The Ionia Sanction

by Gary Corby

  “It’s a metaphor.”

  “We know that, but does he?”

  “He believes every word he said. He really thinks his God will judge what he does.”

  “Yes,” I said, glum. “Would a man do evil if he thought his God would punish him for it? If that sort of thing catches on, we investigators will be out of a job.”

  We retreated to a faraway corner of the paradise, well away from Barzanes.

  “The dirty fingernails have to be significant,” Diotima said. “We’ve been assuming Brion was killed because he was a link in the chain that sent the letter to Athens. Maybe there’s another reason.”

  I said, “Why was Brion consulting the book in the temple?”

  “We’re not all ignorant like you. Even practical merchants can love philosophy, you know. Why else would anyone read Heraclitus?”

  “Tell me about Heraclitus.”

  “Brilliant philosopher. Deeply obscure. His theory of the logos—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure,” I interrupted. “Now tell me about him as a man.”

  “A man?” Diotima repeated, as if this were a strange new thought. “Oh, he was quite mad.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “He wandered about the hills outside Ephesus for years, ate nothing but grass and refused to come down. Got sick of it, of course, was forced to return to the city and dropped dead soon after. They buried him in the middle of the agora, as you know. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. What I do know is, Brion spent days studying Heraclitus. Then he came to Magnesia and got his hands dirty.”

  “Mnesiptolema said he had business interests here.”

  “She did, but couldn’t say what.”

  “Or wouldn’t,” Diotima added.

  “Why did Araxes warn me against taking Asia back to Magnesia?”

  “Probably for the same reason Araxes carried her off in the first place. Whatever that is.”

  “Something else: why did Brion react as he did when he saw her?”

  “I wondered about that myself,” Diotima said. “Brion seemed to point to Ephesus.” She paused in thought. “Maybe he wanted us to take her there?”

  “Why?”

  “Beats me.”

  “If Araxes killed Brion, why would they agree about Asia?”

  “That is a little weird, isn’t it?” Diotima said. Neither of us had an idea.

  “All right, what about the pots in Themistocles’ office? They’re the same style as the ones we found in the warehouse, and Themistocles says his amphorae are the only remains of the treasure Polycrates brought with him when he came here and was murdered.”

  “I still have those coins.” She rummaged around in her priestess pouch and held them out on her palm. We both stared down at the electrum coins with the lion heads, willing them to tell us something.

  Diotima said, “We’re looking at the lost treasure of Polycrates.”

  “Obviously. Brion got it from somewhere around here.” I had an idea where too, but I wasn’t going to say until I’d proved it.

  “It’s why he suddenly began his visits to Magnesia. Then he sent it to his trusted contact Thorion—”

  “Because if he tried to off-load it anywhere in Ionia, the coins would be spotted immediately for what they were. The treasure’s probably supposed to belong to the Great King. We’re getting close, Nico. We almost have it.” Diotima liked nothing so much as eliminating a problem. She laughed and kissed me. The kiss developed and—

  “No.” She pushed me away. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “I wondered when you’d remember.”

  Asia came skipping through the low bushes. She stopped dead at the sight of Diotima and me holding each other, burst into tears, and ran away.

  Diotima and I looked at each other.

  “What’s her problem?” I asked.

  “I can guess,” Diotima said darkly.

  “I think you should talk to her,” I said to Diotima.

  “Me? What have I got to do with it? You were her master. You’re the one she’s mooning over.”

  “All the more reason for you to do the talking,” I said. “It’s a woman thing.”

  “You’re a coward.”

  “No, I’m a man.”

  “Same thing.”

  * * *

  “You want to go down there?” Cleophantus asked. His hair whipped across his face in the strong breeze.

  Our horses stood upon the hill where I’d seen the Maeander River for the first time. I’d found Cleophantus in the palace, and practically dragged him to the stables and onto a horse.

  Now I stared at the meandering flow and said, “Remember the farmer you told me about, the one who drowned, whose farmland changed? I want to see his property.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m looking for buried treasure.”

  “No, seriously, why?”

  I insisted, so Cleophantus went first and our mounts picked their way downslope to the muddy bottom. Their hooves sank into the ground with every step and I was glad it was them walking through this muck and not me.

  Cleophantus asked, “What are we looking for?”

  “A big hole, maybe, or a storage pit, or even a low building. I’m not sure.”

  We picked our way over the surface, finding nothing.

  “We could ask at the farmhouse,” Cleophantus said.

  “Is there one?”

  “This way.” He led me across the field until, around a cluster of tall bushes on firmer ground, I saw an old, small house in a sad state of disrepair.

  “Wait, Nico, what’s this?” Cleophantus slid off his horse and bent to pick something out of the mud. He rubbed at it, then held it up to show me the dull yellow-white of an electrum stater. Cleophantus looked upon it in wonder. “How did you know to come here?” he asked.

  “I knew your uncle Brion had found the lost treasure of Polycrates, and proceeded to smuggle it to Athens, where it would belong to him and not the Great King. My guess is sixty years ago, when Oroetes buried the treasure, this was dry land. The Maeander covered it after his death and didn’t release its hold until now. The timing of Brion’s discovery, and the Maeander revealing this patch of land, matched too closely to be coincidence.”

  “Brilliant, Nico.”

  “Also, the farmer shows the usual sign of someone who’s met Araxes.”

  “What sign is that?”

  “He’s dead.”

  I looked him in the eye. “Cleophantus, you mustn’t tell your father or Barzanes about this.”

  “I won’t. Nico, there’s nothing left but these few coins. Did Brion spirit the rest away before his death?”

  “I doubt it, for two reasons. Firstly, the coin you found was on the surface of the mud. It would have sunk had it been there since Brion died, so it must have been dropped recently.”

  “Very good, and the second reason?”

  “There are men standing behind you holding swords.”

  Cleophantus whirled to see what I’d just seen: men emerging from the dilapidated farmhouse. One of them had white hair.

  “We’re safe, Cleophantus. We have horses, they’re on foot.”

  Two of the men raised bows.

  “Run!”

  The horses couldn’t raise their hooves quickly enough in the mud. The best they could manage was a fast walk, and even that was only because we kicked and whacked their flanks without mercy.

  Arrows fell around us. The distance and the strong breeze made it difficult for the archers, but it would only take one hit, and a horse is a big target.

  Araxes and his men with swords began wading across the muddy field. The horses were faster, but not by much.

  Cleophantus shouted, “Turn your back to them! It’ll present the smallest profile!”

  It seemed an insane thing to turn my back on an enemy, but Cleophantus was right.

  “Lean forward!”

  I leaned forward over the shoulders of my horse, barely in ti
me because an arrow whistled over my shoulder. Sitting properly it would have taken me in the back.

  “Nico!” Araxes shouted as he squelched after us.

  “It’s Nicolaos!” I shouted back.

  “Nicolaos, you’re starting to irritate me. It doesn’t bode well for our relationship.”

  Araxes had stopped walking because our mounts had found firmer ground and were moving normally. We didn’t stop, a lucky shot could still bring down one of our horses.

  “I’ll be back, Araxes.”

  “It won’t do you the least good. We’re finished here. Bring back soldiers if you like; we’ll be gone.”

  * * *

  Months passed. Two months, three, I’m not sure, because life in the palace was like living in a strange land where one day was much like another. None of my peers—the children of Themistocles—had a job that helped mark the passage of time. Mnesiptolema was a priestess of Cybele, apparently because the life of Themistocles had been saved by that goddess during his escape from Athens, and he had built a temple in the middle of Magnesia in gratitude. Archeptolis owned a small business to buy and export slaves, but it was a hobby more than a serious effort. Knowing what we did of their habits, Diotima and I were sure the enterprise was merely an excuse for Archeptolis and his dear Nessie to abuse the poor, unlucky slaves. Nicomache liked to clean up after the immediate family, and generally pretended that she lived a normal life in a household in Athens. Cleophantus pottered about with his horses and rarely ventured outside the stables.

  During our ride home from the farm, after we had escaped Araxes and his bandits, Cleophantus and I had debated what to do, then had gone to see Barzanes to ask him for soldiers. We manufactured a story of stumbling across brigands while out for a ride. It was sufficient to bring out Barzanes and a squad of horsemen, without the need to tell him of the treasure, or that it was Araxes we chased.

  But Araxes had told the truth. The farm was abandoned when we returned, and all we found to prove our story were discarded arrows. Barzanes put the incident down to highwaymen, and forgot about it.

  There was little I could do to further the investigation. I’d never appreciated before how much my work depended on the authority to investigate. Likewise there was nothing I could do to help Athens. Even if there had been, it’s not certain I would have, because as the time passed and I settled into life in the palace and the paradise, I became increasingly detached from my old life.

  Cleophantus gave me riding lessons, which became increasingly more advanced until I was able to do tricks such as jump onto a moving horse and perform battlefield maneuvers. It was worth coming to Magnesia merely to learn these things.

  Themistocles invited me for lunch on a regular basis. At these lunches he would quiz me about life in Athens since he had left, often asking after this man or that, frequently making acerbic remarks, or relating a scandalous story; or we would discuss the democracy, a subject on which I could hold forth with some expertise; or he would talk about politics and I would listen, learning from a master.

  I always felt during these discussions that he was nostalgic for home. One day he said to me, “Truth to tell, Nicolaos, you are the first person to visit with even a slight knowledge of Athenian politics. I miss it.” He sighed. “I don’t suppose you could persuade Pericles to come here, could you? I’d love to talk with him now that he’s a man.”

  “It doesn’t seem likely, especially if he knows the story of Polycrates.”

  Themistocles laughed and said, “No, I suppose not.”

  I knew I passed over information at these talks—Themistocles took notes whenever I spoke of the democracy, or of people who had risen to power since his departure—but really, it was little more than gossip.

  After many of these lunches had passed, I woke one morning to the realization I had learned more from Themistocles in a few weeks than ever I had from Pericles. At the start of our association, Pericles had promised to teach me his art of politics, and sometimes, grudgingly, he had talked to me, but never in the way Themistocles did, nor so willingly, nor with such familiarity. I was eventually emboldened to ask Themistocles a question that had been burning in my mind.

  One day over wine after a fine meal I said, “Themistocles, there are those who say you were condemned out of jealousy, and those who say they feared you would make yourself tyrant, and those who say you helped the Persians. Tell me the truth; when the Athenians condemned you for treason, were you guilty?”

  Themistocles picked up his wine cup and said, “You want to know the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound like Barzanes, he’s forever going on about truth. Personally I’ve always found that which men believe to be more important.”

  He paused. “The truth is, lad, I was innocent.”

  “Then how were you accused?”

  “Because my friend Pausanias was guilty. The two best commanders in the war were myself from Athens and Pausanias of Sparta. Afterward Pausanias got himself into trouble with his fellow Spartans. They discovered he was in negotiations with the Great King.”

  “The charge was true?”

  “Oh yes. Pausanias was ambitious and arrogant.” Themistocles laughed. “Not like me at all. In any case, after he was found out, Pausanias took refuge in a temple where the Spartans couldn’t touch him because of the sanctuary. They solved that problem by bricking up the entire building with Pausanias inside. He starved to death.”

  “Urrk.”

  “Indeed. After that unpleasant episode, all eyes turned to me, the reasoning being if one great general can betray Hellas, then so can two. The Spartans, who had always disliked me, provided incriminating letters—I swear they were forged—but with the example of the recently departed Pausanias to go by, I decided the bed of my oldest enemy was the safest place to sleep. So here I am, and all the better for it. I have wealth and comfort beyond anything I could have imagined had I remained in Hellas. I would have been undone, had I not been undone.”

  “You give that toast at every dinner.”

  “So I do.” He drank off an entire cup of wine and laughed. “The irony is, Pausanias was rightly condemned for helping the Persians, while I was innocent. Yet here I am, the innocent man doing exactly what the guilty tried and failed.”

  * * *

  I lay in bed one night thinking on this when the door opened. Mnesiptolema stood there, her figure silhouetted by the light streaming through the corridor windows.

  “You’ve been a naughty boy, Nicolaos.” She swayed into the room. She wore one of the shiny, smooth Persian dresses from her cupboard, and it actually clung to her skin. For all that the material covered her, she may as well have been naked.

  I blinked. “I have?” I asked.

  “Oh yes.” She leaned forward and stroked me under the chin. “I like naughty boys, Nico.”

  I gulped.

  “I know your secret, Nicolaos. You were in the cupboard, weren’t you?”

  “How do you kn—that is, what cupboard?”

  She gave a throaty laugh and sat on the bed beside me, crossing her shapely legs.

  I jumped up. “Have you noticed the room’s a bit warm? I’ll just open the shutters.”

  She pulled me back onto the bed beside her.

  “Let’s leave them shut,” she said. “And I will answer your question. I could smell you, Nicolaos. I could smell your fear. I like the smell of fear. But you know that, don’t you? You were watching.”

  Mnesiptolema laughed. “I enjoyed teasing you, edging my fingers closer and closer. Did you think I’d expose you?”

  She reached up her hand and teased my hair, curling it around her fingers. She gave it a sharp tug.

  “Do you want to know why I didn’t? Archeptolis would have killed you, you know. He’d have had no choice.”

  “Wouldn’t you have enjoyed doing it yourself?” I asked.

  She gave the low, throaty laugh again. “I thought about it, as I stood there. But I have another p
lan for you, Nicolaos, one I’ve delayed for days while I fantasized. Desire withheld is all the more exciting, don’t you think?”

  “Not as such.” A mental image of Diotima crowded my sight.

  I didn’t inquire about Mnesiptolema’s plans. At least she hadn’t mentioned Diotima. I had a feeling if Mnesiptolema had known Diotima was there too, her decision might have gone the other way.

  “Since we’re being personal, aren’t you worried other men will find out what Archeptolis is really like?”

  Mnesiptolema shrugged. “Slaves talk. No one listens. No man enters our room.” She smirked. “And outside, Archeptolis is a bully.”

  “You like that, do you?”

  Mnesiptolema put her hand on my thigh and leaned toward me. “What do you think?”

  I could smell her breath. It was sweet. She must have been drinking rose water. Mnesiptolema rubbed her hand up and down my chest. I began to react.

  “Aren’t you worried about what Barzanes would say?”

  “Barzanes? Yes, perceptive of you. But he lusts after weepy little Nicomache. Gods know why. I doubt Barzanes wants to upset the family while there’s a chance Father will give Nicomache to him. But you, Nicolaos, you must fear Barzanes.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you know? He’s the Eyes and Ears of the King.”

  “You mean he’s a friend of Artaxerxes?” I had no idea what she meant.

  Mnesiptolema stopped rubbing and looked at me in astonishment. “Didn’t you learn anything about how the empire works before you came here?”

  “The trip was on short notice.”

  “Artaxerxes has no friends. The Great King can’t afford such luxuries. The Eyes and Ears report straight to the King. Even the satraps fear them. The King’s Eyes and Ears are … auditors.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “You think so? What they audit is the empire. The King can’t be everywhere at once. He relies on the Eyes and Ears to tell him what his officers are doing, which satraps are more than usually corrupt, who’s incompetent, who’s abusing his position, who might be too ambitious. Barzanes watches everyone, including Father, especially Father.”

  “Informers,” I said flatly.