The Ionia Sanction

by Gary Corby

  “It’ll go away eventually.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Do something energetic. Use up the energy.”

  I grabbed Diotima and kissed her.

  I’d been wanting to do that for a long time.

  Diotima was surprised, then she kissed back and I stroked her, and everything was progressing nicely until she pushed me away.

  “No, Nicolaos.”

  “We’re far from home. Who’s going to know?”

  “My future husband, I should think.”

  “I won’t tell him if you don’t.”

  “Would you marry a girl who wasn’t a virgin?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Right.”

  “Unless, of course, it was you,” I wheedled.

  “I wasn’t born yesterday. Believe me, if I had any choice I’d have you right now. I’ve avoided marriage longer than any girl could hope, but I can feel it catching up with me. I need a husband, and it’s not you.”

  “Isn’t that why you became a priestess?”

  “Yes, and I suppose I could go somewhere where the priestesses don’t have to be married, the Temple of Artemis at Brauron maybe. But Nico, I’ve discovered there’s a problem with that.”

  “Oh?”

  Even in the dim light I could see her blush. “I, umm, rather like the idea of men.”

  “Unfortunate.” I couldn’t help grinning.

  “Don’t laugh. You were talking about life being unfair. Well, try this: I was raised to be an Athenian lady, except my mother is anything but. How in Hades am I going to marry within my class? You said there are men who’d have me, and so there are, but I won’t have them. I’m educated, I can read. I can think. I’m not going to be the wife of a poor farmer. Can you see me selling vegetables in the agora? I’d sooner slit my own throat.” She shook her head. “I have to believe that somewhere in the world there’s a man who suits me, but if there is, he isn’t in Athens, and that, Nico, means we’re not going to bed, at least not the same one.”

  Diotima walked back into the palace, alone, leaving me to watch her retreating back while I cursed my father and the rules of marriage, all thoughts of murder and treason evaporated. Geros had called me a slave to my lusts. Well, he was right.

  * * *

  I was summoned to the presence of the satrap late next morning, which I welcomed since it would give me a chance to fulfill Pericles’ demand that I report on Themistocles. Philodios led me to an office high in the palace, a large room with many windows overlooking the gardens to the south. Themistocles reclined on a dining couch that had been set in the sunshine streaming through the window. He wore Persian dress. Two slaves sat before him taking notes. His dictation ceased the moment I was let in by the two soldiers at the door. Another two stood within the room. Themistocles was well guarded, even within his own palace.

  He gestured at another couch. “Sit down. Relax.”

  I sat down and didn’t relax.

  “You are the first visitor I’ve had from Athens since I came here.”

  He paused for a response from me and didn’t get one.

  He continued, “Know much about politics? Follow it, do you?”

  The sweat trickled in my armpits. I said, offhand, “I know as much as the next man, perhaps a little more.”

  “Tell me, what do they say of me in the agora?”

  I was so relieved and surprised at the question, I told him the truth.

  “They don’t talk of you all, Themistocles.”

  He almost lifted off the couch. “They what!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Doesn’t anyone talk about what will happen when Themistocles returns?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” he demanded. “Many men have been ostracized, served their time, and returned to Athens to play as large a part in the city as they did before.”

  “Yes, everything you say is true, Themistocles,” I said, attempting to be as tactful as I could manage. “Perhaps the difference in your case is … er … the difference is…” So much for not upsetting him.

  “The difference is I am condemned for treason.” He said it in a flat tone.

  “No one expects you to return.” I winced.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  I blinked.

  “It is not all bad news,” I hurried on. “The people of Piraeus remember you with love and respect.” I repeated to Themistocles what the port captain had said to me.

  “Do they now? Do they now?” He entered on a dissertation of the virtues of the men of Piraeus.

  As Themistocles spoke my eyes began to wander, and I saw something astonishing. In each corner of the room was a krater, and all four were in the same shape, the same style, the same colors, and decorated with the same geometric patterns as the two amphorae I’d found in Thorion’s office and the stash in the warehouse at Ephesus. It was the connection I needed.

  “Themistocles,” I broke in. “I can’t stop admiring your kraters.”

  He stopped his monologue to say, “You have fine taste then. You are looking at the only remaining items from the lost treasure of Polycrates.” He said it as if I should recognize the name.

  “Who?”

  Themistocles stared at me in shock. “If you’ve never heard of Polycrates, then you don’t know one of the greatest men we Hellenes ever produced.” He tried to heave himself up, failed, and waved at the two guards behind him. They helped him to stand. “Come with me.”

  Themistocles led me down the stairs and out to the paradise, to a corner where stood the statue of a man in his late middle years, balding but with a trim beard. Words engraved on the plinth proclaimed, “I am Polycrates, tyrant of Samos, first to rule the Aegean Sea.”

  Themistocles said, “Sometimes I walk out here at night. I’ve stood exactly where you’re standing now and looked up at this statue, and wept.”

  “Oh. Was Polycrates a friend of yours?”

  “Never met the man. He died when I was a small child, sixty years ago if I’ve reckoned it correctly, which I think I have. Never has a man risen so high, nor fallen so far,” he said, oddly echoing what Callias had said of Themistocles himself.

  “Polycrates ruled as tyrant on the island of Samos. He made the people of the island wealthy. Then he built the largest fleet in the world and used it to extend his power over the other islands in the Aegean. At his height, Polycrates ruled more Hellenes than any man before him. His empire bordered the empire of the Persians, much the same as the situation between Athens and Persia today.”

  Themistocles eased himself down onto a bench. “Polycrates was murdered. You’re standing on the spot where he died.”

  He said it with such immediacy, as if the death were recent, that I looked about me for the body. Of course, only the statue marked the scene of the crime.

  “Who killed him?”

  “A man called Oroetes. In those days, Oroetes was the satrap of this region, the same position I hold today. Oroetes tricked Polycrates into coming to Magnesia. Oroetes said he was in fear of his life at the hands of the Great King and asked Polycrates for asylum, in return for which he would hand over his own large treasure.

  “Polycrates was blinded by the thought of the wealth a man like Oroetes might bring, and would have left for Magnesia immediately, had not his friends and his daughter begged him to show more caution. So instead Polycrates sent an advance agent to Magnesia. Oroetes was ready for him. The agent was shown chest after chest of gold coins and silver. What he didn’t know was each chest contained genuine coins only to a shallow depth, and thereafter nothing but stone or lead.

  “The agent reported that the wealth of Oroetes was vast indeed. Polycrates hastened to Magnesia, bringing with him many expensive gifts for Oroetes. Oroetes captured Polycrates at once. Oroetes raised the pole and Polycrates was impaled. They say he spent many days dying in the greatest agony.”

  I blinked. “Polycrates and Brion died the same way?”

&n
bsp; “If they meet in Hades they’ll be able to compare assholes.”

  “They died within a short distance of each other too,” I said.

  “But sixty years apart. Some say Oroetes killed Polycrates for wealth and fame, but I think he murdered out of jealousy, because Polycrates was the better man.”

  I wondered if there was a connection.

  Themistocles said, “I admire any man who can carry off such a devious plot. Oroetes did a good job of it, didn’t he?”

  “You admire an evil man because he does a good job of backstabbing a man you like?”

  “Welcome to power politics. If a man could trick me like that, I’d have to admire his skills.”

  “Oroetes won his wealth and fame then.”

  “Not for long. He was assassinated a month later on the orders of the King, for the crime of being a little too powerful, a little too much of a threat.” Themistocles laughed. “Oroetes should have begged for genuine asylum. Oh, the Gods do like to make fools of us men.”

  “The treasure of Polycrates, what happened to it?”

  “It disappeared without a trace. Locals say it was hidden in a place only Oroetes knew. All that remains are a few pieces, like the ones you saw in my office.”

  Themistocles looked up to the stone Polycrates and said, “He was the most powerful man of his day, yet you’ve never heard of him. If a man like Polycrates can be forgotten in only sixty miserable years, what hope is there for any man?”

  * * *

  I’d agreed to ride with Cleophantus. I hoped it would be a chance to talk to one of the family alone and get a few leads on who killed Brion. I met him at the stables, where he had the horses ready and waiting. The horse he’d selected for me was like the animal I’d been taught on as an ephebe: older, smaller, and more docile than Ajax.

  Cleophantus stood beside the tethered horses. He wore—I could barely believe it, but it was true—he wore … trousers.

  “Here, put these on,” he proffered me a copy of his bizarre garment.

  I boggled. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “Sure I am. Listen, Nico, I told you the other day the Persians are better on a horse than we Hellenes. One of the reasons is they wear these things. Your chiton just wraps around you; when you sit a horse there isn’t much between you and the horse’s back, so anything faster than a walk makes your balls bounce around a lot. You know how uncomfortable it is. Trousers fix all that by holding all the necessary bits in place, and there’s all this tough material between you and the animal. You’ll feel better for it. Trust me, I’ve been doing this for years.”

  I looked at the trousers dubiously. One of the worst insults you can throw at an Athenian is to accuse him of wearing trousers. It’s a way of saying he’s Medized, gone over to the enemy.

  “I can’t,” I said. “You know the old saying.”

  Then I went bright red. For Cleophantus’ father had Medized, and Cleophantus lived off his father’s traitorous actions, and Cleophantus wore trousers.

  The poor man stood there, silent. He knew how it looked.

  “I’m sorry, Cleophantus. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant, well, you know … Oh Hades, just hand me the accursed things.” I snatched the trousers from him.

  I held them up and studied the holes for a moment. I knew what I had to do, in theory. I raised my left foot, balancing on the other. To get the foot in I had to lower the trousers, which made me overbalance. I tried again, using a hand to hold on to the stable gate for balance. That was when I discovered you need both hands to hold open the top hole. Both hands then, and do it quickly before there’s time to fall.

  My foot became stuck halfway down the leg. I fell flat on my bottom.

  A squeal of laughter pealed from the hayloft. I looked up. Asia rolled back and forth, unable to contain her mirth.

  “It’s all very well for you to laugh, girl. You don’t have to wear these things.”

  Asia jumped down from the loft. She wore trousers.

  “Do you want me to show you how?”

  “No,” I said hurriedly. I stayed on my bottom, stuck my legs in the air, and laboriously threaded my feet through the tubes. Undignified, but I had no farther to fall. I should have done it that way the first time.

  “You’re supposed to take your sandals off first,” Asia said judiciously.

  I ignored her, pulled myself up on the horse next to Cleophantus, and rode away as quickly as I could.

  Cleophantus took my arm as we departed the palace gates and said quietly, “Nico? What you said about wearing trousers. It’s true. I know it’s true. But what do you do when it’s your own father? And when everything’s going so well?”

  “When he’s providing you with a life of luxury? I understand, Cleophantus. I don’t know what I’d do if I were you.”

  He muttered, “Unfortunately, I do,” more to himself than me.

  By mutual consent we dropped the subject and rode on in the pleasant sunshine. It was a glorious day, a good day to be alive.

  Cleophantus knew the countryside well. We rode along the main road heading east, until we came to a rough trail that went due south. Cleophantus urged his mount along it and I followed, more I suspect because my horse was used to following than for any command of mine. Rough shrub soon gave way to green and fertile pasture, disturbed only by low, rolling hills that presented no difficulty.

  Cleophantus must have been mulling over the talk of Medizing, because as we rode side by side he said, “It’s this land. It corrupts you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged and looked away, and I thought for a moment he wouldn’t answer. Then he said, “Here we are at the eastern end of Ionia. We’re not in Hellas, but we’re not in Persia either. We’re in the lands between, where the Hellene ways and the Persian are all mixed together. Persian habits, Hellene habits, people can pick and choose. They might have taken the best of both, but usually it’s the worst.”

  “You really don’t like the Persians?”

  He shrugged. “There’s a lot to admire about them; the way they sit their horses, for one. They have an obsession for telling the truth, which I like. You’ve seen some of their wealth; if you traveled on to Susa, it would astonish you. You’ve eaten their desserts.”

  “But?”

  “But the casual brutality of their laws, the arrogance they display in their might without seeming even to realize; when you get down to it, they’re just not us. I like you, Nicolaos. I like having a man here I can relate to, with the likes and habits of a decent Athenian.”

  “What about Archeptolis?”

  “He’s … well, he doesn’t have the habits of an Athenian.” Cleophantus couldn’t bring himself to say “Medized.” “I try hard, but I can’t bring myself to like the Persians or their ways.”

  “Except for the trousers.” I smiled.

  “Except for the trousers.” He laughed. “But that’s practicality, not … not … how men are.”

  “I know what you mean,” I assured him.

  Cleophantus hesitated for a moment, then said, “I mean no offense, Nicolaos, you seem like a regular fellow, but a few times at dinner, you seemed to have a hint of the same air of secrecy and sudden death about you that surrounds Father all the time … and Barzanes.” Cleophantus shivered.

  “You don’t like Barzanes?”

  “Does anyone?”

  “Nicomache perhaps?”

  He laughed, but grimly. “She hates him more than anyone else. Barzanes is infatuated with her, has been since the day he arrived. He walked into the palace and he was supposed to be talking to Father, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off my sister. I thought then the man must be human. Goes to show how wrong you can be.”

  “Then why the betrothal?”

  “If you were an exiled Athenian, would you pass up the chance to become related to the royal house, no matter how distantly? It doesn’t matter how unhappy Nicomache is, that wedding’s going to happen.” What he said
closely matched what I’d said to Diotima.

  He shifted in his seat, which for a horseman like Cleophantus was an admission of great inner turmoil. “Barzanes scares me, and I don’t mind admitting it. Meanwhile my father’s shut in his office working night and day. Why couldn’t I have had a normal father?”

  “My father’s a sculptor. When he’s in the middle of a piece he likes, he bars the door and won’t allow anyone to disturb him. I’ve known him to work through the night by the light of a torch. I’ve known him polish and cut and polish for days like a man obsessed.”

  Cleophantus sighed. “I wish my father was a sculptor. You don’t know how lucky you are. Being the son of the mighty Themistocles is a burden: the man who saved Hellas, the smartest man in the world, some call him. The Great King thinks so. Did you know, after the wars, the Great King set a bounty on Father’s head of two hundred talents? Two hundred talents. Can you imagine any man worth that much? Father earned it merely by walking into the court of the man who most wanted him dead. When he walked into the Persian court of his own will, the Great King embraced Father and gave him the bounty he’d offered for his capture or death.

  “How’s a normal man like me supposed to live up to a hero like that? If I achieve anything, anything at all, perform any deed, I know I’ll be compared to what Father did, and I’ll be found wanting. I’m not stupid, but I know I’m no smarter than the next man. I’ll always be the inferior son.”

  “It’s a problem,” I conceded. “So what are you going to do?”

  Cleophantus shrugged. “If I’ll never be good enough, why do anything at all?”

  That explained why Cleophantus wasted his time here, living off the fat of his father’s success. We’d rounded the top of a hill and spread out before us was—“What in Hades is that?” I asked.

  Cleophantus looked at me as if I were mad. “It’s a river, of course.” Then, “Why, that’s right, I should have realized. You’re from Athens. You’ve never seen a large river before. The Illisos in Athens is a small stream compared to this.”

  I sat on my mare for some time, letting her crop the grass of the hilltop, while I watched the huge flowing mass of water pass by us below. So this was a river. I thought of the words of Heraclitus: “You can’t step in the same river twice.” I mentioned it to Cleophantus. He laughed. When he forgot to be depressed, Cleophantus had a happy, carefree laugh. He said, “If your philosopher meant this river then he was dead right. The damned thing changes direction every year. We haven’t been here that long, less than ten years, and it’s changed its banks more often than I can count.”