The Gates of Athens

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘Age is a cruel thing,’ Themistocles said. ‘It takes all we have, little by little.’

  Xanthippus felt his irritation grow.

  ‘It is just an old wound,’ he said tightly.

  ‘It comes to us all,’ Themistocles murmured, almost to himself.

  Xanthippus raised his eyes to the heavens, asking for patience.

  The gymnasiarch greeted Themistocles like a long-lost brother, crying out his name as he passed the gate and the cool outer cloisters to enter the main field. The river that ran alongside had been guided in a stream through sheltered groves, while the running track was new and clean. It was hard not to compare it with the peeling paint and weeds of the Academy. Xanthippus was impressed too by the care they received. He and Themistocles were laid down and massaged in oil, then rubbed clean with dulled blades of bronze or ivory. Dirty oil was flicked into a cauldron at the foot of the tables, where dark spirals mingled with gold as they separated. The smell was a little rank and Themistocles asked a slave to move it away, where the odour would not disturb him.

  ‘You know, Aristides will not pay for new oil. Have you heard that?’ Themistocles said. ‘He uses the free drippings, no matter how foul they are.’

  Xanthippus frowned as he lay on his back and watched his leg raised. The slave holding it was examining the knee with a critical eye. Xanthippus took a deep breath when the man began to work his thumbs into the surfaces of the joint, pressing fluid away where it had gathered. The pain was excruciating and it helped to talk rather than cry out. That he would not do, not in front of Themistocles.

  ‘He does not like waste, then. Perhaps that is wise,’ Xanthippus said through gritted teeth. His tone was strained enough to make Themistocles look up.

  ‘Is your knee troubling you?’ he asked.

  Xanthippus waited a beat.

  ‘It will be fine. Thank you for this, Themistocles.’

  The big man waved a hand.

  ‘I love this place. Whatever it costs me is worth it. Would you like wine? Half and half? Or one and three?’

  Despite his reservations, Xanthippus agreed to the latter. He sat up to drink, so that the slaves working on his legs knelt before him. Further back, he watched pairs of wrestlers throw and hurt each other with fine ferocity. Themistocles observed them with a more expert eye, calling out congratulations when one move sent a man flying. The losing wrestler stood with his wrist held in the other hand, clearly broken. He beamed when he saw who praised him even so, before retiring to have it splinted and wrapped.

  ‘I wonder if you appreciate this place as I do,’ Themistocles said.

  Xanthippus looked up as he finished his wine and lay on his stomach. Two men still worked on his legs while another huge fellow leaned onto the muscles of his back. With his elbows, by the feel of it. Xanthippus grunted, prepared to endure.

  ‘I believe I do,’ he replied.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Themistocles said. ‘You were born to the Eupatridae. Your people had land, and land… well, it is freedom, of a sort. With land, a man knows he will never starve. He has a refuge when the world turns against him. Gates he can shut, slaves to guard his walls. He has peace. Your father was a wealthy man, was he not?’

  ‘He was,’ Xanthippus admitted warily.

  ‘And your wife’s family – by Athena, they have been rich since the Iliad  ! You know Aristides worked with your wife’s uncle, Cleisthenes? Did you know that? He admired him greatly, Xanthippus. Who can blame him? Cleisthenes – the man who named the ten tribes, who set up the Assembly and the council! What a mark he left, of greatness, on the world.’

  ‘And is that what you want?’ Xanthippus said.

  He wished Aristides were there to hear the arguments and respond. He never seemed at a loss for words the way Xanthippus sometimes felt. Themistocles lay on the table with his hair unbound and his limbs massive, like a lion enjoying the sun. His skin was still reddened after the exertion of the run. Yet he lolled, supremely at ease.

  ‘I want the best for Athens,’ Themistocles said after a time.

  The truth lay somewhere beneath the words, Xanthippus could sense, or perhaps it was simply that Themistocles saw the best of the city in himself.

  ‘I was born just outside the city, in the village of Phrearrhioi. Do you know it?’

  Xanthippus nodded, though he kept his eyes closed. The village was not wealthy, if that was the point. He recalled it as clean enough, with fields of barley and wheat all around. There were places in Athens so tightly packed the sun never reached the ground. It was strange to think of Themistocles as a man of open fields, when he seemed to fit city streets so well. Xanthippus wondered how such a beginning had produced the one who lay at ease alongside him. Perhaps, like the ridged muscles of his chest and stomach, Themistocles had taken what the gods had given and crafted something from it.

  With a ‘fwit’ sound, old oil was flicked into a new wooden tub, leaving spatters of muck on the dusty ground. Fresh oil of clear gold was brought, with the massaging slaves dipping their hands into it. Out on the wrestling rings, dust stuck to the athletes as they panted. They would not strike true blows, even when their temper frayed. A boxing match would result and those were darker and more brutal than the wrestling ring. When he heard steps growing louder, Xanthippus considered sitting up once again to watch rival teams of runners lap the track. He decided against it. The day was too fine, the air too sweet. He raised his cup for more wine and leaned back against a leather and wood block placed to support his head. He murmured thanks to the man who worked on his knee. The pain was easing and he was grateful.

  ‘My father was Neocles,’ Themistocles went on, ‘a man of no great estate or achievement. His parents disowned him and he never told me why, though I think it was probably for violence. My mother feared him, I remember that. He died when I was eleven years old, leaving my mother to raise me with little help. She brought me into Athens and we lived near the Ceramicus. Abrotonon was her name, a little blonde woman of Thrace, alone in this city without sisters or friends. Can you imagine? She worked every hour of the sun to keep us. I remember once I broke a pot – just a simple little thing, kiln-fired in blue. To me it was nothing, but she wept as she cleared up the shards. She could not replace it, though better pots than that are thrown out every day!’

  He fell quiet for a time and Xanthippus wondered if the rumours were true that his mother had turned to work in the brothels to earn a wage. She had kept herself out of debt and so avoided slavery, which spoke well for her character. Xanthippus could not imagine a childhood of the sort Themistocles was describing and swallowed uncomfortably.

  ‘We lived for a while in peace,’ Themistocles said. His voice had gentled in memory. ‘I loved to make her laugh. I might have ended my days as one of the boxers in a place like this. I trained in two of them for years, did you know that? In return for breaking my nose more times than I can remember, the tutors taught me a few things. I learned my letters, everything I could – anything I needed to raise myself up. From poverty, from… being commanded. I studied it all. When I had a little money, I hired tutors to teach me numbers and writing and argument and construction. Each step led to more and more. Do you see, Xanthippus? I listened to the orators in the Assembly. I watched and I learned – and I trained myself, body and mind. I became expert and I sold my advice and my crafts to others. I wrote speeches for strategoi and archons to give the Assembly – and we won our cases. We changed the laws. I think I hardly slept from the age of twelve to thirty, just about.’

  ‘Does she still live, your mother?’ Xanthippus asked. When there was no response, he opened his eyes to see Themistocles had his head raised on another shaped block, while a grizzled-looking fellow worked his legs back and forth, twisting the hips in their sockets until they moved as they should. It was as uncomfortable to watch as to have it done, Xanthippus knew.

  ‘She died a few years ago now. The following year, the Assembly made me eponymous archon. Can you believe
that? She never saw it. She never knew there was a year named for her son, so that all Athens called it the year of Themistocles. There was no earthquake then, to steal the honour from me, no great flood or battle.’ His voice changed subtly as his throat closed in sudden grief. ‘I wish she had seen that.’

  Tears showed in his eyes as he looked back. Xanthippus remained silent. He didn’t know why Themistocles was sharing these intimacies with him. He found himself fascinated, but also stung somehow, as if he would have to defend his own easier youth and childhood. They had walked different paths, of course, but they were both there on that day in Athens, being rubbed down and drinking the same wine and water. Did it matter which path they had walked to reach that place?

  ‘She would be very proud,’ Xanthippus said.

  ‘Yes. So when I hear Aristides saying being the named archon doesn’t mean anything to him, that it is all a form of vanity, I think… I think perhaps he is a man who has known ease. I wonder how much he can truly understand of the lives of common men in Athens.’

  ‘How much can any of us understand of other lives?’ Xanthippus said. ‘I see you – and I have listened to you. I know you are a man of influence and authority. I saw it at Marathon, in the way you spoke to the men.’

  He noted the surprise in Themistocles to hear that. The man was convinced he and Xanthippus were too different to understand one another.

  ‘Yet I see quiet dignity in Aristides,’ Xanthippus went on.

  ‘Arrogance,’ Themistocles muttered, settling back.

  Xanthippus hoped that was not aimed at him, though Themistocles was subtle enough to insult them both in a single word.

  ‘Not at all. He makes a virtue of abstinence, of discipline. Men see that. He is a fine leader for this city.’

  ‘More like a Spartan than an Athenian,’ Themistocles said. Again, he had phrased it so that Xanthippus could not know whether he meant himself or Aristides.

  ‘There are virtues in both!’ Xanthippus snapped. He heard Themistocles sit up to respond, swinging his legs over once more.

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ Themistocles said. ‘Though I have never enjoyed their… superiority, the way some men – of Sparta or Athens – believe they are a better breed, that better blood runs in their veins.’ He shrugged. ‘It brings me to anger sometimes. Aristides the Just, they call him, for his decency and his honour. Yet he has never known fear or starved. Can such a man truly lead this city?’

  ‘He starves every day!’ Xanthippus said. ‘He wears a ragged robe and patched sandals and refuses all trappings of wealth. I have seen him make a meal from the scales and fish guts the fishermen leave on the docks. You said yourself he uses no clean oil at the gymnasia, only the leavings.’

  ‘Yet he has estates and lands as great as your own. He disdains wealth, but he has more than any thousand of his fellows. To walk in rags? There is a colossal arrogance there. It grates on me.’

  ‘Are you so different?’ Xanthippus heard himself say. It was as close to an insult as he had ever come and he regretted it. Themistocles did not seem annoyed by it, but answered calmly.

  ‘I know as well as Aristides what is valuable – and what is not. But I am of the people of Athens, Xanthippus. In all my labours, when I wrote legal arguments for others, I never refused my service to a man who had nothing. I demanded fortunes from archons of the Areopagus, when they wanted a will or to dispute a ruling of the Assembly or the courts. But if a man came to me in fear of his landlord, or because he would be made a slave by dawn for his debts, I worked through the night and I asked nothing for it. I have never forgotten what poverty feels like, Xanthippus. Aristides plays at my youth, yet sneers at my love of wine and food and good things in the same breath.’

  He made a snorting sound, like a dog with water up its nose.

  ‘I raised myself up from nothing!’ he said. ‘Which is a grand tale, is it not? They know it, the people of the city. When they see me, they see themselves. When the Assembly discusses building a new temple, they call for master builders and they listen to them speak – of costs, of the calculations and materials of their trade. Yet when they discuss how best to run the city, any man may speak. The same master builder might stand alongside the archons – and he will be heard. They listen to me then, Xanthippus, because they have learned to value the advice I give. Is that not wonderful? Without the right family, could I have risen so far in Sparta, in Thebes or Corinth? You know the answer. Yet here, I am known. It is why I was made eponymous archon over my peers, over men even like Aristides, who had to wait another three years for an honour I had first.’

  There was bitterness in Themistocles. Xanthippus could see it, could hear it in his voice. Bitterness and pain and insecurity. Xanthippus wondered at the depth of it, even as he saw humour and amusement return to eclipse all the rest. The man knew himself and so he could laugh at his own weaknesses and never be surprised by them. It made him dangerous perhaps. Xanthippus was not sure.

  ‘You see these men around us?’ Themistocles said idly. ‘Two metics from Thrace, foreigners brought to this gymnasium at great cost for their skill. Three more who are slaves, owned by the establishment. Two of them were born not a street from where I lived with my mother. Deneos here worked in the markets selling figs – and himself on occasion, before he came here. Now, I own a share of this place and I got him the job, so if I ask him to cut your throat, would you survive?’

  Xanthippus froze. It seemed in that moment as if all those around him were watching him closely, waiting for him to respond. Themistocles laughed.

  ‘You should see your face!’ he said. ‘These are your people too. They know you fought for them at Marathon. You are a hero, Xanthippus, just as I am. We are great men – achievers. Aristides does not stand over me in the esteem of this city, nor Miltiades.’

  Xanthippus threw him a sharp glance at that, but Themistocles was once more watching the wrestling. After a while in silence, he spoke again, his voice less urgent and a smile ready on his lips.

  ‘Now, I am for a dip in the pool, then a little food – perhaps a different kind of wrestling at the brothel inside the wall. There are new women there, I’m told, fresh off the boat from some strange place where they have never known the touch of men. It won’t be true, of course, but it would be amusing to see them act the role, would it not? Every night, a virgin remade. Will you accompany me, Xanthippus? I find I have an appetite.’

  It was all perfectly judged. Xanthippus felt overwhelmed, threatened and flattered by the trust and torrent of words, all while the evening sun shone warm on them both and white stone columns edged where they lay.

  ‘That is enough now, thank you,’ he said to the slaves around him.

  Having felt the implied threat from them, Xanthippus realised he could no longer lie down and let strong hands knead away swelling. Pain, after all, reminded him he was alive. He stood up from the benches and tested the knee. It was much improved. He took a silver drachm from his cheek and tossed it to the one who had worked the joint. It was half a day’s wage and the man beamed and bowed as he left.

  ‘You say we walked a different path to get here, to this place,’ Xanthippus began. ‘Though neither you nor I chose the steps we would follow. Perhaps Aristides is the most honest, as he has chosen poverty as a noble attribute – a life lived without waste or extravagance. I admire him for his certainty. You, though, Themistocles. What to make of you?’

  He leaned against the bench once again, crossing his legs at the ankles, one hand across his chest and the other upright, supporting his chin on the palm. He regarded Themistocles as if he were a puzzle to be solved.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Themistocles said. ‘I have made myself all I am. Time, the favour of the gods and my own efforts. I need no other sculptors at this late stage.’

  ‘Agreed. We’ll make our free choices as men – as Aristides does, as we could not when we were young. I did not choose my tutors, nor the skills they taught me. Like you, I made the most of what
I was given. I am what I have made of myself, with all the advantages my father could win for me – and all the influence that comes from wealth. Has my path brought me your way with people? Your golden touch? I do not believe it has. You and I are not the same. Yet I am a man of Athens and I see honour in you, just as I see it in Aristides. As I hope you see in me.’

  ‘And Miltiades?’ Themistocles asked suddenly.

  Xanthippus felt himself freeze. By the gods, the man was as sharp as a razor! He needed to guard himself at all times with Themistocles. He inclined his head, speaking as one who knew there were other ears listening.

  ‘He and I have settled our differences, Themistocles. The Assembly love him.’

  ‘Yes,’ Themistocles said, looking dissatisfied. ‘Yes, they do. Will you come to watch the new ships blessed, when they are ready to sail?’

  ‘Of course,’ Xanthippus said. ‘I will watch the sacrifices and drink water and wine and cheer with all the rest. Athens is my city. All that is good for her is good for me.’

  ‘A fine thought,’ Themistocles said softly. ‘Come, then. Dine with me and take your ease. Perhaps I can persuade you to support me over Aristides when it matters. There is more to debate than just our styles and choice of oil. Come on. You are amongst friends here.’

  Xanthippus thought that was not so. He could not say exactly why he didn’t trust Themistocles, but there it was. Perhaps it was just that the man liked to win, and that to win, someone always had to lose. Still, he would learn all he could, even if that meant an evening guarding his tongue, in the company of whores and vipers.

  * * *

  Agariste woke as knocking sounded. She stared at the ceiling for a few blurry moments. Had one of the children cried out? The thumping sounded again and she saw light bloom as one of the slaves lit lamps from the fire’s embers. The gleam came bobbing down the corridor towards her room. She sat up, letting the cover spill away from her breasts. No light where Xanthippus slept, so he had not returned.