The Ionia Sanction (10 page)

“A slave.”

I thought she was about to argue, but she controlled herself and said, “Yes, master.”

Asia picked up our bags and I followed her into the famed city of Ephesus.

The road from the docks led straight inland. We came at once upon a gymnasium and baths to our left, situated so close to the port that the air was still wet with sea spray. The road turned right and on the outer bend was an amphitheater that dwarfed the one at Athens. Did the Ephesians really have so many people?

On the right was what looked and sounded like an agora. Well-dressed men stood about, gesticulating, shouting, arguing, conferring, reading scrolls, writing notes, and paying each other money. It all looked highly confused to me, and there wasn’t a single stall to be seen.

I asked Asia, “What is that place?”

She looked at it with a confused expression and said, “Master, I don’t know.”

I stopped a passing citizen, who told me we stood at the commercial agora, where men traded entire shiploads or warehouses of goods. I’d never heard of such a thing; Athens had nothing like it.

We passed through some ornamental gates onto a smooth road. I took ten steps before I realized I walked on marble. People pushed past me as if it was perfectly normal to be treading on the most expensive road in the world. The marble road twisted left, and we walked uphill to the second agora, much more reminiscent of the one I’d left behind at home.

The agora of Ephesus was long and thin. The road we’d walked from the docks entered at the west end, and exited on the east. I found it odd pushing my way through the streams of people without being able to look up at the Acropolis. The stallholders were Hellene. They sold vegetables, olives, and olive oil in stacked amphorae; fish and eels and squid. Pottery and bronze ware had its own section, as had something you don’t see much of in Athens: apples. There were entire stalls of apples. They were a delicacy back home, where most people preferred quince. I picked up an apple and inspected it, a mottled yellow, then bit in. The sweet juice trickled down my throat. You could give me apple over quince any day. I pulled out a coin and was about to toss it to the stall owner when I realized there was a problem, a problem I’d never experienced before.

I had the wrong money.

“I’m sorry, I only have Athenian coins,” I said to the stallholder.

“No problem,” he replied. “I’ll take your owls.” All Athenian coins are stamped with the sacred bird of Athena.

“How much?”

“Seven obols.”

I almost dropped the apple in shock. “You could feed a family for a day for that much!”

“Hey mate, you bit into it!”

The error was mine; I should have changed my coins the moment I arrived. The stallholder charged a premium for accepting foreign currency; any shopkeeper in Athens would do the same. I had laughed at the rubes who tried to use their own coins in the agora at Athens often enough. Now it was my turn.

I grimaced and tossed seven coins to the man. He caught them all and I turned away, biting into the most expensive apple I would ever eat.

I almost walked straight into two men, coming the other way. All three of us stopped in time, face-to-face, practically nose-to-nose.

They wore shirts, and trousers, and carried a shield on their backs and a spear in their right hands. Their beards were barbered and curled into ringlets, their skin dark beneath the weathering, their noses large and bulbous. For the first time in my life, I faced Persian soldiers. Throughout my ephebe training, over and over the instinct had been drilled into us: see Persian, kill Persian. My hand went to where my sword would be if I’d still been a soldier in the army. Luckily for me, it wasn’t there.

The one on the right said, “Excuse me,” in the language of the Medes. I understood because Asia had continued to teach me the rudiments of the language as we traveled. The Persian stepped around me. The other did the same on the other side.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, but they were already gone.

I’d known, intellectually, that I’d passed from the free city-states of Hellas into the rigidly ruled superstate of the Great King’s empire, but the transition had been so smooth that until that moment I hadn’t noticed. The Persians ruled all the land from the ground on which I stood, all the way to the east. For all I knew, their empire extended to the ends of the earth. The Hellenes controlled every island in the Aegean Sea. When I stepped off
Salaminia
onto dry land, I had stepped into the empire of our enemy.

The two soldiers stopped at the stalls of the vegetable growers. They chatted with the vendors, who from their looks and dress were Hellene. But they all spoke Persian together. A stall owner said something I couldn’t understand, and they all laughed.

I backed away, and almost tripped over a funeral stele poking up out of the ground. It was so bizarre I stood staring. Everyone else walked around it as if it were perfectly normal to bury your dead in the middle of the market. The memorial stone had one word on it:
HERACLITUS
.

I shook my head. I’d come to a strange place.

We walked into the side streets and chose an inn that seemed clean. In Athens, it’s the inns closest to the agora that are the best and most expensive. I paid for a private room, which was even more expensive. The innkeeper looked at Asia and smirked, displaying broken, black teeth. The room was on the second floor at the back, small but with sound walls and a decent bed in one corner. I sent Asia down to collect straw for her bedding. She returned with the innkeeper.

“What ye want straw for?” he asked. “Ye’ve got a bed.” He pointed at it, as if I might not recognize the item.

I told him, “That’s for me. The girl needs something to lie on.”

He leered. “That’s you, ain’t it? No need to pretend with me.”

I sent him on his way with firm instructions to send a slave with straw.

“Now we can see the city,” I said to Asia. I was eager to go out and be a tourist.

Asia led me farther along the road we’d walked before. Our path took us out by an eastern gate. Asia said, in an offhand way, “This is the road to Magnesia. If you continue on this way you’ll come to the city in two days.”

I climbed a hill to view Ephesus from the landward side. The city was shaped like a centipede bent in the middle. The wide, curving road Asia had led me up when we arrived was the body, all the buildings to each side and a surprisingly small number of side streets made the legs. There was no high defensive ground of any sort, no acropolis. There was a wall about the city, a bit like a semicircular bubble poking inland, but I doubted it would provide any serious resistance to any passing army.

We followed a well-worn path outside the city walls, for perhaps nine or ten stadia, a bit short of a thousand paces, until we came to a large temple, the largest I had ever seen.

“The Temple of Artemis,” Asia announced. “Your girlfriend is probably here.”

“She’s not my—” I broke off.

I looked at the temple nervously. It was huge. People were walking in and out all the time. Asia was probably right, Diotima would be in there somewhere. She might walk down those steps at any moment. I glanced down to see Asia staring up at me with big, round eyes, fourteen and pretty.

“Socrates says you only came to Ephesus to see her.”

“I think I’ll avoid—that is, I’ll surprise Diotima later, not now.”

Asia shrugged. She turned and led me back into the city.

At the eastern gates, the ones called the Magnesia Gates, I detected a certain aroma.

“Is there a horse market here?” I asked Asia.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose so.”

We followed our noses, and came to a small paddock of turf littered with wads of mud and horse droppings. Horses, mules, and donkeys were tethered to poles, most standing quietly, some protesting volubly. Men stood beside the animals, talking, inspecting, or walking from one to the next.

I thought back to the fast horse of Onteles, of which I’d been so envious. Here I was on my own in Ephesus, and it wasn’t my father’s money in my bag, it was Pericles’.

I picked my way across the paddock, and inspected the animals, trying to look as if I knew what I was doing.

“There’s a top breed, yes sir.” The man beside me broke in on my thoughts. “I can tell you’re a man who knows his horseflesh.”

I had stopped beside the largest animal I could see, reasoning that a big horse would be faster than a small horse. This one was colored red-brown. Beyond size and color, I couldn’t tell the difference between any of the animals on display.

“She looks good,” I said.

“He. Have a look underneath.”

I bent down. “Oh, yes.”

“So, what’re you looking for, my man?”

“Er—”

“Hunter? Racehorse? I can see at once you’re not a plowman. You’ll be looking for a sophisticated beast, sleek, light on the touch, instant response, fast.”

I imagined myself racing across the fields on an important mission. “Yes, I want fast!”

“You’ve come to the right place, yes sir.” He slapped the animal’s back and smiled. “This here is the fastest thing on four legs you’re likely to see anywhere in Ephesus, or even Ionia. Why, he’s good enough for the King’s Messengers, so he is.”

“The King’s Messengers?”

The man took out the strand of hay he’d been chewing on, and looked me in the eye. “You’re not from these parts, sir?”

“Hellas. Mainland.”

“Ah, that explains it. Well, young man, the King’s Messengers are the fastest men around. They carry the Great King’s commands from one end of the empire to the other. If you were standing by the road, and a King’s Messenger came over the horizon, why, if you blinked, you’d miss him. A Messenger carrying a message is not allowed to sleep, or eat, or even piss unless he can do it at full gallop. The Messengers have a saying: ‘Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor darkness of night will stop us.’ The Great King can have his words delivered to any part of the empire in only two days. And this beast here,” he slapped the horse again, “Ajax here is good enough for the King’s Messengers. But you know what’s happened? I’ve gone and sold them so many great horses that they don’t need no more. So now I’m reduced to selling top quality stallions at a discount, just to make ends meet. It isn’t fair, sir, no it isn’t.”

A discount sounded good to me. I bought Ajax. He even threw in the bridle.

I led my new horse through the streets of Ephesus, taking special care to be seen. I was so proud of my new possession. Ajax followed my lead, docile as a lamb. He knew at once who his master was. Men pointed and talked among themselves as we passed by. I noticed he was larger and more powerful than every other horse we passed. The stable hand at the inn demanded extra money to handle such a powerful stallion, which I willingly paid.

*   *   *

The sky had darkened toward dusk. I decided to celebrate my purchase of Ajax and see something of the nightlife of Ephesus, so I left Asia with bread and cheese in our room and walked down to the docks where, if Ephesus was like Athens, I knew most of the excitement would be. Men of every class were stopping work and pushing their way into the taverns. One particularly large one seemed popular, a board outside proclaimed
THE GREAT KING
, not a name you would ever see in Athens.

I could hear raucous laughter, and as I watched a man came flying through the window and thudded to a halt in the dirt. He picked himself up and staggered down the road, no doubt to find another drinking hole. The half-open shutter on the window dangled crookedly, as if a previous throw may have been less accurate.

I joined the steady stream pushing their way in.

The Great King was large but crowded. I breathed the humid fog of sweaty men, talking all about me. The fug was not helped by the fact that the innkeeper had lit pitch torches, which added a pungent aroma and enough light to drink by. The moonlight coming through the open window and door had better effect. Words drifted past, confusing me with their different accents. Standing near the window, where they could get fresh air, was a group of locals. They were drinking, talking, and laughing simultaneously, a few men were already swaying on their feet.

A party of travelers sat in the near corner with their backs to the wall. They were dressed for riding and talked to no one but themselves. Their hair was long and hung in oily plaits. They held large drinking horns and ate from bowls of stew that smelled good. They watched the room with suspicious eyes. In the middle a pair of dark Ethiopians and three olive-skinned Karians—all obviously sailors—stood talking together loudly in a language I didn’t recognize, but from the tone the conversation was heated and might turn into an argument at any moment. Two huge men, their skin covered in blue tattoos, even their faces, sat at the long common bench, facing each other, drinking wine, being surly, and ignoring everyone about. Both had swords strapped to their backs in leather scabbards that were faded and worn with use.

The innkeeper came and served me wine—very cheap—and then offered me some of the stew, a house specialty that he assured me was a traditional local dish. I jumped at the chance. A slave brought out a bowl of hot, steaming, delicious smelling stew. I ate it at the common bench. I considered carrying my bowl and cup into a corner, but the air was thicker there and a space opened up close to the surly, tattooed pair with the swords. No one in their right mind would start anything that might annoy those two, so I sat down next to them. The air grew hotter with all those bodies crowded together. The volume got louder as men became inebriated. A belligerent drunk left via the window exit, with the help of the men he’d annoyed.

A man sat down opposite me.

“I hope you’ve recovered from your exertions. I confess I’ve had sore muscles ever since.”

I reached for my dagger.

Instantly two hands clapped down on my shoulders from behind and
squeezed.
The pain paralyzed me. I let go and my dagger dropped to the straw-covered floor. All about us, men continued to drink and talk loudly; no one had noticed.