The Ionia Sanction

by Gary Corby

  “Diotima!”

  “It’s better than three days on the pole. You said so yourself.”

  I knew Diotima could give herself a quick death. As a priestess she had sacrificed many times, and once she had slit the throat of a human enemy.

  I said, alarmed, “Do not do anything unless you are absolutely sure it’s your last chance. Hear me, Diotima?”

  “Yes, Nico.”

  On the spot, I came to a decision that amazed me. I didn’t even know I would say the words until I heard them coming from my mouth, but my heart lifted as I said them.

  “Diotima, I want you to take the knife, right now, and cut off some of your hair.”

  Diotima looked puzzled, uncomprehending. “But, I’m not in mourning. Not yet, anyway, and it’s my death we’re talking about. There’s no need for me to do it.”

  “I want you to cut your hair, and then sacrifice it to Artemis.”

  There was no need to say more. Diotima knew the rituals far better than I. Her mouth and eyes became three large circles of astonishment. “Oh, Nico, do you mean this?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But, we don’t have everything we need according to the rites…”

  “Just do it, Diotima. Please.”

  Diotima hesitated for a moment, then felt about her hair with her left hand. She decided on some locks at the back of her head, bent her neck, and sawed them off. They should have been burned, according to the ritual, but we had no fire. She kneeled on the floor and, intoning the prayers that she knew by heart, used the knife to slice her dark locks into tiny pieces. They became mixed with the dirt of the floor.

  “Now hand me your girdle.” All unmarried Athenian women wear a girdle. The woman gives it up at the time of her marriage. Diotima stood and, without a word, removed the girdle and passed it through the bars to me. It should have been handed to her mother, but I was the only choice.

  There was a bucket of water at the end of the corridor. We should both have bathed in the fountain of Kallirrhoe, but this would have to do. I took the scoop from the bucket and poured a trickle over my head. Diotima, more solemn than I had ever seen her, bent her head close to the view hole, and I reached through to pour a trickle on her too.

  Diotima should have been carried in a chariot from her father’s home to mine, dressed in fine robes for all the people to admire, and as she did she would eat an apple. We didn’t have the chariot, nor her mother to walk behind holding torches, nor the fine robes, but I picked up one of the apples I had brought from the paradise and offered it to her.

  There were tears in her eyes as she reached through the view hole and took it from my hands. She bit into it, and could barely chew or swallow, because now she was crying, but she finished it, all except for one bite that she left for me. That wasn’t according to the ritual, but I liked it. I took the last bite and kept the core.

  We reached up and held hands together.

  “We can’t do the most important bit,” she said, and smiled through her tears.

  “We already have.”

  We had performed as much of the marriage ceremony as a man and woman can when separated by a prison door and without their families or any of the trappings that go with a wedding.

  “What will your father say when he finds out?”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “He might not. He could repudiate this, you know.”

  “No, he won’t, my wife. I promise you.” He would never find out, because we were both going to die here.

  The strength of her hold on me increased. “What will you do, Nicolaos, my husband?”

  It felt like a hundred years since I’d attended the symposium of Callias. Back then, I’d wished for a Marathon of my own to fight. Now I faced something every bit as bad, and I cursed myself for a fool.

  “I have no idea, my wife.”

  * * *

  Diotima was the one for me. I’d known it since the day I met her. But in choosing Diotima over Asia I’d broken with Themistocles, and insulted him. He didn’t know it yet, but he’d learn soon enough when I turned down the nuptials with Asia, and to make it worse, I knew too much about the coming attack on Athens. Themistocles would want me dead, and this was the man who was about to become Satrap of Athens.

  But if I stopped Themistocles—and the only way to stop him now was to assassinate him—then Barzanes would execute Diotima. My two objectives were mutually exclusive, like that principle of logic Socrates had gone on about, back in our home at Athens.

  To save Diotima, or to save Athens. What should I do?

  Homer had described my problem, in the Iliad. The hero Hector, knowing he faced almost certain defeat, had parted from his wife and gone to face the enemy with the words, “One omen is best: to fight for your country.”

  I would follow Hector.

  Of course, Hector had been slaughtered that same day. I would try not to follow him in all things.

  I found Mac in the agora.

  “Mac, I want to hire your services again.”

  He looked at me doubtfully. “I’m doubling the fee.”

  “Fine. Take me to that witch woman you mentioned.”

  He grinned. “Still got woman trouble?”

  “I fixed that. Now it’s man trouble.”

  “You get around!”

  Mac led me to a dingy street on the outskirts of the northern part of the city, where the houses began to give way to farms. An old, shriveled woman sat in a hut that was little better than cast-off wooden pales, stuck together with daubs of mud. Something bubbled and boiled in a pot, over a small hearth she had lined with mud bricks. She peered at me closely—she was shortsighted—and grinned with near-toothless gums. Her skin was mottled and her hair was thin.

  Mac said, “He’s all right, Mina. He’s a customer.”

  She cackled. (I’d always imagined ancient witches cackled, and now I knew it was true.) “And what does he want?”

  “Poison,” I said simply.

  She didn’t even blink. “Fast, or slow?”

  “Fast.”

  “Painful death, or easy?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not fussed. I want simple to deliver and no mistakes.” With guards constantly hovering over Themistocles, there wasn’t the slightest chance of stopping him with a dagger.

  She nodded. “He should reach for Mina the box high atop yonder shelf.”

  I handed it to her and she undid the lid. I saw inside many small vials of different shapes and markings. She handed me one. “That he holds is the juice of many peach kernels. ’Tis stronger than the snakebite. No, he must not open the lid. Even the smell is strong and may make a grown man faint.”

  I quickly replaced the stopper. “Will it work on a dart?” I asked.

  Mina shrugged. “Mina knows not. He can but try. But for certain sure the concoction in a man’s drink will carry him to Hades faster than a knife to the heart.”

  “There are bits of poison in peaches?” I asked, incredulous.

  “He trusts Mina not,” she said to Mac. “Aye, ’tis the peach, but the seed alone. Many in the greatest number, all together, and boiled to be the juice of the seed, and left to the air so that the Gods take the water and leave behind that which kills.”

  So Anaxagoras was right after all with his crazy talk of mixed-up particles. Who’d have thought it? I made a mental note never to eat a peach again.

  * * *

  “Thanks for trying to kill me.”

  “I’m amazed you survived,” Mnesiptolema said, without the slightest trace of embarrassment. I’d tracked her down as soon as I returned to the palace and, to her surprise, dragged her into her own bedroom. It was the one place I could be sure there were no listeners.

  I said, “It wasn’t for lack of effort on Araxes’ part.”

  “That bastard! I’ll demand my money back. You just can’t get decent help these days.”

  “I feel for you.”

  “I suppose it was Araxes who gave me away.”<
br />
  “No, I worked it out myself.” It was a half truth, but Mnesiptolema needed more respect for my powers.

  I said, “Araxes let slip that the person who wanted me dead had called me a highly trained assassin. You’re the only person who ever used that phrase. Also, you once wondered whether Araxes might be for hire. You were thinking about your father then, but it wasn’t much of a leap to transfer your attention to me, was it?”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Revenge for the scene in my bedroom. Why did you wait until now?”

  “Father announced Asia’s betrothal. I wanted my revenge before you became a brother. Besides, it means Father still favors that little bitch, despite everything.”

  “Listen, Mnesiptolema, I’d as soon kill you as look at you, but we need each other.”

  “For what?” she asked suspiciously.

  “To kill your father. Tonight. That’s why you sent the letter, isn’t it? But we must be able to trust each other.”

  Mnesiptolema laughed, loud and cynical.

  “Hear me out. I know enough to put you on the pole. Barzanes wouldn’t hesitate, and Themistocles couldn’t stop him. We can settle our differences later, but like it or not, right now we’re stuck with each other.”

  Mnesiptolema thought about it. “I agree. We can kill each other after we both have what we need from Father’s death.”

  Mnesiptolema called together the children of Themistocles. All except Asia. We crowded into the bedroom of Archeptolis and Mnesiptolema. I sat on the edge of the bed—I avoided the stains—and waited for the others to settle themselves on the abominably soft red cushions on the bench along the wall, except for Mnesiptolema, who chose to stand. Then I explained my plan to them, and ended with, “I need your help.”

  “No.” Nicomache and Cleophantus together. Archeptolis coughed. Mnesiptolema narrowed her eyes.

  “Listen to me,” I said. “Nicomache, do you want to marry Barzanes?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well you will. Unless you work with me. Cleophantus, I see you enjoy being a traitor to Athens.”

  “You know I loathe it,” he said, angry. “Nico, what is this?”

  “If Themistocles succeeds with his plan, that’s what you’ll be for the rest of your life. But you really want to be a respected gentleman of Athens, don’t you?”

  Cleophantus looked away.

  Nicomache said, “The blood curse—”

  “The blood curse is my problem,” I interrupted. “You said it yourself, when we sat in the tomb. I’ve made the decision, I’m doing the deed. You don’t need to do a thing. In fact, you have to not do something. You have to not take a cup. Before dinner tonight, you, Mnesiptolema, will take one of the wine cups from the kitchen, into which I will pour wine and add crystals of poison. I’ll put a slight chip in the base so we all know which one it is. Mnesiptolema, make sure you are the one to carry the drinks tonight. Each of us will take a cup, leaving the chipped one for Themistocles. Let me emphasize, for this scheme to work, all that’s required is for each of you to not do something. There is no blood guilt for you, only for me.”

  It was a thin line, but a familiar one to any Hellene, the same as the logic that allowed us to expose our unwanted babies.

  Nicomache said, as angry as I’d ever heard her, “You refused to do this before. I was ready, I’d steeled myself up for it. Then you refused and I was able to relax. Why must you raise the whole awful thing again and upset me when I thought it was all over?”

  I hesitated, but realized the truth couldn’t hurt.

  “Because I’ve married for love.”

  Mnesiptolema gagged.

  I ignored her. I explained what had happened and finished, “If I can marry for love, so can you, Nicomache. Think of your lover Phrasicles. You still want him, don’t you?”

  Nicomache nodded, but she wasn’t happy. Neither was I, but I’d made my choice, and now I had to force my choice on the children of Themistocles.

  “The slaves and the guards who stand at his back will swear none of us touched his cup. Barzanes will investigate the kitchen and find no one there responsible. He will, however, find a suicide note in Themistocles’ own hand.”

  “Impossible,” Cleophantus said.

  “I’ve already written it. I copied the writing on a note he sent me.”

  Mnesiptolema thought about it. “It might work,” she said, and Archeptolis nodded in agreement. “We can do this.”

  “I still don’t like it,” Nicomache said.

  Mnesiptolema snorted in disgust. “Too late to back out now.”

  Cleophantus said, “It’s what we agreed, Nicomache. Think of what happened to us after Father was condemned. Do you want to go through it all over again? Imagine walking down the street if Father becomes Satrap of Athens. They won’t dare spit on us with the Persians protecting us, but you know they’ll want to.”

  They all of them nodded. But I couldn’t stop for a moment.

  There were still preparations to make, and very little time in which to make them.

  18

  Without a sign, his sword the brave man draws, and asks no omen, but his country’s cause.

  Six of us sat down to dinner. Themistocles at the head of the table, Archeptolis to his right, then Mnesiptolema and Nicomache. Cleophantus to Themistocles’ left, and then me.

  The food was on the table, and although Themistocles ate heartily, his children seemed to have less appetite. Mnesiptolema entered bearing the tray of six cups of wine. She had pulled one of the cups from the kitchen shortly before, and I had returned it to her filled with wine and chipped. Now she offered me my choice of cups from the tray, and I took one nonchalantly, examined it closely to make absolutely sure there was no chip. Never before or since have I displayed such an interest in crockery.

  Nicomache’s turn was next. Her hand shook as she reached out, and I was sure Themistocles must see through the plot. I glanced at him but he seemed preoccupied. He frowned, his chin resting in his right hand and his eyes downcast.

  Nicomache’s hand shook so much she dropped hers. Wine the color of blood flowed across the table.

  Mnesiptolema hissed, “Idiot!” She signaled to a slave to come sop up the mess while she moved on to Archeptolis. He took the nearest cup and sipped, without even a glance to ensure he was not taking poison. I realized he and Mnesiptolema had arranged she would present a safe cup nearest, but even so I marveled at his sangfroid. He and Mnesiptolema were fine conspirators; I felt honored to be plotting with them, and made a mental note never to trust either.

  Cleophantus, looking like he was about to cry but resolute nevertheless, reached for his cup when, “I hope I’m not interrupting.” Barzanes stood in the doorway.

  Themistocles looked up. “Interrupting? Dinner is just starting. Do join us.”

  “With pleasure.” Barzanes took the empty seat next to me and held out his hand for wine. “Oh, but I see there is only one cup for each, and I am one too many.”

  “No, no, take mine,” said Themistocles. “I’ll order another for myself.”

  Cleophantus and Mnesiptolema had been frozen. Now Cleophantus clutched a cup in a spasm and Mnesiptolema’s face registered consternation and fear. She hesitated.

  Themistocles said, “Mnesiptolema, what ails you, girl? Offer Barzanes a cup.”

  Mnesiptolema woodenly stepped forward and bent down to Barzanes with the two remaining cups. As she did she twisted the tray in her hands so that one particular cup was closest to him.

  Good try, I thought to myself. That showed presence of mind. Barzanes’ hand touched the first cup, and hesitated. “There is one here chipped,” he said. “As the last present I shall take the least presentable.” He reached forward and took the second cup.

  Mnesiptolema opened her mouth, shut it again, placed the last cup before her own seat, and sat down. She looked over to me as if to ask, What do we do now? I think Barzanes caught the look. He held up his cup, inspecti
ng the decoration. To the table at large he said, “Would you indulge a Persian at a table of Hellenes? You have a custom, I know, called the Loving Cup where the guests pass a cup of wine one to the next. In Persia we might offer our food to another. In this company though, I think the Hellene custom best, particularly since a Hellene is to be my wife.” He smiled at Nicomache, the first I had seen him do so. Nicomache’s answering smile was brittle. She said nothing.

  Barzanes continued, “So in the spirit of the Loving Cup of the Hellenes, I begin by giving the first taste to my neighbor, my future brother-in-law.”

  Barzanes passed along the chipped cup. Now all eyes were upon me. Barzanes had arranged it so there was no possible way I could avoid drinking.

  Nicomache whimpered.

  There was nothing else I could do. I closed my eyes and drank.

  Instantly I clutched my throat and choked and coughed for a moment, before I was able to say, “I’m sorry. It went down the wrong way.” I passed the cup on to Cleophantus. “Your turn.”

  Cleophantus stared at me as if I were one of Barzanes’ Daevas. “But … but…”

  A slave carried in the transparent drinking horn from which I had drunk at the banquet, and set it before Themistocles. Themistocles raised it and offered his favorite toast. “We would have been undone, had we not been undone.”

  Themistocles downed the wine and set the cup upon the table. He began to speak, but instead clutched a hand over his heart and looked at us as if surprised.

  He said, “I need to lie down.”

  He rose and swayed, visibly struggling to stay upright. Two slaves rushed to hold him.

  Themistocles stared at each of us around the table. His eyes locked with mine for what seemed an age. He smiled and said, “Polycrates…” Then he choked.

  I recalled his words of months before. Of the death of Polycrates he’d said, “I admire any man who can carry off such a devious plot.… If a man could trick me like that, I’d have to admire his skills.”

  The weight was too much for the slaves. Themistocles fell.

  “Cursed Daevas!” Barzanes kneeled at Themistocles’ side. The rest of us crowded around. Themistocles convulsed on the floor. There was nothing we could do except hold him down, but eventually the twitchings slowed to nothing, and as they did, his breathing became ragged and his face turned bright red. A moment later he lay still. The old witch had been right; it was like a knife to the heart.