Gary Corby - The Ionia Sanction

“What did Thorion say to that?”

“It’s never happened before, sir. The master was startled when I told him.”

“This second man must have given a name.”

“Araxes, sir. He said his name was Araxes.”

“Did he too smell of the sea?”

The slave thought for a moment. “Yes sir, now that you mention it, he did. He stayed longer than the first-I suppose he had more to say-and when he walked down the stairs he told me the master didn’t wish to be disturbed until supper. I opened the door for him and he left.”

“You didn’t think to speak to your master after that, to check with him?”

“No sir, I always obey orders.”

I sighed.

“Describe the second courier,” I ordered.

“He had white hair,” the slave said without hesitation.

“You mean he was old?” Pericles asked.

“No sir, I’d guess his age to be thirty, maybe thirty-five. The hair wasn’t gray, it was white.”

“Was he Hellene?” I asked.

“He spoke like us.”

“What did he wear?”

“A chitoniskos. ’Twasn’t worn either. It looked new.”

The chitoniskos is cut short at the shoulders and thighs for easy movement. I wore one myself. Since the material is never cut to fit the body, there are always extra folds of material in which you could hide anything, such as a scroll for example.

“So the murderer tricked his way into Thorion’s office. He slipped a loop around Thorion’s neck, strangled him, and strung him up to make it look like suicide. Then he tucked the missing scroll inside his clothing and walked out.”

“Oh, sir!” said the slave. “Did you say murderer? You’re not suggesting the courier had something to do with the master’s death are you? No, it’s impossible.”

His tone intrigued me. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because he spoke so nicely. I’ve never known a man who minded his pleases and thank-yous so well.”

“You liked him?”

“Yes sir, who wouldn’t?”

Pericles said, “Nicolaos, the murder of Thorion is important, but not as important as recovering the contents of the scroll. The safety of Athens depends upon it.”

I nodded and rubbed my hands. “Any chance of sending a slave to Piraeus for a jar of seawater?” I had touched a dead man, and so would be considered ritually unclean and not permitted to eat until I’d washed my hands in seawater. The call from Pericles had made me miss dinner, and I was hungry.

Pericles shook his head. “The city gates closed long ago.”

Why couldn’t Thorion have died at a more convenient time? That was the way my luck went these days. But-“Say that again?”

Pericles wrinkled his brow. “What? The city gates closed long ago? It’s true. So?”

“So Thorion was killed at night, after the city gates closed . The murderer is trapped inside Athens.”

There was silence while Pericles absorbed that.

“The gates open at dawn,” he said, his manner snappier than before, his back straighter. He glanced out the window into the dark night. “Can we catch him before then?”

“In a city as large as Athens? Not a hope in Hades, unless the murderer makes a mistake, and this man’s no idiot.”

Pericles’ shoulders slumped.

“We could keep the gates closed in the morning,” I suggested.

“Lock in Athens during the day?” Pericles shook his head. “The people wouldn’t stand for it.”

I nodded unhappy agreement. “Besides, that would tell the killer we’re looking for him. He’d only go to ground until we were forced to reopen the gates. No, we have to let him come out into the open.”

“You have a plan,” Pericles deduced from my tone. “What is it?”

“The slave said the killer smelled of the sea, as did the real courier. Their boats docked at the port town of Piraeus, and they walked uphill to Athens. I’d be willing to bet our man will be lined up with the normal crowd to walk downhill back to Piraeus at first light. All we have to do is watch the traffic pass by.”

“There are two roads to Piraeus,” Pericles pointed out.

“So there are. I suggest that tomorrow morning, there will be a problem with the gate to the northern road.”

Pericles nodded. “That can be arranged. You want everyone down the south road?”

“The south road is enclosed every step of the way within the Long Walls. If he goes that route then he can’t escape; he’ll be trapped in a tunnel where we control both ends.”

“Brilliant,” Pericles said.

“I’ll be at the south gate to watch every man who passes,” I said, pleased with myself. There were those who said I was too young and inexperienced for my position. This operation would prove them wrong.

I could imagine Pericles’ reaction if I lost the scroll because I’d overslept. Yet dawn was far enough away that the wait would be tedious, particularly since I couldn’t eat.

I solved the problem by shaking awake a slave when I returned to my father’s home, and ordered the bleary-eyed man to stand over me-so he wouldn’t fall asleep himself-and wake me in the predawn. I was so tired I went to sleep immediately, despite being on edge about my mission.

The slave got his revenge by kicking me in the stomach when the time came, but I didn’t mind. I’d completed my two years of compulsory service in the army as an ephebe; broken sleep and rough awakenings had been the norm then.

One glance upward showed me the rosy-fingered dawn, as Homer would have called it, lighting the otherwise dark sky. I rose naked and wrapped the short material of a gray exomis about myself from the right side and tied it over my left shoulder. Such clothing is favored by artisans; I would be merely another workman, waiting at the gates to make my way to Piraeus for the day’s employment.

I hurried through the dark streets, stepping in more than one pool of sewage, soaking my sandals in the stale wash water, the urine, the feces, and the rotting, rancid leftovers that neighbors had tossed out their doorways. I cursed as my feet plunged into yet another sticky, squelchy mess up past my ankles.

At the south gate, men were already lined up, shivering, yawning, and scratching themselves. Two guards stood at the head, waiting for Apollo’s rays to appear in the east, when they would pull back the gates so the men could shamble through. I had visited these guards after leaving Thorion’s house. They knew of my investigation and what to expect.

I walked from the end of the line in the direction of the guards, reminding myself every few steps to amble, to not appear as if I had any purpose, nodding or wishing good morning to the men I passed.

“ Kalimera. ”

“ Kalimera . Good morning.”

Most nodded back; some gave me queer or hostile looks. They probably thought I was a line jumper, something that could end with a fistfight. To them I explained I was looking for my workmate: had they seen a man with white hair? They would shake their heads and I would pass on.

Among one group were some women, haggard-looking, with unwashed hair and wearing patched linen. I couldn’t imagine why they were waiting, until it occurred to me these were probably drudges whose men were too ill to work, or couldn’t be bothered. One of them looked me up and down and smiled, then she blew me a kiss and said, “Gorgeous.” The few teeth she retained were black. I felt myself blushing; had I been staring?

It was all too easy to pass by my suspects without even breaking step. Some wore hats, and these I had to stare at a little longer. Others held the leads of donkeys harnessed to carts, or sat atop protesting mules. A very few had horses, a luxury item.

The artisans among them had a slave or two to carry their tools and wore an exomis like mine. The common laborers wore nothing but short leather cloaks and surly expressions. The slaves stood together and told jokes. What man would rather be a slave than free? Yet the slaves did not seem hungry, and the free men whose only skill was to sell their labor looked thin and their faces were taut-I could see the ribs beneath the flesh, so perhaps slavery was to be preferred over being useless.