Killer of Men

by Christian Cameron

  As the number of incidents between the Persian soldiers and the townspeople – and the sailors – mounted, Artaphernes was forced to confront the reality that there were people in Ephesus – many people – who viewed any Persian as a foe. And his soldiers didn’t help. Darius and Cyrus thought nothing more comical than to separate a pretty Greek girl from her Ionian boyfriend – by a mixture of force and persuasion that, let’s be honest, young women enjoy. Some young women. At any rate, multiply their efforts by a hundred, and there wasn’t a Greek virgin left in the lower town to marry her behorned and already cuckolded man, and that is the fastest way to violence.

  The Persians were fastidious. They didn’t rape and they didn’t pick on slaves, the way Greek soldiers will. So the slaves didn’t mind them. But the Greeks – the smallholders of the lower town – killed a few in ambushes, and then the swords were out all over town, and Artaphernes’ troubles began in earnest.

  It wore him out. I saw him every day and ran messages for Mistress to him, offering him a remedy for headache or sometimes just carrying a verse or a flower. I liked running errands for my mistress, because she was kind to me, gave me money and it was an excuse to be in the women’s wing. She favoured me, and she must have said something, because suddenly, after a year of forced parting, Penelope warmed to me again, and we were allowed to go out together on errands to the agora and to be together in private.

  This is what I mean, my honey, when I say that masters have effects on their slaves that they never intend. I don’t think Hipponax ever intended that I never see Penelope again, nor, I think, did Mistress understand how far Penelope and I might go – or perhaps she knew exactly what was happening. In fact, even as I tell this, I wonder if she sought to end another liaison – one whose discovery hurt me more than anything.

  Anyway, it was on one of our errands together that I contributed unwittingly to the problems of the town. I was in the agora with Penelope – hand in hand – when a man clouted me in the head and sent me tumbling into the muck beneath the tanners’ stalls. Penelope screamed. Once again, there were two attackers, but this time I was badly hurt. If my attackers hadn’t been fools, I’d have died. One started kicking me and the other grabbed Penelope. In a crowded agora, that was a foolish move. She had a healthy scream and she bit him hard. Unlike a free-born girl, slave girls know just how to deal with attack. But I didn’t see any of it, because my initial attacker had put his foot into my guts and I puked. He grabbed my hair – and then I was covered in blood.

  Cyrus killed both my attackers. It was the will of the gods that Cyrus and Pharnakes, his particular friend, were in the market, looking for trouble, and I provided it. They killed my assailants with the joy with which men do such things.

  But because there was a Greek lying on the ground and a screaming woman, many others in the agora jumped to the wrong conclusions. As I began to return to my senses, an ugly crowd was forming and Penelope was still screaming. She’d never seen a man’s intestines before. Not her fault.

  I got to my feet and had the sense to offer my hand to Cyrus, and he had the sense to take it, mud and blood and all. Then I embraced Penelope, and she let me lead her away.

  ‘Best come with me, lord,’ I said to Cyrus, and he and Pharnakes did as I suggested, like good soldiers. I led them up the hill and the crowd followed us for a few streets, but soon enough we got free.

  After that I was much more careful when I was out of the house. Diomedes wanted me dead. I had forgotten him. The very best revenge. His betrothal had been put off all summer, and I suppose he thought to take it out on me. I told Hipponax before he went off to Byzantium on a short cruise, and he told me that he would see to it.

  Cyrus told me that it was I who had saved his life, by leading them out of the agora, and not the other way around, and he treated me with courtesy and gave me more lessons. As the summer passed, my Persian got better, and by the time Hipponax returned from his ship, no one else had tried to kill me.

  The ‘conference’ went on and on. The tyrants were not willing to raise men for Artaphernes or to give the assurances he wanted. Nor were they awed by his soldiers. Most of them were islanders, and they had a hard time imagining the Great King’s cavalry coming to their shores.

  Oft-times, when the guards admitted me to the satrap’s presence, I would find him sitting with his head in his hands, staring at his work table. That’s how bad the summer had grown, towards the end. Not that he was ever less than courteous to me, and he always paid me a compliment and gave me a tip. Even when he became my mortal foe, I never forgot his basic goodness. Artaphernes was a man. Some men are noble by nature, honey. He was one.

  Heraclitus once told us that the value of a man could be measured in the worth of his enemies. Well, if that’s true, I was doing well.

  One day in late summer, I brought Artaphernes an invitation from my mistress for dinner. We walked back together – he usually rode, but this time he left his escort in camp, and all he had was my four friends in a loose knot about him. Twice he stopped to speak to common people with petitions. He was that kind of man.

  I waited on him at table, and Archi, who was suddenly tall and handsome, shared his couch and they talked together like old friends while Euthalia plied them both with fine food and too much wine. Kylix was mixing the wine as thin as he dared, but still all three were drunk in fairly short order. My four friends were in the kitchen with Cook and Darkar waiting on them. They were lords, but they were simple soldiers, and they weren’t offended. We were having a fine evening. I went back and forth from kitchen to andron, and sometimes I’d carry a joke from the high to the low, or even back.

  Late in the meal, Hipponax came in. He’d taken a new ship to sea that morning to try her, and he was back early and none too happy with what he’d just seen.

  ‘There was a riot in the lower town,’ he said.

  This was old news to me, and shows how little they knew, really.

  ‘Two of your men dead and five lower-class people – but citizens, damn it!’ Hipponax shook his head. ‘Artaphernes, you must send those soldiers away before you create the very climate you seek to avoid.’

  Artaphernes sat up on his couch. ‘No man tells me what I must do,’ he said quietly, ‘except the Great King whose servant I am.’

  Hipponax smiled. ‘It’s like that, is it? Very well, be the satrap, lord. But those soldiers are doing more harm than good.’ He wasn’t drunk, thank the gods, or we might have had trouble.

  Artaphernes shook himself. ‘Bah, I’m drunk,’ he admitted. ‘I need to get out of this cesspool. Before I do something I’ll regret.’ His frustration showed. And something about Hipponax’s arrival set him off. He frowned. ‘This stinking cesspool.’

  Hipponax refused to take offence. ‘I’ve never heard sacred Ephesus described as a stinking cesspool before,’ he said. ‘I must say that it won’t make it as a poetical contribution.’

  His wife laughed. She brought wine to the satrap with her own hands. I could smell her perfume from my station – heady, musky stuff. ‘Perhaps I will smell less like a cesspool, lord,’ she purred.

  ‘You are the only thing worth having in this town,’ Artaphernes said.

  Hipponax’s eyes met mine. I bowed and fetched two slaves to help me move a kline for him, and we set him up with a wine cup and some food. Darkar came up from the kitchen and caught my eye. I slipped out.

  ‘You have this under control?’ he asked.

  I shook my head. ‘There’s something here I don’t get,’ I admitted. ‘The satrap is angry and he’s taking it out on Master.’

  Darkar looked at me with something very like pity. ‘I will take your place. You go and wait on your young master only, and get him to bed as quickly as you can convince him – or just feed him wine.’

  ‘What of Cyrus and the others in the kitchen?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘They’re no trouble. Off to your duty, now.’

  So I tried to put wine into Archi. I n
eedn’t have bothered. He had a head for wine by then, and he could probably have gone bowl for bowl with his father, but suddenly he smiled at me and shook his head, pushing away his bowl. ‘I’m for bed,’ he said.

  Darkar shot me a glance, but it was none of my doing. I escorted my master to bed, but he was impatient with me, and after a few attempts at conversation I was dismissed.

  I went back to the kitchen to visit my friends. I was off duty, unless Cook or Darkar, the two senior slaves, chose to order me about. In fact, as I waited on the Persians while I chatted to them, we were all at our ease. I served them wine and they laughed and joked and flirted with Penelope when she came through – I assumed on an errand for Briseis, bored in the women’s wing and not invited to the party. I’d seldom seen Penelope in the kitchen. She didn’t linger.

  After an hour, Darkar leaned in and shot me a look. I drank off the wine I’d poured and followed him into the hall. He looked flustered and somehow apologetic. ‘Master is going back to his ship,’ he said. ‘I need you to be a porter.’

  Well, that’s the life of a slave. It wasn’t my job, but by this time all our porters were asleep or drunk. It was a feast day, I think – I can’t even remember where they all were. So I went to the portico and hoisted Master’s bags and followed him through the dark town.

  He didn’t say a word.

  The Pole Star was high by the time we made his ship. He exchanged a few terse words with his boatkeeper and walked along the waterside. Then he whirled on me.

  ‘I’ll be damned if I’m to be thrown out of my own house,’ he said, as if I had ordained this strange fate.

  I fell back a step.

  ‘Oh – sorry, lad. Not your fault. Come on!’ He started back up the hill.

  It was a hard walk, but we were healthy men, and anything I had on him in youth was balanced by the weight of his sea bags. At the portico, he put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Here’s a daric,’ he said – a fortune. A gold daric? Then, suddenly, I knew that something was wrong. Masters don’t give slaves a daric for carrying their bags. Not on purpose, anyway. ‘Go somewhere, Doru. Go – go and check on Archilogos.’

  Whatever was happening, he wanted me gone.

  I bowed, took the coin and walked into the house, heading into the men’s quarters. I walked across the hallway that separated the servants and slaves from the family, and something – automatic obedience, I suppose – caused me to walk into Archi’s room instead of going straight to my bed.

  He had lamps lit, and he was riding Penelope. She saw me instantly, over his back, his buttocks pinned between her thighs, her mouth slightly open. She wasn’t unwilling, to say the least.

  He didn’t see me.

  I flattened against the wall, my heart beating as if a horse race was crossing my chest. Let me say it – I had never ridden the girl myself. She had been very careful with me, and I got a blow to the ear if my fingers strayed.

  But I didn’t see red, either. I’ve said it before – when you are a slave, you know that you don’t have control of some things. Such as your body. If Archi had ever had a mind to have me, I’d have had no choice. He took Penelope, instead. And I’m no hypocrite – I’d been with a girl or two that summer. Penelope owed me nothing.

  I walked around the corner, then stopped and took some deep breaths.

  I don’t know how long I stood there. Longer than I realized, because suddenly she was there, a shawl over her, slipping along the wall of the portico towards the women’s side. I knew her movements. I followed her and called her name. She looked back and ran.

  I ran after her. I ran right into the women’s quarters.

  Then everything began to happen in slow motion. I was running like a fool and suddenly she stopped. In the light of a single hall lamp, I saw that there was a man in the hall, and that Penelope had run into him full tilt. He had a sword.

  Penelope screamed.

  But I knew him immediately. It was Master. With a sword. In my state, I took it in without understanding – somehow I thought he was there to punish me for entering the women’s quarters.

  Penelope must have recognized him, because she was silent after that first scream.

  And then Artaphernes stepped out of the room behind me – Mistress’s room – and I understood.

  ‘You’ve always told me that you never lie,’ Master said to Artaphernes.

  He had the sword loosely in his hand. He was no swordsman. And he was calm – murderously calm, I think. He had already dismissed Penelope and me as superfluous to the scene. Penelope backed away from him and into my arms. I put a hand over her mouth.

  Artaphernes was naked, and it was no secret what he’d been doing. ‘I do not lie,’ he said. He was afraid, but covering it well.

  ‘Why did you have to fuck my wife?’ Hipponax asked.

  Artaphernes met Hipponax’s eyes. He shrugged. ‘I love her,’ he said. ‘And if you kill me, Ionia will burn.’

  Hipponax laughed grimly, and I knew what he intended. ‘Let her burn, then,’ he said.

  I had spent the last heartbeats with my hand over Penelope’s mouth, and now I pushed her, hard, into Hipponax. Remember, I’d walked with him – I knew he was sober. But it was a risk that he would spit her. Perhaps I did blame her for her little ride. She’d looked well pleased under Archi’s cock, damn her.

  At any rate, she was not spitted on Master’s sword. He lifted the blade to keep her safe, and I stepped in and stripped it from his hands. And then fell to the ground, as if I too had stumbled.

  All three of us went down in a tangle.

  Artaphernes was no fool. He ran.

  Everything might yet have been well – or well enough – but Pharnakes came into the corridor with his three friends at his heels. They had blades in their hands, and as soon as they had their satrap clear, they charged us. Who knows what they thought.

  I had the sword. I got to my feet and stopped their rush with a parry and then Pharnakes and I exchanged a flurry – four or five cuts and parries. That’s a lot in real combat. A man can only take so much, and then he falls back. The tension is too high. We both backed a step, and Cyrus said, ‘It’s the slave boy. Hold hard, brother!’ in Persian.

  I didn’t have the daimon in me yet – I hadn’t been injured.

  ‘Our lord is safe,’ Darius said. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

  Pharnakes shook his head. ‘We should kill the husband.’

  ‘This isn’t Persia, you fool!’ Cyrus said. ‘Greeks don’t care! And murder is not what our lord needs right now.’

  ‘Come and try,’ I said in Persian. Aye, I’m a fool.

  Pharnakes shot me a look – such a look. Even in torchlight, I knew that look. But Cyrus laughed. ‘Quite the bark, for a pup,’ he said.

  All that was in Persian.

  And then they were gone.

  Pharnakes was right, though. They should have killed the husband. Because that night, Ephesus changed sides, and the Ionian Revolt began, in a corridor in the women’s quarters. The Long War. And like the Trojan War, it started over a woman.

  Part III

  Freedom

  It is hard to fight with anger, for what it wants it buys at the cost of the soul.

  Heraclitus, fr. 85

  10

  You bring more of these handsome boys into my hall every day, thugater. Is the tale so good? Or the opposite – so dull that you need supporters to get you through it? You are not the first young woman I have known, honey. Don’t let the power of your sex go to your head, or you’ll be one of those ambitious harridans who haunt our tragedies.

  Don’t give your love to every comer, either, or you’ll be a priestess of Aphrodite and no wife. Hah! I’m a crude old man. Do as you will, thugater of my old age. It is the irony of my life that you grow up to look like Briseis. What fury, what fate, put those looks in your mother’s womb? Will we have games to settle your suitors? Perhaps I can meet them in single combat, one at a time, until one of them bests me. Even at my age, I thi
nk you would be a maiden for some time.

  You blush. Ah – honey, when you blush, you most resemble my Briseis. But when she blushed, she was dangerous.

  You might think otherwise, but my status in the house didn’t change at all, that day. In the morning, Master called me to him. He embraced me and thanked me. He never asked me what I was doing in the women’s quarters.

  That was all, until the next blow fell.

  That was all, but in every other way, our lives changed. Because Master barred the house to the satrap. And Artaphernes’ peace conference collapsed in an evening, because every house in the city was closed against him.

  Your eyes shine, honey. Do you understand, indeed? Let me explain. Artaphernes was a guest, and a guest-friend. Persians and Greeks are not so different, and when a man, or a woman, becomes a frequent visitor, he and the household he visits swear oaths to the gods to support oikia.

  Adultery is the ultimate betrayal of the guest oath. Pshaw – happens all the time. Don’t think I haven’t seen it. Men are men and women are women. But Artaphernes was a fool to risk a war on getting his dick wet – hah, I am a crude old man. Pour me some wine.

  Hipponax did a rare thing. He told the city what had happened. That was the only punishment he inflicted on his wife – he branded her faithless in the assembly. From then on, Artaphernes was a breaker of the guest oath. No citizen would receive him.

  He tried for two days to make amends, and he offered various reparations. Hipponax ignored his messenger and finally sent me with a herald’s wand to tell Artaphernes that the next messenger would be killed. Indeed, there were armed men in every square of the city. Archi was being fitted for his panoply – the full hoplite armour – even as I went on my errand.

  Those were bad days in the household. Mistress didn’t leave her rooms. Penelope wouldn’t speak to me. I admit that I called her a whore. Perhaps not my best course of action. And Archi – I couldn’t fathom whether he knew he had wronged me or not.