Gary Corby - The Ionia Sanction

“No.”

“Not one. Not a single person outside the family.”

With a pang of guilt, I realized I hadn’t thought to go. I’d been involved in the deaths of six people in the past and attended the funerals of every one of them, even the slaves. This was the first I’d missed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Someone is spreading the word Father was a traitor to Athens. Is that your doing?”

“Not me.” I guessed it was their own house slave. He had probably heard every word Pericles and I said that night.

Onteles tore at his hair, which was shorn short in grief. “What are we to do? Our neighbors, the men of our own deme, are shunning us. I sent a slave to the agora for food and she was pelted with stones by local children. Yesterday we woke to find threats scrawled across our front wall. I sent my mother and sisters to the country the moment the funeral was over. It’s an insult to my father’s memory, but what can I do? They’re safer away.”

Onteles grabbed me by the arm. “Nicolaos, you must prove my father was not a traitor.”

“By his own admission he was . How do you explain his wealth? How did he pay for that fast horse of yours?”

“I know what my father was. He liked money. Who doesn’t? Probably he took advantage of the proxeny to cheat a little. I don’t know. He must have had opportunities, and I could believe he took them. But I can’t believe for one moment my father would have turned against Athens. Father never said what his crime was, did he?”

“Only that he’d betrayed.”

“His position was hardly high enough to do much damage. Whatever he did, maybe it’s not so bad.”

Onteles made a good point.

I said, “Whatever he knew, it was bad enough to send an assassin.”

“Please help us.”

I’d read the message scrawled across the front wall on the way in. Someone had threatened to torch the building at night, with the family in it.

“I’ll try,” I agreed reluctantly. After all, I told myself, I had to work out what the man had done anyway.

“Thank you.”

I nodded. “Whoever wrote the letter to your father might have written to him in the past. Maybe there’s a clue. I want to go through your father’s correspondence.”

“Anything to end this nightmare.”

Back in the room where it all began, I spread out Thorion’s papers and read every word. There were many notes about importing pottery from Ephesus. I glanced over at the pots sitting in the room; I was probably looking at some of the merchandise. The import business was in partnership with a man from Ephesus called Brion, who was the equivalent of Thorion in his own city: their proxenos for Athens. Excellent; now I had a name.

Everything else on the desk was public business. By the time I finished, I knew more than I ever wanted to about the work of a proxenos. There were complaints from citizens of Ephesus, who felt they’d been hard done by in deals with Athenians, and wanted redress in the courts; men who looked for business contacts; lists of incoming cargo shipments, with requests for Thorion to see the goods safely into the warehouses; men who wanted maritime insurance from Athenian bankers; men who demanded an introduction to high-placed Athenians; men in search of husbands for their daughters.

I pushed the lot away from me and sighed. If I’d had to deal with all these demands, day after day, I might have viewed a murderer come to throttle me as a welcome relief. Maybe Diotima could have made sense of the documents-she was so good with written words-but it was beyond me. I missed her, and not for the first time. I wondered what she was doing in Ephesus, and whether she was happy there.

The thought of Ephesus reminded me of the question that had occurred to me at the symposium. I said to Onteles, “How did Thorion come to be proxenos for Ephesus?”

“I wish he never had been. It’s a family connection. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Nothing at all,” I agreed. “So what’s the connection?”

“Through my mother. She came from a good Ephesian family.”

“The family’s still there, I suppose.”

“Her brother, my uncle, is head of the family now. He’s a merchant trader.”

“His name?”

“Pollion, son of Hegerandros. But you can’t speak with him. He’s in Ephesus.”

“That’s not a problem. I’m going to him.”

* * *

Asia had stayed in our home for a mere day and a night, in which short time she’d managed to irritate every other slave with her superior airs. No slave, not even a temporary one, can afford to do that. I kept her apart for her own safety, and to teach me a few of the more common words of Persian. The idea of speaking another language fascinated me and I made rapid progress on the basic phrases.

We departed at first light the next morning to begin the long journey back to Asia’s home. Asia wore a secondhand chiton and sturdy sandals and had no other possessions. I carried spare clothing and basic supplies in the backpack given me by Callias, the skytale hidden within the frame.

A huge warship waited for me at the docks, and not just any warship, but the most famous one of all. I was to ride to Ephesus on Salaminia, the fastest ship in the world.

Salaminia is a trireme, fitted out with only the best equipment, crewed only by Athenian citizens who volunteered for the job. The men are paid double to be available at a moment’s notice to go anywhere a ship can go. She is used for delicate diplomatic missions, when getting the ambassador where he needs to go quickly is of the greatest importance. Each year too, Salaminia and her sister ship, Paralos , carry gifts to the Sanctuary of Apollo on the isle of Delos, one of the holiest places in all Hellas.

The crew saw us coming, and loosened the lines holding them to land even before we’d reached the gangplank. I handed Asia over, then stepped in myself, and the helmsman standing beside me at the tiller called, “Pull!” The singer began his song, the aulos player began blowing his pipes to accompany and keep the rhythm, and Salaminia moved before I’d taken my second step on board.

Two hundred men stared at me. Most of those were rowing, but all that could looked up at me on the slack of their pulls, to see what manner of man had caused them to prepare their ship for sea. I must have been a major disappointment. These men were used to carrying the highest leaders, the best generals, and the most important priests. For me to be the point of their muscle-aching efforts was a step down.

Asia had no such delusion about who was the center of attention. “What are you all staring at?” she challenged them.

I said, “Be quiet, Asia. Slaves don’t talk like that to citizens.”

As I said it, I realized she was right. None of the crew were looking at me; they were all staring at her.

My woman-child slave was dressed in a modest chiton of ankle-length, but not even the usual extra folds could prevent her curves pressing out the material in interesting places, and nothing could hide her young red lips and those wide, round, dark eyes. It made me glad of the twenty soldiers on board-archers and spearmen-except they too were staring at Asia. The two chiefs of the rowers, one on each side, both shouted at the men to pay attention to their work. I silently prayed to Poseidon for a quick trip.

The trierarch stepped easily around or over the various things attached to the deck, and said, “Good morning. I believe our destination is Ephesus. Correct?”

It was all I could do to nod and say, “Yes please,” as if it were normal for a young man to be the sole purpose of the most prestigious ship in the most prestigious navy.

The trierarch nodded back. “The helmsman tells me it should be a fast passage, the weather will be fair. Sit down and relax.” He looked down at Asia and added, “And try to keep your slave under control.”