by Gary Corby
“Then Epicrates might recognize the girl. Would he speak to us?”
“I’d be surprised if he said anything at all. He’s dead. The Athenians took the view that a man who aids a traitor is a traitor himself and applied the usual penalty.”
I shook my head and said, “Epicrates got what he deserved. I don’t understand how anyone could do anything so obviously wrong.”
“Sometimes the pressures on a man can be intense,” said Callias mildly.
“Intense enough to turn him against his own city? It’s hard to credit.”
“Ah, the lack of imagination of youth.”
All three of us stopped to drink, each thinking his own thoughts. I had passed from the point of being careful how much I drank, to the point of telling myself another one wouldn’t hurt. As the slave took away my cup to refill I said, “If the family of Themistocles had to escape, then what of the family of Thorion?”
Pericles said, “The son will be suspect for years to come. He can forget about holding public office. His neighbors will turn against him. The household will probably be harassed. Any daughters will find it hard to get husbands.”
“It hardly seems fair. The whole family aren’t criminals.”
“It’s the way in Athens,” said Callias.
Pericles said, “Nicolaos, I’m expanding your mission. Find whoever wrote that letter, learn what was in it. When you’ve done that, return the girl to Themistocles in Magnesia, and while you’re there, find out what in Hades the man is up to.”
“But wouldn’t that be spying?”
“You understand. Excellent.”
“No need to think of it in quite such blunt terms,” Callias said smoothly. “Themistocles will naturally be grateful when you return his daughter. Take the opportunity to stay a few days and observe anything of interest. Nothing could be simpler. When you return to Athens, tell us what you saw.”
“When you put it like that … very well. As you say, it would be perfectly natural.”
Callias said, “At Ephesus there will be a proxenos for Athens, whose duties are the same as Thorion’s, only in the opposite direction, including forwarding mail. He will know at least the names of everyone who sent something in the last batch. The proxenoi of two cities deal with each other frequently.”
“What if the proxenoi get too friendly?”
“It’s their job to be friendly. The rest of us supply all the mutual suspicion you could want.”
Pericles said, “Someone has to tell the Ephesians their proxenos here in Athens is dead. That can be you. It’s the perfect excuse to arrive and ask a few questions.”
I asked, “Are you a proxenos, Callias?”
“I am indeed. I assumed the proxeny of Sparta after the man who held it, my brother-in-law Cimon, was ostracized. The proxenos normally has some family connection with the city he acts for.”
“What was Thorion’s connection with Ephesus?”
“I don’t know.”
I made a note to find out.
“Why was Themistocles condemned?”
Callias sighed. “Never has a man risen so high and fallen so low, nor been more dedicated to his own self-interest. At the first Olympics after the war, the whole stadium rose to give him a standing ovation. The Spartans gave him an honor guard of three hundred citizens, an unprecedented compliment. But then he made a lot of enemies in Athens by his arrogance. The actual charge was treason with the Persians, but his real crime was fear he would make himself tyrant over us.”
“I met a man who said it was jealousy of his genius.”
“There may be a touch of truth in that. Of course, it didn’t help when he built a temple in honor of himself.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid not. Themistocles built a temple to Artemis Aristoboulë—Artemis Of Wise Counsel—a small temple in his own deme, practically next door to his house. He clearly intended the dedication as an outright boast that he was most clever, which was true, but the people didn’t want to be reminded. They ostracized him, and then ordered him to return to stand trial for treason. Instead, he disappeared without a trace, and surfaced a year later in the court of the Great King of Persia. Rumor has it he learned Persian during that missing year.”
“He learned their language? Is that useful?” I asked.
Callias smiled. “I speak it myself. Yes, of course it’s useful. In diplomacy, when you speak the enemy’s language, you take the fight onto their own ground.”
I made a mental note of that. “Go on.”
“The Great King was favorably disposed toward Themistocles and granted him a minor satrapy—that is a governorship—of three cities in the western part of the empire. It’s said he was granted the city of Magnesia to supply his bread, Myus for his meat, and Lampsacus for his wine. At a conservative estimate I would say those three among them should be delivering at least a hundred talents a year in taxes, so he is eating and drinking rather well.”
“Then he certainly doesn’t need to sell his daughters for the cash.”
“No, whatever reason the girl is here, that is not it.”
“He lives in Magnesia?”
“His family is there too. By all accounts his family is a model of harmony. He’s had none of the problems of unruly sons and disobedient daughters that the rest of us suffer. If anything, he’s too indulgent to them.” Callias laughed. “Well, I’m hardly in a position to criticize him on that score.”
Callias had been the talk of Athens a few years before, when he had allowed his daughters to marry whomever they wished. The daughters named their choice in husbands and Callias bought the young men by offering dowries so large no father could refuse.
Callias sipped his wine and thought. “Two of the sons live with Themistocles: Archeptolis and Cleophantus. He’s had enough daughters to populate a brothel; I believe some are yet unmarried. I don’t know their names, and in any case they need not concern us.”
“No, of course not,” I agreed. A woman could never play a part in politics.
“Archeptolis indulges in trade. Since Themistocles appeared in Persia he’s used his father’s influence to expand his business in that direction. If the reports I’ve received are accurate then he’s doing quite well for himself. That seems to be as much from sharp dealing as good business.”
“Likes to cheat his friends?”
“Not so obviously that he could be taken to court. My impression is the son has the father’s character but not his intelligence. I caution you I’ve never met the man, but, judging from what I’ve heard, I won’t be rushing to do business with him.”
“And the second son?”
“Cleophantus is an effete dilettante and is believed to be a coward. He passes all the requirements to join the army as a hoplite, yet he’s eschewed every opportunity to fight. He spends his days under the protection of his father, showing not the slightest ambition. I know of nothing else against him, unless you count his appalling taste in fathers; but I suppose he can’t be blamed for that. One final piece of trivia; Archeptolis married his own sister, a woman called Mnesiptolema; half sister, in fact.”
I blinked at that. “Well, I suppose it simplifies negotiation of the dowry.”
Pericles said, “Ephesus and Magnesia are on the other side of the Aegean Sea, in the province of Ionia.”
Callias nodded. Both men obviously expected a reaction. I had none to give.
I said, “I don’t understand your implication.”
Pericles sighed. “Ionia was colonized by men as Hellene as you or I. But there are many barbarians too, and the whole province is ruled by the Persians.” Pericles paused and studied me for a moment. “You’ll be subject to the whims of whatever Persian official rules, far beyond the protection of Athens.”
Better and better, I thought to myself. Pericles liked to look over my shoulder as I worked, and critique everything I did. In Ionia I’d be free of his daily interference. For the first time I began to look f
orward to this mission.
Because I wanted to hear Pericles confirm it out loud, I said, “So I’ll be a free agent.”
Pericles pursed his lips as if he’d eaten something sour. “In Ionia, you are sanctioned to act as you think best, within tight restrictions. Under no circumstances must the Persians discover you act for Athens. Whatever weakness or threat we face, the Persians are not to learn of it. Also…” Pericles nodded to Callias.
Callias whispered to a slave, who hurried off, returning with a small, balding man who waddled from the back of the house, carrying a bag. A slave, but a valued one, because he was well fed.
Callias said, “Nicolaos, this is Koppa. He has something for you.”
Koppa eyed me and said, “Now pay close attention, young man.” He spoke as if he held little such hope.
“This,” he said, holding out a short, round rod, “is a skytale.”
“It looks like a short round rod,” I said.
Koppa sighed. “So it is. Now watch.”
Koppa pulled a leather cord from the bag. He pushed the end of the cord into a notch at the end of the rod, and proceeded to wind the cord tight until the rod was covered in leather. He pushed the remaining cord into a notch at the other end.
“You see?” he demanded.
I nodded.
He produced a very thin brush and a jar of ink, of the type scribes use to write on parchment. This he used to write tiny letters along the length of the rod, squinting as he did in the poor light. When he was finished he unwrapped the cord and handed it to me.
“Read it,” he commanded.
I took the cord in both hands and tried to read, but I couldn’t. Koppa had written across the wrapped leather cord. Unwound, the letters of the words were jumbled together.
“I can’t,” I said.
Koppa handed me the rod. “Try it now.”
Within moments I had placed the thong in the notch, wound the leather around the wood, and read off the message. It was a quote from Homer.
AS SOON AS OUR PEOPLE ARE INSIDE AND IN SAFETY, CLOSE THE STRONG GATES, FOR I FEAR LEST THAT TERRIBLE MAN SHOULD COME BOUNDING INSIDE ALONG WITH THE OTHERS.
“That’s very clever,” I marveled.
“You can use it to report back during your mission,” said Callias.
“Report back?” I repeated.
Callias must have seen I was about to bristle, because he said at once, “I use the same system myself, when I’m on a mission for Athens. Of course we have every trust in you, Nicolaos.”
Koppa handed me the bag he’d carried from the house. “A present from my master.”
It was the sort of bag a man can carry on his back, made of tooled leather with a wooden frame. Koppa reached into the leather folds of the frame and pulled out a rod. “This is your skytale. As you can see I’ve disguised it as part of the frame.” He slid it back in.
Pericles said, “I’ve arranged your transport. A fast ship will be waiting for you at the naval dockyard at high tide tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”
Callias raised his hands and clapped. “The Loving Cup,” he called. Hipponax and Telemides turned their attention to us. Anaxagoras had to be called twice to tear his attention away from his argument with my little brother.
Slaves hurried in with a kylix, a shallow but very wide drinking cup, shaped almost like a dish on a stand. It was a beautiful thing, painted in the fashionable red figure style of the krater with scenes of Dionysiac revelry among a group of satyrs and nymphs. A slave dipped a ladle into the krater and filled the kylix.
This is the rule of the Loving Cup: each man drinks and passes it on to his neighbor. Sometimes it is accompanied with a game of some sort, sometimes with conversation.
“Nicolaos first,” Callias commanded.
I took the smallest sip I felt I could get away with, and I’m sure Callias and Pericles did the same, because the cup did not stay long with either. The kylix passed on to Hipponax and Telemides, who had no reason for inhibition. Anaxagoras too gave it a healthy nudge, though not so much that he could not resume his argument with Socrates. As the cup emptied, the boys refilled using the dipper. By the time the cup had gone around twice, the wine had well and truly gone to the heads of the other guests.
On the next round, Anaxagoras took the kylix and declared, “I want to buy your slave.”
I needed a moment to understand. Then, “You want to buy Socrates?” I said, aghast.
“Is that his name? Yes, I want him.”
“Whatever for?”
“Can you imagine any better slave for a philosopher? No, perhaps you can’t, not having the wit yourself to understand. Then let me tell you this boy has more philosophy in him than all the dullards combined that I am compelled to speak with every day.” Then Anaxagoras probably recollected to whom he spoke, because he added hurriedly, “Excepting you, of course, great Pericles. A truer mind never walked the earth, but excepting Pericles, this boy-slave is the only mind in Athens who can put up a decent argument.”
Oh, the temptation! I imagined the conversation. Yes, Father, I sold Socrates, but I got a good price for him!
Socrates gave me an anguished stare. I smiled back, letting the silence linger and enjoying every moment.
I said with some regret, “I’m afraid, Anaxagoras, the boy isn’t for sale.”
“Name your price.”
What if I did? No, don’t do it, Nicolaos.
“He belongs to my father.”
“Your father, eh? I’ll call on him in the morning.”
“Er—”
“The boy is special to the father,” Callias intervened. “Very special.”
Anaxagoras misunderstood, as I’m sure Callias intended. “Ah, it’s like that, is it?”
“I’m afraid so,” Callias said.
“No hope of him parting with the boy?”
“It would be like losing a son.”
The Loving Cup passed around many more times and, despite my best efforts, it was impossible not to feel the effects. But the same was even more true for the other guests who, as the moon reached its highest point, were close to passing out. The symposium was over.
Anaxagoras departed as he had come, saying, “‘True friendship’s laws are by this rule express’d; Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.’ Thank you, dear Callias.” At which point he fell over backward, and had to be carried away by his slaves.
6
For of himself had the king of men, Agamemnon, given them benched ships wherewith to cross the wine-dark sea.
Early next morning I found my father, Sophroniscus, already in his workshop. He sat on a high stool, hunched, paunched, balding. His hands were a deep, muddy brown. Before him sat a clay model of his next work, a votive statue of Zeus. It was probably destined for someone’s courtyard as their altar to Zeus Herkios; which every proper home must have. He pinched bits here, adding there, and standing back to see how his creation looked.
“Father.”
He looked up. “Nico. What do you think of this piece?”
“It looks fine,” I said without glancing at it. “Father, I need to talk to you. I am required to travel to Ephesus, part of an investigation for Pericles.” I didn’t tell him it would be my last.
By rights I should have asked my father’s permission the day before, straight after Pericles and I had discussed it, but I knew Father would permit my travel since it was in accordance with our agreement, granting me two years to make a success of investigation. Father could not reasonably deny me if I was to receive a fair chance, and for all our differences, he was a fair man.
He grunted. “Ephesus, eh? That’s a long way for a young man who’s never been outside Attica.”
“Yes, Father, it is.”
“You might learn something of the world. It’s not all like Athens, you know.”
“May I ask a favor? If I send you any mail, could you please pass the wrapping cord on to Pericles?”
“The wrapping cord?” He
looked at me strangely.
“Don’t cut it, untie the knot and have a slave carry the cord to Pericles. He’ll know what to do with it.”
“This is something to do with your work?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll do as you ask. But I won’t change my mind about that woman you want, Diotima. That’s what you’ve really come to see me about, isn’t it? Whether I’ll change my mind about this girl you’re so besotted with?”
“No. I … well, yes, I did,” I said, though I hadn’t realized it myself until that moment. If Father relented, then when I arrived in Ephesus there’d be something I could say to Diotima without having to flinch. Perhaps I could even bring her home. This was my last chance.
“Father, I admit it, I do want Diotima—”
“No.” He put down his tools and laid a cloth over the model, then sat back on his stool.
“Son, Diotima is the daughter of a prostitute.”
“A hetaera,” I corrected him.
“A high-class prostitute then, but still a prostitute. Granted, the mother’s not a pornê walking the streets—”
“She’s wealthier than we are.”
“That’s not the point. Nicolaos, you’re not listening to me. She’s not a citizen.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
Father lifted the cloth off the model and resumed his work. He was not good at dealing with conflict at the best of times. I knew this was his way of avoiding any more conversation on the subject. I said, “Thank you, Father, for your permission to travel.”
“It’s my pleasure, son.” He raised his eyes from his work one more time. “A father has to do what’s best for his son. You understand?”
“I do.”
He said, “By the way, I received a note requesting an appointment from a man called Anaxagoras. He says he knows you. Any idea what he wants?”
“Anaxagoras? Er … no, I can’t imagine,” I said, as innocently as possible.
With any luck, by the time Father found out, I would be overseas and well out of reach, but I regretted not being there to hear Father’s reaction when a complete stranger offered to buy Socrates. I looked at the model before him, into which he pressed his fingers with the most delicate care. You could never find two men more different than my single-minded, practical father, and the abstruse philosopher, nor two men less likely to have even a single point of view in common.