preemptive attack on Athens!'
Assertion, I thought. I disliked Hippias because he was a pudgy, ugly man with greasy fingers who wanted to fondle me. Yech! But he was correct, of course. Artaphernes was an honourable man who didn't want a war. But he was, in this case, wrong.
'War will hurt trade, and every man in this city will pay – aye, and in your city and in Miletus. And the cost of a war with Athens – a real war, not just a raid – could force taxes that would drive men to open rebellion – especially if men like Aristagoras and Miltiades bribe their way into men's hearts.' Artaphernes took a skewer of meat from the stand beside his couch and ate carefully, fastidiously, like a cat. 'We do not want a war like that. Why don't you take care of it for me, my friend? If you have so many friends in Athens, why not take a few ships and restore yourself? I could lend you the money from tax revenue. Would a thousand darics of gold finance your restoration?'
Hippias grew red in the face. 'I don't need a thousand darics,' he spluttered. 'I need an army, and the power of your name. And you know that. You mock me!'
'You are a friend of the Great King. I never mock the king, nor his friends. If you feel that you must go to Great Darius and speak this way, be my guest. But I have neither the ships nor the soldiers to storm Athens for you. Nor is it my duty.' Artaphernes stretched on his couch.
Hippias left soon after, when he found that none of his advances, political or sexual, were going to lead anywhere.
When he was gone, Archilogos lay on his couch and chatted with his hero. I served both of them.
Archi had no head for wine and I was already pouring pure water into his cup. 'Why do you even entertain a man like that?' he asked the satrap.
Artaphernes shrugged. 'He is a powerful man. If he goes to Darius, I will not look well.'
Archi shook his head. 'He is a petty prince from a foreign power. Surely he can be ignored?'
'He provides me with excellent intelligence,' Artaphernes said. 'And in his way he is wise.' He drank, and then said, 'Even though he plays both sides like a treacherous Greek.'
That last was not his happiest statement. 'He is on the other side?' Archi asked. 'Can't you have him arrested?'
Artaphernes laughed. 'You are young and idealistic. Ruling a Greek is like riding a wild horse. Like herding cats. Every lordling in these waters is his own master and has his own 'side'. I have many roles – I am the oppressive foreign master, I am the ally of convenience, I am the source of gold and patronage, I am the lord who serves the Great King. I slip from mask to mask like one of your actors – never was an image more apt, Archilogos. Because I need to be many men to keep all you Greeks loyal to my master.'
He looked at us. I think he was speaking to himself. Suddenly he smiled and shook his head. 'I am dull company,' he said.
'No!' Archi protested. This was a dream, having his hero all to himself.
'Does Hippias plot against you?' I asked. This was daring, from a slave, but there were just the three of us, and he had spoken to me before.
He looked at me and nodded approvingly. 'Archilogos, your slave has a head on his shoulders, and when you are an officer of the Great King, this one will make a good steward.' He nodded to me. 'He plots against me only to win me over,' he said. 'It is not a Persian way of behaving. Indeed, it still mystifies me.' He smiled at Archi. 'This is why I ask your mother and father so many questions, young man. Because they can explain this behaviour to me. Hippias bribes the tyrants of the islands to revolt – so that there will be a war. He will then be at my side for the war, hoping that Athens comes in with the tyrants. Then he will use me to reconquer Athens. Does that sound possible?'
I smiled. 'Oh yes. Brilliant!' I clapped my hands. Hippias may have been a lecherous fat man, but he could think like Heracles, if that was his plan.
Artaphernes shook his head. 'I need to go back to Persepolis, where men kill each other over women and ill- chosen words, but never, ever lie.' He frowned at me. 'You understand this way of planning, then?'
I grinned. 'I do, lord.'
'Women?' Archi asked, breaking in. 'Persians kill each other over women?'
'Adultery is our national sport,' Artaphernes said, his voice heavy with some adult emotion that neither Archi nor I could interpret, and we glanced at each other. He had had too much to drink. 'Every Persian gentleman covets his friend's wife. It is like a disease, or the curse of the gods.' He looked at his cup and I moved to fill it, but he covered it. 'I grow maudlin. Let us forget that last exchange, young friends. Never speak ill of your homeland when among strangers.'
'We are not strangers, I hope!' Archi said.
'I have drunk too much. You see? I offend my host. I am off to bed.' The Mede got to his feet without his usual grace and headed off under the portico. I went and helped him into bed. He mumbled things that I ignored, because when you are a slave, people say the most amazing things. Then I went to deal with Archi, who had no head for wine and was puking in a basin.
At last, when Archi was on his couch with a rug over him, I went to find Penelope.
It was rare for us to have a scheduled tryst, and I was afire. I barely did my duty in clearing the andron of the refuse of a dinner party and I took only a cupful of stew from the kitchen and drank no wine. I needn't have hurried.
The Fountain of Pollio was old then. It has since been restored, but at that time it was the meeting place of slumming aristocrats and slaves. The roof of the fountain had fallen in and been replaced with wood, and the carpenter had done a poor job. Doubtless a slave. The Ephesians used slaves for everything and had few free craftsmen. There were seats – benches, really – all along the outer edge of the round building, but they were rickety and only the strongest had a secure place to sit. Yet it was cool and pleasant to sit at night, and the view was spectacular, out over the river and down the bay all the way to the sea. The smoke of ten thousand cooking fires rose with the incense of the temples, and the pinpoints of ten thousand household lights coloured the landscape at our feet like the gold embroidery on a rich man's purple cloak. I could look at Ephesus by night for hours.
Which was as well, because Penelope was late. I knew that she might not come at all. We were, after all, slaves. I have probably forgotten all the truly dull and onerous days, honey, but don't forget as I tell this story that we were property, like a pot or a sandal, and our master and mistress could, without the least ill will, ruin our plans, our hopes, even our dreams. I knew that Penelope might be working or commanded to sleep in her lady's bed.
It was past full dark when she came, and she surprised me, coming up behind me where I dozed and cupping her hands over my eyes. Of course I grabbed her hands, and of course she squealed, and one thing was leading very pleasantly to another – and don't, by Aphrodite's lovely ankles, imagine we were alone. There were probably twenty courting couples in that dim room, and more outside leaning against the wall, and then there were men playing polis – that's our Greek game of cities, played with black and white counters – and women actually using the fountain. Quite a crowd. When you are a slave, honey, there's no privacy. And no secrets.
At any rate, I'd got myself a solid seat and soon I had Penelope across my lap and one hand well placed under her chiton, and she was searching the inside of my mouth with her tongue – I shouldn't tell you these things, honey, but you'll know Aphrodite well enough yourself, soon, whether I tell you or not – and kissing her was like war, like hunting. My heart pounded and my head was full of her – and then she was off my lap and across the room.
'What are you doing here?' she said, her voice more full of anger than fear.
I had no idea what she had seen, but I was on my feet, ready to attack or defend. The fountain was not a safe place, exactly. There were some bad men in the shadows.
I saw the slim figure vanish even as Penelope called after him – a boy wrapped in a chlamys.
'I'll run him down,' I said. I was instantly jealous.
'No!' my faithless lover protested, but I was off.
The chlamys was an expensive garment, striped with purple, and the wearer had long legs.
I ran the rich boy down in twenty steps, tripped him and landed on top of him with all my weight on his hips. Then I pulled the chlamys away from his head. My heart was beating, and I was ready to kill. Even then, honey, I was a killer. I had already done it often enough that killing was like kissing an old flame. I knew the dance, and my fingers were going for the finish – eyeballs.
