The Gates of Athens Page 16

  ‘Strategos Miltiades?’ he said after a time. ‘Will you be bringing witnesses in your defence?’

  There was no response from the man himself. Slowly his son stood. Cimon was a fine figure of a young man, though Xanthippus did not know him. He watched as the eighteen-year-old bent to kiss his father on both cheeks, then spoke to the jury. Xanthippus glanced at the water clock, willing time away.

  ‘My father has served Athens – in time and blood and silver – his entire life. On land and sea. He campaigned in Ionia on our behalf, so that he did not see his family for years. In his absence, we tended estates and crops that fed the people, gave them bread and wine. All while my father Miltiades risked his life against armies of Persia. Marathon was his greatest achievement, unsullied, untainted. After that, the sea and the gods and a determined enemy brought him a defeat. See the wound he has taken for us, that could kill him yet! Do you even know the laws? If you must punish my family, after our long service, make it a fine we can pay, not death, not exile! My father is a hero of Athens. We owe him everything.’

  The young man sat down, red-faced and furious. Xanthippus thought the lashing tone had not done his father many favours with the jurors, but it was hard to be certain. Miltiades looked so ill by then, he might fall from the seat. The man lolled there, barely conscious. Nonetheless, he would have to endure. The vote had to be carried out.

  Water spilled and the magistrate breathed in relief.

  ‘If the defence has nothing more to add, you may call your first witnesses, kurios,’ he said, back on solid ground.

  Xanthippus nodded. Noon would end the session and he thought he would have a judgment by then.

  17

  Before the sun reached its greatest height, the last of the witnesses finished their description of the slaughter on Paros. Miltiades had refused the right to question them, which meant the statements of the captain and the hoplite went unchallenged. The defence seemed to rest on a balance, that the jury should not punish a man for one great loss after a lifetime of selfless labour and successes. It was a simple message and there were nodding heads when one of his scribes summed up their position. Xanthippus did not know if he had done enough for the victory. For the first time since making his accusation, he faced the possibility of failure and what that might mean.

  If Miltiades survived, he would surely be an enemy and a dangerous one. His son Cimon had marked his father’s accuser with a stare that seemed to burn in its anger. Yet Xanthippus would not have taken it back, even if the chance to do so had been handed to him. Miltiades going free had been a stone in his sandal from the day of Marathon, a wound that would not heal. He knew what he had seen. The details were as clear as if they had been carved in relief.

  The voting began as the first noon bells sounded across the city. Half of Athens would be making their way home for a light lunch, or strolling to one of the gymnasia for a rub-down and food from a street vendor. The jurors, too, would feel the first stirrings of hunger. Thin men all, they could not delay too long without something to feed them. Xanthippus watched as each one chose a bronze rod and worked it through the disc marked ‘public vote’, hiding whether it was solid or hollow by a grip between thumb and forefinger. Solid meant guilty, agreed beforehand.

  One after another, they dropped the little things into a basket and discarded the other rod into a second, watched closely all the time. The tellers too were chosen by lot, as well as the men whose task it was to judge the count and confirm it. There was no room for corruption, not in a decision over a man’s life.

  Xanthippus felt tension leave him as he walked back to Epikleos.

  ‘Not much longer,’ he said.

  Four hundred votes did not take long to count, even when each one had to be disassembled and held up to see if it was solid or hollow. A few jurors tried to catch Xanthippus’ eye. He sensed their gaze as they turned towards him, but looked away. He did not want to guess the result until it was done, for good or ill. Epikleos watched them avidly, turning back and forth to get the first sense of victory and driving himself mad with the strain of it.

  Xanthippus took a moment to thank the witnesses, still on their feet with tension. In theory, both ship’s captain and hoplite officer had spoken only the truth, on oath to the gods. There could be no punishment for honesty. Yet the reality was grubbier and more human. Both were brave men. Perhaps it was relevant that they were also from families of means, who did not have to fear sudden poverty at the hands of Miltiades and his supporters.

  Xanthippus frowned at that thought. It was well known that slaves had to be tortured before they could testify as witnesses. Only torture could be relied upon to bring an honest word from a man bound to serve a house and family. He had called no slaves for the trial of Miltiades. He wondered if he would have summoned some of the rowers if they had been truly beyond the reach of spite and malice. As free men, but without wealth or position, they had their reflections in the jurors. More, they had a voice and he had not asked for it. He grimaced at the thought, praying it would not be his own hubris that cost him the judgment.

  Xanthippus breathed in and out, forcing calm and putting weak thoughts aside. The votes had been counted and the tally was being checked by solemn officials and the magistrate. There was no going back. As the philosophers said, each choice led to another and another, but no one could ever see what might have been. Or all men would have been as wise as Homer.

  The magistrate bowed to the officials of the Assembly and returned to his seat. The jury too became still, waiting for their own verdict, as they did not yet know what it would be.

  ‘By two hundred and sixty-four to one hundred and thirty-six, the judgment is against Miltiades. The accusation is proven. The verdict is guilty.’

  There was noise then as four hundred jurors either swore under their breath or cheered and clapped one another on the back. There was no appeal against any sentence. Miltiades’ life hung in the balance.

  ‘You have him,’ Epikleos said, his voice cutting through their clamour. ‘So, will you show mercy?’

  Xanthippus looked sharply at his friend. He shook his head.

  ‘For losing a battle, I would. For taking Persian silver, no. My wife and children would have been sold with all the rest, Epikleos. There can be only one result.’

  The last part of a trial was a delicate game of fine judgement. After a guilty verdict, both the prosecution and the defence would decree a punishment. With a show of hands, the jury could select only one of them. Xanthippus bit his lip as he thought. Too harsh a sentence and there was a chance the jurors would choose whatever Miltiades offered. Of course, the defence had the same problem. If Miltiades chose too light a punishment, the jury could easily go for the harder ending. Men liked to see blood; the advantage lay with Xanthippus.

  When the magistrate had finished conferring once more and turned to him, Xanthippus did not hesitate.

  ‘For hubris, for the death of thousands of men and the loss of a fleet for Athens, the punishment must be death. I would show mercy to this man in the manner of it, so I will ask that he be dispatched cleanly with a knife and his body returned to his family to be honoured.’

  There was a murmur of appreciation in the jury and some of them nodded. Xanthippus had avoided the trap of asking for too violent an end – seeing Miltiades flogged to death, or pegged to a board on the city wall so that exposure and thirst drew out his agony over days.

  Xanthippus took his seat as Miltiades struggled to rise. The man had grown paler, if anything, with dark patches on the ground where drops of sweat had fallen from his nose and chin. After a struggle, it seemed he would not make it to his feet. Miltiades pulled his son down and whispered furiously into his ear. Cimon hissed a question back, but then nodded, his mouth a thin line.

  ‘In recognition of my father’s service to this city, we ask for imprisonment for three months and a fine… a fine of fifty talents.’

  Xanthippus felt his throat close in shock at the amou
nt. A single talent of silver was worth six thousand drachms, the wage of a working man for almost ten years. Fifty talents was a sum to shock the jury and make them reconsider. It was said that there were ten thousand houses in Athens. Each household would receive two weeks’ wages for such a fine! Xanthippus felt his heart sink. Or it would buy ships to replace some of those Miltiades had lost. Either way, it seemed the family still had wealth. With a short time in prison to satisfy the harshest critics, the offer was well judged. Xanthippus did not need Epikleos’ glance back at him to know Miltiades would live.

  The second vote was over quickly. The jurors accepted the fine and time in prison. The magistrate in particular seemed desperately relieved and beamed around at them. With little ceremony, the trial was over. Each jury member was handed a token to be redeemed against five obol coins for the day’s service.

  The events on the rock of Ares that day had been payment enough, Xanthippus thought. They would go home and tell their wives and friends every detail. He saw Epikleos look up sharply and turned to see Miltiades’ son had come to stand by him. Xanthippus understood in the moment of stillness that he had made more than one enemy. Epikleos casually took a position where he could block an attack, but neither of them was afraid of a beardless young man, no matter how wide across the shoulders Cimon was.

  ‘Fifty talents,’ Xanthippus said. ‘There are not many families in Athens that could pay such a sum.’

  Cimon shrugged, his mouth turning up on one side. He held his hands almost as fists, low down on his hips, as he stood and confronted Xanthippus. More than a few watched the little scene, wondering whether there would be violence or further insult. Such things were not unknown. Epikleos raised a finger to summon one of the Scythian archers standing nearby.

  ‘For my father’s life?’ Cimon said. ‘It was part of my inheritance, but I would pay it again.’

  ‘The trial is at an end,’ Epikleos said to him. ‘Your father will recover in his cell. By the time he is free, he will be well and strong. Good day to you now, Cimon. Tend to Miltiades.’

  ‘Don’t tell me my duty,’ Cimon growled at him.

  Xanthippus thought the young man might erupt and braced himself to straight-arm a rush. The Scythians were suddenly there in their armour, stepping between them, roughly ordering everyone off the rock and back to their lives. The moment of tension vanished in the noise and clatter. Xanthippus watched as Miltiades was helped down, step by step, his arm draped over his son.

  ‘How touching, to see such devotion,’ Epikleos said. ‘Well, you won fifty talents for the city, Xan. If it’s not what you wanted, it is justice of a sort.’

  Xanthippus forced himself to smile at the archers growing red-faced around them, yet not quite daring to move Marathonomachoi on with a touch.

  ‘I am for a little lunch – ripe figs, perhaps a few anchovies – something light: my stomach is churning still.’

  Epikleos clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘You should go home. You should see Agariste, Xan.’ He saw the sullen refusal in his friend, though Xanthippus would not explain what had happened. ‘Xan, you won! She will want to know.’

  There was a strange stubbornness in the set of Xanthippus’ jaw as they walked. With a sigh, Epikleos gave up. He liked the young woman Xanthippus had married. It took some of the shine out of the day to see something had come between them.

  ‘Did you see Themistocles leave?’ Epikleos asked.

  His friend shook his head as they left the Areopagus behind. They walked the street to the Agora, where the market rush would be lessening. Juries from across the city would be heading there, to discuss their trials and find something to eat.

  ‘He did not look too pleased, though some of that silver might go to crew the ships we’re building. He should be delighted. After all, Miltiades is no longer the favourite son of the Assembly. His star has fallen – with his loss at Paros, his wound, the trial. He is no threat to Themistocles, not now.’

  ‘You think that is why I did it?’ Xanthippus said. ‘I told you the reason. I owe Themistocles no favours.’

  Epikleos shrugged rather than continue to argue, though he suspected it was subtler than that. The reasons for any action were rarely simple, any more than men and women were simple. Even so, his friend remained angry and halted at the edge of the Agora.

  ‘Go on without me, would you?’ Xanthippus said.

  ‘Xan, I didn’t mean to suggest you were one of his people…’ Epikleos said.

  ‘No. You are right. I haven’t seen Agariste for some time. I should go to her – and my children.’

  There was no arguing with him in this mood. Epikleos knew when he needed time away from the crowds, so he nodded. They shook hands with a brief grip, each man subtly reassured by the strength of the other. Epikleos watched him go before he headed into the market, to the smells of fried fish and olive paste.

  18

  Xanthippus walked the road to the estate outside the city, feeling his muscles and back loosen as he strode along. His knee felt strong, hardly hurting at all. No one turned to watch him, at least as far as he could see. He was able to vanish into the traders heading in and out of the city, looking to sell their goods or apply for citizenship. Athens took in the children of its citizens by right. As long as just one parent had been Athenian born, it did not matter where the sons and daughters had come into the world. Since the threat of a Persian attack in Ionia, there had been a steady stream of families arriving on merchant ships, all their possessions on their backs. They would find a new life in the city, or they would starve and be enslaved. Many would serve new masters before the year was out, but for those who worked hard and had skill, there was still nowhere else like it in the world.

  He hammered on the iron gate of the house and waited while one of his wife’s staff peered at him through a slot. Two slaves went up to the wall to stare up and down the street before it was opened, an excess of caution, though there was a mood in the city that disturbed him, a sort of anger or frustration – or fear, which looked much the same.

  Agariste came out at a run when she heard her husband had returned. She appeared in a dress of white hemmed with a thick green band, as if a snake had wound itself around her. She was twenty-five years old and her skin was clear and unlined. Yet her expression was dark with fear of what he would say. They had not exchanged a word since he had found her bleeding three days before.

  ‘Thank you for coming back, Xan,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Did the trial go well?’

  ‘I imagine you have been told,’ he said.

  He saw a flash of anger come to her eyes then. She tilted her head, biting her lower lip for an instant as if to hold back words, then letting it go as she spoke them anyway.

  ‘You are still furious with me? Is that it? Will you divorce me, then? Or force me to endure more days of absence while anger eats at you? I am sorry! I have said it! Did you read the letter I sent?’ He shook his head and she flung up her arms in exasperation. ‘I have tried to apologise, but I cannot undo it. I cannot go back.’

  He took her by the arm, ignoring the soft gasp she made as he force-walked her into a study and kicked the door shut on the cloisters and green garden. There would be slaves within call, of course. No doubt Manias would contrive some excuse to knock on the door and check his mistress did not require his presence. Yet for the moment, they were as alone as they could ever be.

  Xanthippus released her arm. Agariste rubbed it as she faced him and he saw the pale marks of his grip on her skin. She was afraid, he realised. She was shaking with it, like a boy before his first battle. He struggled to control the anger that flared in him.

  ‘Were you pregnant, then?’ he said. ‘I assume that is why you took the drink.’

  She nodded, wide-eyed and silent.

  ‘You cost me a child,’ he said, ‘perhaps another son. And you almost died. Have you any idea how close I came to losing you? For what? Is it such a burden to be a mother to my children?
To bear one more? I cannot understand you!’

  ‘You don’t know,’ she said softly, ‘what it is like. To be filled and swollen with a child. I endured it three times! I gave you two sons and a daughter – that is enough! Each one pulled and tore me. You have no idea. I spent months vomiting so hard my skin mottled with tiny spots of blood. Yet I did it! I bore them all, in my innocence. Is it so hard to understand I might want another year, or two or three, without going through all that again? That I wanted to raise the ones I had, not see my breasts swell with milk once more, my back aching, my skin stretching? I have done my duty. The tea was… for me.’

  ‘And you are sure you were pregnant?’ he whispered, eyeing the curve of her womb as she stood before him.

  She nodded, fierce and afraid at the same time.

  ‘If you had told me, I could have taken a mistress to bear children. Even Epikleos has…’

  ‘They would not be your heirs,’ she said. ‘Or they would compete with Ariphron and Pericles for your inheritance. Or you would seek to put me aside and marry her! Why would I ever choose that?’ She began to sob, tears streaming. ‘I regret it, Xan. I do regret what I did. I only wanted a year or two without giving birth. I took the tea a dozen times with just a heavier bleed… Please don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘I am wondering how many of my children you have murdered,’ he said. ‘I’m going to go back to the city, Agariste. I think I will kill you if I stay here.’

  ‘Please don’t go. Just stay and talk with me. I am so sorry, Xan.’

  She tried to embrace him and he pushed her back, more roughly than he had intended, so that she stumbled against the desk. A knock sounded instantly on the door at his back. Xanthippus mastered himself. He was no young man to be consumed by his passions. He turned to open the door and found Manias there, with a basket, looking past him in concern.