Gary Corby - The Ionia Sanction

A tall man landed on my back and tried to get his arm across my throat. It was one of the Ethiopians. I staggered but didn’t fall. I reached behind me to grab at him, fell to one knee, and pulled. He flipped over my shoulder.

I looked up to see Araxes get control of his situation. He planted a hard knee into the barbarian’s groin and then clubbed him doublehanded on the back of the neck. A stiletto appeared in his hand.

I shouted, “No!” and charged him, which knocked us both into the crowd of locals by the window. They weren’t amused and set about us both. We found ourselves back to back. There were too many punching; I had to put my hands up to defend my head. The Ethiopian had charged again-I think he must have gone berserk-and ran into the recovering barbarian, who backhanded his new attacker away, straight into the oily plaited riders, who’d formed a defensive ring about their corner and were striking anyone who came near. The Karians were hitting at the remaining Ethiopian.

Other men, all of them drunk, had decided to join in. I saw the innkeeper, wielding a club in one hand and a hydria of water in the other, stepping over struggling bodies to get to the torches and douse them before someone knocked one over and started a fire.

Someone pushed me from behind and I was ejected from the group hitting me, back into the room. I staggered straight into the barbarian, who smiled to see me again and took me by the throat with both hands and pressed in hard with his thumbs. I couldn’t breathe. My hands flew to his and tried to pry them away, but it was like trying to bend iron. He grinned through his tattooed face and I saw his teeth were stained black.

At the window the locals had tired of beating Araxes. They picked him up, and as one, they tossed him out the window. He flew out cleanly.

My vision began to fade. I tried to kick the barbarian’s groin like Araxes had but he was ready and blocked me. At any moment my eyes were going to roll upward.

From nowhere, a bowl smashed over the barbarian’s head. He looked puzzled, then woozy. His hands relaxed and I could breathe again. He collapsed, like a mountain falling sideways, to reveal the Ethiopian standing on the table behind, holding the broken pieces of the smashed bowl and spattered with leftover stew.

I gasped, “Thanks, I owe you.”

He replied with gibberish and grinned.

I looked to the door, between me and it were men fighting and men looking for a fight. I hadn’t the slightest chance of getting through.

There was only one thing to do. I picked out the nearest local in the group, turned him around, and punched him in the face. He hit back, but his friends grabbed me by my clothing and lifted me high. I told myself to keep my arms and legs in. They ran me two steps and then I flew. I remember passing through the window and then hitting the ground.

I rolled to a halt before a pair of boots. Above the boots were trousers.

Hellenes don’t wear trousers.

I looked up from my prostrate position in the dirt to see the Persian. Two soldiers stood at his back.

He stared down at me. I stood at once, because Hellenes do not prostrate themselves before any Persian, not even by accident.

“Did you see a man come flying by here a moment ago?”

As I said it, two more flew out the window. The Persian and I watched them hit with dull thuds and lie still.

He said, “A man rolled, as you did, and jumped up and ran away. Perhaps that was your friend.”

His hair was black but his skin very pale. This was not a man who worked in the light of day. His eyes were dark-they could not have been any other color. His age I guessed to be somewhere between late twenties and midthirties. His hair hung ringleted, and his beard curled, in a style you would never find on a Hellene. The robe he wore had large sleeves and flowing folds and was striped in dark red and yellow. Obviously he was a high-ranking officer but he wore his rank as if it were of no account.

“You are?” He spoke perfect Greek.

“Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus.”

“You started the fight in there.”

“I didn’t.”

“I saw you. Know this, Hellene, lawlessness is hateful to the Great King.”

The officer turned and walked into the night, his soldiers following. I watched him fade to black. Most officers I have seen swaggered in their importance, but he simply walked as if he were impatient to be done with another detail. Dear Gods, if all the Persian commanders were like this man, how had we managed to beat them?

I toed three unconscious bodies, just in case, but none were Araxes.

I looked back. The Great King was a heaving mass of struggling men, thrashing each other in the near dark, because the innkeeper had managed to douse the last of the torches.

The Persian had delayed me too long. Araxes would know paths and places to hide that I could never find. He’d got away.

* * *

“With Araxes on the prowl I don’t want you out on your own,” I said to Asia back in our room, as I washed my cuts and bruises. In fact, the sooner we cleared Ephesus the better, but I had too much work to do to leave for a few days.

“The man you met,” Asia said. “I think I know him. His name is Barzanes. He … works with my father.”

“Works with?”

“Barzanes arrived at Father’s palace about three months ago, not long after my mother died.”

“Oh. I didn’t know about your mother. I’m sorry.”

Asia shrugged. “So am I. Barzanes arrived, and things changed.”

“Changed how?”

“I don’t know. Father became distracted. He always used to talk to me, telling me things, about politics, about how he ruled. It was like he meant to train me, though I’m only a girl. But then he stopped. He spent all his time working. Well, he worked all the time anyway, but he worked even harder, spent so much time in his office and only came out to rule the city. I never saw him and he seemed a bit different. At the time I thought the way he acted was because of Mother dying, but looking back on it later I wondered if Barzanes had something to do with it.”

“In what way?”

“My father has commanded armies and faced powerful enemies and always he’s won. But I think Father is scared of Barzanes.”

* * *

I lay in bed that night, pondering. I tried to concentrate on my mission, but my thoughts kept reverting to Diotima. Could I pass through Ephesus without seeing her? Did I want to? No, it was unthinkable. But what would I say to her?

“Yaahh!” A piercing scream ripped through the air and tore me from sleep. I sat bolt upright. A girl’s voice. Who?

“Father, no! Help me!”

Asia. In my addled state I’d forgotten Asia. She tossed and turned in the straw on the other side of the room, as if someone attacked her.

I shook her and said, “It’s all right. You’re safe.” My words hadn’t the slightest effect.

She continued to buck and cry. “No! Father!”

Asia was still asleep, yet she talked. Had Themistocles been beating her? I held her tight so she wouldn’t hurt herself and shouted over and over, “Wake up, Asia. You’re safe. Wake up!”

“What? Where am I? Who are-” She threw her arms about me and held on tight.

“You were having a nightmare.”

“Yes.” She shivered despite the warm night.

I brought her some water from the hydria in the corner. Asia drank it, staring at the floor, and the shivering stopped.

“All right. Try and get some sleep,” I said as gently as I could. I rose to go.

“No, wait…”

“Yes?”

“Let me … let me sleep with you … please?”

“No.”

“At home … I always slept with my sister Nicomache. I’m not used to a bed on my own. Please, master?”