‘I did not come to the council to hear Cimon’s spite, unworthy as it is – undeserved as it is. Have the councillors put up the subjects for debate? I am waiting for some word on the new silver from Laurium. Some of the master shipwrights have not been paid in a week. They’ll have to stop soon or starve, without funds.’
Epikleos nodded, though he looked unhappier than ever.
‘The council has sent a delegation to Laurium to examine the works and assess the need for new labourers. I’m told they will report to the Assembly no earlier than a week from today,’ he said. ‘The word is they’ll need to move to ten- or twelve-hour shifts to have a chance of producing enough ore. It all increases the cost – and, of course, the refiners and stampers are after more pay as well.’
‘Which tribe has the spear-point?’ Xanthippus said.
‘Leontis is on for twelve more days – after that, our own dear Acamantis.’
‘Another week to wait for the report, though! Why so long, if the problems are already clear to all?’ Xanthippus rubbed his face with an open hand, over skin that looked red and rough. ‘They’ve had months to organise shifts and construct new furnaces. This is… lazy, or the foremen are incompetent. Perhaps some idiot sons have been appointed where they should not have been.’
Once again he rubbed his jaw, scratching a strip with a fingernail.
‘Themistocles commands Leontis, in all they do,’ he said. ‘Though he hides it. Why would he delay? Should I raise it with him?’
‘Not if he is the one behind the delay,’ Epikleos said. He could not help checking around to be sure they were not overheard.
‘That can’t be true,’ Xanthippus snorted. ‘If anything, he would bring forward the date of that report, or be urging them to spend more on workers. Themistocles was the one who wanted that silver for ships in the first place!’
‘Perhaps. Yet he has not. He has been quiet over this. I think that will continue – unless there is some advantage for him.’ Epikleos sighed, wearily. ‘He is said to be close with Cimon after the way he spoke at the funeral. Cimon is spending silver like a Persian, I know that much.’ They exchanged a glance at that, though it would not be said aloud. ‘The council are just men, Xan. Just volunteers. They can be flattered and invited to dinners, given good seats in the theatre, made to feel important, who knows? Perhaps Themistocles seeks influence just to squeeze a better rate of pay for the miners and forge-men, with part of it paid back to the one who arranged it. All legal, as fees for the broker. A delayed report would benefit him then, as the silver dries up and people starve and riots begin in the Agora. Such things go on all the time.’
Xanthippus stared at his friend, unnerved by the possibility.
‘The shipwrights are claiming double pay at the port,’ he said.
‘There you are. Can you blame them? When the need for their skill is so great? I’m surprised they are not asking for more.’
‘But that will practically double the cost of the ships! What good will a pouch of silver do them when the Persian fleet returns? Are you saying Themistocles is behind such demands? I have never heard of such a thing!’
Epikleos spread his hands.
‘You are not a deal-maker, Xan. Your wealth protects you. Men like Themistocles can raise a fleet or dig silver ore for Athens, but they are not above skimming cream from the deal or taking a cut to make themselves rich. He has no family fortune, I’ve heard. If he ever had, the way he spends would beggar anyone. Feasts and plays and new buildings, three triremes promised from his own funds? The people love him.’
‘We will never allow another tyrant,’ Xanthippus said sternly.
‘Perhaps we’ll raise one even so – one the Assembly choose. I’d say Themistocles wants to be first man in Athens, Xan, wouldn’t you? Anyone can see. Miltiades might have stopped him, but you brought him down. Aristides still could – or you. Who else? Just be careful, would you? For all his laughter, Themistocles is ruthless, never doubt it.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Xanthippus replied. He thought back to the day at the gymnasium, when Themistocles had talked of his childhood. ‘I know him, better than you realise. He is… vulgar, loud, yes, all the things I find tiresome. He has little sense of the value of silver, I know that much. Yet I think he is a man of honour. He is a true Athenian.’
‘I hope so,’ Epikleos said. ‘He is certainly the sort of man others follow. I saw it at the funeral. The trouble with that is where he will lead them.’
‘He argued for the new silver from Laurium to be spent on a fleet,’ Xanthippus reminded his friend. ‘Not his own enrichment, for slaves or roads and tiles. That was right – as I said at the time. I tell you, I would welcome two or three of him, if we had four hundred triremes as a result!’
Epikleos looked away into the distance rather than continue to argue with his friend, his doubts clear. Seeing it, Xanthippus felt his patience unravel. He was almost forty and the subtleties of politics and shifting alliances felt trivial, almost childish. In the natural pause, he patted Epikleos on the arm.
‘Let me ask my questions inside. Give me just a short time and I’ll come out. We’ll run to the port today – and back.’
Epikleos groaned and smiled as he was expected to do, but his expression was worried as Xanthippus vanished into the council building. He had watched Themistocles speak at Miltiades’ funeral. With an orator of such great skill, there were a dozen ways it could have gone. Yet the sense of Miltiades being a wronged man, a hero brought down by his accuser, had come from that eulogy. Perhaps not all the blame for it could be laid at the feet of Themistocles, but that was part of what made him dangerous. There was always another way of seeing. Men loved Themistocles – and they could see no evil in him. Epikleos knew Xanthippus admired the man, for his warmth and his extraordinary skill with a crowd – for all, perhaps, that Xanthippus was not.
While he waited, Epikleos scraped his foot across a shard of pot that crunched underfoot. For himself, in all honesty, he was in awe of both men, but they were made of very different clay. Few could move the Assembly like Themistocles.
Epikleos turned his hand so that he could bite a piece of nail on his thumb, something he only did when he was worried. Epikleos had tried to warn his friend, but Xanthippus would not hear him.
22
Cimon entered the gymnasium to the south of the city. He had not slept the night before and he could feel the scratchiness and sweat as weariness caught up with him. Yet at eighteen, he felt sharp even so. Sleep was just an interruption to life, an irritant that tugged at his sleeve when he wanted to go on and on.
None of the staff challenged him as he entered the gate and strode through the cloisters along the open field. That too was exhilarating. With his father barely in the grave, he had risen as a name in Athens. Part of it was from those who thought Miltiades had been poorly treated, killed unfairly after a lifetime of service. There were others who had been at Marathon who had pledged themselves to his son after the funeral procession. Cimon did not completely understand what drove those men, but he was willing to take their oaths. He did so without hesitation, though it made them clients of his family. That support would incur its own debts when they fell ill or were wounded. Yet he had not turned them down – and word had spread that he would not. He saw in them that Marathon had been a golden moment, when they had tested themselves and not been found wanting, when they had proved their courage in the forge-fire. Nothing would ever taste as sweet again, he thought. For them. He would find his own fruit – and make it run in thick juice down his chin and chest.
Themistocles had brought that support to the fore, with his speech at the funeral. Cimon still didn’t know if the man had planned it, or whether he had simply reacted to seeing so many hoplites in armour, come to honour a name of Athens. From that moment, Cimon had been handed his father’s mantle. Men who had commanded a phalanx had bowed to him – men with the influence no mere eighteen-year-old could match. Cimon had joined the Assembly, b
ut he could not bring his own trials, nor put his name forward for any number of posts. He could not lead Athens until he was thirty. On that morning he knew two things: that he would, and that it seemed a long way off.
Themistocles was in the boxing ring, sparring lightly with another man. Both were naked except for the wrappings on their hands to protect the knuckles. Even then, too many of the trainers had hands that resembled meaty slabs.
Cimon felt a tremor as he approached. He knew there was a chance Themistocles would ask him to spar. Some men tested one another in this way. He wondered how well Themistocles had researched his habits. Cimon’s robe concealed a frame of lean muscle – that was no secret. He ran or trained every day, building fitness until he and his friends were like young leopards in their speed and glowing health.
Themistocles glanced across at the figure approaching and then had to duck under a swing as his opponent tried to take advantage of his inattention.
‘Enough, enough!’ Themistocles said, chuckling. He kept one hand outstretched as he looked over, Cimon noted, to give him time to react to a rush.
The other man glared at the newcomer. He was red and veined, as if his skin had been scoured. He looked swollen in the face and body somehow, and sore, his mood close to anger.
‘I paid for a full session,’ the man said, tapping his fists together.
Themistocles turned back to him as if Cimon had vanished, his attention suddenly focused.
‘What’s that?’ he said.
Cimon could hear the edge, though the man seemed not to.
‘I said, I had paid for a full session!’ the man snapped.
Themistocles stepped in fast then and Cimon saw he had been only playing or teaching before. He hit the man with a jab and then a hook, stunning him. When the other boxer raised his arms, Themistocles hammered blows into his ribs, first one side then the other. It made the fellow groan and try to protect himself. Themistocles danced a step and then hit him again with a flurry of hooks and an uppercut, stepping aside as the man collapsed onto the sand. He lay unmoving for a moment and Themistocles signalled one of his staff to roll him over before he inhaled sand and suffocated.
Cimon saw Themistocles smile, almost to himself, relishing the victory as he held out his hands to be unwrapped. Two slaves moved quickly for one of the co-owners of the gymnasium. It was just moments before Themistocles stepped out of the ring to greet Cimon, presenting a hand still compressed and pale from being held closed for so long.
Cimon accepted the grip, though sweat poured from the other man. There were different kinds of tests.
‘I need to swim. You look tired, Cimon. I hope you took my advice to rest.’
‘I sleep for a few hours in the afternoons,’ Cimon replied as they began to walk. ‘I can live without it – as long as I get to sleep a whole night and morning every few weeks.’
Themistocles groaned.
‘By the gods, to be so young. I can barely remember it… when nothing hurt, when sleep could be banished with a word, when you could drink all night and run the next day!’
‘You seem fit enough…’ Cimon said.
Themistocles looked for mockery, but there was none. Neither was there understanding. Youth could not understand age and never had.
‘I used to be paid to spar, Cimon. Six or eight bouts a morning. Believe me, you have not known exhaustion until you step into the sand ring with some young pup, fresh and hungry, while you have fought half a dozen before him. Yet it paid for my studies and it kept food on my table.’
He pressed a finger to his nose and moved it back and forth ruefully.
‘This has been broken so many times, I have lost count, but it was worth it.’
‘Surely, though, you don’t need to be paid now?’ Cimon asked.
‘I need to train and be fit. If it pleases some householder to try his luck for a few drachms, I am willing. You were born to wealth, Cimon. I was not. Perhaps that’s why I value the coins I earn.’
‘I value the wealth of my family,’ Cimon said, suddenly serious.
They had crossed the field and reached the banks of the stream that ran through the gymnasium, the source of cool water for them all. It was flowing well that year and Themistocles stepped onto a ledge of good marble and down into the waters.
Cimon watched the big man duck his head and come up blowing and spitting. For once, the eighteen-year-old seemed unsure how to go on. He looked around at the slaves waiting with clean robes and towels for Themistocles to finish. Cimon glanced over his shoulder and saw the boxer had regained his feet. He was standing, groggily, pointing angrily in Themistocles’ direction, clearly unhappy about his treatment. Cimon grinned. The day was perfect, with blue skies and swallows wheeling high above the field. On impulse, he removed his robe and sandals and stepped down into the river pool.
‘Ah! Very good,’ Themistocles said. ‘It cleans the blood, this cold. It is excellent for health. I spent most of a day once, seeing how long I could stand it. My legs went numb and my hands wrinkled like an old man, but afterwards, when the blood flowed thick and hard again? I performed wonders – and I was less stiff the day after, though you will not care about that, not yet.’
‘I wanted to ask you… something important,’ Cimon said. He leaned back, so that the water reached his collarbone. His feet stretched over marble onto silken mud, so that he could feel it between his toes. The sun was hot and yet his teeth began to chatter.
Themistocles gestured without looking away. The slaves packed up their equipment and vanished, so that they were alone.
‘I am too old to mentor you,’ Themistocles said. ‘And I am attached to women as lovers. So if it is that…’
‘It is not that,’ Cimon said, his voice low.
Themistocles dropped the smile and rested one arm on the marble ledge, smoothing the surface of the water with his outstretched hand.
‘What then? If you don’t ask, I can hardly…’
‘You said I should not kill the man who brought my father down,’ Cimon said. He held up his hand as Themistocles began to speak. ‘I have agreed. I have mastered myself, as you told me to.’
It seemed a grand claim for just a few days, but Themistocles did not object.
‘I have hundreds pledged in support to me – more than you would believe, but not six thousand, not yet.’
Themistocles narrowed his eyes as he considered. He looked away for a moment and Cimon thought he was losing him.
‘The laws are clear enough,’ he went on. ‘Any man may be ostracised, sent into exile for ten years. There does not have to be a formal reason, there is no appeal. It is just the will of the people, expressed in a single vote, like a summer storm. I am an Athenian, Themistocles. My father was Miltiades of Marathon.’
‘I know it,’ Themistocles said. ‘But Xanthippus is a name. He will have support – and if I help you and fail, I think I would risk another vote on my fate.’
‘Then you will not help me?’ Cimon asked.
Themistocles grimaced, clearly caught. Then as Cimon watched, his expression settled.
‘You have not asked, lad,’ Themistocles said.
‘Then I ask now! Will you help me? Will you add your supporters to mine? I will pay whatever you want.’
Themistocles stayed very still, though the cold was stealing into them both and they shivered even in the sun. Cimon saw a fish swim out of the river pool and across the lowest step, a flicker of brown trout.
‘Very well,’ Themistocles said at last.
‘Name your price,’ Cimon said, weak with relief. ‘And I will match it, I swear.’
‘I do have a price, it seems,’ Themistocles said softly. ‘Though in this case, it is not silver.’
23
It had rained the night before. Xanthippus could smell it in the dust, in the air, both thicker and sweeter somehow than when it was dry.
He had risen before the sun in his own room on the estate outside the city. Returning to visit Agariste ha
d been for the children more than her. Perhaps for his own comfort as well, when he had the good humour to admit it. Xanthippus found the town-house rather cramped compared to the estate. Here, he was master – with all the facilities of a first-rate gymnasium if he chose to use them. He bit his lip, thinking of the brothel Themistocles had bought. Not all the facilities.
His son Ariphron had adopted a coldness with him that matched his mother, even in the set of the mouth and glowering expression. Xanthippus wondered how Agariste had explained his absence. He had not said a word to them about it himself. Such matters between husband and wife were not the concern of children.
He and Agariste maintained a coolly respectful distance whenever they met, even going so far as to speak of matters in the city and the family holdings. Yet he felt the strain of it, while the children seemed to as well, looking from father to mother with wide eyes.
Leaning against a column, Xanthippus stared over the paddocks, his eye caught by the moving figure on the far side. His daughter Eleni was growing up strong and lithe, her skin deeply tanned from so much time spent out of doors with the horses. She was in love with risk and would delight herself trying to ride two at once, with a foot on each broad back while she balanced and hallooed a hunting call. She had picked up bruises and scratches as well, though strangely it was little Pericles who matched her, more than Ariphron. Perhaps that was the burden of the oldest son, Xanthippus thought. First sons were often leaders; he knew that. The role came with a weight of responsibility they could not shed. Their younger brothers seemed not even to feel it. They tended to be wilder, to have more trouble bending their will to learning or discipline. Certainly it was Pericles who had developed a backwards dive into the river and then taught it to Eleni. The boy’s tutors complained he missed half their lessons and yet he could rattle off verbs and declensions as if he’d heard them a thousand times. They beat him anyway, of course, Xanthippus thought with satisfaction. It would not do to let a boy think he had won, not at that age. If Pericles spent less time throwing himself into the air, he would be a prodigy. Xanthippus sighed. Ariphron disliked the river. His oldest son had been frightened by something in the deepest part, clambering out halfway between panic and rage. It did not matter. Men did not always learn to swim.
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