The Gates of Athens

by Conn Iggulden

  Aristides wore a new robe of white linen. It seemed to have irritated the skin at his neck, where a raw red stripe showed. Themistocles watched as the man caught sight of him and approached, taking a seat a few spaces further along. From that side, they could look out onto the Agora, with its busy crowds and street sellers.

  ‘I give you greeting, Aristides,’ Themistocles said formally.

  Before Aristides could reply, Xanthippus was striding up to where they sat, using the benches as steps. He carried no weapon except his anger, but Themistocles felt the stone behind his knees even so. He could not retreat, would not.

  ‘I called you both from exile,’ Themistocles said quickly. ‘I demanded an emergency vote and won it, with Cimon’s help.’

  ‘You cost me seven years,’ Xanthippus said.

  His voice was hoarse, but in speaking the words, the anger faded. Themistocles had lost some of the cocky arrogance he remembered. There were new lines on the man’s face and in the stoop of his shoulders. Xanthippus scowled in confusion. Where was the laughing kurios he had known before?

  ‘You would have remained for three more had I not called you back,’ Themistocles said. ‘Let there be only honesty between us. Strike me if you want, but then sit down and listen. Don’t stand and glare. We don’t have time for that.’

  ‘Why would I strike you?’ Xanthippus said in sharp triumph. ‘Are you behind it all, then?’

  ‘Come and sit, Xanthippus,’ Aristides said. ‘Let us hear what he has to say.’

  Xanthippus clenched his fists, though Themistocles was so broad across the shoulders, it was hard to imagine knocking him down. It would certainly take more than one blow. He hoped the same was true of himself.

  ‘I am glad we found you,’ Themistocles said.

  He could not quite bring himself to sit down while Xanthippus stood breathing hard and still looking as if he might run mad. Instead, the two men stood facing one another awkwardly.

  ‘I sent men to fetch you, but somehow your wife already had word. She must have been on the road before the Assembly had even finished voting.’

  ‘Do not speak of my wife,’ Xanthippus said.

  Themistocles nodded, staying silent and wary. Time stretched as neither man gave way.

  ‘I was not called back for this!’ Aristides snapped. ‘Both of you! Sit down.’

  It was nothing to do with obedience, they told themselves, only that the words gave them an excuse and broke the tension. Whatever salve they used on their dignity at being scolded like children, both Xanthippus and Themistocles took seats on the same side.

  ‘Thank you,’ Themistocles said to Xanthippus. He felt sweat break out and wondered how he would have reacted if the situation had been reversed. Not too well, he suspected.

  ‘In a moment, I will bring in Cimon,’ Themistocles went on, his voice quiet and certain. He saw Xanthippus look troubled. ‘As you forgive me, he can forgive you – for Athens.’

  ‘I have not said I forgive you,’ Xanthippus replied, though there was less heat in it than his first madness. ‘There will yet be a reckoning, Themistocles.’

  ‘There always is,’ Themistocles said, sighing.

  He went to another door and rapped his knuckles on it. Cimon entered immediately, as if he had been standing with his ear against the wood.

  Both Xanthippus and Aristides rose to their feet. Cimon walked like a leopard, or a warrior in his prime. Still in his twenties, there was a spring in his step that spoke of muscle and strength and training to kill. Cimon was intimidating, but there was only a cold sternness in his face.

  Xanthippus saw the young man was armed and breathed out. He understood the point, or hoped he did. If he was safe, if any of them were safe, only when the others were unarmed, there could be no peace. If Cimon could stand with a sword on his belt and then leave it in the scabbard, perhaps there could be an accord between them. It was subtle, but Themistocles was a good judge of character.

  Xanthippus hoped that was still true. If Themistocles was wrong and the son of Miltiades decided to avenge his father, Xanthippus was dead.

  ‘Aristides… Xanthippus,’ Cimon said.

  He stopped before them, on a lower step. It was hard to remember the lad who had stood with his father at trial. Cimon’s hair was cropped short and his face had changed, losing any boyish planes. He radiated strength and will.

  ‘Cimon,’ they replied almost together, their voices overlapping.

  The young man dipped his head, though he did not take his eyes from Xanthippus.

  ‘Themistocles has convinced me he needs you both. I accept his judgement. However…’ He held up an index finger as if interrupting, or listing points one by one. ‘Xanthippus. You were wrong to bring my father to trial. If you will admit that, I will put aside any enmity I feel. Can you do it?’

  Xanthippus stared at him, his thoughts whirling. Themistocles cleared his throat as he began to speak. The young man changed his gesture sharply to a flat palm, warning him to be still.

  ‘Oh, sit down, boy,’ Aristides said. ‘He was not wrong.’

  ‘I have no quarrel with you,’ Cimon snapped, stung.

  Aristides shrugged.

  ‘Nor I with you. It does not change the truth, or the past. Themistocles called us back early from our exile. I imagine the world is about to end, which is why I am here, waiting for him to tell me what he wants. You? Who are you?’

  ‘I am the son of Miltiades!’ Cimon retorted.

  ‘Were you at Marathon, with us?’ Aristides asked. ‘We were, we three. We fought alongside your father. Either way, Miltiades died of his wounds – almost ten years ago. So be wary, boy. You have lost much. So have I. So has Xanthippus.’

  Cimon stared at him. He had imagined great drama, with Xanthippus forced to repent, to admit he had been wrong. Instead, a man he respected had rattled his plan, throwing him off as he built to a climax. He turned back to Xanthippus, but the moment had lost much of its power.

  ‘I cannot change the past,’ Xanthippus said.

  It sounded weak to him, so he forced himself to speak again. If Cimon drew his sword, perhaps they could grapple with him before he killed anyone. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I was not wrong, Cimon. I did my duty – a duty that exists because Athens is worth more than us. Our freedom is worth more than our lives, certainly our labours! Can you understand? It has never been clearer to me than today, setting foot in the Agora once again. There is nothing like our Assembly in the world, Cimon. Outside our bounds, there is just men telling others what to do – tyranny. I spent my years of exile in Corinth, on the Peloponnese. It took me a while to see what was different there, but when I understood, it was a hammer’s blow. Nothing changed! In Athens, we talk, we trade, we innovate. There is change every day, but always with the consent of the people. Always. I saw a man hanged when he criticised a nobleman of Corinth. There was no outcry from the people, as there would be here. Beyond blasphemy, we can say anything. We are free to praise Sparta, but the Spartans are not free to praise us! That is the difference between Athens and the world. Our law comes from the people, not at the whim of judges or kings. By Athena, I swear I loved them for it, even in exile, even cast out.’

  There was awe in Cimon’s eyes as he realised he understood a man he had hated. Aristides too looked moved, as if he could weep at what he heard.

  Xanthippus breathed out slowly.

  ‘That is why Themistocles called me here today, though he knows I would strangle him in a heartbeat. What freedom we have won is worth my life – sweeter today than in seven years.’

  Both Cimon and Xanthippus glanced at Themistocles. Under that twin gaze, he nodded confirmation. Xanthippus chuckled, though there was bitterness in it.

  ‘I’ll work to preserve all that is good. That is all any of us can ask. No matter what it costs. So in the end, we can say, “We did the best we could, with what we knew.”’

  ‘Would you do it again?’ Cimon said softly, almost in wonder.
He too seemed to have been drained of his rage, the reality an intense disappointment compared with the scene he had imagined. Xanthippus was not a monster, but an ordinary Athenian, lean and thoughtful, tanned and strong.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Xanthippus said. ‘We can’t go back. I have more regrets than you can imagine, Cimon. But I cannot undo a single stitch, do you understand? The great moments of your life are still ahead. Yet if you only take a step when you are certain you are right, you will never move at all. I will say this… I am sorry your father died.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cimon said.

  Themistocles looked from one to the other.

  ‘I can see I was right…’ he began.

  Xanthippus swung from where he stood, in a surge of anger so complete he saw only white light and felt no pain, even when he spun the big man round and sent him crashing and sliding across the benches.

  Themistocles groaned and Xanthippus felt a twinge of fear as his anger vanished and he remembered how Themistocles had liked to box and wrestle. His fists closed, though one ached from the blow. He would not retreat, not that day. With a calm expression, Xanthippus watched Themistocles lever himself upright. A red mark showed where he had been hit as he came back to stand by the other three. His gaze, however, was all for Xanthippus.

  ‘That was not an honourable blow,’ Themistocles said. Xanthippus waited as the man considered. ‘But we have more important work before us. If we are all finished with old grudges? Yes?’ One by one, they nodded. ‘Good. The past is past, gentlemen. The future, however, is all to play for. Persia is coming, by sea, by land. And I can’t stop them, not alone.’

  Despite the pain in his jaw, Themistocles realised he felt lighter than he had before. Aristides was a fine strategos on the battlefield. Just the thought of being able to pass the Athenian hoplites into his command was a huge weight that lifted away. Xanthippus demanded respect and won it with sheer will and ability. He could be trusted, no matter what the stakes were. Cimon was a firebrand, yes, aggressive, brash and disrespectful of authority, but he had become a charismatic leader. Such men strained the seams and bonds of peacetime, but in war, they came into their own. Themistocles had not been wrong, he thought with relief. He needed them all.

  33

  Xanthippus walked out of the city. It had been a long day and he was weary, but also filled with a satisfaction he had not known for too long. It was not that Aristides had been given command of the city’s hoplites. Any tyrant could have given the command with a wave of a jewelled hand. No, it was that the council had called an emergency meeting of the Assembly – and the voters of Athens had formally confirmed Aristides in the role, setting aside his exile. The record of that decision had been cut in stone and mounted in the Agora for any man or woman of the city to read.

  Xanthippus smiled as he walked, lengthening his stride. Aristides had called every hoplite in the city to a training run the following dawn. The route would be to Marathon, there to camp and return the next day. Aristides would assess their readiness and if Xanthippus knew him at all, he would sharpen that knife until it could draw blood just by looking at it.

  Xanthippus had been disappointed at first not to be given command of a thousand, as a strategos. He had assumed his role at Marathon was the reason Themistocles had called him back. Yet the man he had punched had other plans. Until he was thirty, Cimon was too young for a senior position in the fleet. Themistocles needed a second in command and it seemed he trusted Xanthippus.

  That was the strangest part of coming home, perhaps. Xanthippus had spent years imagining his revenge on Themistocles, but he had never doubted the man’s skill, nor his love for Athens. It seemed Themistocles had understood that about Xanthippus as well. Whatever their personal history, they shared enough. It was a revelation. The following morning, while Aristides took his hoplites on the first training run, Xanthippus was expected at the docks, to take ship out to the fleet. He would have to learn a vast amount in a very short time, but he found himself excited by it. There were far too many triremes for Themistocles to command alone, especially with the factions coming in every day, and a Spartan trierarch who was already making a nuisance of himself.

  Xanthippus shook his head in amusement, chuckling. There was no one else on the road and he could hardly contain the thrill of being dropped back into the politics of home. His exile had been a grim existence in comparison, he realised. He thought Alia would be interested to hear – and then he stopped in the road, suddenly, staring into the distance. He was missing her, though he did not think he would be sharing that thought with Agariste. If his exile had come to a natural end, Xanthippus knew he might easily be considering ways to bring Alia back to Athens and establish her in a quiet street. It was not so uncommon.

  He began to run, stretching out his hips and tired muscles. His lower back ached and his knee started to complain after just a few steps, reminding him of his age. He would not bring Alia into the path of Persian soldiers, not that year. She would be far safer on the outskirts of Corinth than in Athens. The decision brought a pang of disappointment and he shelved the subject, to consider later on. The heart was a complex thing.

  His mood lifted again as he reached the door to the estate and hammered on it. A slave he did not know climbed to the top of the steps to peer at him with a frown. It brought a flush of anger, just to be considered a stranger in that place.

  ‘Tell your mistress, the kurios is home,’ Xanthippus snapped.

  The man vanished and the door was pulled open just moments later.

  He had come back with Agariste in the small hours of the morning, drowsing together on the cart. The children had come out by lamplight to greet their father, standing in a row like any other group of strangers, until Conis bounded over, wagging his entire body and slobbering over them. Xanthippus had not known then how much their faces would have changed. His daughter Eleni had grown. Her brown eyes were watchful and wary of him, where before there had been smiles and easy laughter. His two sons had patted the dog with more enthusiasm than when they took their father’s hand. They had allowed him to embrace them, but it had felt like duty. Xanthippus had never felt less comfortable than in those moments.

  The sun was setting as he entered his home, at once so familiar and so subtly strange. The door to the road was closed behind him, securing the estate for the night. Conis came skittering out, skidding on the tiles and making little sounds of happiness as he wove in and out of Xanthippus’ feet in clumsy adoration. A dog was good for a man, Xanthippus thought.

  Lamps had been lit in the house and the gleam beckoned him, warm and secure, everything he had dreamed a thousand times in his years away. He had hardly noticed it in the dark the previous night. Now, he stood and gazed on his past. Agariste would be waiting for him to enter. In that moment, he could not. He heard the soft sound of hooves on turf and turned to make his way around the house to the field, Conis trotting at his side.

  In the soft grey twilight, he saw Pericles put a horse to a jump as high as any Xanthippus had ever seen. The beast he rode was powerful and lunged at it, tucking in its front legs as it flew over. They seemed to hang for a time in the air, then landed, front feet and back, his son patting the horse’s neck and turning him in place.

  Eleni was there – and Ariphron too, watching. They were oblivious as he and Conis walked out of the shadows. Xanthippus had not been part of their lives for so long, he wondered if he ever could be again. Themistocles had taken that from him, but it was an old pain, long scarred and gone cold. He was home, with war coming. He loved them, but not in a way that clutched at his heart, not in that moment. He loved them as he loved Athens. He would give his life for them even so.

  They turned without alarm as he approached them, though he saw a stillness return to their manner. Ariphron and Eleni took a step alongside one another, as if they thought to line up once again. Pericles watched him from horseback without dismounting, a certain hostility in the clear gaze. Xanthippus’ smile tig
htened. He had felt a simple joy as he approached them. It seemed to curdle as it met the reality. They did not know him.

  ‘I remember watching you learn to ride, Eleni,’ Xanthippus said, ‘over a much smaller jump, with a little pony. Yes! Pericles stood behind the pole, just there. I was worried that if you missed the jump, it would take him off his feet.’

  Neither of the two boys replied. They watched him as they might have watched any of their mother’s friends. Eleni beamed in memory.

  ‘I remember!’ she said. ‘I was on Shadow. He was wonderful.’

  ‘Not Shadow,’ Pericles muttered.

  His sister glanced at him, but went on, caught up in the memory.

  ‘We sold him when Peri outgrew him – and I bought Soldier here. He’s Peri’s horse, really, but he likes me more.’

  She grinned and Xanthippus thought how beautiful she was, how full of life. Conis wagged his tail at just the sound of her voice.

  ‘The pony’s name wasn’t Shadow,’ Pericles said again. ‘It didn’t have a name. Nor is this one Soldier. They don’t have names.’

  ‘They do when I ride them,’ Eleni said, keeping her smile in place.

  Looking from one to the other, Xanthippus could see it was an old argument.

  ‘I don’t see that it does any harm to name them,’ Xanthippus said gently. ‘I called my dog “Conis”, you know. “Dust”, after his colour.’

  Pericles glared at him and Xanthippus could see him struggling between a desire to reply and sensible caution.

  ‘And your mother and I named you, all three of you,’ Xanthippus went on. ‘“Ari-phron” means “great mind”. You are my firstborn, the great-nephew of Cleisthenes, who gave us our democracy in Athens.’

  His oldest son lost some of his glower at that.