by P. K. Lentz
The Athenian gave a puzzled smirk, then another of his accursed grins. “One of these days, my friend,” he said, “I will get you to admit how much you love me.”
Styphon growled.
* * *
As the evening wore on, horsemen arrived from Athens, alone and in small groups, so that by the time full darkness came, there were in the camp almost twenty riders of Athens' famed citizen cavalry. Alkibiades greeted every man of them by name and gave him an embrace, and all sat and laughed and dined together.
It stood to reason that these cavalrymen were ones who had chosen not to make a last stand at Dekelea with Demosthenes and Alkibiades. They were, by most practical definitions, and certainly the by Spartan one, cowards, men who had turned and fled home before the battle for their city had begun. Their comrades captured at Dekelea probably had been pardoned by now, but even if their arms had not been confiscated, the present Spartan-installed oligarchs of Athens surely could not count them as reliable.
If Alkibiades considered these men cowards (which it seemed to Styphon he must), he did not allow it to show, a feat which lent weight to the preener's boast that he would soon rule Athens. The danger for any conqueror who employed such a charismatic man was, of course, that sooner or later he might decide he needs no help ruling. But that was a worry for ephors and regents, not a mere soldier sent on the errand of installing him.
Dawn brought more cavalry, bringing the total near to thirty, along with a platoon of twelve mounted Scythians, the barbarians who had served, both before and after the conquest, as the police force of Athens. In the early hours of morning, this assembled column of man and horse, a brightly armored Alkibiades at its head astride a white charger fetched for him, advanced along to coast toward rebel-controlled Piraeus. Styphon accompanied the column with three-quarters of his men, the rest having been left behind to guard Sorrowful Wind, itself a treasure since the design was a state secret.
The silent port, ringed by the remains of the walls its Spartan conquerors had ordered demolished, was shrouded in a haze of smoke and morning mist. The Spartiates went as far as the wall, and there took up position to augment the existing cordon of club-wielding Scythian police, foreign mercenaries and Athenian anti-democrats.
“You know what happens if you join this rebellion,” Styphon warned Alkibiades in front of the single doorless city gate which remained in the tyranny's control.
“Indeed I do,” Alkibiades answered from atop his mount. “If I joined the rebels, Athens would shortly be liberated. And remain so for a while, until you conquered us again. But since I still enjoy drawing breath, I will not do that.”
With that nonsense uttered and a few final instructions to the men appointed as his lieutenants, Alkibiades led the body of cavalry down the stone-paved street into mist. The slow, echoing clatter of hooves grew distant and irregular until there was near silence again.
Not for long. There soon arose the angry shouts of men, the whinnies of horses, bursts of galloping hoofbeats on unseen streets, crashes of falling wood and metal. Arms did clash, but rarely, and rarer still were screams or groans of pain. Whatever was transpiring inside shrouded Piraeus, no pitched battle was underway.
Some twenty minutes after the entry of the cavalry, the first bloodied group of rebels tried to slip out through a gap in the broken wall only to kneel in surrender when confronted by the tyrants' men.
Similar scenes were repeated elsewhere in the cordon, rebels in scattered bands being driven out of the port, in many cases with horsemen on their heels. Once the fleeing rebels were rounded up, the riders turned and rode back into town in search of more rabble to run down.
Within an hour, the hunt was finished. Alkibiades was among the last of the riders to emerge. He rode up to Styphon and the tyrants, thrust into the earth the lance he was wielding with its blade upturned, like a staff or club, and he dismounted. The flock of oligarchs, today some fifteen in number, hitched up their chitons and ran over in time to hear Alkibiades report, not over-boastfully: “Piraeus is ours.”
The tyrants momentarily were at a loss, but a quick decision was made by some few, with others following suit, to heap praise upon the savior they must now see as certain to lead a wing of their oligarchy, if he did not seize the reins of state entirely as the preener himself believed and intended.
Alkibiades brushed a sweat-soaked curl from one eye and surveyed the line of kneeling, sitting and standing prisoners, all with hands bound behind their backs and ankles fastened with hobbling cords. Half were sullen, with blank eyes; others looked defiant.
“That man there led them,” Alkibiades said, aiming a finger at one of the captives. “His name is Thrasybulus. But I suspect you will find he has lately been called Omega.”
The oligarchs and their Athenian supporters as one leveled stares at the man in question. The venom-filled eyes staring out from stony features at Alkibiades, his accuser, all but proved the accusation true.
“I am ashamed ever to have called you friend, filth!” spat the leader of the broken resistance. “If someone had told me when we were children what you would grow up to become, I would have killed you back then. I may not get to give you the coward's death you deserve, traitor, but I pray to Zeus Almighty that someone will—and soon! May you die at the hands of a true Athenian. One whom you think you trust!”
Appearing unimpressed by the tirade, and even less alarmed by the curse, the newly anointed tyrant turned his back on his childhood friend Thrasybulus and addressed his colleagues of the oligarchy.
“You will find that only three rebels were killed,” he reported. “Most have bloody noses. We used no more force than was necessary. None of our own fell. Now what say we get ourselves to Athens?”
Abruptly, Alkibiades whirled and set a hand on either side of Styphon's face (forcing the latter to suppress native instincts of self-defense), swooped in and planted a kiss on unyielding Spartiate lips. Then, throwing his head back, the Athenian roared exultantly into the sky, as if to serve notice to the very gods.
“I am home!”
* * *
6. Elean
Every city had a number of inns not far from port in which mercenaries rested briefly between terms of employment, if they were lucky, or if they were not, where they sat and soaked themselves in wine while awaiting one. The man from Elis fell somewhere in between. He was not old, but enough past his prime that by the end of a long day's march he walked leaning heavily on his spear. As such, he chose to employ himself only enough to keep his belly full and have a few extra coins left over for gambling or the whore-temples of Corinth.
His present residence was a boarding house by the harbor of Patras on the northern coast of the Peloponnese, but time was running out: if he spent funds on nothing else, he could keep a roof over his head for just four more days.
On this as every morning, he entered the boarding house's megaron early to learn whether any new leaflets had been tacked overnight to the board where hiring notices were posted. As most mornings, it was empty. He sighed and turned to begin pondering whether to spend a quarter of his earthly wealth on a jar of wine when he found himself startled by the sudden presence in front of him of a woman who seemed to have materialized from nowhere.
She wore a black winter cloak and had the complexion of a Persian, a tone of flesh the Elean knew well, for he had spent many a year making corpses of Persian males by day and rubbing against their females by night.
This one was cheerless, with blue eyes that chilled.
“Sorry, mum,” the Elean said. “Didn't see you there.”
“You seek work?” she asked.
The Elean brightened, stood taller, forgot about wine.
“Yes!” he answered enthusiastically, then thought better and added, “Well, I could take it or leave it, depending on the pay.”
Her cold expression did not crack. This particular Persian female was not as warm as the ones he remembered.
“I have a note which needs to re
ach a girl living in Sparta. Deliver it and return to me in Naupaktos before the next Spartan attack, and you will earn three more of these.”
A hand appeared from within her cloak. In its palm rested a disc of gold the sight of which briefly stole the Elean's breath. An Athenian gold stater, if he was not mistaken. Instinctively he reached for it, but the Persian closed her fingers around it and offered instead her other hand, which contained a small canvas pouch which presumably the message she meant for him to deliver.
“May I open it?”
“If you wish.”
The Elean loosened the string binding the pouch, which weighed very little, and spilled its contents into his open palm. “Some stone tiles,” he observed. “With letters on them. How is that a message?”
“This girl is clever. It will take her but a minute to solve, and she will know from whom it came. We were close once. It is a plea. I hope her heart remains soft enough that she will not ignore it.”
“What's her name?”
The Persian reached out and turned the pouch, revealing the answer, which the Elean read aloud. He enjoyed showing off that he was literate; most men who fought for coin were not.
“Andrea... Styphonides. If I go to Sparta asking around about a young girl, seems likely I might attract the wrong kind of attention.”
“Shall I employ another messenger?”
“No! No. I'll manage it. Somehow.”
“Good. Not to tell you how you do your job, but you might claim you found the item and wish to return it.”
The Elean nodded. “Yes... I might just. Now, as for the payment?”
The Persian surrendered the gold stater, which the Elean clutched tightly.
“Tell me, do you intend to take that and never see me again?” Her pale eyes penetrated him.
“No, ma'am,” the Elean answered. “Why settle for a quarter of a fortune when the whole thing could be had for taking a long walk?”
She nodded her satisfaction with the reply. “Ask the girl the name of she whose eyes are as twin eclipses. To claim the remainder of your payment, you must have the correct answer when you return to me. Lest your honest nature fail you. You understand.”
“Aye,” the Elean said, taking no offense. He had not yet contemplated just waiting a few days and then returning pretending to have delivered the message, but it was not a course he would have ruled out.
“Do you have a horse?”
“No, ma'am.”
“But you can ride?”
“Well enough.”
She produced several silver coins and set them in his palm. “Acquire one. Haste is essential.”
The Elean tucked the coins and pouch of tiles into a hidden pocket behind his scabbard where he was sure not to lose them.
“Must be an important message.”
“Life or death,” the Persian said, and departed as silently as a shade.
* * *
7. The gift of Eris
110 days after the fall of Athens (September 423 BCE)
He entered Sparta a prisoner, wrists bound tightly behind his back, a rope around his neck tethering him to the horse ahead. On the horse was his captor, Eden, who had brought him nearly the entire length of the Peloponnese from north to south. By the time they crossed the inscribed boundary markers of the unwalled city, they led a crowd of men, women, and children speaking in hushed whispers.
They must all have known Eden, or Eris; she was likely the reason for their lowered voices. But at least one among them correctly identified her prisoner, for he heard it sharply whispered.
“Demosthenes!”
They continued thus, the procession growing longer, until they reached an open public space at the foot of the high acropolis of Sparta, a sight on which Demosthenes had before never laid eyes. Few living Athenians had. If they did, it was only in this way, as prisoners. Atop the heights sat the city's only brightly painted structures, its temples. Even still, they were plainly built, resembling the shadows cast by their ornate Athenian counterparts.
Eden reined her horse and yanked the rope, sending Demosthenes to his knees. Quickly, out of the many Spartans and slaves filling the public square in the shadow of those temples, Demosthenes' gaze found one man standing in the doorway of a boxlike structure of wood and plaster. Slowly, as Eden slid from her mount and stood next to it, the Equal came forward.
Demosthenes had tested his bonds many times already, and so did not bother doing so again. But he flexed his jaw, preparatory to biting out the throat of Brasidas should he come near enough.
Wisely, Brasidas did not. Halting well beyond the reach of Demosthenes' tether, he put hand to breast, bowed his head and declared loudly, “Dread Eris, you honor Sparta with your gift. A man directly and indirectly responsible for the deaths, most by ignominious means, of a great many Equals. Their wives and sons and mothers are deeply in your debt. It will help heal their broken hearts to watch Demosthenes pay for his crimes against our state.”
As Brasidas spoke, Demosthenes could not bear to look upon the face of the man who had slain Laonome and be powerless to destroy him. Their next meeting was not meant to have been like this.
Brasidas began to clap and gestured at Eden, standing with a look of antipathy, as one who only tolerates those around her. The crowd took Brasidas's meaning and granted her their thunderous applause, celebrating by extension the promised punishment of her 'gift.'
Waving them to silence, Brasidas took another step forward and lowered himself into a crouch. He yet was too distant for Demosthenes to reach in a single lunge, but the soft hollow of his neck was lower to the ground, at least.
“Demosthenes,” Brasidas said in a low voice. “I will have you know that I do regret killing your wife. It was a... lapse of discipline. Had I a chance to do it over again, I would not repeat the error. I wonder, do you feel the same about your actions? Torture. Assassination. Gods know what else.”
Demosthenes only set his jaw, longing for some chance, any chance...
“It matters not. My better judgment bids me arrange for your immediate execution. But...” He stood, feet wide apart, hands clasped in front of him. “The same good fortune which put Geneva in your service... or you in hers...” He smiled. “...works in your favor today. Come the dawn, I leave Sparta to undertake the task in which Agis failed, the reduction of Naupaktos. Geneva may be there, and if I am to use your welfare as currency, I need to tell her that you yet live. And should I be forced to do so to her face, I will in fact need to believe that to be true.
“If she is there, and if she cares for you, she will not take the field in defense of Naupaktos. And in the event she comes here, instead, to rescue you, Eris will be on hand to keep you safely awaiting the imposition of justice.” Brasidas set hand to rough jaw. “That poses a dilemma, does it not? The Spartan people are eager to see you pay, while I require you to live until my return.”
Within seconds, his mock deliberation came to an end, and he declared, “Fortunately, I believe a solution can be found in something which our two cities share in common. You Athenians, I know from my tenure there, favor the same manner of execution for criminals that we often use, albeit not on your fellow generals. It is a method which may be easily prolonged and avoids the imposition of blood guilt if the accused is innocent, for no blood is spilled.” He raised a brow. “Not to suggest there is any such doubt in your case.”
Brasidas lifted his arms and once more addressed the crowd.
“To trial with Demosthenes!” he called out. “And then... to the stauros!”
* * *
8. Slave
Only at one time in her life before now had she cared so little whether she lived or died.
The prior time had been many years ago, in her native Thrace, when her sister had been thrown off a mountain by slavers for becoming too sick to be worth carrying the long way to the slave markets.
A silent ghost, as though she had been the one to die, the survivor had made it to market, to be trad
ed more than once. At some point the slavers had given her a new name, a Greek one for Greek owners.
Eurydike.
She did not remain long a ghost. When shock wore off, she took to spitting and biting and cursing, half in the unspoken hope it would prompt someone would set her free of the flesh she felt guilty for continuing to inhabit when her sister did not.
Instead, her behavior had only ensured that no master wanted her. Months later, in Athens, the Thessalian broker into whose possession she had fallen pledged that he would not be leaving the city burdened by her. He gave her one more day to fetch a price, and if she did not, he would gift her to the mines, to be used there (if she was of any use) until she died.
With the stark choice between life and death made suddenly real, she had chosen life, and at market that day she had pleaded with customers to take her. The Thessalian had responded by gagging her while he talked his buyers into costlier merchandise.
Then Demosthenes had come, with his kind eyes, looking to buy, and demanded her gag be removed. He had heard her plea, ignored the slaver's up-sell and taken her into his home.
It soon become her home. Not just a roof, but a place where she could heal. Maybe he did not love her exactly, nor she him, but they enjoyed each other's company. Yes, she was still a slave and still had to earn her keep with work, but who in this world did not? Demosthenes was no harsh master, at least. Far from it. It had taken him half a year to start fucking her. Even then, it had been her suggestion. Not quite calculation, a means to make him like her more, but almost. He was not unattractive, and once healed sufficiently of heart and mind, she had found herself able to feel such things as desire and enjoyment.
She began to feel contentment, or at least grow into her new slave-self, Eurydike, putting the past and its burden of pain behind, even if they were never forgotten.
Then Demosthenes had brought Thalassia into their home with her dark, goddess-like beauty and secrets darker still. When childish jealousy wore off, Eurydike realized she had found a friend and ally. Almost a sister, even if none could ever begin to replace the true sister she had lost.