The Great King (30 page)

Bulis fingered his beard. ‘I would like the kings to know of this,’ he said.

So we agreed to send Moire home in
Storm Cutter
with a cargo of Lesbian wine and oil and some Chian wine and mastic. He was ordered to touch at Athens and speak only to Cimon, and then go on to Sparta. Bulis wrote him a letter on papyrus.

Aristides was shaken. ‘Is there any point in going to Susa, if the Great King has set his mind on war?’ he asked. ‘I do not want to be cooling my heels at the Great King’s court while his troops lay siege to my city.’

The Spartans felt the same way, but the lords of Mythymna had some useful knowledge. Lesvos was Persian – it had been conquered and treated harshly. Mythymna had no Persian garrison because Mytilini had resisted so long and the Persians were spread thin in Ionia, and we were welcomed there. I had friends all over Lesvos, and the son of Epaphroditos, Axiochus, came from Mytilini in a fishing boat when he heard I was there.

They gave us all the news they had. And what they knew was a little reassuring. Their ships had been summoned for the
next
season. They were to attack Athens in the
next
spring.

We rested our rowers for another day and Sekla sold most of our cargo on the beach – not the luxury goods, but all the heavy stuff. We made a good profit, which was mostly consumed by the oarsmen.

We ran down to Chios, and Harpagos saw his cousin, as did I. The Persians had been even harsher on Chios than on Lesvos, and we had to be very careful. Most of the Chians I knew were dead, but when we asked men, they admitted they’d been summoned for service in the next spring. Harpagos got us a copy of the letter from the satrap.

Let me add that none of this was meant to be secret. But some news travelled quickly, and other news hardly travelled at all. It is one thing to hear a rumour of war, and another thing to see the satrap’s letter. Signed by Artapherenes.

I will say a little of Harpagos’s cousin. I had offered to take her to Plataea, once. She and I had been lovers – not for long, and mostly because of the death of her older brother, which hit her hard. She had been a wonderful, cheerful, lawless girl – a fisherman’s daughter, and a fine young kore. Now she was a silent, bitter woman, aged before her time, with nothing to say but curses.

Friends, I have said before that the Persians are men like us, and in many ways more honourable. But I have to also say – in her eyes, I saw pain and humiliation, and the future of Greece, if Persia ruled.

We were very wary, south of Chios. Once, we Greeks had owned these waters. Now, all of them belonged to Persia.

Tarsus is one of the oldest cities in the world. They worship the horned and winged lion, Sandon, there, and it is a very rich province of the Persian empire.

I had never had reason to touch at Tarsus before, and our squadron was careful on approach, all of the other ships hanging well off the port while I took
Lydia
in with all my benches manned. But as soon as the somewhat withered olive wreaths were visible, a pilot boat came out of the harbour and on board was a senior officer of Hydarnes’ household – Hydarnes was the Satrap of Tarsus and the surrounding region, and one of Xerxes’ favourites according to rumour. From my Persian friends, I knew he came from one of the oldest families and that his father had helped put Darius on the throne.

His steward bowed low on my command deck. ‘My lord, I am commanded by him whose servant I am to present you with these safe conducts, issued by the Great King under his imperial seal. And with this writ commanding that you and your servants be allowed to pass down the Royal Road and to be served at the post houses. And I also offer you this letter from the satrap Artapherenes, who has further sent you an escort of his noble cavalry to take you all the way to Susa.’

Hector stepped forward and took all the scrolls and tablets.

The steward bowed deeply once again.

I returned his bow, in the Persian way. When you bow to a man’s servant, you are bowing to him – the Persians only throw themselves on their faces for the Great King in person, but they salute a senior servant almost as if he were the man or woman themselves.

‘I thank you for your prompt service. May I add that I have a cargo?’

The steward, a Babylonian by his olive-skinned good looks, smiled. I gathered he’d dealt with Greeks before. From his own belt he pulled a very small scroll. ‘My master has decreed that your cargoes will be passed uninspected and untaxed, as part of an embassy.’ He handed me the scroll. ‘There is a berth for your ship.’

‘I have five ships,’ I said, as much to see whether I could puncture his smooth delivery as because I was afraid we’d swamp Hydarnes’ hospitality.

‘So many?’ the steward asked. He looked out to sea.

‘The Ionian sea is full of pirates,’ I said. I tried not to smile.

He was a young, fit man, despite his odd trousers and perfumed beard, and he wore a sword. And he met my gaze without hesitation, and smiled.

‘That’s what I hear,’ he said, looking pointedly at my rowers.

I liked him.

Ashore, on the open ground, paved in marble, that ran down to the military piers of the harbour, stood an escort of twenty armoured men. They wore tall, conical helmets that tapered to points, and armour of bronze scales. The officer had blue enamelled scales of Aegyptian work in alternating rows, and a magnificent beard, and he slid from his horse and embraced me. In truth, it had been less than a year since I had seen Cyrus – but we met like long-lost brothers, or at least cousins.

‘Let me look at you,’ he said. ‘You look like a king, or a prince.’

I had hoped that Artapherenes would send me an escort. Persians measure power in many ways but most of them have to do with favour – with the power of your relationships. Artapherenes, by loaning me his own household cavalry, was putting me ‘under his shield’, as we say in Greece. I hadn’t expected Cyrus in person, but I had hoped for him. He would help me avoid foolish pitfalls on my way to Susa, and deeper and subtler ones once I made it into the Great King’s presence. I raised my hands and prayed to Zeus and Hermes right there in the seaside agora, and then I began to introduce my own friends.

Bulis was as closed as a locked trunk. I had learned enough of the man to know that he was merely being careful, dignified, giving nothing away that an enemy might make use of. Sparthius was open, effusive and talkative, and he exchanged hand clasps with Cyrus.

‘My first real Persian!’ he said. ‘He is your friend?’ Sparthius asked me.

‘Friend and guest-friend,’ I said in Greek, and then translated into Persian.

Aristides was almost as cautious as Bulis, but he had better manners, and he was not unwilling to bow as the Persians do, although neither of the Spartans would bend even by an inch. Sallis, the steward, was introduced, and provided each of us with an interpreter. Every one of them was an Ionian Greek slave.

Take what message you like from that.

We climbed up the streets of the lower town and Sallis showed us a few of the sights. The temple of Sardon was magnificent, if a little gaudy even by Boeotian standards.

‘The central sacred precinct is more than a thousand years old,’ Sallis told us. I suspect we craned our necks like hicks, because he laughed aloud. ‘If you pass Babylon, you can climb the temple of Marduk. It is more than three thousand years old.’ He shrugged.

Something crossed Bulis’s face. He glanced at me.

I walked next to him for a while.

‘It is not what I expected,’ he muttered. ‘I have been to Mycenae and it might have an old wall that is a thousand years old.’

I remember nodding. ‘These people are very, very old. But not the Persians. They are as young as we Greeks, or even younger. Indeed, some say we are related.’

Sparthius laughed behind me. ‘Nothing worse than near relations, in a blood feud.’

Hydarnes did everything in his power to welcome us. We were housed in the satrapal palace. Hector laid out a fresh linen chiton – it was hotter than any place I’d ever been, and damp, and everything seemed to droop in the heat. A slave took me to the bath, and a musician came in and began to play.

In the bath.

Musicians will sometimes play in public baths in Greece. But I’d never had one all to myself, and he played almost anything I knew. He, too, was Greek.

A pair of women came in. They were fine-looking women, with good breasts and small waists, muscled legs – really, I was very interested. They came naked, and there could be no doubt of their roles.

But they were both Aeolian Greeks. As soon as they saw I was Greek, they threw themselves at my knees and begged me to rescue them. It was, just possibly, the most humiliating moment of my life, because I fancy myself the sort of man who rescues the weak, not oppresses them further.

Hector heard their story later. They were a Chian nobleman’s daughters, and they had been ‘employed’ in the satrap’s palace for four years.

In fact, as we moved around the corridors and unpacked, it became obvious that every low-level slave in the palace was Greek.

We met Hydarnes in person just before dinner. He had a great feast prepared – iced wine, whole deer, antelope, and the head of a lion. Whole sheep in saffron and raisins, and a dozen more dishes. It was a dinner for six hundred men – and women.

We could smell the feast, and Hydarnes sat on a low throne flanked by golden statues of the local god. I went first, and I bowed – as an equal to another equal.

He waved a hand, as if dismissing my insolence as puerile. ‘I gather you are guest-friend to Artapherenes,’ he said. He leaned forward. ‘I gather you were once a slave.’ He meant it to put me in my place.

I bowed again. ‘Two years ago, I was a slave of a Carthaginian tin trader,’ I said. ‘The gods decide men’s fates.’ A year of dealing with the bigotries of Sicilians had made me immune to this sort of thing.

He looked at my friends. ‘It is interesting to meet so many
free
Greeks. I only know them as slaves. Greeks make excellent slaves.’

I nodded. ‘As do Persians,’ I said. So much for diplomacy.

But he threw back his head and roared. ‘Hah! Good for you. Yes – I suppose that if I was taken, I would make a fine slave. I know how to give orders
and
to take them. This is the power of our empire.’

After me, he was introduced to Aristides. He smiled and rose from his throne and came down to take Aristides’ hand. ‘I understand you have been exiled,’ he said. ‘My king offers you his hand in friendship.’ Aristides took the proffered hand. ‘For myself, I would like nothing better than to be the king’s friend,’ he said. ‘But I remain an Athenian.’

Hydarnes nodded. ‘So few Greeks seems to feel as you do. They come to us and betray their homes for a few pieces of silver. But you are a nobleman.’

Aristides frowned, but Hydarnes went on to the Spartans. ‘And you – men of Lacedaemon! Will you be friends of the Great King? Are you exiles?’

Bulis looked at me. We’d discussed some responses to questions like this. He said, ‘We are heralds of the Kings of Sparta, with a message to the Great King,’ he said.

‘A message of friendship?’ Hydarnes pressed on. ‘From the Kings of Sparta?’

Bulis looked as cold as ice. ‘The message,’ he said slowly, ‘is for the king your master, and not for you.’

Hydarnes frowned.

Soon after, we went into the great hall to dinner. We lay on couches in the Greek manner, but women sat in chairs. There were at least a dozen Persian, Median and Babylonian women. Not many among six hundred men, but enough to draw comment from the Greeks.

Aristides was sharing my couch, and Hector was waiting on us with Aristides’ hypaspist, Nikeas.

I remember that the wine was odd. First, too sour, and then too sweet.

‘You know who would love this?’ Aristides asked me, while using a fold of bread to shove more mutton in saffron into his mouth. He laughed like a boy and chewed politely.

‘Cimon?’ I asked. ‘Miltiades?’

‘Jocasta,’ Aristides said. ‘She craves travel and adventure. For her, this would be like . . . meeting Odysseus.’ He leaned closer, as Hector poured wine and thus covered us from observation. ‘Do you think all the Greek slaves are a message?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I pray to Zeus you are wrong. And to Hermes, god of heralds and ambassadors.’ He sat back. ‘You no longer think it can be stopped.’

I shook my head. ‘I never did, once Artapherenes said the Great King was determined to make war. He’s already spent the money. Can you imagine how much it costs to have three hundred triremes at sea a
year
before you plan to attack?’

Greek slaves averted their eyes while serving us, so that we would not look into their faces. But some cried.

One young boy broke down while serving Bulis. Bulis put a hand on his head and whispered something in his ear.

Hydarnes looked at the Spartan from his dais. ‘Come, my friend,’ he said. ‘You must talk to us, and not to our slaves. Tell us all why you men of Lacedaemon decline to say you will be the friends of the Great King. You have but to look at me and my fortune to see that the king knows well how to honour merit. In like manner you yourselves, if you would only make your submission to the Great King, would receive great gifts and land from his hands, seeing that he deems you men of merit.’

Bulis rose to his feet. ‘Hydarnes,’ he said, ‘you understand less than half of the story. You tell me that if I am a good slave, I will be rewarded for surrendering my freedom, and that may have been your own experience.’

I had never heard Bulis speak so well. But Spartans are full of surprises. Bulis’s interpreter stumbled when he reached the insult – the sting in the tail, as we Greeks say. He fell silent.

I stood up and finished Bulis’s statement in Persian.

Bulis raised his voice to continue. ‘I am merely a citizen of Sparta, and perhaps I misunderstand. But it seems to me that you have all your life been a slave to this king, and since you have never been free, you have no idea how sweet liberty might be. Because if you had tasted it,’ Bulis said, and he smiled at the boy who had cried, ‘then, as I see you are a man, you would have fought not just with your spear for freedom, but with axes and knives and even with the nails on your fingers.’