Gary Corby: The Ionia Sanction

He smiled. “Don’t bother. For one night only, I’ll be your slave.”

The idea of having my irritating younger brother as my slave held a certain appeal, and it meant I wouldn’t have to ask a favor of my father, with whom I was at odds, but, “Why are you so desperate to go?” I asked, suspicious.

He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I want to see what goes on. I’ve never been to a symposium before. Do you think I’ll be good at it when I’m old enough?”

“No Socrates, you’d be rotten,” I said, quite certain.

* * *

It was an earthquake. No, it was one of my father’s slaves, shaking me awake next morning. I opened a bleary eye to see a grimy foot on my chest, and above it the same slave whom I’d ordered to stand over me the night before. I suspected the slave disliked me, and I was certain he needed to cut his toenails, they were digging into my skin.

“There’s a man outside on a horse,” he said it as if he were announcing plague. “He says he needs to see you.”

I groaned. Every bruised and abused muscle whined when I sat up.

“Did you get his name?”

“No, but he says his father’s dead.”

The son of Thorion. “Bring him in.”

“What about the horse?”

“Bring it in too.”

“Through the front door?”

“No, you idiot, through the window.”

But still he looked blank. I took pity upon him. Our family doesn’t keep horses and he had no experience. I said, “Open the gates to the courtyard. Show him in through the back lane.”

“I came as fast as I could,” said Onteles, the son of Thorion.

He had indeed. His hair was damp and hung like seaweed. I could smell the sweat of the ride upon him.

“Where were you when you heard?”

“At our country estate, to the north.”

“How did you get here so quickly?”

“I rode hard. I stopped at home only to confirm the news my father was dead and learn you are investigating the crime, though the Gods know why. I rode here at once.”

The horse breathed heavily and had drunk buckets of water but was sleek and looked fit for more. The muscles rippled beneath the skin, a powerful beast.

“This is a magnificent horse.”

“One of the best. Father bought him for me.”

I was instantly jealous. I’d always wanted a horse. After I left the army I begged my father, Sophroniscus, to buy one, but he refused, saying what possible need had the son of a sculptor for a horse?

“Thorion must have been a wealthy man.”

“He did well from trade. Import, export, anything that was profitable.”

“Recently it was pottery.”

“If you say so. I never paid much attention. The estate is my future. Father had less interest in it. The farmland has become rather run-down.” Onteles looked me over. “You’re younger than me.”

“Twenty-one.”

“Then why are you avenging the crime? Does my family know you?”

“Pericles asked me, for the good of the state.”

“You?”

“I’ve done this sort of thing before. It seems your father wanted to confess to a crime against Athens. Now we’d like to know, what crime?” I told Onteles about the note.

Onteles snorted like his horse and said, “Ridiculous. Whatever this note, there’ll be a strange but innocent explanation.”

I couldn’t agree, but an argument with the son would be pointless.

“What are your plans?” I asked him.

“To bury my father. After that”-he shrugged-“there’s the estate, and to be a citizen of Athens. I have responsibilities now.”

Onteles, son of Thorion, was only three years older than me, but already an adult. In Athens, a man is a child in the eyes of the law so long as his father lives. Pericles himself was still a legal child, and he’d been the foremost man of the city for months.

By the death of his father, Onteles, son of Thorion, became responsible for his mother for the rest of her life, and for his sisters until he found them husbands, which he would probably do as quickly as possible to relieve himself of the burden.

I asked, “You won’t trade?”

“That was always my father’s business. I’ll wind it down.”

“Or continue as proxenos for Ephesus?”

“Gods no! I have enough to keep me busy.” He paused in thought. “I think I’ll marry.”

I felt a pang of envy. Onteles no longer needed his father’s permission to marry as he chose. If only that were me.

* * *

Onteles departed to see to his household. I ate breakfast and then hobbled my way down to Piraeus to find the harbormaster. I chose the southern route to see again the places where I’d fought for my life. It was an odd experience. I irrationally felt the struggle should have left its mark deep in every step of the way, yet the hard surface of the road was untouched. The same did not apply to the Long Walls, which were satisfyingly gouged where the cart had crashed into them, and strange cyclic marks showed where the wheels had scraped the wood.

Men swarmed over the broken lower gate. Carpenters worked on the shattered support posts, prying off the heavy, metal hinges to be reused. The frame for a new gate was already taking shape on the ground. Men with hammers and chisels and drills kneeled over it, working to fit the joints. There was more than the usual amount of swearing.

As I stepped over planking, a fellow traveler stopped to ask a workman what had happened. The workman wiped the sweat from his brow, spat in the dust, and said, “Some idiot drove a horse and cart right into the gates. It’ll take a month to fix.” He spat again. “I’d love to get my hands on the asshole who did this.”

I tiptoed through.

At the docks I was directed to the harbormaster, a stocky, older man perched on a small, three-legged, wooden stool in a small alcove, which was nestled between two large warehouses, one of which reeked of spice, and the other of oil. His entire attention was upon a tarnished bronze brazier, in which something sizzled over a respectable fire. He held a metal skewer in his right hand, which he used to poke his lunch. His face was fleshed out and ruddy, either from the heat of the fire or naturally, I didn’t know which.

He looked up as I stopped before him, and his face fell at once.

“Are you the harb-”

“Oh Gods, what is it now?”

“Huh?”

“I walk away for the briefest moment to have a quiet bite, and the first thing that happens is someone interrupts me. Is some ship blocking you in?”

“Me? No.”

“Got a problem with your pier allocation?”

“No.”

“Other captains bitching about dock space again? Oh Zeus, I hate that.”

“No one said anything to me.”

“If the street kids are stealing your cargo, that’s your problem.”

“I don’t have any problems with street kids.”

“Anyone drowned?”

“No.”

“Your ship sank?”

“No.”

“So you got no problems?”

“I need-”

“Good. Then don’t bother me till I’ve eaten.” He turned back to the brazier and did his best to ignore me.

I stood and watched him stir the sizzling food. The aroma overwhelmed me. Eventually I had to ask, “That smells great. What is it?”

He said without looking up, “Eel in garos sauce, with some extra spices. My own recipe.”

I licked my lips. “Hey, you know what would go well with that?”

He looked up. “No, what?”

“Neither do I. I thought you’d know. Wait a moment.”

I stepped out of the alcove, and ran through the narrow alleys that squeezed between the warehouses and the Emporion, which divides the docklands from the town. On the other side was the larger of the two agoras in Piraeus. I searched among the stalls until I found a small amphora of spiced wine from Chios, and a chunk of goat cheese.