by Gary Corby
Barzanes looked for any sign of breath. “He’s dead.”
Behind me, Nicomache wept.
Barzanes said, “How did this thing happen? A sudden illness? What is this?” He picked up a scroll case lying beside Themistocles. He turned it around in his hand, puzzled, before unfurling the contents.
The scroll case had come from the rack in Archeptolis and Mnesiptolema’s room. This was the scroll on which I’d forged a suicide note. I’d dropped it and kicked it along the floor while everyone watched Themistocles die.
Barzanes read, “‘My children, the war against the Persians was the greatest triumph of my life. I cannot bring myself to undo it, but nor can I refuse the orders of Artaxerxes. I therefore choose the only honorable path, in the hope he will understand and maintain you in your positions. Farewell.’
“An odd way to commit suicide,” Barzanes said. “Before one’s family, without warning, during a dinner.”
“Not so odd, perhaps,” I said. “Among some Hellenes it was once the custom for a man to take hemlock when he reached sixty years. The family would stand by the man as he reached for the cup.”
“But he offered no forewarning.”
“Perhaps he felt, if you knew, you would have stopped him?”
“It would have been my duty, yes.”
He looked me in the eye. I looked back, keeping tight rein on my thoughts. I knew what decision Barzanes had to make, and it was important I didn’t appear to help him.
Barzanes said, his voice low, “You could not have known I would come here. You could not. I did not decide myself until the last moment. You could not have known Themistocles would call for another cup.”
“No, of course not.”
“You could not have known,” he said as if to convince himself. “There will be an investigation, but first, the Great King must hear of this at once.” Barzanes strode to the exit.
I almost shouted in the silence of the room, “Barzanes! Before you go.”
He stopped and turned to me. “Yes?”
“You have a long ride ahead of you. Why not lighten your load in one pocket?”
He was puzzled for a moment before he took my meaning and said, “You speak truth.” He turned to one of the guards at the door. “Release the priestess.”
Barzanes turned back to me and said, “What’s done is done. I thank you, Athenian. My pocket is indeed much lighter.” Everyone in the room must have thought Barzanes meant my reminder to release Diotima, the need to hold her having passed, but I wondered if Barzanes had thanked me for something more sinister. If he could convince himself Themistocles had died by his own hand, but left behind a workable battle plan, then all his ethical problems were over.
Barzanes left the room at a run. I could hear him running up the steps of the palace two at a time in the direction of Themistocles’ office.
The children of Themistocles were dazed.
“What happened?” Cleophantus asked, and “Who invited Barzanes?”
“I did,” I said simply. “I sent him an anonymous note that a plot against the life of Themistocles would be carried out during dinner. I told the truth, after all, didn’t I?”
All four of them stared at me in shock. “Traitor,” Mnesiptolema hissed. Archeptolis’ hand went to his side; I’m sure he would have drawn a weapon and slain me on the spot, had he one. Cleophantus was ashen and Nicomache shaking.
Cleophantus asked, “But why? Why make everything go wrong? Barzanes might have taken the poisoned cup. He did take the cup, curse it, and you drank it. Why aren’t you dead?”
“None of the cups Mnesiptolema brought in were poisoned,” I said. “I had to make it absolutely certain, in Barzanes’ eyes, that I could not possibly have committed this crime. What’s more, I couldn’t trust you amateurs to get it right. I had to make sure the poison was in the one and only cup that would go straight to Themistocles. That would be the one he called for himself.”
“But you were here at the table the whole time. You couldn’t possibly have poisoned his wine. So if it wasn’t you, then who?”
“The only person I could trust,” I said.
“I did it.” They all turned to see Asia standing in the doorway. She fainted.
19
A small rock holds back a great wave.
Araxes had been right, returning Asia to her home had turned her into a player in the game. Yet if she hadn’t been there, my mission would have failed, Athens may have fallen, and a murder would have gone unavenged. Now she lay in a fever in the women’s quarters. Diotima assured me she’d recover, given time.
Barzanes had grabbed the scroll box of Themistocles’ master plan, had ordered up Ajax, the most powerful beast in the stables, and had ridden into the night with the precious box, and a squad of horse soldiers to protect it. He would not stop until he arrived at the Great King’s palace in Susa. There he would be disappointed to discover that Nicomache, in the afternoon, on my instruction, had replaced her father’s battle plan with Diotima’s copy of the Book of Heraclitus. I hoped the Great King found it educational.
I’d held in my hands the most precious and sensitive document in the world: the master plan of how to conquer Hellas. I read it through once, exclaiming from time to time as I did, and memorized every word. Who knew, maybe one day I would need this plan myself. Themistocles had taught me an important lesson: always leave a second way.
When I finished, I handed it to Cleophantus, who carried the scroll to the burning brazier of Barzanes’ God. Cleophantus tore off pieces of parchment and fed them to the fire until every scrap of it was ashes.
Barzanes was sure to be in a bad mood when he returned, and I didn’t want to be here to suffer it, but Diotima insisted we stay a few days while she nursed Asia. The two of them spent every waking moment talking. They’d discovered they had a lot in common.
The Olympic Games were due to begin any day, with a general truce, declared by three runners who crisscross the Hellene lands. The runners didn’t come as far as Magnesia, but we knew. Diotima and I planned to take ship and sail direct to Elis, and thence to Olympia, where Pericles was sure to be. This was a mission report I couldn’t wait to deliver.
The family had begun the preparations to bury Themistocles the next morning, even as the populace of Magnesia gathered at the gates to wail and grieve for the man whose leadership had improved their lives. The people built a pyre in the middle of the agora, and the family gathered his ashes.
Cleophantus and I waited outside the palace, for Diotima to join us. He’d given us mounts for the journey to Ephesus. He said, “The people are already talking about erecting a statue to Father in the agora. I think it’s a good idea. He did good work here, for all that he felt Magnesia was his low point. I don’t know what we’ll do with his ashes. He wanted to be taken back to Athens, but…” Cleophantus shrugged. “I don’t know that the Athenians would have him back, even dead.”
“Can I make a suggestion? Take him to Piraeus. Piraeus was his triumph. The people there will welcome him.” I thought of the harbormaster who revered Themistocles. “Erect a monument to him on the headland. Then he can watch the most powerful fleet in the world come and go, the fleet he created, with which he defeated the Persians.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll talk to the others about it. Your plot was brilliant, Nico. Brilliant, and simple and devious and ruthless all at the same time; the sort of thing I’d have expected from Father. I can barely believe you fooled the Persian.”
“I did what any Hellene would do. I lied to him.”
“And you said you weren’t an assassin!” Cleophantus laughed and clapped me on the back.
“I’ll assume you mean that as a compliment.”
“I do.” Cleophantus paused, then said, “Nico, speaking of lying…”
“Yes?”
“I … all his children … would rather people remembered Father for the good he did. When you return to Athens, could you perhaps not mention that he plotted to
invade Hellas?”
“Hide what happened here?”
“Yes. If people knew…” He flinched.
That was an easy decision. “I honor his memory too, Cleophantus. I must tell Pericles, but no one else will ever know.”
“Thank you.”
“Er … in return, it would be nice if you didn’t mention to anyone that I killed him.”
Cleophantus nodded. “That seems fair. As long as you don’t reveal we children asked you to do it.”
“Agreed. As long as you don’t tell anyone I screamed when I was about to die on the pole.”
“Consider it forgotten. And if you could forget about Asia’s illegitimate parentage—”
“Done. If you don’t tell anyone I almost went over to the Persians.”
“Agreed. And if you could keep the secret of Mnesiptolema and Archeptolis and their … er … unusual habits—”
“Oh no!” I protested. “That one I’ll be retelling at symposia for years to come.”
Cleophantus laughed. “I don’t like them either. All right Nico, it’s a deal.”
So many secrets to be kept, and one more. I would never reveal, not even to Diotima, that Asia had insisted she be the one to poison Themistocles. She had avenged her true father against the man who killed him. It would remain our secret, for the sake of her relationship with her brothers and sisters, and to enable her to find a husband in the future, and even for her own safety.
I said, “I’m sorry about Asia, but it was the only way. “
Cleophantus nodded. “We’ll do our best to help her. I’m sorry too, Nico, about the letter. If we’d never sent it, you wouldn’t have been drawn here and endangered, and Thorion would still be alive.”
“And Hellas might have fallen to the Persians. Don’t be sorry. Thorion died defending Athens as surely as any man in the front rank of the army. When I return I’ll be sure to tell his son so.” It would make all the difference for him and his family.
Cleophantus said, “May the Gods favor you.” We hugged.
Diotima walked out of the front entrance of the palace. She smiled at me and said, “Are we ready to go, Nico?”
I took her hand. “We’re ready, my wife.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Warning! This author note discusses the real history behind the story. It’s chockablock full of spoilers. If you haven’t read the book yet, I suggest you turn to the front. I hope you enjoy the book, and I’ll see you back here in a while.
To the people who lived at the start of the Golden Age of Greece, Themistocles was the smartest guy in the room.
Themistocles was a man who showed an unmistakable natural genius; in this respect he was quite exceptional, and beyond all others deserves our admiration.… He was particularly remarkable at looking into the future and seeing there the hidden possibilities for good or evil. To sum him up in a few words, it may be said that through force of genius and by rapidity of action this man was supreme at doing precisely the right thing at precisely the right moment.
That quote was written by the great historian Thucydides. He personally knew both Pericles and Socrates, but he doesn’t hesitate to rank Themistocles first for intelligence.
The only modern man to compare with Themistocles is Sir Winston Churchill. Indeed, Themistocles and Churchill had much in common. They were both renowned for their ready wit, they both had foresight beyond their fellow mortals, they both had the courage to act in the face of fierce opposition, and they both had egos the size of a mountain. I’m pretty sure if the two men had lived at the same time, the universe would have exploded.
Just as Churchill foresaw the coming of World War II, so Themistocles foresaw the Persian Wars. He persuaded the Athenians to build the most powerful fleet the world had yet seen—of two hundred triremes—which was ready in time when the Persians invaded. The Greek fleet destroyed the otherwise overwhelming Persian force, and changed the course of history. It was all the doing of Themistocles.
Themistocles made no secret that he considered himself a genius. The fact that he was correct did nothing to endear him to his fellow citizens. So when the Spartans, who feared and hated Themistocles, produced dodgy evidence that Themistocles had colluded with the enemy, the Athenians were only too ready to believe it.
Themistocles clearly was not someone you would wish to have plotting against you, but that is precisely the position the Athenians found themselves in after they ostracized the genius they feared was evil. To put a cherry on top, they condemned him to death for treason, based on the (probably faked) Spartan evidence. When he went over to the enemy, the Greeks, and the Athenians in particular, had everything to fear.
The Athenian fleet in 460 BC, when The Ionia Sanction takes place, was grossly overcommitted in Cyprus and Egypt. The Athenian army was scattered to deal with multiple ongoing wars. When fighting suddenly flared up against Corinth in the west, Athens had nothing left to send but old men and boys. The old men and boys vanquished the army of Corinth(!), but it meant Athens was totally exposed to the east.
At that one delicate moment in history, if Themistocles had made his move, it seems certain Athens would have fallen, and with it, the future of Western civilization.
But Themistocles didn’t make his move. Instead, he dropped dead.
His death came as a result of an illness; though there are some people who say that he committed suicide by taking poison, when he found that it was impossible to keep the promises that he had made to the King [to invade Greece]. In any case, there is a monument to him in the market-place of Magnesia in Asia. This was the district over which he ruled; for the King gave him Magnesia for his bread (and it brought in fifty talents a year), Lampsacus for his wine (which was considered at the time to be the best wine district of all), and Myos for his meat. It is said that his bones were, at his desire, brought home by his relations and buried secretly in Attica. The secrecy was necessary since it is against the law to bury in Attica the bones of one who has been exiled for treason.
This from Thucydides, book I, section 138, of the Peloponnesian War from the excellent Penguin edition. You can see in this one quote where much of my story comes from. An exile who wants his bones buried back in native soil is homesick. A strategic genius with an empire to back him, and a king demanding an attack plan, is in a position to get himself home. A man with three cities dedicated to feeding him probably has high cholesterol.
You see then that the death of Themistocles was unbelievable good luck for Athens. Either that, or, someone helped him along.
* * *
The blind poet, Homer, is the source of the quotes at the top of each chapter in The Ionia Sanction. Most major cultures in history have had their own great religious text: the Bible, the Tao Te Ching, The Book of the Dead. The Greeks had no book of religion at all. Instead they revered two great literary works: the Iliad and the Odyssey.
The city of Troy, of which Homer wrote, lay in the land named Ionia: the coastal region that is now western Turkey. The Greeks had colonized Ionia hundreds of years before; the colonies subsequently came under Persian rule. The Greeks, and the Athenians in particular, supported an Ionian uprising, which the Persians ruthlessly repressed. Athenian support for Ionian freedom was one of the reasons the Persians decided to deal with Athens, and which led to the Persian Wars.
* * *
Thorion the proxenos had one of the most interesting official jobs a man could have in Classical Greece. Thorion himself is my invention, but the job of proxenos was very real indeed.
The proxenoi acted rather like the modern system of consulates, but in reverse. Imagine if all foreign consulates were staffed and run not by citizens of the foreign nation, but by local citizens well disposed to the foreign nation for whom they acted. The pro means for, the xenos means foreigner. Hence proxenos means someone who acted on behalf of foreigners.
The proxenoi appear to have been at least as effective as the consulates of modern times. With the hundreds of Greek city-states,
and their intricate political and trade alliances, the proxenoi must have formed a complex and fascinating network of men.
There is no record that the proxenoi ran an intercity mail service, but I think that they must have. With the amount of correspondence each proxenos sent to his client city, what more natural thing than to use a single courier to carry it all? And what more natural thing than for his fellow citizens to give the proxenos any letters they want sent in the same direction?
* * *
Today, Piraeus is the largest port in Greece, thanks to Themistocles, who in about 480 BC, twenty years before this story, decided that Piraeus was the perfect base for his shiny new fleet.
The Long Walls, down which Nico and Araxes fight atop a slippery cart, sound like something from an epic fantasy, but they were quite real. Athens was a walled city. Piraeus was an armed and fortified base for the fleet. It was Themistocles’ idea to enclose the entire road from Athens to Piraeus within the Long Walls, so that Athens, Piraeus, and the road between became one vast fortification. It meant Athens could never be cut off from her fleet.
* * *
Nico’s favorite food is eel in garos sauce. Eel was considered a delicacy and was expensive to buy in the agora. Garos sauce was the ketchup of the ancient world, hugely popular in both Greece and Rome (the Romans called it garum).
The original Greek version of garos was made from leftover fish entrails. When fishwives gutted the morning catch, they discarded the entrails into large vats where seawater was added, and the whole goopy mess allowed to ferment in the sun over weeks or months into yummy garos. The garos would have been transported up to Athens in amphorae loaded on to carts, exactly like the one Nico finds himself fighting upon.
It seems to be a common belief that British Worcestershire sauce is descended from garos or garum. It’s not so. Worcestershire sauce is an accident derived from an Indian sauce. There is no chance that Worcestershire sauce tastes like garos, because the Greeks are known to have disliked anchovies. Also Worcestershire includes molasses, chilies, and sugar, none of which the Greeks had.