The Ionia Sanction (19 page)

“These are hardly details. The man brought back Asia to us. I will interrogate him.”

Barzanes bowed. “As the Lord Satrap wishes.”

Themistocles walked to my side. He looked up at me, hanging on the wall. I looked down at him.

Themistocles had put on weight, and lots of it, but as unhealthy as he looked, his eyes were intelligent and wide-awake within the puffy flesh. He had a bushy gray beard with only flecks of its original color as also his hair, which he mostly retained and wore in curls. The hair served to hide his expression, although by all accounts no man could tell the thoughts of Themistocles in any case.

I recalled Brion, dying on the stake, and Asia’s statement that only her father could have ordered such a death.

“I will learn from my daughter everything of substance concerning her kidnap. You can tell me about yourself.”

“I am Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus the sculptor, of the deme Alopece.”

Themistocles paused for a moment. “Yes, I remember your father. Asia tells me you are not yourself a sculptor; that you are an … agent? This must be some new trade they didn’t have when I was in Athens. Does it pay well?”

“Not anymore.”

“Oh?”

“These days I am an unemployed agent.”

“By implication therefore, you once had an employer. He was?”

“Pericles.”

“Pericles?” Themistocles paused before saying, “He was an insignificant young man when I left Athens, much the same age you are now, I should think. The stories say he’s become a force.”

“The stories are right.”

“What did you do to displease him?”

“I made a mistake on an assignment, and as a consequence Pericles terminated our agreement.”

“What sort of mistake?”

“A fatal one, for the men with me.”

“Then you are not here acting for Pericles.”

“No, Themistocles, I’m here acting for
you.
I brought your daughter home.”

Themistocles scowled. “I have no cause to trust the Athenians. I led them to greatness. They ostracized me, then they condemned me. When an Athenian arrives in Magnesia, unannounced, should I not assume he intends me harm?”

“I’m no threat to anyone. I’ll be happy if I can walk away from Magnesia and not end up like the dead man by the road.”

“What is this?” Barzanes exclaimed.

Themistocles’ eyebrows shot up and his brow creased.

I said, “He’s dead now.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Themistocles said. “Do you, Barzanes?”

“No, Lord Themistocles.”

Neither Barzanes nor Themistocles knew Brion was dead? I glanced from one to the other, unable to determine if they were telling the truth, and said, “There’s a man on a pole by the roadside. We passed him on the way here, not a thousand paces from the city. Asia said it was a method of execution only you had the right to use, Lord Satrap. The man’s name is Brion.”

Themistocles frowned. “Brion the merchant? I know him well. But I’ve executed no one recently, I assure you. Probably brigands on the road. It happens, no matter how often we chase them.”

“My Lord Satrap?”

“Yes, Barzanes?”

“Will you not investigate this? If the Athenian speaks truth then a murder has been committed.”

Themistocles nodded. “See to it.”

“I will, lord, as soon as we are finished here.”

Themistocles turned back to me. “My daughter tells me you saved her life.”

“Not entirely true. I saved her from the brothels.” I related the story of finding her on the auction block in sufficient detail for the point to sink in, before saying, “If I might be permitted a question from a position of severe disadvantage, I’m curious to know how the daughter of Themistocles came to be on the auction block at Piraeus.”

His eyes bore into me. I returned his look as blandly as I could manage.

He said, “I share your curiosity.” He paused for a moment, then said, “So my daughter was your slave.”

“I’ve rarely had a worse.”

His lips twitched. “I’m glad to hear that. Your girlfriend has begged me for your life.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“She said the same thing when I asked.” He paused, then said, “Asia makes the same request. Your tale beggars belief, but at each point there is a tenuous wisp of credibility; I have heard of more ridiculous things happening. Indeed, a few of them have happened to me. Very well, I am going to believe you, Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, because only an idiot would enter Magnesia intending me harm, with a stolen horse and carrying my daughter in full view.”

I solemnly agreed only an idiot would do such a thing.

“There is a condition. You will remain in my court or within the city at all times. You are not to depart without my order. Let me be clear about this. If you leave the city, your life is forfeit.”

What an odd demand. Why would Themistocles want to keep me here if he didn’t trust me? But he was the boss. “I understand.”

So much for escaping Magnesia to report back to Pericles. We were trapped here.

11

But when the bright light of the sun was set, they went each to his own house to take their rest, where for each one a palace had been built with cunning skill.

Themistocles lived in a palace that made the home of Callias look like a deserted hut on a windy night. At three stories it was taller than anything I’d ever seen, I wondered how they held up the third floor. The building formed a rectangle with a paved inner courtyard and a fountain in the middle that shot water higher than a man. Misty droplets fell on everyone’s head and kept the air cool.

All my possessions awaited me in my room, with the notable exception of Ajax, who had been repossessed. The room was bright and airy, on the third floor, in the wing reserved for honored guests. It made for a bizarre contrast with where I’d just been. I fell back on the bed and it was the best bed I’d ever lain in.

There were two windows, covered with shutters. I hung my head out to see an extensive garden of trees and ponds and green grass. The garden began at the palace and went all the way out to the surrounding wall, which was as high as two men. Within the gardens, next to the main building, I could see workshops, a barracks, and stables, where I supposed Ajax relaxed at that very moment in a stall. I wondered if he remembered me.

The slave who’d shown me to my room made a point of telling me where to find the baths. I took the hint and spent a long time soaking off the grime of the road and the stinking sweat of fear. My own clothes were no longer fit after their treatment in the torture chamber—I felt somewhat the same myself—so a slave brought me a fresh chiton. Then I wandered about the palace, happy to be free.

I found Diotima in the gardens, on a bench beneath the branches of an apple tree. She sat slumped and downcast. I sat beside her.

“Thanks for getting me out of prison.”

“I didn’t. I tried, but Themistocles wouldn’t listen to me. Asia swore you’d saved her, then she burst into tears and Themistocles promised to release you. She has him twisted around her little finger. I, on the other hand, was as useless to you as I was to Brion.”

I moved to put an arm around her, then thought better of it. “Diotima, I’m sorry about Brion.”

“I feel bad about the arrow.”

“Don’t.”

“It’s such a horrible way to repay all his friendship.”

“No, it’s not. It’s what any sane man would have wanted. If you ever find me in the same situation”—I shuddered—“I hope you’ll kill me before I know it.”

I paused, because I didn’t want to say it, but, “It must be tough to lose the man you were going to marry, especially like that.”

She sat up with a jerk and stared at me, openmouthed. “Marry him? What made you think that? He wasn’t the marrying sort. Believe me, I could tell.”

“You mean he preferred boys?”

“Hardly. Too many girlfriends. A man like that uses women.”

I didn’t understand. “Then why were you seeing him?”

She shrugged, and returned to her slumped position. “I don’t know. For practice, I suppose.”

“Er, practice at what, precisely?”

“Not
that,
you cretin.”

“Well then?”

She mumbled something that sounded like, “At attracting men. It makes me nervous.”

I must have misheard. A lion might be nervous. An army of Spartans could conceivably get nervous. But Diotima?

“I don’t know, Nico. A year ago, I would have said I didn’t want to be married. But, you know, it’s hard to avoid when a woman isn’t allowed to own property, and not having a husband is social death. I thought … well, I thought it was all sorted out. Then when you told me your father had refused—”

“I understand. You must have been devastated at losing me.”

“I was put out, because now I’d have to attract someone decent, and I had no idea how to do it. You would have been very convenient.”

“Convenient?” I said, hurt. “Is that all I was, convenient?”

“No. Well, yes, but also no.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“I’m being honest with you. A girl has to think about these things. Don’t look so shocked, Nicolaos. Everyone knows men care more for the dowry and the father’s status than they do the woman. If she can’t improve the man’s social standing then the marriage isn’t going to happen, is it? Look what happened when you asked your father for me.”

“I never realized the way you thought about us was so … clinical.”

Diotima stood up. “Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, I would have been perfectly happy to marry you. I mean, not many men would listen to me the way you do. And you’re ambitious. I like that. You’re reasonably presentable, good-looking even, especially when you’re only wearing a loincloth and I can see your chest.”

I puffed out my chest.

“Also you’re not quite as dumb as most men—”

“I think you should have stopped at the chest.”

“Hey, Athenian!” Philodios approached us, the man who had been so eager to fetch horses to have me torn to pieces, or to cut off my toes. He stopped before me, put his hands on his hips, and said, “Dinner is served.”

I stared at him for a moment before I comprehended. “
You
are announcing dinner?”

“That’s my job.”

“What happened to your other one?”

“I don’t get to do it full time, not enough demand. If you ask me, this Lord Satrap is too easygoing.”

“Who is this man?” Diotima asked.

“This is Philodios, my personal, in-house torturer. Philodios, I’d like you to meet the woman who thinks I’m convenient.”

Philodios led Diotima and me to the dinner hall. As we walked in I thought to myself, Diotima hadn’t been planning to marry Brion. Somehow I felt better about his death.

*   *   *

I hoped to see some sign that Themistocles and his family missed their old lives, something—anything—to show they knew they’d made an error when they turned against Athens.

The dining hall was filled with military officers from the local garrison, dressed in gaudy ankle-length robes with large sleeves, jeweled rings, bracelets of silver and gold, and torcs hung about their necks. My plain Hellene chiton had only an edge pattern for decoration. I didn’t even have a himation cloak with me. I felt distinctly out of place, but I was determined not to show it.

The Persians milled about, kissing each other on the lips or on the cheeks, talking together. Here were the men the Hellenes feared above all others, my hereditary enemies. It was these men, or their fathers, who had burned Athens to the ground. I was like a man swimming with sharks.

Themistocles entered from another door, followed by Barzanes and five Hellenes ranging in age from teenage to middle years. Among these was Asia, holding the hand of a young woman whose face, posture, and expression shouted sister to the world. This was Nicomache. Asia had prattled about her brothers and sisters during the march from Ephesus, and I was able to match names against faces without difficulty. The middle-aged man with gray-tinged hair was Archeptolis. He wore rich clothes and rings upon his fingers for which, if he had dared wear them in the streets of Athens, he would have been bashed and robbed.

The woman beside him was therefore his wife and half sister, Mnesiptolema, Asia had told me her nickname was Nessie. Nessie’s mouth was pinched in disapproval, her chin overstrong, but what Mnesiptolema lost in her unfriendly face she made up in her figure, which was spectacular in its curves. Her breasts were large, her shoulders wide, and her waist narrow. More voluptuous than attractive, and aware of it.

Behind them walked the other son, Cleophantus, whom I guessed to be in his early twenties. This was the man Callias said was a coward.

I whispered to Diotima, “That’s the full family, everyone who’s still living with Themistocles in any case.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to mention Brion.”

“At a banquet? Nico, you’re only just out of jail.”

“Every important person in Magnesia is in this room. Can you think of a better time to get everyone’s reaction?”

The room fell silent and everyone made a curious motion toward Themistocles, bending at the waist with stiff bodies and touching their hearts. Diotima copied them. I didn’t. A free Athenian makes obeisance to no man.

Themistocles seated himself at the end, Barzanes at his right hand and the children of Themistocles following. The room fell silent.

“I rejoice to announce what everyone here already knows. My daughter Asia has been returned to us.” Themistocles looked about the room. He saw me.

“Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, and Diotima, Priestess of Artemis, you will join us at this end.”

Everyone sat at a long, low table in the middle of the room, about which the diners were expected to sit on cushions. I realized then there was a precedence, which everyone assumed so naturally that it was not obvious to a visitor. Themistocles had moved us to the position below his children and Barzanes, but higher than everyone else present. Barzanes was expressionless as I sat down opposite him.

What’s the etiquette for dining with someone who’s been torturing you that afternoon? Does one mention in passing that one had been hanging in chains? Or is that a minor social indiscretion, best forgotten?