyrus could hear the frail voices of the old men calling out for order, and here and there other alarmed voices were raised in protest, but the mob was out of control. Young men were manhandling them so roughly that Tisibazus lost his footing, yet even that did not slow them down. The Spartans were dragging, pushing, and carrying the Persian emissaries out of the stoa. They could not see where they were being dragged. All they could see were the square-faced young men in red and bronze. The stink of sweat choked the ambassadors’ nostrils, and the shouts of the assailants in their barbarian tongue were deafening.
Tisibazus had never been so frightened in his life. As a young man he had had his share of battles, but this was different. He had no weapon but his diplomatic immunity, and these barbarians seemed to have forgotten that.
Zopyrus didn’t give diplomatic immunity a thought. He was a soldier and he was in danger. He struggled so violently that more men grabbed him. They lifted him clear off his feet and clung to his legs even as he kicked out, twisting his whole body left and right.
“Don’t harm them! They have diplomatic immunity! Let them go!” a voice shouted frantically. “Let the Persians go!” a second voice ordered. But these voices of reason were far away, and the men who had hold of Zopyrus and the ambassadors paid no attention.
Zopyrus’ struggle had succeeded in separating him from his companions. He saw Tisibazus and the other ambassador being heaved upward. He heard the dignitary cry out once in pain, and then again not so much from pain as from sheer terror. Zopyrus caught a glimpse through the crowd of the ambassador being held upside down by his ankles, his robes falling over his face. It was an image of only an instant, but it would stay with Zopyrus for a lifetime.
The stocky, dark man with the gray-flecked beard who had impersonated one of the two kings was screaming, “You’ll find all the water and earth you need right there!”
Still Tisibazus struggled. Although he could see nothing and was nearly suffocating under his robes, he tried with the desperation of panic to twist free of the men holding him by his feet. His arms were no longer held by anyone and he tried to grab hold of something. But each time his fingers caught something―a person, a piece of clothing, the edge of something hard―someone pried his fingers away.
Then they let go of him.
Tisibazus fell headfirst into darkness. He screamed, and his scream echoed on the stone around him. It was a terrifying howl that multiplied and grew louder and lingered, fading slowly, even after he was gone.
The brutal murder of an unarmed ambassador gave Zopyrus new strength. He lashed out with his teeth, clamping them into any flesh he could reach, and yanked his head back and forth. He drew blood that drenched his face and beard, and someone loosened his grip enough for Zopyrus to tear one arm free and throw a punch at someone’s throat. The man staggered backward, and another man lost his hold on one of his legs. Zopyrus drew his knee up and kicked out with all his force into a man’s belly. He drew in his knee for a second kick, and took a brutal punch in the face instead. The men who had been carrying him toward the well dropped him and started hammering him with their fists and feet.
Muffled through the press of men surrounding and assaulting him, Zopyrus heard the second scream. It was another high-pitched shriek of terror that slid down the scale to whimpering silence.
Suddenly the men around him were being yanked back, shoved aside, flung backward. “Barbarians! Thugs! These men are under the protection of the Gods!” The man shouting this was already hoarse from trying to make himself heard. He was frantic. His round face was bright red and sweating as he struggled against men younger and stronger than himself.
Zopyrus was seized again, but this time he was pulled upright. Someone strong had him around the waist. Another man pulled his arm over broad, bronze-clad shoulders. He found himself surrounded again, but this time the men around him had their backs to him and were facing outward. One or two of them seemed to have shields on their arms; others were armed with swords. The men who had been assaulting him drew back, and the men who had hold of him started to withdraw. He was being pulled away from the fateful well, away from the screaming and shouting and madness.
Zopyrus was too dazed to offer any kind of resistance. He let his rescuers set the pace and direction. He was dizzy from the blow to his head, and he stumbled more than once. The men around him held him up.
He could not grasp it. Could it be true? Had the Spartans, before his very eyes, murdered two Persian ambassadors? It was impossible. Ambassadors could not be touched―not imprisoned or harmed―not even during war. Persia was not at war with Sparta. How could they have killed two unarmed ambassadors?
“Here,” a voice said at his ear. Dazed, Zopyrus realized he was at the entrance to the guesthouse. Persian slaves were spilling out the front door, chattering stupidly. His slave bodyguard let out a roar and rushed down the steps. The Spartans parted and let the man come to his master.
“Get inside,” someone ordered, and Zopyrus turned to see who it was. He did not recognize the man, but he had a distinctive hawk-like face and braids that cut diagonally across his skull. The man beside him, however, was the very man who had come with that treacherous message that they must come to the Assembly. It had been a trap! For an instant, Zopyrus wanted to fling himself at this man and silence him forever. Then he noticed that this man’s hair was torn free of his braids and his lip was swelling. Zopyrus registered that he must have been one of the men who had finally driven the assailants off, bringing the other soldiers. The part of his brain that was not numbed by shock registered that the assault had come as a surprise to at least some of the Spartan citizens.
The first man was ordering again: “Get inside. We’ll mount a guard, but until things have quieted down, you should stay out of sight.”
More troops, fully armed and armored, were coming down the street at a brisk pace. Not knowing what side they might be on, Zopyrus darted for the house, slammed the door shut behind him, and ordered slaves to barricade it.
Half the slaves started fluttering about to obey, but a handful of others clustered around him asking what had happened. His body slave was wailing out that he had been wounded. One of Tisibazus’ slaves kept asking, “Where is my master? Where is my master?”
“Shut up! All of you!” Zopyrus shoved them away furiously. “The ambassadors are dead! Murdered! We are among barbarians!” Only when he said it out loud did it truly sink in.
Danei was in pain as he hobbled out to the courtyard with yet another load of his mistress’ things for the wagons. He was not used to either walking this much or carrying heavy loads. The damaged ligaments at the top of his thigh were overstrained by so much movement, and his arms and shoulders ached from the unusual exercise. But Zopyrus had ordered them to load ten of the wagons with their most valuable goods and prepare to depart before dawn. They had been working for hours, and it was now the middle of the night.
“Hurry! Hurry!” the self-important Nubian ordered Danei contemptuously, landing a kick in his backside for good measure. The black despised eunuchs and liked making fun of them in his free time; sometimes he masturbated in front of them to remind them of their inadequacies. Danei hated him.
“Where’s your mistress?” Zopyrus came out of the darkness and addressed Danei directly.
“She’s inside, master.”
“Is she dressed and ready?”
“Yes, master, but―” Danei had never dared to say “but” to the master before, and he bit his own tongue and cringed in anticipation of a blow.
“But what?” Zopyrus demanded in a searing tone, his eyes smoldering with anger in the dark.
“She is very frightened and
crying.”
“Well, she has every right to be frightened,” Zopyrus admitted, his tone softening a fraction, “but tell her she must pull herself together. She is a Persian princess.” He turned to go, stopped, and added, “Tell her we have an escort of one hundred Spartiate guardsmen.”
Danei gazed after Zopyrus as he continued to the next wagon, ordering some boxes to be removed and left behind to make room for other things he thought more important. Danei had no thoughts for the chaos in front of him anymore. One hundred Spartiate guardsmen? Even on Chios, Spartiate guardsmen had an awesome reputation. The elite of the elite. An escort of Spartiate guardsmen. Danei thought he remembered hearing that only the Spartan kings could command Spartiate guardsmen ….
Zopyrus was back. “What are you standing around gawking at? Get your mistress! Get her inside that covered wagon.”
“Yes, master.”
Phaidime was sitting on the bed, numbed with fear. She was wrapped in three veils because she could not decide which to leave behind, and her hands were heavy with all the rings she owned, all the gold armbands and bracelets Zopyrus had ever given her.
“It’s time to go out to the wagon,” Danei told her gently.
Phaidime got to her feet without a word. She wrapped one of her veils across her face so that only her eyes showed, and tucked it under the end of the others to keep it there. Danei took her trembling little hand and led her out into the courtyard.
The master’s dogs had been let out and were circling around, sniffing everything in confusion. Horses were being hitched up. Cursing broke out somewhere on the far side of the courtyard, but was quickly silenced by a barked order.
Danei helped Phaidime up and into the canvas-covered wagon. Inside behind the driver’s box, a nest of silk cushions had been prepared for her and the five wives―now widows―of the two ambassadors. It was not large enough for the women to stretch out, but they could sit or lie curled up. Danei urged Phaidime to lie down, but she shook her head and insisted on sitting with her back against the side of the wagon, clutching her knees. Danei seated himself on the driver’s seat and waited. After a few moments the older eunuchs brought the other five women, and then the driver emerged out of the darkness, hauled himself up, and plopped himself down beside Danei.
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