Gary Corby: The Ionia Sanction

These men, as I say, were easily dismissed, and if a man owned slaves it was all the more easy to ignore him, because no one arriving in an afternoon can both murder someone and acquire slaves before the next dawn. The front of the line came ever closer, and still no Araxes. Had I made a mistake?

There were only two in the line before me now, a man leading a donkey, and a flattop cart pulled by a horse. Apollo peaked over the hills, and on cue in the weak light the guards lifted the heavy bar and carried it to the side.

Where had I gone wrong? The only thing I could think was that Araxes had arrived late, or perhaps wanted to hide himself in the crowd. I would stand by the gates and watch as the men passed through. Despite the chill I felt the irritating trickle of sweat in my armpits and down my back.

The man with the donkey had dark hair and beard. He grinned as I passed.

The distinct aroma of dead fish surrounded the horse cart. It was probably on its way to collect the morning’s catch. Two men sat at the front, the one on the left held the reins. He was slumped forward and wore a full-length cloak to keep out the chill. The man on the right was fast asleep, leaning back in the seat with his hat over his face.

Behind the driver and his companion was a rack holding amphorae: clay pots with narrow lids, wide middles, and long tails that taper to a point; they looked like a row of pregnant worms standing upright. The amphorae exuded the strong, pungent, salty fish sauce called garos, which the fishwives make from gutted intestines fermented in large vats with seawater. No doubt the cart carried empties to be refilled. Anyone buying fresh fish would want the popular sauce to go with it. The smell made me ravenous.

The man under the hat was suspect. I leaned over and said to the driver, “ Kalimera . I wanted to ask you-” I knocked the sleeping man’s hat, which fell onto the seat and I jumped back.

His hair was disappointingly dark. But he didn’t wake. His eyes stared, and his jaw hung slack, his tongue limp in his mouth. Across his throat was a dull red band, almost like a tight necklace, and there were claw marks in the flesh about it.

I stared for one shocked moment, then looked to the driver. His cloak had a hood. With the sun rising at his back he was a faceless silhouette.

I said, “ Kalimera, Araxes.”

He replied, “And a good morning to you, dear fellow.” Araxes shoved. The dead man fell on me. I hit the ground with a corpse on top; the lifeless eyes stared into mine.

“Gah!” I pushed him off.

One of the guards grabbed Araxes’ left arm. In a blink, Araxes had pulled a knife with his right and driven it into the guard’s shoulder. The guard staggered back.

The other guard tried to snatch the harness but failed when Araxes lashed out with his whip.

The horse surged through the gateway, onto the road to Piraeus; the road that, according to my plan, Araxes would never reach.

I had no backup plan. None at all.

The unwounded guard grabbed his spear and ran into the middle of the road. It was a soldier’s spear, not a javelin, not weighted for throwing, but the cart had not gone far. Araxes’ back was crouched over, shrouded in his light leather cloak. The guard stood, legs apart. He considered his target for a heartbeat, hefted the spear, left arm pointing where he wanted to hit and eyes locked on the target, took three rapid steps forward and threw in a controlled arc, elbow firm. His right arm followed through. He kept his head up and his eyes never left the target.

It was a beautiful throw. I saw at once it would make the distance.

The spear arced across space, wobbling as it did, and passed over the shoulder of Araxes, so close I thought for a moment it would take him in the skull. But it passed him by, only the Gods know how, and landed, thwack, into the horse’s rump.

The horse screamed. It half-reared, held by the harness, stumbled then recovered. The shaft flailed wildly. The wound opened to inflict even more pain.

The spear fell from the fleshy hole and the cartwheels clattered over it. The horse whinnied and accelerated away.

The guard beside me cursed. “I aimed for the man; all I did was scare the shit out of the animal!”

We took off after the disappearing cart. The guard was as young as me and in tip-top condition. Between us we had a good chance of running down our prey.

Araxes looked over his shoulder, probably in fear of another spear. Instead he saw us chasing. He clambered into the tray of the cart. The frightened horse stayed on the path, trapped between the Long Walls.

Araxes picked up one of the empty amphorae and threw it.

The amphora bounced with a hollow thud. It veered from side to side. At the last moment it went straight for the guard.

He leaped, magnificent, strong as a deer. The guard came down safe and kept running as if nothing could stop him. Whoever this man was, he was a top athlete.

Araxes threw another amphora.

The guard jumped again, but this time the amphora ricocheted straight up into his knee. I heard a sharp crack. The guard went down screaming. He’d deserved better.

It was up to me now.

The next amphora shattered on the first bounce and I easily leaped over the shards.

One left.

I swore a sheep sacrifice to Zeus, if only the last amphora shattered.

Araxes stood with bent knees to compensate for the swaying cart. He threw.

The amphora bounced straight at me. I canceled the sacrifice.

When the amphora filled my vision, I threw myself at it, under it, rolling in the dirt. The hard clay whistled over my head.

When I came back up Araxes had returned to the driver’s seat, his back to me. He must’ve thought the amphora had brought me down.

I sprinted to the tail end, hauled myself up. The platform was smooth and varnished dark from years of fish oil.

Araxes looked back in surprise. He dropped the reins and pulled out his knife. The blade was still red from the shoulder of the wounded guard.

The driverless cart slammed into the right wall. We both fell over and I scrabbled for a hold to stop being thrown off.

The cart veered wildly to smash into the opposite wall. The metal rims of the wheels squealed against the wood and made my teeth hurt.

The whole contraption settled and picked up speed. We’d reached a steep descent.

We picked ourselves up off the slippery, bouncing surface. The first of us to fall would get a knife in his back.

He tried to stab me. I blocked his forearm with my left, and then did something you should never do: I threw down my knife.

No, I wasn’t surrendering; I’d aimed at his foot.

I missed cleanly. The knife quivered point first in the wooden tray. But the throw forced him to dance, and as he did, I grabbed the scroll case from beneath his chiton.

“Thanks a lot, Araxes. See you!”

Mission accomplished. I jumped off the back and-

Bang . My chin hit the floor and rattled my teeth. He’d pulled my feet out from under me.

The scroll case rolled from my hand. Araxes stamped on it as it skidded past.

I snatched the hilt of my knife and rose. I kicked at the case, hoping to send it over the side. Araxes blocked my kick, then tried to drag the case to him.

I was having none of that. I stamped on the case myself and dragged it back to center. It was like playing a boys’ ball game in the street, with the added distraction of knives on a bouncing, slippery surface.