Athenian Steel (Book I of the The Hellennium)

by P. K. Lentz

  Retrieving the cloth and cake of soap, Eurydike shrugged. "First, mine's fouler. And second, it doesn't matter 'cause I'm a shitty student anyway."

  "At least you can count to two."

  She swatted him.

  ***

  When he was clean and shaved, he dressed in the finest himation he owned, one of brilliant white linen with geometric trim that was in fact nondescript by the standards of an Alkibiades or a Kleon. The day prior he had had his hair, grown rather wild in Thrace, trimmed back a bit, though it remained, on advice of both his women, rather longer than he had worn it previously. In the megaron, Thalassia stood facing him, making final adjustments to his appearance. Her fingers traced tingling lines on his scalp.

  "Perfection," she declared. Her hands fell away, but she did not withdraw.

  He had come to know when Thalassia was holding something back; or, at least, he knew when she wanted him to know when she was holding back.

  "Out with it," he said, in no mood for games.

  "There's one thing," she admitted, as no doubt she'd planned to all along. "It really isn't that important, but you ought to know so that it won't be a surprise should it come up in conversation today."

  Demosthenes told her with a dark look that he did not much care for her prologue.

  "Laonome's husband died in the Aetolian disaster," Thalassia revealed, "under your command."

  He gaped. "Not important? How is that not important? I made her a widow! You tell me this now?"

  "If you'd known, would you have agreed to meet her?"

  "We will never know that now! But I would have had good enough reason not to. I killed her fucking husband!"

  "If it's any consolation," Thalassia said, smoothing his chiton, utterly unperturbed, "he treated her like garbage."

  IV. ARKADIA 3. Laonome

  Rattled but undeterred, Demosthenes called on his prospective bride at the house of her brother and kyrios, Autokles, in the deme of Koele. Autokles greeted his illustrious guest wearing what was doubtless his own finest himation, and he fawned so much that he threatened to soak both his own and his guest's garments in drool.

  "What an honor it is to welcome the hero of Amphipolis into my humble home," Autokles droned, bowing low in the doorway. "Not to forget Pylos, of course! To think we might become kin! But I get ahead of myself. Here, come in, come in. This is my wife, Chrysis. That's a special pomegranate cheese she is bringing you. It comes from her father's farm. She sells it in the agora, or tries her best to, but thus far it appeals only to customers with truly discerning palates. A shame we have to resort to such measures to make ends meet, but–well, let us not dwell on that. I suppose you would like to meet Laonome!"

  "Aye." It was Demosthenes' first contribution to the conversation, such as it was, and he made it whilst seated on a worn couch and holding a morsel of vile pink cheese. Thankfully Autokles wasted no time dispatching his giddy wife upstairs to send down the sister-in-law who had dwelt with them since her husband's death.

  Moments later, Laonome descended the stairs. She was pale skinned, notwithstanding a pink cast to her cheeks which was likely temporary, and her long, straight hair of light brown had been pleated into a multitude of small braids fastened in loops around her head in a mock garland that was peppered with small, white blossoms. At the nape of her bare neck nestled the only piece of jewelry she wore, a silver brooch turned into a necklace by the addition of a silken ribbon. Her chiton was of pale pink, with an embroidered hem that dragged just slightly behind her heels. Its bodice had been gathered and pinned at the front to mimic the pleating of a more expensive gown.

  Thalassia had not lied. Laonome was eminently fu–

  Inviting.

  The widow reached the floor of the megaron, halted and stood before her suitor with hands clasped and brown eyes dutifully downcast. Autokles, seated beside his guest on the couch, beamed at his sister's entrance and set to nudging Demosthenes with an elbow in the hope his own enthusiasm would prove contagious.

  "Sit, sit, my beloved sister!" Autokles urged.

  Laonome glided in her long chiton to a chair set far enough from the men to preclude her participation in the conversation, but close enough that she could easily serve as its object. When she was seated, Autokles produced a scroll which he opened and presented to her suitor.

  "I could go on and on about how well she cooks and how you will get no trouble from her," her keeper said, "but no doubt you will think me biased. So let me show you this instead. As you can see, it is a sworn statement by her deceased husband's father to the effect that his son found Laonome's personality unobjectionable and her household skills more than satisfactory. Here, read for yourself!"

  "High praise indeed," Demosthenes remarked after pretending to scan the document. He glanced briefly at Laonome to see if she might be receptive to a smile at her brother's expense, but she demurely averted her eyes.

  Autokles tucked the affidavit back into his chiton for future use, should today's efforts come to naught. Abruptly, he threw an urgent look over his shoulder in the direction of a street-facing window. He leaped to his feet and ran over, peering outside.

  "You must excuse me for a few moments," he said. "There is a man outside who borrowed twenty drachmae from me and then vanished without trace. What terrible timing it is for him to reappear now, but I really had better chase him down!"

  Autokles raced out his front door, but not before drawing the curtains on the window and flicking a curious glance at his sister.

  Demosthenes had never been a suitor before, but he knew, as anyone did, that a guardian never left a man alone with his potential bride. Even if she was not a virgin. And so for several awkward minutes, Demosthenes waited for Chrysis to descend and replace her husband as chaperon, but she never came.

  Laonome sat rigid in her chair with hands folded, head bowed. At the risk of being caught staring, Demosthenes studied her face. It was fine and feminine, its highlight a pair of full pink lips the upper of which was marred by a tiny, bloodless scar which was prominent enough to be noticeable, but which failed to detract. Besides finding her face a pleasant sight, he detected on it the trace of some inner struggle. Did it have something to do with that cruel twist of fate which Thalassia had convinced him did not matter, that he had been the one to lead her husband to his death in Aetolia? Thalassia had told him the dead man's name, but no face matched it in his memory.

  When the long silence lurched from awkward to intolerable, Demosthenes smiled and tried and failed to gain eye contact with Laonome. He said anyway, "I suppose it cannot be pleasant to be talked about like a sow at the butcher's."

  If possible, Laonome's posture grew even stiffer. The brooch at her neck pivoted briefly as a lump passed underneath it.

  "Apologies," Demosthenes said. "I did not mean to call you a sow. It was meant as a joke. You have met Thalassia and Eurydike, so you know I need a sense of humor to suffer keeping them in my home." To offset the inadvertent self-compliment with praise for her, he added, "They speak very highly of you."

  Laonome's reaction was a series of rapid eye blinks while she stared down at her folded hands. Whatever conflict had been written on her features seemed to come now to a head. She looked up and gave a thin, tentative smile, at last meeting her suitor's gaze.

  "My brother did not leave by chance," she said, voice just above a whisper. "He expects me to flirt with you. More than that. Because I have no dowry, he says the only reason anyone would ever marry me is to save money by getting a wife and a whore for one price. He told me to... show you my tits." She had the courage to use unladylike vulgarity, but not without blushing. "But I will not. I hope you are not disappointed."

  "Quite the opposite," Demosthenes returned, relieved to have the tension broken. "I think that if you had followed that advice, I would be on my way home now."

  Laonome coyly broke off her gaze. "Not that I don't have a nice body," she added. "I do, I think, for having borne two sons."

 
; Demosthenes had no chance to reply before Autokles returned to carry on his charade.

  "The thief swears he will have it for me next month!" the master of the house lied. He cast what he thought was a subtle look at Laonome, who in answer turned a pink cheek on him. Autokles sat and said eagerly to Demosthenes, "Did I mention that sons run in our family? Both of Laonome's children were strapping lads right up until the plague took them, poor souls."

  Just as Autokles' backside hit the couch, Demosthenes rose from it abruptly. With panic plain on his face, Autokles followed suit.

  "Do not leave so soon!" he sputtered. "We have not discussed–"

  "Autokles of Koele," Demosthenes addressed the man, "I formally request the hand of your sister Laonome in marriage."

  He had made the decision only in that instant. He could not quite say why. He knew that he liked Laonome, and not only out of pity for her unenviable situation, and neither for guilt over his part in causing it. Maybe in truth what he had decided was to trust in the instincts of those who knew him best. Sure, it was a risk adding to his oikos a third female who was such a natural ally to the two willful ones already inhabiting it. But he was unlikely, instinct said, to find a more suitable match than Laonome without scouring the city, a task which he had no intention of undertaking.

  The wind flew out of Autokles in a single, hot gust. As quickly as he had risen, the distasteful man fell to his knees and scrambled to clasp Demosthenes' right hand. There came from upstairs a loud clatter followed by the fast scrape of sandals on the stairs, the result of which was the timely arrival of a surely eavesdropping Chrysis.

  But Demosthenes' attention was not on them. He watched his betrothed. Laonome's lower lip gently trembled beneath the upper with its white scar, which he already found endearing. Her lashes fluttered and tears slid down her cheeks. Whether they came from sadness or joy, it was impossible to tell, and she covered them quickly. They were tears of change, perhaps, but Autokles and his wife took no notice of them. Euphoric, they embraced then praised the gods and danced in delight before their prestigious soon-to-be brother-in-law.

  "The wedding should be modest," Demosthenes declared, "and as soon as possible."

  "Of course!" Autokles veritably sang. "My new brother!"

  Claiming he had pressing business, which he did not, Demosthenes made a hasty exit.

  IV. ARKADIA 4. Princess and Fool

  Poseideon in the archonship of Isarchos (December 424 BCE)

  They were hostages in an enemy land, technically at the mercy of the mob-rule which Athenians labeled democracy, but inside the jailhouse walls, as far as any Spartiate was concerned, Brasidas ruled. He treated the men just as he would have if they had been here in Attica as invaders: assigning duties, organizing drills, leading calisthenics and enforcing an iron discipline to which, owing to the authority bestowed on Brasidas by the ephors and a reputation untarnished even by his capture, the prisoners happily submitted.

  The crookedest of the Athenian guards greeted the new discipline and unity with disappointment, since it robbed them of the chance to administer beatings and ended the intra-Spartan violence which had until then broken out periodically, and which the jailers sometimes wagered on, intervening only when necessary to prevent the loss of a valuable hostage. But they were in the minority; most guards were happy to see their jobs made easier. In exchange for making their lives easier, the Athenians treated Brasidas well and gave him considerable leeway in managing the lives of his prisoners. In time, it hardly seemed as if the Equals were imprisoned at all, so closely did existence within the jail house walls mimic barracks life in Sparta.

  Of course, it was all a facade.

  The routine, the compliance, the discipline ushered in by the arrival of Brasidas were only a cover for the digging of an escape tunnel. Two tunnels, in fact, on account of the large number of prisoners. Due for completion by winter's end, the tunnels were to terminate not just outside the wall of the prison compound but further off, in places chosen in stolen glances through and over the wall, where the escapees might emerge into the cover of densely packed homes.

  Styphon was discreetly emptying a load of loose earth from the pocket created by the fold of his prison smock over its rope belt when an Athenian guard emerged into the prison yard and made a line for him. Keeping his nerve, Styphon let the last of the dirt fall whilst slowly turning to face the oncoming guard.

  "Come with me," the guard said. His hand rested casually on the club slung at his hip. The jailers wisely did not carry edged weapons, lest one be taken and used by the prisoners who greatly outnumbered them.

  Under the suspicious gazes of his fellow prisoners, Styphon followed the guard into the building which housed the bulk of the jailhouse offices. When the door was closed and latched behind them, another Athenian came up and bolted irons connected by rattling chains onto Styphon's wrists and ankles.

  "You have a visitor," the second Athenian said.

  The announcement set Styphon's mind at ease: his summons did not concern the tunnels.

  The guards brought him to the same small interview room in which, until his replacement by Brasidas, he had sat in one day each month to confer with a Spartan envoy allowed in by the Athenians. Once, some sixteen months ago, he had shared the room with the general who had put him here, Demosthenes.

  The visitor who waited across the table now was neither of those. In the eyes of any Spartan, the man now present was the prototypical Athenian: meticulously clean-shaven with fluffy waves of womanly brown hair, an intricately decorated chiton that would be the envy of any Persian princess and porcelain fingers that looked as if they might break off were he to wrap them around a spear. The nails he intermittently tapped on the table were devoid of the tiniest speck of dirt.

  Styphon sat. The door was shut behind him.

  "I know how much you Equals hate idle chatter," the visitor said, "so to be sure you listen to me instead of humming battle paeans in your head, I shall not bother with any. I am Alkibiades. You may have heard of me."

  Styphon had not. Even if he had, he would have given the same reaction, which was none. The effeminate fool paused, as if playing role in one of the dramas his people adored so much.

  "We share an acquaintance," the Athenian resumed. "You named her, I am told. Actually I am rather more acquainted with her than you are, I think, unless–well, I digress. I come to tell you that she kept the promise she made to you on the island. Your daughter Andrea is here in Athens, and has been for a year."

  However much Styphon had reviled this arrogant ladyboy from the moment he laid eyes on him, he now could not help but take an interest in his words. Not that he would let that show, if he could help it.

  The blowhard proceeded: "I am caring for the girl as if she were my own. Her tutors are Thalassia and the wisest man in Athens, Socrates. Maybe you have heard of him? No?"

  Alkibiades shrugged, oblivious to the boiling of Styphon's blood at the thought that his offspring might be raised by this worthless preener.

  "No matter. I have not forgotten that she is Spartan, and neither will she. I was suckled on Lakonian tit, not that I would insult you by saying that makes me even half-equal to an Equal. But I do know and respect your ways. I know you let your females shed their clothes and compete in games," he put a manicured hand over his heart, "a practice of which I wholeheartedly approve.

  "Maybe you already knew that Andrea is quite the little runner. And her mind is no less fleet. It is as though she is a grown woman and a child in the same skin. One minute a quiet intelligence lurks behind her eyes; the next she is up to mischief." He laughed sharply. "And gods help any child who insults her. Or insults Sparta!"

  Some revelation creased Alkibiades' smooth brow. "Shit," he remarked to the tabletop, "she is just like a miniature–"

  The end of that comparison went unspoken. He looked back and nodded earnestly.

  "I just thought that a father should know such things."

  The Athenian's ex
pression was open, sincere, and Styphon had to admit to himself that his opinion of the fool had risen since the start of the interview. As for Andrea, Styphon had spared thoughts for her from time to time while rotting in his cell. While she certainly could have a better keeper than this princess seated before him, she could surely do worse. Her current situation sounded better for her than what she would face in Sparta, at any rate. Cruelty toward cowards and their kin was enshrined in Lykurgan law, and Sparta's children could be crueler even than her grown men and women.

  However, gratitude to this preener did not preclude attempting to pry information from him. After a long, stony silence which should seem nothing strange to anyone claiming familiarity with Spartan ways, Styphon summoned up an ability he rarely exercised, that to deceive.

  "I appreciate your coming to tell me of these things," he said. It was not quite a lie. Hyperbole, perhaps. Almost certainly it was what the princess, an ego-stroker for certain, had arrived hoping to hear. "I have worried for Andrea, and it lifts my spirit to learn she is in good hands. I very much hope that the gods will let me out of this place one day to see her again."

  Alkibiades was quick to insert, "Would that I could bring her here, but as you may imagine, there is a need for discretion."

  "On both our parts."

  This was the truth, undiluted. It would not do for Brasidas to learn of Andrea's 'defection' or how it had come about.

  Styphon resumed, less honestly, "I know we are enemies, Athenian. But on our shared love for the girl, perhaps you might tell me: is there any talk of what is to be our fate?"

  The visitor appraised Styphon with a pensive frown before apparently deeming there to be no harm in answering.

  "I would not worry too much," he said. "You are too useful as hostages to kill. The problem is–for you, anyway, not us, and least of all me–the problem is that given our recent victories, few voters have interest signing a treaty, which is your only path home. The exception is..."