I had spent the last heartbeats with my hand over Penelope's mouth, and now I pushed her, hard, into Hipponax. Remember, I'd walked with him – I knew he was sober. But it was a risk that he would spit her. Perhaps I did blame her for her little ride. She'd looked well pleased under Archi's cock, damn her.
At any rate, she was not spitted on Master's sword. He lifted the blade to keep her safe, and I stepped in and stripped it from his hands. And then fell to the ground, as if I too had stumbled.
All three of us went down in a tangle.
Artaphernes was no fool. He ran.
Everything might yet have been well – or well enough – but Pharnakes came into the corridor with his three friends at his heels. They had blades in their hands, and as soon as they had their satrap clear, they charged us. Who knows what they thought.
I had the sword. I got to my feet and stopped their rush with a parry and then Pharnakes and I exchanged a flurry – four or five cuts and parries. That's a lot in real combat. A man can only take so much, and then he falls back. The tension is too high. We both backed a step, and Cyrus said, 'It's the slave boy. Hold hard, brother!' in Persian.
I didn't have the daimon in me yet – I hadn't been injured.
'Our lord is safe,' Darius said. 'Let's get out of here!'
Pharnakes shook his head. 'We should kill the husband.'
'This isn't Persia, you fool!' Cyrus said. 'Greeks don't care! And murder is not what our lord needs right now.'
'Come and try,' I said in Persian. Aye, I'm a fool.
Pharnakes shot me a look – such a look. Even in torchlight, I knew that look. But Cyrus laughed. 'Quite the bark, for a pup,' he said.
All that was in Persian.
And then they were gone.
Pharnakes was right, though. They should have killed the husband. Because that night, Ephesus changed sides, and the Ionian Revolt began, in a corridor in the women's quarters. The Long War. And like the Trojan War, it started over a woman. Part III Freedom It is hard to fight with anger, for what it wants it buys at the cost of the soul. Heraclitus, fr. 85
10
You bring more of these handsome boys into my hall every day, thugater. Is the tale so good? Or the opposite – so dull that you need supporters to get you through it? You are not the first young woman I have known, honey. Don't let the power of your sex go to your head, or you'll be one of those ambitious harridans who haunt our tragedies.
Don't give your love to every comer, either, or you'll be a priestess of Aphrodite and no wife. Hah! I'm a crude old man. Do as you will, thugater of my old age. It is the irony of my life that you grow up to look like Briseis. What fury, what fate, put those looks in your mother's womb? Will we have games to settle your suitors? Perhaps I can meet them in single combat, one at a time, until one of them bests me. Even at my age, I think you would be a maiden for some time.
You blush. Ah – honey, when you blush, you most resemble my Briseis. But when she blushed, she was dangerous. You might think otherwise, but my status in the house didn't change at all, that day. In the morning, Master called me to him. He embraced me and thanked me. He never asked me what I was doing in the women's quarters.
That was all, until the next blow fell.
That was all, but in every other way, our lives changed. Because Master barred the house to the satrap. And Artaphernes' peace conference collapsed in an evening, because every house in the city was closed against him.
Your eyes shine, honey. Do you understand, indeed? Let me explain. Artaphernes was a guest, and a guest- friend. Persians and Greeks are not so different, and when a man, or a woman, becomes a frequent visitor, he and the household he visits swear oaths to the gods to support oikia.
Adultery is the ultimate betrayal of the guest oath. Pshaw – happens all the time. Don't think I haven't seen it. Men are men and women are women. But Artaphernes was a fool to risk a war on getting his dick wet – hah, I am a crude old man. Pour me some wine.
Hipponax did a rare thing. He told the city what had happened. That was the only punishment he inflicted on his wife – he branded her faithless in the assembly. From then on, Artaphernes was a breaker of the guest oath. No citizen would receive him.
He tried for two days to make amends, and he offered various reparations. Hipponax ignored his messenger and finally sent me with a herald's wand to tell Artaphernes that the next messenger would be killed. Indeed, there were armed men in every square of the city. Archi was being fitted for his panoply – the full hoplite armour – even as I went on my errand.
Those were bad days in the household. Mistress didn't leave her rooms. Penelope wouldn't speak to me. I admit that I called her a whore. Perhaps not my best course of action. And Archi – I couldn't fathom whether he knew he had wronged me or not.
At that age – the age you are now, honey – it is often hard enough to know which way the wind blows. Eh? And any betrayal is magnified by the heat of your blood, tenfold. Yes – you know whereof I speak.
So my head was spinning when I went to the Persian camp. I was worried that Darius would spit me on sight – I had dared to cross blades with them. I was worried that my harsh message would result in my own execution. I was angry that my brave deed – and it was brave, honey, facing four of the Great King's men in a dark corridor – had received no reward but curt thanks, because I loved my master and wanted his approval with all the passion of the young who want to be loved. I was desolate that Penelope was Archi's, even though I knew inside my head that she had never really been mine.
I ran up to the Persian camp, wearing only the green chlamys of a herald and a pair of 'Boeotian' boots. I'd never seen anything like them in Boeotia, but in Ionia they were called Boeotian. They were magnificent. They made me feel taller. I thought that, if I was going to die, I should look good.
The gate guards sent me straight to the satrap's tent with an escort. The escort halted before the tent- palace and while their officer fetched the palace guards, one of the soldiers whispered, 'Cyrus wants to see you.'
'I am at his service as soon as I have seen the satrap,' I said. 'If I am alive,' I added. A keen sense of drama is essential to the young.
Artaphernes was writing. I couldn't read Persian then. I waited as his stylus scratched the wax. There was an army of scribes with him, some Persians, mostly Greek slaves.
Finally he looked up. He smiled grimly when he saw me.
'I had hoped Hipponax would send you,' he said.
I stood straighter.
'You saved my life.' Sweet words to hear from the satrap of Lydia.
'I did, lord. It is true.' I grinned in sudden relief.
He leaned forward. 'Name your reward.'
'Free me,' I said. 'Free me, and I will hold the deed well done.'
Abruptly he sat back and shook his head. 'I have tried to buy you for three days, and now Hipponax sends you to my camp. What am I to think? That you are a guest? A gift?'
The satrap had tried to buy me? That explained much that had passed in the last three days. But I was an honest young man, mostly. 'He tests you, lord.'
Artaphernes nodded. 'Yes. I must be getting to know the Greeks. I, too, see it as a test. I must send you back, or break my master's law and help cause the war I came to prevent. Name something else.'
I shrugged. The only thing I wanted was my freedom. I had rich clothes and money. But some god whispered to me. Perhaps, like Heracles my ancestor, Athena came and whispered in my ear. 'You owe me a life, then, lord,' I