They marched us back to the small temple outside the gate, and there was an officer, sitting in torchlight on a good chair, no doubt stolen out of a home.
I knew him immediately, of course. It was Cyrus, the friend of my youth.
It’s not so remarkable, either. When last I’d seen him he had been a commander of one hundred. He’d held important positions under Artaphernes, too – he’d been captain of Sardis for a while. And I knew that Artaphernes’ son of the same name had led a thousand cavalrymen of Lydia to join the Great King; I’d had to assume my old friend would be in the field.
Nonetheless, it was a shock to see him and I confess I was immediately at a loss as to how to proceed. Friends, guest friendship, duty, honour, truth and lies.
But I may have a touch of the wits of wily Odysseus, because after a moment’s terror, I bowed like a nobleman, one hand to the floor of the temple.
‘Lord Cyrus,’ I said in my good camp Persian.
He had not recognised me until then, and who would, with a split lip already puffy and some other lacerations, in an old brown cloak and a fair amount of blood?
But he rose. ‘Arimnestos!’ he said. Then he was suddenly cautious.
He sat. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked harshly.
He looked at Brasidas.
I swear before the gods, in that moment he saw through the whole of our plot.
But Siccinius stepped forward, brave when it counted. ‘My lord, I come from Themistocles the Athenian with a report for the Great King, and an offer of a tremendous service that my lord would like to offer the King.’
Siccinius had been forced to give his wax tablet to the first guards but he saw it lying in front of Cyrus and he waved at it. ‘My lord has written—’ he began.
Cyrus rose, his face closed. He did not meet my eye. ‘Have these men watched closely, but not harmed,’ he snapped at a guard. ‘These are very dangerous men, and very important to the Great King.’
Damn him!
All the guards stepped a little away from us. The cavalryman nearest me looked at Brasidas, smiled, licked his lips and loosened his akinakes, his short sword, in his belt. He used his thumb, pushing against the throat of the scabbard, to loosen the blade – a man of skill.
Now that they were warned, they no longer treated us as slaves. Which meant that our options for escape were nearly nil.
‘Lord Cyrus tells me you can all ride. Is this true?’ a soldier asked.
We all agreed, and received mounts.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘To see the Great King himself,’ the soldier replied. ‘And the gods have mercy on your poor spirits.’
Irony is present in all the affairs of gods and men. That night’s irony lay in the location of the Great King.
He was living in Aristides’ house.
When you think of it, it makes perfect sense; it was one of the finest houses in Athens and located well away from the centre, over past the Pnyx in a walled compound with its own stable. Few Athenians had what was, in essence, a small farm in the heart of the city, and fewer still had such a fine garden.
But it seemed very odd indeed to be taken in total darkness through Aristides’ outer hall. It was all well lit – the Great King, apparently, had been awakened.
A eunuch took charge of us. He was tall and clear-skinned, with the kind of tanned skin and lush dark hair that makes Babylonians so beautiful. His voice was low and deep and resonant – he’d have made a fine orator.
Eunuchs only keep their boyish voices if you cut their stones away while they’re boys, honey. Cut them older and they’re just angry men.
While the guards watched us with arrows on their bows, the eunuch instructed us on how to greet the king. It didn’t matter, as it turned out – as soon as we were taken into the garden, soldiers of the Immortals slammed us to the ground.
A foot was placed on the middle of my back and a spear point placed in the hollow at the base of the back of my skull where the neck meets it. It was very sharp.
I could see nothing but Siccinius. I couldn’t even see Brasidas, and I despaired; I wished I had told Themistocles to go himself (which had occurred to me). You know why I didn’t?
I didn’t really trust him.
‘The Great King bids you speak,’ said a voice. It wasn’t someone I knew.
Nor was the voice directed at us.
I heard Cyrus. I should have expected that he would be there. I suppose that I should have expected what he would say, but I was shocked.
‘Great King, King over Kings, Lord of Lords, these three miserable Greeks are nothing. They are a bold ruse by your enemies to attempt to pull a hood over your eyes. I can’t even guess to what lengths the Greeks would go, or what foolishness they intend. I can only say that I know two of these men, and they are lying.’
I knew Xerxes’ voice as soon as he spoke.
‘Cyrus, captain of Artaphernes of Sardis, are you not?’ he asked. His voice was careful and controlled, and yet I swear he hinted that as a captain of Artaphernes, who had been against the war, he was not fully to be trusted.
‘I have that honour,’ Cyrus replied.
Xerxes cleared his throat. ‘Bring me a cup of wine with honey,’ he said. ‘Tell me what message they bring?’
By the Lord of the Silver Bow and my ancestor Heracles, I’d have given a year of my life to be able to see. I thought the next voice might be Mardonius, although we’d been told he was south and west by Megara.
‘They bring an offer of fealty, King of Kings, from that rascal Themistocles.’ The voice was smooth, cultured, deeply Persian, and held the kind of malicious humour that delighted the oriental mind. ‘The slave on the left is Siccinius, Great King. Him we have seen before.’
Even in that moment of terror and apprehension, I noted that the Great King had seen Siccinius before.
For the first time it dawned on me that I had been used. That Themistocles might be a traitor and he was actually telling the Great King the truth – he was betraying the fleet.
Zeus, god of free men, protect me, I thought.
‘The man on the right is a Spartan soldier who fought against you, Great King, in the war in Babylon. He fled and survived, but he is utterly your enemy.’ This from Cyrus, my so-called friend. Perhaps he didn’t mention me to protect me.
Brasidas shocked me, even in that state. ‘You lie,’ he said clearly. ‘Send for your ally Demaratus, King of Sparta, and ask him who I am.’
Cyrus took a step and was stopped by the Immortals. ‘I do not lie!’ he said. ‘These are dangerous men who intend no good thing for you, Great King!’
‘Be silent,’ Xerxes said. ‘I have been told repeatedly that Athens would have traitors. I have also sent for Hippias.’
There is something horrifying about lying on a mosaic floor for long minutes, a spear in your neck and your hands bound. It was cold, and it was, in its own way, agonising.
I thought of Hippias, whose lustful advances I had avoided when I had been a slave as a boy. He’d been a loathsome worm then.
Hate can help you, in despair. I hated Hippias as a traitor, as a tyrant, and as a fat, ugly man, and that hate buoyed me up. It’s not pretty to say – better that I had been suffused with a desire for glory, or love for Briseis, but in all that time on the cold floor I never thought once of Briseis.
And then he came, fatter, uglier, and more perfumed than I remembered. He was like a caricature of himself. I saw him as he passed across the area of wall my eyes could see.
He made the full proskinesis on the floor and then rose, his fat arse an embarrassment to all Greeks.
‘How may I serve the Great King?’ he asked.
Mardonius spoke again. ‘Demaratus has been tested many times and found loyal,’ he said. ‘He predicted that men of Sparta would come to him. Let us send for him as
well.’
Xerxes nodded and pointed at an Immortal. I assume he ran – certainly it seemed no time at all before I heard the deposed Spartan king’s voice.
‘Great King?’ he asked, without much formality. Unlike the worm, Hippias, he didn’t abase himself, but merely bowed deeply, one hand to the floor, like a Persian nobleman.
‘Unpick this riddle for me,’ Xerxes said. ‘Here is your man, Brasidas, with a suspicious character and a slave. The slave claims to offer me the allegiance of Themistocles the Athenian. The other two are guarantors of this pact, or perhaps offered to me as hostages.’
‘Or it is a trick—’ Cyrus took a breath.
Xerxes all but patted Hippias like a dog. ‘This slave comes to me from Themistocles. He brought this letter. Read it and tell me what you think?’
Hippias took the tablets and read them. It took him a long time; I don’t think his Persian was very good. Demaratus read the letter in half the time.
‘I think his offer is genuine,’ the old tyrant said, delighted. ‘I told you men would come over to you when they saw how powerless they were!’
Xerxes chuckled. ‘You promised me they would throw flowers when I entered Athens, and that men would demand that you be restored to power,’ he said with Persian honesty. ‘I have not seen any flowers, and there was no one left in Attica to demand your restoration, so I’m delighted that in this, at least, you are correct.’
‘Great King, if they had not driven the common people into the ships with whips, there would have been cheering crowds to greet your arrival.’ Hippias spoke unctuously, the way one would speak to Zeus, if Zeus came to earth.
Demaratus grunted.
‘You disagree?’ Xerxes asked.
Demaratus made some noise. I couldn’t see him, but I’m going to guess he gave a Laconian shrug. ‘If the offer were genuine, surely Themistocles would have come in person? I did.’
Cyrus’s voice rose. ‘Great King, I beg permission to speak.’
Xerxes made a noise in his throat. ‘Speak, then.
‘Great King, all these Greeks are liars. They do not see lying as a sin, the way we do. This Themistocles – what can he gain by betraying his own fleet?’ Cyrus paused and then threw me to the wolves. ‘Great King, the man in the centre is Arimnestos the Plataean, who was their ambassador at Persepolis. You remember him? Can we imagine him as a traitor?’
Xerxes chuckled. ‘Is it he, indeed? Well, some of his arrogance has been rubbed off him, anyway. Arimnestos, not so stiff-necked now, are you? Speak, Plataean. Speak well for your life. What do you here?’
‘Great King, you have burned my city. I have come to save what I can,’ I said.
‘You have come to serve me?’ Xerxes asked.
‘Great King, ask Cyrus – indeed, ask Artaphernes how often he has asked me to command his ships or his soldiers. I have never been an enemy to his house, or yours, Great King. Or why do you think the Greeks chose me as ambassador?’
Xerxes coughed. ‘Cyrus? What say you to that?’
Cyrus paused. ‘It could be as he says,’ he admitted slowly. ‘In which case I will owe him a great apology. But ask him only this, Great King. Ask him to swear an oath to the gods to be your slave.’
Xerxes laughed aloud. ‘Cyrus, you are to be commended for your caution, but you have said yourself that Greeks are great liars and one oath more or less will not keep them from plummeting into the great darkness. These men speak our tongue but have no idea how men should behave. Siccinius? What does your master bid me do?’
Siccinius spoke up. ‘Great King, my master bids you do what you would have done anyway – attack! In the dark of the moon, bring your forces into the Bay of Salamis so that the Greeks are surrounded on every side, and then fall on them in the dawn. My master will lead the ships of Athens over to you – he will change sides, and the League will collapse. He asks only that now that you have fulfilled your vow to destroy the temples of Athens that you will allow him to restore them.’
‘Him, or some other of my choice,’ Xerxes said. I had raised my head from the floor when I spoke, and now I saw Xerxes cast an affectionate look at Hippias, the sort of look a man gives his favourite dog.
For a Great King, Xerxes was a very fragile man. Even from the miserable cold of Aristides’ best mosaic floor, I could see that he needed the Greeks to be coming over to his side. His intimates had promised him triumph. Men like Hippias had insisted that the miserable Greeks longed for his enlightened rule.
Every man desires to be the hero in his own epic, thugater. Even the Great King. And he was more the victim of his own desires than most.
And if you want to lie to a man, promise him what he most desires. Think, if you will, of the horse the Achaeans sent to the Trojans as tribute, a sort of huge trophy of victory. The Trojans desired nothing more than to have won.
Siccinius, greatly daring, went on. ‘My master bids you set up your throne where you can see the Bay of Salamis,’ he said. ‘To watch and truly see how he conducts himself, and what reward he deserves.’
I thought he’d overplayed our hand, myself. Perhaps it was best to send a slave – a slave understands how obsequiously a master wants to hear his dreams laid out. I would not have dared.
Xerxes sighed with satisfaction. ‘What a beautiful notion,’ he said.
I managed to see Mardonius out of the corner of my eye. He was staring at me and Cyrus was whispering to him.
Damn Cyrus and his honesty.
‘When does my new servant Themistocles think I should attack?’ Xerxes asked.
‘Tomorrow night, which is the dark of the moon,’ Siccinius said. ‘There is no better night for your fleet to surround the beaches of the Greeks.’ He paused. ‘And my master will need time to prepare. He needs to know by morning. We … lost much time with your guards.’
Mardonius laughed. ‘Slave, you expect that we will send you back?’
Siccinius spoke again. ‘If you want Athens to defect to you, Great King, we will all three have to be sent back. I am but the herald: these two men are greater than I, and were sent as proof for me. They are Themistocles’ friends.’
At first I thought he’d spoken in our favour. In retrospect, though, it sounded as if he’d offered us as hostages.
Mardonius shook his head and I was slammed back to the floor and lost sight of him. ‘I say no!’ he said with some force. ‘Let this Themistocles do as he will; we will surround and shatter this little fleet regardless.’
But Xerxes had the bit in his teeth. ‘Be calm, Mardonius. Gentle yourself. If we defeat this fleet, a fleet which has beaten mine twice, if we defeat it, we will have to fight the survivors again, and perhaps again and again. But if the Athenians and the Aeginians change sides, their League will be no more and every one of their little towns will make peace. I know it. I feel this in my bones.’
Demaratus agreed. ‘Great King, in this I agree. The defection of Athens would finish the League. Even the Spartans would have to sue for peace. Whereas – I speak only as a soldier – as long as their fleet exists somewhere, it forces you to a long and expensive land campaign. Sparta will not be beaten easily.’
Mardonius laughed. ‘Demaratus, you vastly exaggerate the power and importance of a tiny state with no real power, because it was once yours. We defeated the Spartans at the Hot Gates and killed their king. They are nothing.’
Hippias spoke up. He saw a change in his fortunes – Athen’s treason meant his own restoration, perhaps. ‘Trust this man, Great King. You have little to lose; as Great Mardonius says, your fleet will win anyway.’
The lickspittle knew he’d get some of the credit, too.
‘Send the slave back, then, and leave the Spartan and the Plataean as hostages.’ Mardonius’s suggestion made far too much sense. I began to suspect I was going to die for Greece.
The worst of it was that I n
o longer trusted Siccinius or Themistocles, for all that the slave had done his level best to have us returned.
Xerxes nodded. ‘That is reasonable,’ he said.
I raised my head and was not killed. ‘Great King,’ I said. ‘I beg leave to speak.’
‘Now you are more polite,’ he said. ‘Speak.’
‘Great King, many Spartans, and many other ships, will follow Themistocles, if we are there. If we are not – if you keep Brasidas, who leads the party of men who support the exiles – the Spartans will fight. I too command ships, and they will fight.’ I was making things up as fast as I could.
Mardonius laughed. ‘Let them fight – the whole Plataean fleet!’ he mocked. ‘How many ships? None? One?’
‘Or perhaps they will all sail away,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow morning when I do not return.’
‘That is a small risk I will accept,’ the Great King said. ‘Take the Spartan and the Boeotian and throw them in the storehouse. If Themistocles does as he promises, they will be released with honours. If not, I will have them dragged to death by chariots.’ He smiled.
Siccinius was taken away. He did not protest again. I don’t think he was sorry to leave us behind. After all, he was being led to freedom.
I had never been in Jocasta’s storage shed. It was getting light outside and they threw us in, none too gently.
When they were gone, we found some sacking and used it to get warm. And bless Jocasta, there were old blankets, no doubt moth-eaten, and we made ourselves as comfortable as we might on a chilly autumn morning.
It would be hot when day came, but at the very break of day it was cold, and the floor had been cold – and of course, nothing is colder than fear.
Then we sat back to back, for warmth, bundled in old sacking and blankets.
‘I am not afraid to die for Greece,’ I said.
Brasidas grunted.
‘But I am worried that Themistocles is fucking us all,’ I said.
Brasidas, who never swore or talked bawdy, stiffened. ‘What?’ he asked.
I spoke very quietly. ‘I worry that I have been used, that Siccinius just did exactly what he appeared to do, that Themistocles used the veil of honesty to pull the wool over our eyes, and that Themistocles will, in fact, attempt to betray the League tomorrow the same way Samos betrayed us at Lade.’
Salamis Page 20