Gary Corby - The Ionia Sanction

At the eastern gates, the ones called the Magnesia Gates, I detected a certain aroma.

“Is there a horse market here?” I asked Asia.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose so.”

We followed our noses, and came to a small paddock of turf littered with wads of mud and horse droppings. Horses, mules, and donkeys were tethered to poles, most standing quietly, some protesting volubly. Men stood beside the animals, talking, inspecting, or walking from one to the next.

I thought back to the fast horse of Onteles, of which I’d been so envious. Here I was on my own in Ephesus, and it wasn’t my father’s money in my bag, it was Pericles’.

I picked my way across the paddock, and inspected the animals, trying to look as if I knew what I was doing.

“There’s a top breed, yes sir.” The man beside me broke in on my thoughts. “I can tell you’re a man who knows his horseflesh.”

I had stopped beside the largest animal I could see, reasoning that a big horse would be faster than a small horse. This one was colored red-brown. Beyond size and color, I couldn’t tell the difference between any of the animals on display.

“She looks good,” I said.

“He. Have a look underneath.”

I bent down. “Oh, yes.”

“So, what’re you looking for, my man?”

“Er-”

“Hunter? Racehorse? I can see at once you’re not a plowman. You’ll be looking for a sophisticated beast, sleek, light on the touch, instant response, fast.”

I imagined myself racing across the fields on an important mission. “Yes, I want fast!”

“You’ve come to the right place, yes sir.” He slapped the animal’s back and smiled. “This here is the fastest thing on four legs you’re likely to see anywhere in Ephesus, or even Ionia. Why, he’s good enough for the King’s Messengers, so he is.”

“The King’s Messengers?”

The man took out the strand of hay he’d been chewing on, and looked me in the eye. “You’re not from these parts, sir?”

“Hellas. Mainland.”

“Ah, that explains it. Well, young man, the King’s Messengers are the fastest men around. They carry the Great King’s commands from one end of the empire to the other. If you were standing by the road, and a King’s Messenger came over the horizon, why, if you blinked, you’d miss him. A Messenger carrying a message is not allowed to sleep, or eat, or even piss unless he can do it at full gallop. The Messengers have a saying: ‘Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor darkness of night will stop us.’ The Great King can have his words delivered to any part of the empire in only two days. And this beast here,” he slapped the horse again, “Ajax here is good enough for the King’s Messengers. But you know what’s happened? I’ve gone and sold them so many great horses that they don’t need no more. So now I’m reduced to selling top quality stallions at a discount, just to make ends meet. It isn’t fair, sir, no it isn’t.”

A discount sounded good to me. I bought Ajax. He even threw in the bridle.

I led my new horse through the streets of Ephesus, taking special care to be seen. I was so proud of my new possession. Ajax followed my lead, docile as a lamb. He knew at once who his master was. Men pointed and talked among themselves as we passed by. I noticed he was larger and more powerful than every other horse we passed. The stable hand at the inn demanded extra money to handle such a powerful stallion, which I willingly paid.

* * *

The sky had darkened toward dusk. I decided to celebrate my purchase of Ajax and see something of the nightlife of Ephesus, so I left Asia with bread and cheese in our room and walked down to the docks where, if Ephesus was like Athens, I knew most of the excitement would be. Men of every class were stopping work and pushing their way into the taverns. One particularly large one seemed popular, a board outside proclaimed THE GREAT KING, not a name you would ever see in Athens.

I could hear raucous laughter, and as I watched a man came flying through the window and thudded to a halt in the dirt. He picked himself up and staggered down the road, no doubt to find another drinking hole. The half-open shutter on the window dangled crookedly, as if a previous throw may have been less accurate.

I joined the steady stream pushing their way in.

The Great King was large but crowded. I breathed the humid fog of sweaty men, talking all about me. The fug was not helped by the fact that the innkeeper had lit pitch torches, which added a pungent aroma and enough light to drink by. The moonlight coming through the open window and door had better effect. Words drifted past, confusing me with their different accents. Standing near the window, where they could get fresh air, was a group of locals. They were drinking, talking, and laughing simultaneously, a few men were already swaying on their feet.

A party of travelers sat in the near corner with their backs to the wall. They were dressed for riding and talked to no one but themselves. Their hair was long and hung in oily plaits. They held large drinking horns and ate from bowls of stew that smelled good. They watched the room with suspicious eyes. In the middle a pair of dark Ethiopians and three olive-skinned Karians-all obviously sailors-stood talking together loudly in a language I didn’t recognize, but from the tone the conversation was heated and might turn into an argument at any moment. Two huge men, their skin covered in blue tattoos, even their faces, sat at the long common bench, facing each other, drinking wine, being surly, and ignoring everyone about. Both had swords strapped to their backs in leather scabbards that were faded and worn with use.

The innkeeper came and served me wine-very cheap-and then offered me some of the stew, a house specialty that he assured me was a traditional local dish. I jumped at the chance. A slave brought out a bowl of hot, steaming, delicious smelling stew. I ate it at the common bench. I considered carrying my bowl and cup into a corner, but the air was thicker there and a space opened up close to the surly, tattooed pair with the swords. No one in their right mind would start anything that might annoy those two, so I sat down next to them. The air grew hotter with all those bodies crowded together. The volume got louder as men became inebriated. A belligerent drunk left via the window exit, with the help of the men he’d annoyed.

A man sat down opposite me.

“I hope you’ve recovered from your exertions. I confess I’ve had sore muscles ever since.”

I reached for my dagger.

Instantly two hands clapped down on my shoulders from behind and squeezed. The pain paralyzed me. I let go and my dagger dropped to the straw-covered floor. All about us, men continued to drink and talk loudly; no one had noticed.

Araxes, sitting before me, said, “My man standing behind you is possessed of remarkable strength. I’ve seen him snap the collarbones of someone in the position you currently occupy. I wouldn’t recommend any sudden moves.”

If I hadn’t known better, I’d have taken Araxes to be a successful middle-class trader, not a killer and slaver. He was clean, his white hair hung loose to his shoulders, he wore a colorful tunic of good trim. When he spoke I saw he had good teeth. He had a pleasant face with a small nose and blue eyes. I still couldn’t tell his nationality.

Araxes smiled, settled back on his stool, and said, “How good to see you again. Tell me, what’s your name?”

“Nicolaos.”

“May I call you Nico?”

“No,” I said through gritted teeth.

Araxes glanced up at the man behind me and the pressure eased, but did not disappear. He glanced down at my half-empty bowl.

“You’ve not been eating that stuff, have you?” he asked in unfeigned horror.