The Gates of Athens Read online

  ‘Take it,’ she said, when he continued to wait for permission.

  Such a sum could not be treated lightly, he knew. He really would need guards, perhaps a hundred hoplites in full armour. If he somehow lost fifty talents, he’d find the Assembly voting on his exile or death the following day, that was a certainty.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. Athens needed every coin, after all. They had a fleet to build, a fleet that would crush the Persian ships when they came again.

  He bowed to Cimon’s mother and backed from the room, following a slave to a cloister stacked with wooden crates near the front gate. House guards stood watch, stepping forward with spears levelled until his right to stand there had been confirmed.

  Themistocles broke a crate open while they all watched him. He ran a hand over the silver within, seeing how the guards stared. Perhaps they assumed any man would dream of stealing such a fortune. The truth was, he would not touch a single coin. He would emulate Aristides in that, rather than be brought down over petty accounting. No, he would show his honour by keeping the silver for Athens and the ships they would build.

  ‘Bring clerks and slaves to keep tally,’ Themistocles ordered. ‘I want to count them here, before we leave.’

  ‘Master, the coins have already been counted,’ one of the guards protested.

  ‘And if I get to the council building and find a dozen drachms missing, there are those who would believe the worst – of you, or me. No, better to make my own count, and be certain, than lose my life and yours for a few coins.’

  The guard seemed to understand that quickly enough. He put his spear aside and cracked his knuckles, ready to help. Themistocles bowed his head solemnly.

  ‘This silver is a sacred trust. Given by Miltiades to Athens, after the loss of ships and good men. We must account for every coin, in all honour. In peril of the loss of our souls.’

  The gathered slaves seemed struck by his words. He hoped they were, though he’d still have everyone in that room warned, then stripped and searched at the end. So much silver brought greed to the fore, in slave and kurios, man and woman alike.

  20

  The hiss and flutter of torches was the only sound, thousands of them, enough to make the great cemetery outside the walls of Athens into a place of gold and black shadow, with too much light to see the stars above. Themistocles had not known so many would be present when he’d made his offer to speak. Nor that they would be so young. It seemed Cimon had his own following in the city, present that day to honour his father. Themistocles saw them lounging against tombs centuries old. Most had brought wine, unmixed and raw, too strong in his estimation. It seemed they had begun drinking during the procession out of the city, through the Thriasian gate and the road beyond. The cemetery crowded there, with tombs right up hard against the city wall and spreading always, year by year. Houses that had once been apart from the city’s districts were encroached upon. It was not hard to imagine the graves spreading out beyond, until they ringed all Athens, or reached all the way to the sea.

  Cimon had spoken to thank the crowd. His voice had been tight and choked, breaking as he talked of his father. It had been short and simple, unadorned, though all the more powerful for that. Themistocles considered it as he decided how to speak. The audience waited patiently as he stood, looking on the open tomb that would house the wrapped figure of Miltiades. He would join his parents and two of his sisters who had died in their youth. Their remains sat like dolls on stone shelves in the mausoleum, deep in the gloom. When the speeches were over, Miltiades would be raised on the shoulders of his son and his friends, to be carried in among the bones of his family. It was just flesh, of course. The shade was gone. There. That was where he could start.

  ‘Miltiades has gone. Of that we are sure. He does not lie in the weary flesh that bore him. In his last breath, his soul escaped – and in that breath, he found peace. You may be sure he looked down on his son then, on his wife, on us all. I know that he was proud of Cimon, so proud it choked him. I know too that he could be moved to tears when he spoke of Marathon.’

  There was a murmur of approval from beyond the crowd. Themistocles looked out, past the closest and the youngest standing in their white chiton robes, some with a shoulder bare, some covered. Further back, he saw a glimpse of golden armour in the torchlight. Hoplites had come dressed for war. He could see them now.

  ‘Come closer if you stood with him on that day,’ Themistocles said, as if he had summoned them with his words. It felt as if he had! They came in like the ghosts of battle and he had to smother his own awe to go on. Hundreds and hundreds of them had decided to wear their greaves and breastplates, to take up their spear, sword and shield as they walked out of the city on that night. To his surprise, Themistocles felt himself moved by their simple gesture. He had to rub at his eyes for a moment.

  ‘I was there, in the centre that day,’ he said. ‘Miltiades sent us forward and I thought we would not survive. Not against so many. I knew I would die! I knew it was the end! But I stood with my brothers – my tribe, yes, but Athenians, Greeks! I could no more have left them to save my own life than I could fly. We stood as brothers and Miltiades knew we would not break.’

  He paused, for a single beat.

  ‘Though it was close…’

  His smile brought a chuckle from all those who remembered. In its way, it was like a shout of memory. They had been there, with him.

  ‘The Persian archers and slingers crept back like jackals to torment us. Miltiades held his wing ready, waiting for the right moment, the moment that would win the battle.’ He paused again, staring into the darkness, ringed in bronze and fire. ‘And then he came. We fought until they broke. I watched good men die around me and I knew each one was my brother, as Aristides is my brother, as Miltiades was, as Xanthippus…’

  Themistocles broke off as a hissing began, looking confused, as if he had not played them like a set of pipes and drawn each note out.

  ‘No, brothers, give him honour! The world has known winter and summer again since then. Perhaps some who were there have lost that sense of brotherhood,’ he said. ‘But on that day, at Marathon, we were all men of Athens. We fought for the children and the women. We fought for our fathers and our temples and our gods. One city, one language, one culture! One democracy! I know the sacrifice of those who fell, because I was willing to make it myself. The gods took the ones they wanted. They left the rest of us to mourn them, as I do, every day.’

  He paused, and some of the younger men raised skins or amphorae to honour him. The hissing died away and, again, only the torches could be heard, while the city beyond the wall settled down to sleep.

  ‘Good fortune turns like the seasons,’ Themistocles went on, his voice so low they had to crane to hear him, as if he spoke a private thought only to himself. ‘The gods allow greatness, and then for some the wheel moves on. For Miltiades, it was not some failing of the sort that brings men down. It was not lust, or greed, or weakness of character. No… he wanted to keep Athens safe by destroying an enemy.’

  He was speaking slower than before, teasing the words out as he went.

  ‘He landed ships on a shore where a fleet had been beached – and he knew he had them. He had tracked them on the trackless sea and he had brought them to ground. He had them. Those first ships landed hard in the surf, leaning over. The Persians watched them come, hidden in the treeline, unseen in their thousands. If Miltiades could have brought all his crews and soldiers to land, he would have wrenched victory from them even so. Yet he could not. He had to watch in agony as his first crews were overwhelmed. He sent in the rest, but there were more and more of the enemy. The sand soaked in the blood of good men, of hoplites who had stood at Marathon, of oarsmen who didn’t deserve to be slaughtered. Miltiades himself took a terrible wound in his thigh, a spear that gashed him and poisoned the wound. He was carried off that beach by those that loved him.’

  Themistocles rubbed his eyes once more, seemed to emerge from
a state almost of an oracle, where the truth and the words of the gods were drawn out, unstoppably. He gestured for a skin of wine from one of the young men. A chuckle went around the crowd again as he drank and smacked his lips.

  ‘You lads should try a little water mixed in,’ he said, to make them laugh. Even as they did, he went to end his oration.

  ‘Miltiades was a great father, strategos and Athenian. When he won, it was because his character was noble. When he failed, it was because he was but a man. All of us fail. All of us rise again. If you have wine, raise it up to Miltiades, as he waits for the ferryman tonight. Let him hear you honour him. To Miltiades!’

  Themistocles raised the skin and drank again before tossing it back to its owner and wiping his mouth. The crowd roared their approval and more than a few called the name of the speaker as well.

  As silence came again, Cimon stepped forward, red-eyed, with five others, lifting the wrapped corpse onto their shoulders and carrying it into the echoing tomb. Themistocles waited for them to finish the duties and for the priests of Hades, Apollo and Athena to give prayers and sacrifices to ensure his welcome. Miltiades would not tarry long by the river. He would go on, to the Fields of Elysium, to be honoured by all those who had gone before.

  21

  Xanthippus walked to the council building, through streets busy with the trade that was the lifeblood of his city. Fifty men from each tribe formed the administration of Athens. They took charge of the cells and the treasury and acted quickly when the Assembly could not. More, they organised carpenters and smelters and labourers and shipwrights to build a fleet and dig silver from the earth. From just five hundred volunteers, all officials were chosen, including the epistates himself. Yet the life of the city was in the colourful glazes on pots held out to him as he passed by, in leather belts and fine-woven robes, in iron nails and clay bricks, in figs, wine and oil. There would always be shouts and debate and juries and war. The true heartbeat of Athens was the sound of coins dropped into a cupped hand. Xanthippus chewed his lower lip at that thought, hoping it was not a blasphemy.

  He had been there to witness the entry of the Miltiades silver the week before. It had been hard to miss, Themistocles riding a cart with a pale blue cloak wrapped around him and an expression of solemnity on his noble brow. He had made such a show of bringing it in, Athenians had come to stand three-deep along the roads to watch the procession of carts and marching hoplite guards. They had begun to cheer and wave as word went round of the fortune, as if Themistocles had brought home the treasury of another city.

  It had seemed almost the first act of the play that had been the Miltiades funeral. After the silver had been brought to the council coffers and counted again, a more solemn event had wound its way through the city districts that night, lit by thousands of torches. Men who had fought at Marathon had joined in, some of them in full armour to honour the man who had brought them that victory.

  Xanthippus had stayed in his town-house and retired early. He’d heard from Epikleos how well Themistocles had spoken of Miltiades’ honour and successes. There was no reason to speak ill of the dead, and by all accounts it had been a fine performance. It seemed there had been a sort of hiss when Xanthippus’ name came up as part of the recitation of strategoi at Marathon.

  He frowned as he walked along. In the days since, it had been hard not to sense a new hostility as he completed his business in Athens. Whether it was in the Assembly or the courts on trial mornings, in council meetings, at the port or simply overseeing the produce of his estate and holdings brought to market, hard stares and whispers seemed to follow him. Miltiades had been a popular man.

  Xanthippus thought it would fade. It had to, with time passing. He had not killed Miltiades! Somehow, the story seemed to have taken hold that a great Athenian hero had been brought down by treachery and low accusation. Xanthippus stiffened as someone muttered a foul insult behind his back. A woman! He looked at her in fury. It had not been open enough for him to challenge, even if he could have found a way to do so without looking a fool. No, he had to ignore them in their pettiness and spite. It would settle down in time, or when the mob found some other target. In the meantime, he had to endure.

  It might have been easier if he had been able to confide in his wife. Yet his relationship with Agariste had become a cold thing, a strain that smothered some part of him, so that he spent whole days clenched and miserable, as if he swam underwater and could not think. He did his duty by her when it came to the income of the estate, though the bills were settled by his servants and rarely needed his personal attention. He had taken the time to ride with each of his children, teaching them how to sit and grip with their knees. Agariste had come to watch the instruction and he’d been very aware of her there, leaning on a fence. There had even been a smile when Pericles came tumbling off and staggered bawling to his mother for comfort. Yet it had not stretched to her husband when he looked over. There was no warmth for him. He no longer knew how to close the distance between them.

  The council building was an impressive construction, a statement of intent of a new administration, the edges still sharp. The old Areopagus council had their ancient stone, but this was for the people, built in limestone and brick, with polished columns. Each year, a new five hundred would enter the council building and run Athens. With all the checks and balances they had created, it worked; that was the wonder of it. Xanthippus felt mingled pride and exasperation as he was challenged and then recognised at the entrance. They were all so proud of what they had achieved! They took their responsibilities seriously and they gave part of each month to make it run. There was no written constitution. The laws depended on goodwill and tradition – and common sense. It meant the Assembly members felt part of the city, even the poorest, Xanthippus realised. Families like his own had given away part of their authority for a dream of something more. He had lost deference, in return for that common spirit.

  He sighed. It did not seem such a fine bargain when market sellers hissed insults under their breath at him. Alongside the Agora, the Ceramicus was one of the poorest areas, where all the city’s pots and urns were made. The roads themselves were made from tiny pottery shards, embedded in clay and dust. The city wall was not far off and beyond that, the cemetery where Miltiades had been interred. Xanthippus stopped suddenly before shaking his head. Someone else cursed him for blocking the road, though he thought there was no special malice in it. Xanthippus had not visited the tomb of Miltiades, to say his last words to the man’s shade. It was owed, but then it might cause a riot if he went, even a week later. It would not hurt to wait for the blossoms to fade.

  At the entrance to the council building, Xanthippus found himself looking back, imagining the procession. How could he have become the villain of the tale? He had won fifty talents for Athens by his accusation! Twenty-five galleys could be built for such a sum, he reminded himself, or a man’s working wage paid for a thousand years! If that wasn’t a form of ‘trierarchia’ – the duty to pay for war galleys – he didn’t know what was. Would Miltiades have paid such a sum voluntarily? Of course not.

  ‘Xan!’ he heard, startling him out of his reverie. It was Epikleos. Xanthippus raised an eyebrow to see his friend in a simple tunic, his legs bare in the heat.

  ‘Where are your armour and weapons? Are you not running today?’

  ‘I handed them in at your house. I thought I’d get ready with you, if that’s all right.’

  Xanthippus nodded, still glum.

  ‘The er… the numbers are not… there are not many with us,’ Epikleos added, without looking directly at him.

  In the months after Marathon, Xanthippus had organised dozens of races through and around the city for any hoplite willing to improve his fitness. They were run in full armour, with shields, spears and weapons, exactly as they would need in battle. At the height, over a thousand had joined them, running in agonising sprint charges or a long lope around the city walls to build lungs and stamina. It was gruelling
and exhausting, but they had felt the benefit, with better wind and strength after just a short time.

  The numbers had dropped off a cliff after the trial and death of Miltiades. In just a few days, the group had shrunk almost to nothing, as if word had spread that he was a leper, or cursed. Xanthippus wondered even so at the nervousness in Epikleos. Was he so stern, so terrible?

  ‘How many today?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps a dozen from Acamantis, around as many again. No more than that, I’m told.’

  ‘I hope the ones that have stopped coming never have to face another Persian line then, or charge their archers!’

  Xanthippus could not hide his flush or his anger, though he felt guilty snapping at Epikleos, who bore none of the blame.

  ‘Is it Cimon?’ Xanthippus asked when he had mastered himself.

  ‘He is… a charismatic young man,’ Epikleos said, keeping his voice down. ‘More like his father than I understood at first. He blames you openly for what happened, and he still has wealth, with all the influence that comes from that. The crumbs from his table are worth having, especially to poor young men. He has offered to train them himself, at new facilities at the Academy gymnasium.’

  ‘That old place?’ Xanthippus snorted.

  Epikleos looked unhappy as he replied.

  ‘They are rebuilding it – a new track, new gardens. Cimon’s wealth pays for all, while they run together there, each morning now. He talks of a grand expedition to seek the tomb of Theseus, with himself as their leader. The manner of his father’s death has won him many supporters, Xan. I’m sorry.’

  Xanthippus cursed under his breath. He did not want to be pitied as he ran practically alone, nor followed by groups of urchins throwing stones. Though it galled him, he decided to take a route right out of the city and down to the port. He would show them the ships being built there, with dwindling stacks of seasoned pine and oak, cut from forests hundreds of miles away and dried for years before it could be used. The new fleet was a vast enterprise that overwhelmed the port itself. Already, there was talk of building massive new quays and workshops, while every carpenter was asking twice the normal wage or threatening to walk away with his tools. Xanthippus waved a hand and spat on the marble, irritated with their greed, irritated with everything.