The Gates of Athens

by Conn Iggulden

  Far below, Xerxes could see the movement of shoals of fish in the blue water, like shadows beneath the surface. Another ship made its way down the strait to be bound in place, a bridge from one empire to another. The masts would be cut down and hammered into the seabed to keep the bobbing vessels stable. His engineers had assured him they could make a platform able to withstand the storms that came racing down the strait in winter. Their lives rested on their word. Out on the waters, a dozen ships waited to come in, their crews busy with purpose. Xerxes smiled. It was a good day.

  27

  Themistocles struggled not to show his irritation. He had thought once that having a new epistates every morning had been a stroke of genius by the lawmaker Cleisthenes. No tyrant could ever arise, not in the time from sunset to sunset! He scratched his chin, feeling the bristles. Perhaps he should grow a beard, he thought, glancing at the latest Athenian to lead the city. He hadn’t quite appreciated how often he would need to explain the realities of politics to a new man, pink and fresh from his ballot, determined to make a mark on Athens. It was… wearying.

  ‘Themistocles?’ the man said.

  Hippothontis tribe, Themistocles recalled. To save his own life, he could not remember the man’s name. With a new face every day for years, they all blurred in his memory, with few exceptions. Cleisthenes may have been a genius, but his determination to preserve democracy in Athens also averaged out the abilities of its officials. Worse than dealing with the fools, Themistocles hated losing the good ones. Just the day before, a young stone-carver had been epistates. Diophenas had been sharply intelligent. He’d pushed a jury to the right decision with just a few words and understood completely how to manage the council meeting. For once, Themistocles had found an ally. Yet the following sunset had come around just as quickly and Diophenas had gone back to his work carving posts and lintels. The new man seemed full of questions, but of the sort to frustrate rather than aid him.

  ‘Are you unwell, Themistocles?’ the epistates said.

  What was his name? The tone was sneering and the man had taken on a faint flush, as if he knew he was being ignored.

  ‘I am well enough,’ Themistocles said.

  The man raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Then perhaps you have an answer, one I can take to the council. Where are the records for the mine workers? We have rumours of men being forced to pay a part of their income before they even receive it.’

  Themistocles said nothing, though he glowered and lowered his head like a trapped bull. It was a historic arrangement, right back to the first dig on the new seam at Laurium. He had agreed a collective rate for the men, higher than it might have been, with a little taken for his labour. Such things were meant to be private, and they had been at first. If he had not been distracted in the city, he might have remembered to check the arrangement, to renew it with the overseers at the mine. Instead, faces and names had changed – and suddenly there were questions from the council about the little cart of silver ore that was collected each month without being tallied with the rest.

  Instead of staying in command of the details, Themistocles had been forced to deal with a thousand other matters. Little by little, he had become aware of things left undone once Aristides had gone. Themistocles had never appreciated how many hours the dour little man had spent serving the city. It was not just the docks and the reports from the carpenters and shipwrights, not even the woodcutters and cartmen bringing in new stocks, or the lumber yards where wood was dried and seasoned. A month after Aristides had gone into exile, two men had brought a survey of the city sewers, with every private home and pit marked on a map that had cost a small fortune in labour. They’d needed paying, but they’d also wanted to discuss some scheme Aristides had been mulling to sink the main sewage runs beneath the surface of the city, so that they could not overflow as easily.

  It was incredibly dull, but the work had gone on nonetheless, unseen, unrewarded. Without Aristides, or Xanthippus, or even Miltiades, much of the work fell to men of the council who had been elected for a single month. Men without particular skill, without vision. Of course, they came to Themistocles, more and more often.

  ‘I will look into it, epistates, of course,’ he said. ‘I will bring a report to the council next week.’

  ‘You said something similar last month, so I was told.’

  Themistocles raised his eyes. He had relied on the constant change of officials to put them off, and it had worked for a long time. Unfortunately, they had begun to talk and discuss his reluctance. He saw it in the suspicious glances that followed him.

  ‘It takes time to send men out to the mine, to question witnesses and examine the accounts there.’

  ‘They should match the tallies in the council building, of course,’ the man added.

  Themistocles nodded. The epistates was probably right, but the two sets of accounts would never match. He cursed himself in silence for letting this get away from him.

  Across the city, noon bells sounded. Themistocles swore aloud then, surprising the epistates.

  ‘I must go, Diophenas.’ He saw the hurt he had caused and realised his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, that was yesterday’s… Really, I must go. I am expected on the Areopagus.’

  Themistocles hurried away, clutching scrolls under his arm and feeling rushed and worried. Where was the report on the fleet trials? He’d had it in his satchel, but then put it down on his seat while he’d gone to hear a discussion of leave and pay for the rowers. Left alone, they’d vote themselves six months of idleness and six drachms a day! He had to veto the wildest ideas put to a vote, using his authority as archon of the Areopagus. That won him no followers. In previous times, it was the sort of unpleasant job he’d have persuaded Xanthippus or Aristides to do. He’d never thought he would miss them, but he did. It turned out that leading a city, without that city being aware of it, was a little more complicated than Themistocles had imagined. If he’d actually become a tyrant, he could have passed off the work by order. Of course, they would have executed him.

  Just a month before, Themistocles had attended plays in the public theatre by the Acropolis, comedies where his new political prominence was derided and mocked. He’d laughed along with the crowd to take the sting from it, but they were clearly wary of him. Athenians were many things, but not stupid. He would not have wanted to rule them if they had been. He’d seen off one attempt to ostracise him, though it had cost a fortune in silver and bargaining. He’d even had a hundred burly rowers ready to disrupt the process, but it had not come to that. When the bell rang out and the pot had been sealed, there had been just three thousand pieces of tile with his name on them. He grimaced at the memory. It had been a warning, but he had so much else he wanted to do.

  He bustled to the Areopagus, the rock of Ares that rose from the ground alongside the Agora. That ancient seat had witnessed the rise and fall of many names. He had not expected to arrive harassed and sweating like any slave scribe!

  All four of the city archons were present. Old men, long past their prime. They had not replaced Miltiades, Xanthippus or Aristides, as if their seats could not be filled by anyone else. Themistocles saw Aristides’ spot was still deliberately empty, between two ancients. Was that a criticism? Death had taken one and the Assembly had ostracised the others. No one could gainsay those decisions, not once they had been made. He found his frustration growing. He had other calls on his time. The archons were a remnant of another age, of power lost. What authority they had lay in deference and tradition – a fragile state of affairs that could be withdrawn at any time.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Themistocles said by way of greeting, taking his seat and arranging his scrolls. The satchel seemed to grow heavier every day. He would have to keep a slave with him to carry it. Should have summoned one this morning…

  ‘You are late, Themistocles,’ Archon Nicodemus said, his voice an old man’s fluting tone. It was his name that had been chosen for the year past, though that was coming to an end. Themi
stocles assumed they would choose Hypsichides for the next. He looked to that old fellow, more ancient still, with his neck in sinewy wires and his bald head freckled and stretched thin. The honour was less when so many of them had been sent to exile. A younger, more active council of archons would surely have replaced those lost. It seemed a symptom of their fading star that they had not. Or perhaps they feared the rise of Cimon’s people in the city. That young man was very much his father’s son. Cimon had the quality of a leader, as hard to define as always. If the drink did not destroy him before the age of thirty, he would be a name in Athens.

  ‘I have a report here, on the latest sea trials,’ Themistocles began.

  The fleet was his greatest achievement. In the years since he had argued with Aristides over spending city silver on oars and keels, Athenian ships had sailed as far as the new city of Rome in the west, patrolling the islands of the Aegean and establishing an Athenian peace. Even the Spartans gave way when they saw Athenian galleys easing into view. That fleet would be his legacy, Themistocles was certain. He never tired of reporting on its successes.

  He realised he was holding the wrong scroll as he unrolled the papyrus. He put that down and rummaged in his satchel while the archons looked at one another.

  ‘If you are not ready, it can probably wait,’ Nicodemus said. His tone was sour.

  Themistocles looked up and wondered how difficult it would be to snap him in two.

  ‘No, I have it here,’ Themistocles replied.

  To his surprise Nicodemus held up a hand.

  ‘We have more pressing news, Themistocles. From our friends.’

  Themistocles stopped his search and closed the satchel flap, sitting back. He was tired and fed up, but they still watched him like hawks surrounding a rabbit. That was not an image he enjoyed, even as he saw it in their bright eyes.

  ‘The Great King has gathered his army on the coast of Ionia, Themistocles. One of our people brought news only this morning, two weeks old. They are coming, it seems, after years of preparation.’

  Themistocles felt his stomach contract and he sat forward. A headache began over one eye. Somehow, he knew it would remain with him for the whole day.

  ‘There have been false alarms for years,’ he said. ‘How many ships? How many men? How close are they to marching?’

  ‘We lost a couple of boys trying to find out,’ Nicodemus said. ‘We have a few guesses and estimates, but they move and they march and their ships infest the coast like sea lice. Two of our merchant galleys were boarded by their officials not a month back – in waters where Persians have no right to be. They took nothing, but their confidence is growing. They would not have dared such an act even a year ago.’

  ‘When armies march, authority is whatever they can take and keep,’ Themistocles said grimly. ‘Or would you stand in front of an army holding a property deed, crying out that they have no permission?’

  He made a growling sound of frustration, deep in his throat. There had not been a month in three years without some report of Persian ships, of Persian gold, of Persian soldiers like grains of sand.

  ‘How many times have we listened to these reports now?’ Themistocles said. ‘Always, there is something to gossip over in the markets.’

  ‘This… is not gossip, Themistocles,’ Nicodemus said. ‘The Great King himself has joined them. We have it from men who saw him on the coast. He is his father’s son and he is looking across the seas to the west.’

  Themistocles scowled. Fear seemed to grow with age. It was the strangest thing, like rot that ran through the heart of good wood. Young men felt too little fear, but then somehow it crept in and spread. He looked at Nicodemus and saw the old archon was afraid. With an effort, Themistocles gentled his tone.

  ‘Tell me, are they just securing their western border or truly planning an invasion?’

  ‘It is impossible to know for sure,’ Nicodemus admitted. ‘I suspect the Great King himself does not know. Yet the numbers, Themistocles! One of our people watched them mark out a field and count the number who could stand within the ropes. For a day, they filled that field over and over. Our friend was moved on and lashed for his curiosity, but he said he had never seen so many. He said… at least two hundred thousand, perhaps twice as many again.’

  ‘That is impossible,’ Themistocles said scornfully. ‘If he said that, he was trying to make you fearful. Even counting slaves and women, you are describing all of Athens, just about. Who could even feed so many on the march? They would starve.’

  ‘Some will come by ship, with holds full of salted meat and casks of water. They have the entire Persian empire to feed them.’

  ‘How many ships?’ Themistocles demanded.

  ‘Hundreds. We do not know the number.’

  ‘What good are you, then?’ Themistocles snapped.

  He closed his eyes for a moment as they recoiled, furious with himself. There was no honour in barking at old men.

  ‘I apologise,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘You will understand the news is disturbing. We thought they would come after Marathon, but they did not. All word ceased out of Persia and there were some who argued that we would never hear from them again, that we had earned peace with a single battle. Do you remember those days, Nicodemus?’

  ‘Their king died,’ the old man said.

  ‘Yes. And his son, this Xerxes, still remembers us. If we could only know his mind!’

  Themistocles began to pace. The heads of the old men followed him back and forth, as if in a trance.

  ‘We have had years of rumours and reports,’ Themistocles said. ‘Talk of armies drifting in and training and taking over the cities of Ionia. We live with the threat of invasion – though our great fleet patrols day and night. We will give thanks for the wisdom of that if they come!’

  He saw Nicodemus roll his eyes and Themistocles let his mouth become a thin line. They owed him honour for creating the fleet.

  ‘We live with the knowledge that they will come. Yet they have not. I think sometimes the rise in unrest here is part of that. Two murders just yesterday! I do not remember such things in my youth, not when we had hunger and thirst to occupy us. No, these days, our people wait with the ground shaking beneath our feet, never knowing if the roof will fall in.’ He began to pace once more, his hands clasped behind him. ‘Now you say it is upon us? By Athena, we are not ready.’

  ‘Even so, they will come,’ the old man said. ‘If the gods decree it, that will be the end.’

  Themistocles stared at Nicodemus, wondering if it was age or a weakness of character.

  ‘No. If they come… when they come, we will break them on foot as we did at Marathon. Our fleet will destroy them at sea. I swear it.’

  ‘We are too few,’ Archon Nicodemus replied, shaking his head.

  Themistocles said nothing at first. He had seen the council of archons as an irritant for some time. He realised they were looking to him for answers. They had woken the Persian lion and the beast was coming. They were terrified.

  ‘Send word to Sparta, then,’ he said. ‘They refused to give water and earth to the Persians, just as we did. Send word to Thebes, to Corinth – wherever there are men willing to take up the hoplon shield and long spear. They are Hellenes, as we are. Call on that kinship of blood. Tell them to train and build fitness, to sharpen their swords. Be sure they know the enemy is coming and threatens us all.’

  ‘Even to the cities that welcomed the Persian envoys? Traitors will not fight,’ Nicodemus said softly.

  ‘Then they are fools. A flame does not spare one house over another, not when the whole city burns. Either way, if they come, we will meet them. Athens will lead Greece. At sea, on land.’

  ‘I will pray for storms, or that the Persian king goes the way of his father,’ Nicodemus said.

  Themistocles shrugged.

  ‘Why not? We thought they would march four years ago, but then Darius died and all the whispers stopped. We could be as blessed again.’

&
nbsp; He chuckled, though there was not much humour in it.

  ‘Either way, if they send a small force, as at Marathon, we will crush them. If they send a great host, they will starve before they ever reach Greece. Persian soldiers cannot grow wings and fly like harpies! Have you any idea how long it would take Persian ships and fishing boats just to row them across the Hellespont to Thrace? Years, gentlemen. I tell you, the first ones will starve or grow white-haired waiting for the rest! Really, how many can they even bring against us?’

  28

  Xerxes rode onto a wonder of the world, the hooves of his grey gelding making a hollow sound in the silence of a spring morning. Guards stood at attention on either side of him, so that they looked like statues lining the halls in the palace at Persepolis. Crowds had gathered all along the shore at Abydos. Readying his army for the great enterprise had drawn thousands of workers and their families to the area. Gold, silver and his imperial will had created a new city in that place. Now there were cobblers to make shoes and farmers bringing grain to sell in markets. New homes had sprung up on every hillside. The crowd filled the banks and hung in the trees like flapping pigeons, just to catch a glimpse of the king. They had cheered themselves hoarse when Xerxes had first appeared, praying with the priests on the shore as they dedicated the campaign to Ahura Mazda, god of gods, as well as Xerxes, king of kings.

  Xerxes could feel the breeze increase in strength as he walked his horse across the wide causeway they had laid. The planks creaked in the sun and with the movement of water below. He had chosen the gelding for its placid temperament, over the stallion he preferred to ride. It would not do for his army and his people to see their king pitched into the sea by a nervous horse.