The Ionia Sanction

by Gary Corby

  I said, “It was no trouble.”

  “I’m sure Father will find a suitable reward. I hope the journey wasn’t too arduous.”

  Cleophantus had given me the perfect opening. The Gods must have wanted me to follow my plan. I said, “Except for finding the dead body, everything went smoothly.”

  All conversation stopped. Even the Persians who spoke no Greek were staring at me. I felt a painful jab in my side from Diotima, which was her subtle way of saying I was the social equivalent of plague.

  In the silence of the moment, Archeptolis said, “What dead body?”

  “A man called Brion. He was executed not a thousand paces from here, on the road to Ephesus.”

  Every eye turned to Themistocles, who said, “If it had been an execution, every man in this room would know it.” Themistocles raised his voice. “Does anyone here recall an execution?”

  No one said a word.

  Nicomache’s hand went to her mouth and she gasped. Cleophantus looked left and right as if he were confused.

  Mnesiptolema’s hand, which was halfway to her mouth, stopped in midair. Blood from the lightly cooked pork dripped down her fingers. She said, “Brion the proxenos? He’s dead?”

  I said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize he was a friend.”

  “An acquaintance,” Mnesiptolema said. “Everyone knows the proxenos for Athens.”

  Archeptolis said, “He acted for Magnesia as well as Ephesus. Magnesia doesn’t have a proxenos because”—he glanced at his father—“well, because. Brion fills the position for most of Ionia.”

  Nicomache said, “Any sudden death is a shock. Who would have done such a horrible thing?”

  Themistocles grunted. “Common robbers is the likely answer.”

  “Cruel ones.”

  I said, “Had Brion been visiting Magnesia?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Themistocles said. “My officials have better things to do than keep track of everyone who enters the city. Especially since, without a wall, it would be an impossible task.”

  I doubted Barzanes took the same relaxed view, but he chose not to correct his satrap.

  Themistocles waved a hand in dismissal. “We will leave it to Barzanes to look into and say no more.”

  I opened my mouth, on the verge of offering to help, then closed it. Themistocles had shut down the subject.

  “I congratulate you on your position,” Barzanes said to me, leaking deepest insincerity.

  I said, “It’s a pleasure to be here,” returning the emotion.

  He wore a simple, unadorned tunic and no jewelry or display of any kind, yet stood out at this table of well-dressed officers and overdressed civilians. The ringleted beard, the curled, black hair, the piercing dark eyes, and the hawklike nose gave him the air of a predator.

  “I hope there are no hard feelings over our previous encounter. The Great King himself, may Ahura Mazda preserve and protect him, charged me with the safety of our empire. A man must perform his duty.”

  “I have no hard feelings,” I lied. “I feel sure, were our positions reversed, I would have done the same, with much the same emotions as I’m sure you experienced.”

  Barzanes smiled. “We understand each other then.”

  Archeptolis ceased grabbing food while Barzanes and I spoke. I suppose he’d heard the underlying venom of our exchange. Their body language told a story. Archeptolis and Barzanes were sitting side by side, yet Archeptolis leaned away from his neighbor as if Barzanes had a disease. The lean took Archeptolis toward his father, as if he hoped for protection from Themistocles. Cleophantus, on the other hand, listened with an air of puzzlement. Themistocles watched with a slight smile beneath his bushy beard. He hadn’t intervened.

  Barzanes ignored me after that and turned all his attention to Nicomache, showing her little attentions, offering her choice morsels, pouring wine for her with his own hand. If Nicomache had a husband present, no one mentioned him. If he existed, he would certainly have objected to Barzanes’ behavior. Her clothing, demeanor, and style were those of a modest maiden, which, considering she must have been almost twenty, was a considerable achievement. Themistocles must have noticed my raised eyebrows because he said, “Nicomache is betrothed to my future son-in-law, Barzanes.”

  Nicomache wasn’t smiling, but Barzanes’ eyes and his possessive manner spoke volumes. Barzanes was a man in love.

  Before I had time to consider the implications, Archeptolis said, “This is not the normal dining arrangement.” He speared some meat from a silver platter with a knife. “Normally the family dines alone or with any distinguished visitors, and of course Barzanes.”

  Archeptolis had made his statement in such a way as to be almost but not quite an insult. I let it pass, but Cleophantus did not. “Your meaning?” he asked.

  Archeptolis shrugged. “Merely that our guest should not expect to see so many officers and officials at table, should he be invited again.”

  “That’s terrible.” Asia spoke up for the first time. “It was Nicolaos who saved me, brother. Father, you wouldn’t let Nicolaos eat with the staff, would you?”

  Themistocles smiled and reached over to pat her on the head with his beefy hand. “You are not old enough to dine with us in any case, little Asia, except during celebrations. You will return to eating in the women’s quarters, as a child should.”

  Asia lifted her chin in a mannerism that struck me as similar to Themistocles himself. “He’s an honored guest,” she insisted.

  Themistocles considered me. “I am inclined to agree with you. There, you have what want. Let the matter rest.”

  Asia smiled prettily and said, “Thank you, Father,” in the nicest way. She glanced at me and immediately lowered her eyes, as if to say, There, I have delivered you a present.

  Up and down the table, slaves were carrying full cups of wine to the guests. Themistocles and the family had their cups placed before them by Nicomache and Mnesiptolema, with Asia assisting.

  “You drink with the meal?”

  Cleophantus said, “The Persians begin the wine sooner than we do.”

  I nibbled at everything, intensely curious about the food. Something was odd about the ox meat, the lamb, the trout, the eel, the lentils, and the beans. They were all foods with which I was familiar, yet they tasted different, and I couldn’t place why. Cleophantus leaned over and asked, “Anything wrong?”

  “No. Well, everything tastes a little … not off, but strange.”

  “It’s the oil. They don’t cook with olive oil like we do. They use sesame oil instead. The taste is different.”

  “What in Hades is a sesame?”

  “I have no idea. Oh, be careful of the wine.”

  “Don’t tell me there’s sesame oil in that too?”

  “No, but there isn’t any water either.”

  “They didn’t cut the wine?” I said, aghast.

  Barzanes had eaten sparingly of the meat. Now he scooped out ladles of the sauced vegetables while he listened to every word I said.

  Diotima turned to Nicomache. “Your garden is very beautiful.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Nicomache replied. “They call it a paradise, which means ‘surrounded-by-wall’ in their language. I like to sit in the pavilions and watch the flowers. Do please use the paradise any time.”

  Slaves flowed into the room bearing food that looked unfamiliar.

  “What’s this?”

  “This is dessert,” Archeptolis said. “What we have here is”—he pointed at the bowl in front of him—“sweet grape jelly. Those are candied turnips, then next are capers and radishes with salt, candied fruits over here, and the last bowl is pistachio nuts.”

  I picked at the candied fruits. They were the sweetest, most delicious things I’d tasted in my whole life, like honey, but different. I scooped out more, as much as decency allowed, then scooped again.

  “This is fantastic.”

  An officer beside Diotima said, “That’s why you Hellenes are so sk
inny. Once you’re done with the meat, there’s nothing left to eat. If you had decent desserts like us, you wouldn’t stop eating.”

  Diotima said, “Dessert is a luxury, and we Hellenes don’t have enough food to go around as it is. I couldn’t eat a dessert if I knew a child was hungry.”

  “Is food so scarce then where you live?”

  “Yes, though it used to be much worse. I’ve heard it said that long ago, there was so little to eat that men when they reached their sixtieth birthday had to drink poison.”

  “I don’t believe it,” the Persian officer said.

  “The story is true.” We all looked to the head of the table, where Themistocles had been listening to us. He said, “I once spoke to the poet Simonides—a very great man—who told me such was the case on his own island in his father’s day. The old were expected to remove themselves to make way for the young. Indeed Simonides told me he was present when his own father took the cup at a family dinner. The father bade his children farewell and then drank hemlock.”

  Slaves were constantly removing dishes and bringing more. I wondered when it would stop, for surely everyone had eaten enough? Diners emptied their cups at a speed that would have done credit to any symposium and rushed to refill as fast as they could go.

  Men stood and walked out of the room, only to return a while later, sit down, and continue eating without anyone taking the slightest notice. In Athens such behavior would have been considered rude. I asked Cleophantus, “Where are they going?”

  “Outside, to piss.”

  “What’s wrong with pissing in a bowl in the corner?”

  “The Persians like to be alone for such things.”

  “Weird.”

  Themistocles made an effort to call out to each man present from time to time. It was clear he knew every man by name and something about each. One had recently lost a boy-child through illness, though as the father said, fortunately the child had been only four and so the father had never met him.

  I leaned over to Cleophantus and whispered, “Is he serious? He’d never seen his own son?”

  “It’s the custom,” Cleophantus whispered back. “The Persians leave their boy-children with the women until they’re five, so if the boy dies the father won’t grieve overmuch.”

  “Judging by his attitude, I’d say the system works,” Diotima said coldly.

  Mnesiptolema had been fidgeting throughout the banquet, and now she said, “Nicolaos, this murder, when did it happen?”

  “A few days ago, as far as we could judge.”

  “Oh.” She seemed to relax.

  Themistocles said, “Nessie, that subject is closed.”

  “Yes Father.” A moment later she leaned toward me and murmured so only she and I and Cleophantus and Diotima could hear. “Asia says you’re an agent. Is it true?”

  Diotima said quite loudly, “I can tell you a funny tale of Nicolaos. When we were on the way here, he led the horse out the gates and then he…” She regaled everyone present with my failed attempt to ride Ajax, while I became redder, and redder. The whole table stopped to listen. Those who couldn’t understand Greek listened to a translation from their neighbors.

  Diotima came to my second attempt to ride Ajax when Asia interrupted, “You forgot the bit when he called to the horse like it was a dog!” More laughter all around. I had no choice but to join in, or be seen as someone who couldn’t take a joke, but I was secretly furious.

  When Diotima finished, the Persian officers laughed, Barzanes watched me as he always seemed to, and Cleophantus said, “You can’t ride? Then I must show you. Let it be my gift to you for returning Asia.”

  “I’m not as bad as Diotima makes out.” I knew I sounded harsher than was good.

  “I’m sure you’re not,” he said hastily. “But riding is my best skill.” He glanced at his father. “Some would say my only skill, and I’d love to have someone to ride with. I’ve picked up a few Persian techniques they don’t teach in Athens. I’d be happy to pass them on to a fellow rider.”

  Themistocles thumped the table and everyone stopped to listen. “My friends, my children. I sit with you in this palace, enjoying your excellent company, eating the good food of the land, and drinking the best wine. Do I owe these fine things to the Athenians, whose gratitude I might have expected for saving their lives and their city? No! When the Athenians tried my judicial murder, I had no choice but to run to my enemy, who proved himself a better friend than my own neighbors. I owe everything you see here to the Great King Artaxerxes, a man higher in honor than any Athenian, in whose name I rule this land.”

  Asia beamed upon Themistocles in a clear case of father worship. The Persian officers cheered. Archeptolis and Mnesiptolema laughed loudly and artificially. Nicomache seemed sad. Cleophantus whispered to me with a brittle smile, “He makes the same joke and the same toast at every dinner.”

  So much for a sign that Themistocles regretted his choice.

  Themistocles raised his cup in the air. “Yes, my children, we would have none of this, had the Athenians not turned against me, and every day I thank the Gods that they did. We would have been undone, had we not been undone!”

  12

  There is a fullness of all things, even of sleep and love.

  “He doesn’t regret it in the least,” I said. “He’s actually pleased to be a traitor.”

  “Because he’s been rewarded,” Diotima replied.

  “I notice Themistocles profits from treason while I suffer for doing my duty.”

  “Life wasn’t meant to be easy, Nico.”

  “Does it say that in Heraclitus?”

  At the end of dinner, I’d grabbed Diotima by the hand and led her out into the paradise for some fresh air to clear my head and sort out my thoughts. I needed some clarity, but it was hard to come by while my stomach felt like a block of lead with all the food that had been stuffed into it, and my mind was in a weird state. It was the middle of the night, but the three-quarter full moon was bright enough to see by. We were the only ones still out. Every single Persian had had to be carried off to bed, except for Barzanes. He had thanked Themistocles, who was slumped comatose, and walked off.

  “Thanks very much for telling everyone I fell off Ajax,” I said to Diotima.

  “My pleasure.”

  “It’s not as if I mind having a roomful of men laughing at me.”

  “Barzanes had you in chains this afternoon because he suspected you. Tonight you were less than subtle during dinner when you talked about Brion, and then Mnesiptolema—Nessie, I think they called her—she asks you outright about being an agent. You need to look harmless, Nico. How many dangerous men do you know who can’t ride a horse?”

  “What’s that smell?”

  Our random wandering had brought us to a large hole in a distant corner of the gardens. Even as we watched a slave walked up bearing two buckets, one filled with scraps from the dinner, the other with slops and human waste. He emptied each bucket in turn and walked away. The hole was large. With that much fertilizer, no wonder the garden grew so well.

  “I wouldn’t mind having one of these back home,” I said, as we walked on.

  “A sullage pit?”

  “A paradise. I can imagine walking around my own gardens after dinner, relaxing. Even a small one would be nice.”

  “You can’t afford it.”

  “No. What did you think of the reactions to the death of Brion?” I asked.

  “More complex than I expected. Any one of them could be hiding anything.”

  “Are we sure there’s something to hide?”

  “It’s hard to see how your friend Thorion could have been traitorous without someone at this end to help him.”

  I nodded. “Maybe I should’ve mentioned Thorion’s death as well.”

  “No, it would have given you away.”

  “All right then, who do you think killed Brion?”

  “Your friend Araxes,” she replied at once. “Because of that accursed secr
et letter.”

  “Probably, but who commissioned Araxes?”

  Diotima thought about it for a moment. “Themistocles? Barzanes? Both of them?”

  “They wouldn’t need to hide a crime,” I objected. “They could kill anyone they felt like at high noon in the middle of the agora, call it empire business, and who’s going to complain?”

  “What about motive then? The letter, I suppose. We won’t know anything until we find out what was in the letter. Some threat? Some dire personal secret, maybe? Or blackmail? It could be anything or anyone.”

  “Anyone. Right. No doubt we’ll discover Nicomache is behind the evil plot as part of her plans for world domination.”

  “Poor Nicomache,” Diotima said. “She hates the man she’s going to marry.”

  “Barzanes is probably nobility, and a marriage would cement Themistocles’ position with the Persians. Anyone would call that a good match.”

  “Any man would. Didn’t you see her shrinking from him?”

  “It’s irrelevant. When was the last time a woman got to choose whom she married?”

  “The daughters of Callias.”

  “Yes, Callias,” I conceded. He’d mentioned it himself in passing at his symposium. “Not every father is Callias.”

  We’d come to one of the pavilions Nicomache had spoken of. Someone had placed three dining couches in the middle. I could imagine in the heat of day it would be a fine place to relax. The pavilion sparkled because a pond next to it reflected bright moonlight. The reflections silhouetted Diotima in such a way that I could see the outline of her body beneath the fine linen of her chiton. The outline of the tops of her breasts was particularly clear.

  “I feel as if my head were floating,” I complained. This slow walk had done me little good.

  “How many of those candied fruits did you eat?”

  “Those very sweet things? Lots. Every time I took a bite, I felt like taking another. I couldn’t stop myself.”

  She nodded. “The same thing happened to me, when Brion fed me some back in Ephesus. You get a feeling like you’re full of energy, like you want to run?”

  “That’s it.”