The Ionia Sanction (3 page)

Behind the driver and his companion was a rack holding amphorae: clay pots with narrow lids, wide middles, and long tails that taper to a point; they looked like a row of pregnant worms standing upright. The amphorae exuded the strong, pungent, salty fish sauce called garos, which the fishwives make from gutted intestines fermented in large vats with seawater. No doubt the cart carried empties to be refilled. Anyone buying fresh fish would want the popular sauce to go with it. The smell made me ravenous.

The man under the hat was suspect. I leaned over and said to the driver, “
Kalimera
. I wanted to ask you—” I knocked the sleeping man’s hat, which fell onto the seat and I jumped back.

His hair was disappointingly dark. But he didn’t wake. His eyes stared, and his jaw hung slack, his tongue limp in his mouth. Across his throat was a dull red band, almost like a tight necklace, and there were claw marks in the flesh about it.

I stared for one shocked moment, then looked to the driver. His cloak had a hood. With the sun rising at his back he was a faceless silhouette.

I said, “
Kalimera,
Araxes.”

He replied, “And a good morning to you, dear fellow.” Araxes shoved. The dead man fell on me. I hit the ground with a corpse on top; the lifeless eyes stared into mine.

“Gah!” I pushed him off.

One of the guards grabbed Araxes’ left arm. In a blink, Araxes had pulled a knife with his right and driven it into the guard’s shoulder. The guard staggered back.

The other guard tried to snatch the harness but failed when Araxes lashed out with his whip.

The horse surged through the gateway, onto the road to Piraeus; the road that, according to my plan, Araxes would never reach.

I had no backup plan. None at all.

The unwounded guard grabbed his spear and ran into the middle of the road. It was a soldier’s spear, not a javelin, not weighted for throwing, but the cart had not gone far. Araxes’ back was crouched over, shrouded in his light leather cloak. The guard stood, legs apart. He considered his target for a heartbeat, hefted the spear, left arm pointing where he wanted to hit and eyes locked on the target, took three rapid steps forward and threw in a controlled arc, elbow firm. His right arm followed through. He kept his head up and his eyes never left the target.

It was a beautiful throw. I saw at once it would make the distance.

The spear arced across space, wobbling as it did, and passed over the shoulder of Araxes, so close I thought for a moment it would take him in the skull. But it passed him by, only the Gods know how, and landed,
thwack,
into the horse’s rump.

The horse screamed. It half-reared, held by the harness, stumbled then recovered. The shaft flailed wildly. The wound opened to inflict even more pain.

The spear fell from the fleshy hole and the cartwheels clattered over it. The horse whinnied and accelerated away.

The guard beside me cursed. “I aimed for the man; all I did was scare the shit out of the animal!”

2

But Sarpedon missed him with his bright spear, which smote the horse Pedasus on the right shoulder; and the horse shrieked aloud as he gasped forth his life … and the two warriors came together again in soul-devouring strife.

We took off after the disappearing cart. The guard was as young as me and in tip-top condition. Between us we had a good chance of running down our prey.

Araxes looked over his shoulder, probably in fear of another spear. Instead he saw us chasing. He clambered into the tray of the cart. The frightened horse stayed on the path, trapped between the Long Walls.

Araxes picked up one of the empty amphorae and threw it.

The amphora bounced with a hollow thud. It veered from side to side. At the last moment it went straight for the guard.

He leaped, magnificent, strong as a deer. The guard came down safe and kept running as if nothing could stop him. Whoever this man was, he was a top athlete.

Araxes threw another amphora.

The guard jumped again, but this time the amphora ricocheted straight up into his knee. I heard a sharp crack. The guard went down screaming. He’d deserved better.

It was up to me now.

The next amphora shattered on the first bounce and I easily leaped over the shards.

One left.

I swore a sheep sacrifice to Zeus, if only the last amphora shattered.

Araxes stood with bent knees to compensate for the swaying cart. He threw.

The amphora bounced straight at me. I canceled the sacrifice.

When the amphora filled my vision, I threw myself at it,
under
it, rolling in the dirt. The hard clay whistled over my head.

When I came back up Araxes had returned to the driver’s seat, his back to me. He must’ve thought the amphora had brought me down.

I sprinted to the tail end, hauled myself up. The platform was smooth and varnished dark from years of fish oil.

Araxes looked back in surprise. He dropped the reins and pulled out his knife. The blade was still red from the shoulder of the wounded guard.

The driverless cart slammed into the right wall. We both fell over and I scrabbled for a hold to stop being thrown off.

The cart veered wildly to smash into the opposite wall. The metal rims of the wheels squealed against the wood and made my teeth hurt.

The whole contraption settled and picked up speed. We’d reached a steep descent.

We picked ourselves up off the slippery, bouncing surface. The first of us to fall would get a knife in his back.

He tried to stab me. I blocked his forearm with my left, and then did something you should never do: I threw down my knife.

No, I wasn’t surrendering; I’d aimed at his foot.

I missed cleanly. The knife quivered point first in the wooden tray. But the throw forced him to dance, and as he did, I grabbed the scroll case from beneath his chiton.

“Thanks a lot, Araxes. See you!”

Mission accomplished. I jumped off the back and—

Bang
. My chin hit the floor and rattled my teeth. He’d pulled my feet out from under me.

The scroll case rolled from my hand. Araxes stamped on it as it skidded past.

I snatched the hilt of my knife and rose. I kicked at the case, hoping to send it over the side. Araxes blocked my kick, then tried to drag the case to him.

I was having none of that. I stamped on the case myself and dragged it back to center. It was like playing a boys’ ball game in the street, with the added distraction of knives on a bouncing, slippery surface.

We’d rushed downhill at great speed. Over my enemy’s shoulder I saw the closed gates at the Piraeus end of the road and the two guards who defended them.

With a sinking feeling, I realized nobody had briefed those guards. It never occurred to me Araxes would get this far.

Araxes saw it too. He grabbed the whip and deliberately cracked it against the horse’s wound, goading the already panicking animal into going faster.

The guards held their spears with points facing us and ends dug into the earth. I could hear one of them shouting, “Halt! I order you to halt!”

He didn’t have a hope in Hades.

Araxes said, “Good luck.” Then he jumped. His body slammed into the Long Wall and disappeared to the rear as the cart sped onwards.

I wanted to pick up the scroll case. But if I did, I would die on the cart. I turned and jumped.

Hitting the wall pushed the air out of my lungs. I hooked my arms over the top to stop from falling under the wheels. Splinters embedded in the flesh of my forearms. I tried to scream but there was no air.

The horse ran headlong into the gates and squealed, a terrible, sickening sound.

I heard cracking, whether wood or bones I don’t know. One guard went down. His body jerked as a wheel drove over him. Then the other. He lay still.

The cart left the ground. It spun in the air, smashed into the gates. They cracked and flew outward. Men on the other side screamed.

Araxes had bounced off the wall and landed on a roll. He picked himself up and waded through the bloodied wreck of horse, cart, and men.

The scroll case had been thrown clear. It lay in plain sight on the other side of the ruined gates. Araxes picked it up as he stumbled past.

I cursed and let go of the wall. There were a hundred tiny wooden splinters sticking out of my flesh, each one a painful red dot of blood.

On the other side, men lay with wounds, or stood in simple shock. I ignored them.

Araxes veered away from the streets of Piraeus. He headed right, to the commercial docks.

I felt a small surge of relief. If he tried to hide in the warehouses, he would be trapped, and a small army would eventually root him out.

I was exhausted and shaking, but surely he had to be too. Araxes staggered and came to a stop.

I’d run him down.

Araxes stood on the wooden docks and waved to me as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Suddenly I was aware of the sea-salt air, the crisp breeze tossing my hair, the wash of the sea against the wharves, and the large ship docked right next to where Araxes waved.

It was stern-to-wharf, which some ships will do when they’re ready to depart. A gangplank led from the wharf to the stern.

Araxes turned and walked up. They didn’t even stop for the gangplank. A sailor kicked it crashing to the wharf.

I heard the call, “Oars out!” A single row of oars appeared over both sides.

I came to a juddering halt at the gangplank, gasping for breath. The ship was five paces away. I thought about jumping, but it would have been suicidal. Even if I made the leap, there was a boatful of sailors to fight.

The ship on which Araxes slipped away was long, but with only a single row of oars. She was either a diplomatic boat, the sort that belonged to a city, or … and this seemed all too depressingly likely … before me was a Phoenician warship, or maybe a pirate.

Araxes appeared at the stern. He waved cheerily, and then, with his left hand, held up the scroll for me to see. He cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “So pleased you made it. Take care, dear fellow. Bye!”

I gritted my teeth, but couldn’t prevent myself from screaming in frustration. Araxes had escaped, and taken with him the information that had killed at least three men, maybe more, plus he’d made me look incompetent. I watched as whatever fledgling reputation I had for investigation departed on that boat.

I swore on the spot, by Zeus, by Athena, by every God that knew revenge, that I would track down Araxes.

Then a trickle of sweat and a cold shiver ran down my back. I’d promised Pericles success.

I’d actually said, “He can’t escape.”

What was Pericles going to say?

3

There is a strength in the union even of very sorry men.

“It’s a disaster, Nicolaos, a bloody disaster.”

Pericles stalked back and forth in his office, as if he could find the source of his anguish underfoot and grind it out of existence.

I shifted in my seat. My arms were on fire from the splintering they’d taken. They had a crust of blood over them, but the scabs broke and bled every time I moved. My forehead sported a lump—I had no idea how it got there—and my chest muscles ached with every breath.

“How could you have let him get away so easily?” Pericles demanded.

“We did our best,” I muttered. “I didn’t get these injuries sitting still.”

“Don’t whine,” he said testily. He turned his back and gazed out the window.

“There are men worse off than you. Two of those guards are dead. One has his kneecap shattered and will probably never walk straight again. He was chosen to run at the next Olympics. How am I supposed to explain this to their fathers?” He turned back to me.

“And how in Hades did a Phoenician ship get alongside the commercial docks without anyone noticing?”

“I’ll ask the harbormaster, but Pericles, is there a law against it?”

“If there isn’t, there will be now!”

I decided not to point out that horse had bolted. In fact, any mention of a bolting horse would probably be a bad idea.

“I’m disappointed, Nicolaos. I trusted you with a vital, delicate mission, and this is the result you bring me. I’m reconsidering our arrangement.”

Disaster. If Pericles dismissed me, it would prove my father’s contention—that there was no future to be made from investigation—and I would be bound by our agreement to return to his sculptor’s workshop.

“Pericles, this is unfair. The investigation has barely begun.”

“It should be over. Look at the mess you’ve made so far.”

Shouting would be the fastest route to my dismissal. “All right, that’s a fair point,” I conceded. “Araxes proved to be more able than anyone could reasonably have expected.”

It sounded weak even to my ears, but I had to try something. “Who’s going to catch him, if I don’t?”

“I’ve been asking myself that same question, but with a slightly different emphasis.”

I dredged my brain for some morsel of progress, to show I was not a complete failure. “At least we know his name is Araxes.”

“We know nothing.” Pericles glared at me. “Araxes is the name of a river in Asia.”

“Oh.”

Pericles drummed his fingers on his desk while I contemplated life as a sculptor and rehearsed the words I would use to tell my father I had failed. Then Pericles spoke.

“We have wars with four cities dragging on.
Four at once,
how many cities could manage that? Plus there’s talk of a major war with Corinth or Sparta. If it gets any worse, we’ll have to think about bringing old men and boys into the army.” Pericles glared at me. “The only reason I’m retaining you, Nicolaos—for now—is we’re stretched so thin. You’re the only man available. That’s the
only
reason. When this commission is over, you can consider our agreement terminated.”

“Unless I succeed,” I said at once.

Pericles paused, while my heart gyrated about my chest.

“Unless you are
spectacularly
successful,” he said at last, and I breathed again. “Which, frankly, I doubt.”