Marathon

by Christian Cameron

  steal and covet other men’s possessions, and they argue about

  everything.

  I’ve always liked them.

  I’d never been to Aristides’ house, but he was a famous man,

  even then, so it was easy enough to ask directions. But I had to

  turn down a dozen offers on my slave girl – the truth is, she

  shone with some power, and no man who saw her cared an obol

  about her limp – and for some reason men fancied me, too, and

  even offered for my horse and my saddle blanket and my sword

  and anything else visible.

  We should have passed around the shoulder of the

  Areopagus and walked on, down the hils to the cool countryside

  on the east side of the city. Instead, I paused for a cup of cheap

  wine. What I realy wanted was to walk down the street of the

  bronze-smiths, so I left my horse with Slave Girl and headed to

  the Agora. Now, there’s a fancy new temple for Hephaestus.

  Back then, it was a much smaler affair, with tiny cramped streets

  al over the low hil and a smal shrine to Athena and Hephaestus

  at the top – just one priest and no priestess. But I went, made a

  smal sacrifice and left the meat for the poor, as befitted a

  foreigner, and then I walked down into the smiths’ quarter. I’d

  have done better to take the Boeotian dog-cap off my head –

  but I didn’t.

  I gave the sign to the priest, of course, and he passed me the

  sign for Attica, so that other smiths would treat me as a guest.

  Then I worked my way down the hil, looking at their shops,

  admiring their belows or their tools – or their hordes of

  apprentices. I finaly stopped where an iron-smith was roughing

  out spear-points – beautiful things, long as my forearm with light

  sockets and heavy ribs for punching straight through armour.

  ‘You look like a lad who can use one of these,’ the smith

  said. ‘For a dirt-eating Theban, I mean,’ he added.

  I spat. ‘I’m a dirt-eating Plataean,’ I said. ‘Fuck Thebes.’

  ‘Fuck your mother!’ he said with pleasure. ‘No offence

  ‘Fuck your mother!’ he said with pleasure. ‘No offence

  meant, stranger. Any Plataean is welcome here. Were you in the

  three battles?’

  ‘Every one,’ I answered.

  ‘Pais!’ the master caled, and when one of his boys came, he

  said, ‘Get this hero a cup of Chian.’

  ‘You?’ I asked politely.

  ‘Oh, I stood my ground once or twice that week,’ he said.

  He extended his hand and we shook, and I passed the sign.

  ‘You’re a smith!’ he said. ‘Need a place to stay?’

  That’s how it was, back then. Sad, to see those old ways go.

  Hospitality was like a god to us – to al Greeks.

  I had started to explain that I was on my way to see Aristides

  when a wel-dressed man leading a horse leaned into the stal.

  ‘Did I just hear you say you were a Plataean?’ he asked.

  I didn’t know him from Oedipus, but I was courteous. ‘I

  have that honour. I am Arimnestos of the Corvaxae of Plataea.’

  The man bowed. ‘You’ve just saved me quite a journey,

  then,’ he said. ‘I’m Cleitus of the Alcmaeonids of Attica. And

  you are under arrest, for murder.’

  2

  The law of Athens is a complex, dangerous monster, and no

  foreigner like myself could possibly master it. I stood there with

  my mouth agape, like a fool, and the smith came to my rescue.

  ‘Says who?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t missed an assembly since

  the feast of Dionysus, and no one has voted a capital charge.’

  The Alcmaeonid shrugged. ‘You don’t look like the kind of

  felow to vote on the hil,’ he said casualy. What he meant was

  that iron-smiths didn’t get invited to join the Areopagitica, the

  council of elders, mostly old aristocrats, who ran the murder

  trials. I think my smith might have let it go, except that this Cleitus

  was such an arrogant sod that he gave offence by breathing.

  ‘I don’t have to be a sodding aristo to know the law,’ the

  smith said. ‘Where’d the charge come from?’

  ‘None of your business,’ Cleitus said. He reached for my

  chlamys. ‘Best come along, boy.’

  chlamys. ‘Best come along, boy.’

  Some men claim that the gods play no role in human affairs.

  Such statements always make me laugh. Cleitus and I have

  crossed wits – and swords – often enough. He’s as wily as

  Odysseus and as strong as Heracles, but on that day he couldn’t

  spare the time to calm the ruffled plumage of an iron-smith. What

  might have happened if he had?

  The smith stepped around the counter of his shop with a

  speed that belied his bulk. ‘Where’s your wand, then?’ he

  asked.

  Cleitus shrugged. ‘With my men, in the Agora.’

  ‘Better go and get it, rich boy,’ the smith said. ‘Hey, sons of

  Hephaestus!’ he caled. ‘Down your tools and come!’

  Cleitus ralied his wits instantly. ‘Now – master smith, no

  need for that. I’l get my wand. But this man is a kiler!’

  ‘A kiler of Athens’s enemies,’ I said. A good shot – and it

  went right into the bulseye. ‘Not an unlawful kiler.’

  By then, there were fifty apprentices looking for a fight, and a

  dozen smiths, and every hand held a hammer. Cleitus looked

  around. ‘I’l be back with my men,’ he said.

  ‘Bring your staff of warrant, or don’t bother,’ my new friend

  the smith caled. Then he turned to me. ‘Tel me your tale, and

  make it swift. Men are missing work.’

  So I told him. I left nothing out – not even the dimple I’d left

  in my helmet.

  He sent an apprentice for Aristides.

  I sat on a folding stool that was provided for me – fine

  I sat on a folding stool that was provided for me – fine

  ironwork, and very elegant – and began to breathe more easily.

  And then I heard the screams. There were a fair number of

  screams in Athens – high-pitched, often in fun, sometimes in

  earnest. But by the third scream, I realized that this was my slave

  girl. I rose to my feet.

  My smith looked at me. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s my slave,’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve pledged my people to this,’ he said.

  ‘You aren’t going anywhere.’

  ‘I’ve made her an oath to free her,’ I said. ‘Send a boy –

  send a pair of men with hammers. Please. I ask you.’

  He spat orders at a couple of shop boys – big ones – and

  they hurried out of the door.

  ‘Arimnestos, eh?’ he asked. ‘I’ve heard of you. Kiler of

  men, right enough. Thought you’d be bigger.’

  I tried to sit stil. The screams had stopped. Time passed.

  More time passed.

  Finaly, the boys came back.

  ‘Cleitus has left the market,’ the bigger of the two said. ‘He’s

  got your horse and your girl. He talked a lot of crap about what

  you took from his brother. Did you kil his brother, mister?’

  I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said, and I felt tired. Did I say I

  loved Athens? Athens makes me tired. They
have a great many

  rules. ‘Can he realy take these things from me?’ I asked the

  smith.

  He shrugged. ‘Alcmaeonids do what they like,’ he said.

  ‘Most commoners won’t even try to stand against them.’ He

  ‘Most commoners won’t even try to stand against them.’ He

  grinned. ‘Lucky you’re a smith.’

  ‘He’s no smith,’ said a voice behind my chair, and there was

  Athens’s leading pilar of justice, the greatest prig ever to lead

  warriors in the field. A man so driven by fairness that he had no

  space left for ambition.

  I embraced him anyway, because I loved him, despite the

  fact we had nothing in common. It was Aristides. He was stil

  tal, lanky, graceful like a man who’s had the best training the

  drachma can buy al his life.

  ‘I gather you’ve turned to crime,’ he said. I like to think it

  was a rare show of humour, and not a statement of fact.

  ‘Not true, my lord. This scion of the Alcmaeonids was kiled

  by a man in my service – at a shrine, for impiety. I’ve given

  orders for his body and his armour to be brought here, and al his

  possessions that weren’t looted by his own servants. They wil

  be here in a matter of days.’ I shrugged. ‘I am a man of

  property, not a freebooter, my lord.’

  Aristides nodded solemnly. ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

  ‘He’s a smith, right enough,’ the iron-smith said. ‘He knows

  the signs.’

  Aristides looked at me under his bushy eyebrows. ‘Always

  more to you than meets the eye, young man. So you are a

  smith?’ Young man, he caled me. He was less than ten years my

  senior. But he had the dignity of an old man.

  ‘A bronze-smith,’ I said. ‘And a farmer now. My property

  brought me three hundred medimnoi this autumn.’

  Aristides laughed. ‘I never expected you to rise to the hippeis

  Aristides laughed. ‘I never expected you to rise to the hippeis

  class,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure that I stil qualify,’ I returned. ‘The Alcmaeonids

  just stole my best horse and my slave girl.’

  Aristides’ smile was wiped off his face. ‘Realy?’

  Smiths and apprentices pressed around him, each teling his

  own version of the story.

  ‘Come to my house,’ Aristides said. ‘I’l send to the council

  and announce that I have you in my custody and that I’l

  represent you at the trial. Then everything wil be legal.’

  ‘What about my horse?’ I asked. ‘And my girl?’

  He didn’t answer.

  I shook hands with every smith who had aided me, thanked

  them al and walked off into the evening with Aristides and a

  dozen young men he had about him – al armed with heavy

  staves, I noticed. When we were clear of the industrial quarter,

  Aristides wrinkled his nose.

  ‘I’ve seen you in the storm of bronze, Plataean. You are a

  man of worth. How do you stand the stink of al that

  commerce?’ He didn’t slacken his step, and he was a tal man.

  I shrugged. ‘Money smels the same, whether earned at the

  point of the spear or in the sweat of a shop,’ I said.

  Aristides shook his head. ‘But without virtue. Without glory.’

  ‘You’re arguing with the wrong man,’ I answered. ‘My

  master taught me that “War is the king and master of al, some

  men it makes lords, and others it makes slaves.”’ I laughed, and

  then my laughter stopped. ‘What’s happening here? Your lads

  are al armed, and those Alcmaeonids were out for my blood.’

  ‘Later,’ he said.

  We walked around the steep hil, its rock worn smooth from

  hundreds of men climbing to the top, where criminal trials were

  held, and then past the slums on the east side and back up a big

  road, the road to the Temple of Poseidon at Sounion. The moon

  was up by the time we came to a big gate.

  ‘My farm,’ Aristides said with pride. ‘I don’t sleep in the city

  any more. I expect I’l be exiled soon, if not kiled.’ He said it

  with the flat certainty you hear from a veteran on the night before

  he takes his death blow.

  ‘You? Exiled?’ I shook my head. ‘Five years ago you were

  the golden boy of Athens.’

  ‘I stil am,’ he said. ‘Men think I seek to be tyrant, when in

  fact I seek only to provide justice – even to your friends the

  smiths.’

  ‘There are noble men – men of worth – even in the forges

  and the potters’ shops,’ I insisted.

  ‘Of course! Democracy wouldn’t function if there were not.

  But they keep trying to insist on increased political rights, when

  any thinking man knows that only a man of property can control

  a city. We’re the only ones with the training. That smith could no

  more vote on the Areopagitica than I could dish a helmet.’

  Aristides shed his chlamys and chiton, and I noted he was stil

  in top fighting trim. As we talked, slaves attended us. I was

  stripped, oiled and dressed in a better garment than I’d worn

  since my last bout of piracy – al while listening to Aristides.

  since my last bout of piracy – al while listening to Aristides.

  ‘Helmets are raised, not dished,’ I said.

  ‘Just my point,’ he said.

  I shook my head. ‘Alow me to disagree with my host,’ I

  said.

  He smiled politely.

  ‘Perhaps it is that the perfection of any trade – war,

  sculpture, poetry, iron-smithing, even tanning or shoe-making –

  provides a man with the tools of mind to alow a mature man to

  take an active part in politics,’ I said.

  He rubbed his chin. ‘Wel put. And not an argument I’d

  heard put in exactly that way before. But you are not proposing

  that al men are equal?’

  I sneered. ‘I’ve stood in the haze of Ares too often to think

  that, my lord.’

  He nodded. ‘Just so. But an equality of excelence? I must

  say that I admire the notion. But that equates politics and war,

  which are noble pursuits, with ironwork and trade, which are

  not.’

  I took wine from a woman who had to be his wife. I bowed

  deeply, and she smiled.

  ‘Arguing with my husband?’ she said. ‘A waste of breath,

  unless it’s about the running of this house, and then he loses al

  interest. You are Arimnestos of Plataea?’ She had gold pins in

  her chiton and her hair was piled on her head like a mountain.

  She was not beautiful, but her face radiated inteligence. Athena

  might have looked so, if she were to dress as a matron.

  ‘I am he, despoina.’ I bowed again.

  ‘I am he, despoina.’ I bowed again.

  ‘Somehow, from my husband’s stories, I thought you might

  be bigger. On the other hand, you’re as beautiful as a god, which

  he somehow forgot to mention. Every slave girl in the house wil

  be at your door. I’l just go and lock them away, lest we have a

  plague of the nine-months sickness in my house, eh?’ She smiled.

  ‘Women are not alowed in the assembly,’ Aristides said,

  ‘because if they were, we’d be left with nothing to do
but move

  heavy objects. This is my dear wife Jocasta.’

  She twirled her keys on her girdle and stepped out of the

  room.

  ‘Tel me your notion then,’ Aristides said. ‘You speak wel,

  and men seldom face me in debate.’

  I shrugged. ‘I am as outmatched as a boy with a stave would

  be against me in the phalanx, lord. But, as you are so polite as to

  hear me out . . . You assume that war and politics are noble.

  You assume that they are ends to themselves. But you cannot

  make war without spears, and we have no spears without iron-

  smiths.’

  ‘My point exactly – the iron-smith is less noble than the

  warrior because his craft is subordinate.’ Aristides smiled as he

  made his point – his kil-shot, he thought.

  ‘But my lord, if you wil accept my expertise,’ I said carefuly,

  because I did not want to anger him, ‘war is a terrible end unto

  itself. I have made more war than you, although I am younger.

  War is a terrible thing.’

  ‘But without it, we could not be free,’ Aristides said.

  ‘Ah, so freedom is the higher goal.’ I smiled. Aristides

  ‘Ah, so freedom is the higher goal.’ I smiled. Aristides

  frowned, and then he grinned.

  ‘By the gods,’ he said, ‘if al smiths were like you, I’d replace

  the council of elders with smiths tonight!’

  I shrugged, and then met his grin. ‘Remember, lord, I was the

  pupil of Heraclitus.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, in truth, you are an aristocrat – as you

  were educated as one!’

  ‘While being a slave,’ I added. And drank my wine.

  But Aristides did not laugh. ‘This is no matter for light talk,’

  he said. ‘Athens is an experiment – an experiment that may mean

  life or death to her. We’re attempting to push responsibility for

  the city down – as far down as we feel that free men have the

  power to think and vote. The further down we push these rights,

  the more fools we must tolerate—’

  ‘And the more shields you have in the phalanx,’ I said.

  ‘And the harder it is for the Pisistratids or the Alcmaeonids to

  restore the tyranny,’ he countered.

  ‘Is that what this is about?’ I asked. ‘The tyranny of Athens?

  Again?’ I’d had four summers of listening to Miltiades plot to

  take the city. Frankly, I couldn’t imagine why any of them

  wanted it.

  Aristides nodded. He sat down. ‘The Medes are coming,’ he