Gary Corby - The Ionia Sanction

I hesitated, but realized the truth couldn’t hurt.

“Because I’ve married for love.”

Mnesiptolema gagged.

I ignored her. I explained what had happened and finished, “If I can marry for love, so can you, Nicomache. Think of your lover Phrasicles. You still want him, don’t you?”

Nicomache nodded, but she wasn’t happy. Neither was I, but I’d made my choice, and now I had to force my choice on the children of Themistocles.

“The slaves and the guards who stand at his back will swear none of us touched his cup. Barzanes will investigate the kitchen and find no one there responsible. He will, however, find a suicide note in Themistocles’ own hand.”

“Impossible,” Cleophantus said.

“I’ve already written it. I copied the writing on a note he sent me.”

Mnesiptolema thought about it. “It might work,” she said, and Archeptolis nodded in agreement. “We can do this.”

“I still don’t like it,” Nicomache said.

Mnesiptolema snorted in disgust. “Too late to back out now.”

Cleophantus said, “It’s what we agreed, Nicomache. Think of what happened to us after Father was condemned. Do you want to go through it all over again? Imagine walking down the street if Father becomes Satrap of Athens. They won’t dare spit on us with the Persians protecting us, but you know they’ll want to.”

They all of them nodded. But I couldn’t stop for a moment.

There were still preparations to make, and very little time in which to make them.

Six of us sat down to dinner. Themistocles at the head of the table, Archeptolis to his right, then Mnesiptolema and Nicomache. Cleophantus to Themistocles’ left, and then me.

The food was on the table, and although Themistocles ate heartily, his children seemed to have less appetite. Mnesiptolema entered bearing the tray of six cups of wine. She had pulled one of the cups from the kitchen shortly before, and I had returned it to her filled with wine and chipped. Now she offered me my choice of cups from the tray, and I took one nonchalantly, examined it closely to make absolutely sure there was no chip. Never before or since have I displayed such an interest in crockery.

Nicomache’s turn was next. Her hand shook as she reached out, and I was sure Themistocles must see through the plot. I glanced at him but he seemed preoccupied. He frowned, his chin resting in his right hand and his eyes downcast.

Nicomache’s hand shook so much she dropped hers. Wine the color of blood flowed across the table.

Mnesiptolema hissed, “Idiot!” She signaled to a slave to come sop up the mess while she moved on to Archeptolis. He took the nearest cup and sipped, without even a glance to ensure he was not taking poison. I realized he and Mnesiptolema had arranged she would present a safe cup nearest, but even so I marveled at his sangfroid. He and Mnesiptolema were fine conspirators; I felt honored to be plotting with them, and made a mental note never to trust either.

Cleophantus, looking like he was about to cry but resolute nevertheless, reached for his cup when, “I hope I’m not interrupting.” Barzanes stood in the doorway.

Themistocles looked up. “Interrupting? Dinner is just starting. Do join us.”

“With pleasure.” Barzanes took the empty seat next to me and held out his hand for wine. “Oh, but I see there is only one cup for each, and I am one too many.”

“No, no, take mine,” said Themistocles. “I’ll order another for myself.”

Cleophantus and Mnesiptolema had been frozen. Now Cleophantus clutched a cup in a spasm and Mnesiptolema’s face registered consternation and fear. She hesitated.

Themistocles said, “Mnesiptolema, what ails you, girl? Offer Barzanes a cup.”

Mnesiptolema woodenly stepped forward and bent down to Barzanes with the two remaining cups. As she did she twisted the tray in her hands so that one particular cup was closest to him.

Good try, I thought to myself. That showed presence of mind. Barzanes’ hand touched the first cup, and hesitated. “There is one here chipped,” he said. “As the last present I shall take the least presentable.” He reached forward and took the second cup.

Mnesiptolema opened her mouth, shut it again, placed the last cup before her own seat, and sat down. She looked over to me as if to ask, What do we do now? I think Barzanes caught the look. He held up his cup, inspecting the decoration. To the table at large he said, “Would you indulge a Persian at a table of Hellenes? You have a custom, I know, called the Loving Cup where the guests pass a cup of wine one to the next. In Persia we might offer our food to another. In this company though, I think the Hellene custom best, particularly since a Hellene is to be my wife.” He smiled at Nicomache, the first I had seen him do so. Nicomache’s answering smile was brittle. She said nothing.

Barzanes continued, “So in the spirit of the Loving Cup of the Hellenes, I begin by giving the first taste to my neighbor, my future brother-in-law.”

Barzanes passed along the chipped cup. Now all eyes were upon me. Barzanes had arranged it so there was no possible way I could avoid drinking.

Nicomache whimpered.

There was nothing else I could do. I closed my eyes and drank.

Instantly I clutched my throat and choked and coughed for a moment, before I was able to say, “I’m sorry. It went down the wrong way.” I passed the cup on to Cleophantus. “Your turn.”

Cleophantus stared at me as if I were one of Barzanes’ Daevas. “But … but…”

A slave carried in the transparent drinking horn from which I had drunk at the banquet, and set it before Themistocles. Themistocles raised it and offered his favorite toast. “We would have been undone, had we not been undone.”

Themistocles downed the wine and set the cup upon the table. He began to speak, but instead clutched a hand over his heart and looked at us as if surprised.

He said, “I need to lie down.”

He rose and swayed, visibly struggling to stay upright. Two slaves rushed to hold him.

Themistocles stared at each of us around the table. His eyes locked with mine for what seemed an age. He smiled and said, “Polycrates…” Then he choked.

I recalled his words of months before. Of the death of Polycrates he’d said, “I admire any man who can carry off such a devious plot.… If a man could trick me like that, I’d have to admire his skills.”

The weight was too much for the slaves. Themistocles fell.

“Cursed Daevas!” Barzanes kneeled at Themistocles’ side. The rest of us crowded around. Themistocles convulsed on the floor. There was nothing we could do except hold him down, but eventually the twitchings slowed to nothing, and as they did, his breathing became ragged and his face turned bright red. A moment later he lay still. The old witch had been right; it was like a knife to the heart.

Barzanes looked for any sign of breath. “He’s dead.”

Behind me, Nicomache wept.

Barzanes said, “How did this thing happen? A sudden illness? What is this?” He picked up a scroll case lying beside Themistocles. He turned it around in his hand, puzzled, before unfurling the contents.

The scroll case had come from the rack in Archeptolis and Mnesiptolema’s room. This was the scroll on which I’d forged a suicide note. I’d dropped it and kicked it along the floor while everyone watched Themistocles die.

Barzanes read, “‘My children, the war against the Persians was the greatest triumph of my life. I cannot bring myself to undo it, but nor can I refuse the orders of Artaxerxes. I therefore choose the only honorable path, in the hope he will understand and maintain you in your positions. Farewell.’