The whole time that Artaphernes was with us, we shot until my fingers bled. That's an expression you hear, but in our case, it was true. First you shoot until your fingertips swell, and after a while they hurt as if stung by ants and they turn bright red. But a pair of boys, each eager for praise and fearing the catcalls of the other, will go right on, until the fingers turn a darker colour, and then the abrasion of the bowstring will break the swollen flesh, and they bleed. And later, if you go back to shooting before the calluses grow, the scabs break and they bleed again. The bowstring of our bow had a brown spot at the draw point from our blood.
Archilogos never tired and never gave up. His whipcord body was proof against fatigue, and he would run and shoot, do lessons and shoot, go to the theatre and shoot. Anything to impress his hero. He'd learned a few lines of Persian poetry and he'd declaim them, hoping that the Persian would overhear.
The Persian had troubles enough without the adoration of the boy. First, it was obvious to me, after the sexual politics of the farm, that the Persian was deeply in love with Mistress, and that she toyed with him. But even that was of little moment next to the greater matters that surrounded us.
It was the years of the seventieth Olympiad. In Greece, the last of the great tyrants had gone and peace began to emerge from her nest. But in Ionia, the tyrants still held sway. Not law-givers, men who make good laws and then relinquish control. I speak here of strong warlords and aristocrats who aped Persian manners and ruled Ionia for their own benefit, not that of their cities.
Hippias, the tyrant of Athens, had been overthrown in my childhood. He had retreated to Sigeum in Asia, a city that his family, the Pisistratidae, ruled in much the same way as Miltiades ruled the Chersonese. Hippias was in Ephesus with his own train of soldiers and courtiers, making noise in the lower city and spending money.
My second night in the household, I heard the satrap at dinner. He was complaining to Hipponax about the Greek lords on their islands, and how their bad rulership reflected poorly on the Great King and would, if left unchecked, lead to revolt.
'And men blame me!' he complained. 'I don't have enough soldiers to punish Mytilene! Or Miletus! And what good would it do me to take them – I would only punish the very men of the city who are treated so ruthlessly by the tyrants I wish to be rid of!' He looked at his host. 'Why are you Greeks so rapacious?'
Hipponax laughed. 'I suspect that the tyrants merely do as they think a Persian would do, lord.'
The satrap frowned. 'I hope that this is humour, my friend. No Persian lord would behave this way. This is weakness. These are rulers who do not trust themselves, nor do they tell the truth to their people or their king.'
Hipponax shrugged and looked at his wife. 'Is it really so bad?' he asked.
The satrap raised a cup of wine. 'It is. And Hippias – this former tyrant – has been at me again and again to take Athens back for him. What does the Great King want with these yokels?' His eyes crossed mine. I lowered my eyes as slaves do, but I couldn't help bridling at the term 'yokel' from a barbarian, even if he was handsome as a god.
Hipponax nodded at me. 'That young man has been a warrior in the west, haven't you, lad? That's a spear scar on your thigh. Go ahead – you may speak.'
I was behind Archilogos's couch, and I was caught with a pitcher of water in my hands – hardly the most warlike pose. 'Yes, master,' I said.
Artaphernes smiled at me. 'You fought for Athens?' he asked.
'I am a Plataean,' I answered. 'We are allies of Athens.'
Hipponax laughed. He meant no harm, I think, but his laugh hurt me. 'See how the westerners are? That's a town smaller than our temple-complex claiming to be the "ally" of Athens, a town so small we could fit five of them inside Ephesus.'
Artaphernes dismissed me with a flick of his fingers. 'I have never heard of your Plataea,' he said. I don't think he meant it unkindly, but the gods were listening. I wish I could say I replied with something witty, or strong. Ha! Instead, I stood like a statue as he went on. 'However provincial Athens is, men here in the islands and on the coast look at the tyrants and talk of rebellion. They have never seen the wrath of the Great King, or how he disciplines rebellion. They are like children.' He drank. 'You know Aristagoras as well as I do. He has taken an embassy to Sparta and Athens asking for fleets and soldiers to raise rebellion against us. And farther from home, men like Miltiades of Athens foment war.'
I leaned forward at the mention of my hero. I hadn't heard his name in a year. It was as if I had been asleep.
'That warlord! What do we care for him? He's just a petty brigand.' Mistress was amused. 'A handsome brigand, I'll allow. A far better man than Aristagoras the windbag.'
'Miltiades has most of the Chersonese in his hand,' the Persian said.
'The Lydian Chersonese?' Mistress asked, alarmed.
Master laughed at her – not mocking, but honest laughter. 'Nothing to be worried about, my sweet. Miltiades has his lair in the Chersonese of the Bosporus – over by Byzantium, north of Troy.'
'He has more men and more ships each year,' the satrap continued, nodding. 'And he preys on us. Soon, I will need to mount an expedition to evict him from the Chersonese, I have so many complaints. But when I go against him, he will counter by pushing Samos or some other island into revolt. He spends silver like water. And these fool tyrants play into his hands!' He drank again. 'And yet – bah – why do I bore you with these matters of governance?'
All of that sounded like my Miltiades. A thumb in every wine bowl. And lots of silver.
Mistress smiled. 'Because we are your friends. And because friends ease each other's burdens. Surely, lord, you can just buy Miltiades? He worships money, or so I understand.'
The satrap shook his head and rolled over on his couch. I thought that his trousers looked ridiculous. Greek men – even Ionians – display their legs to show how hard they exercise. A man in trousers looked like some sort of effeminate clown, but otherwise, I thought him the best figure of a warrior I had ever seen. I understood why Archilogos was so eager to impress him.
He held out his hand for wine. I cut off another house slave and filled it for him, and he flashed me a smile. 'It is not Miltiades who really worries me,' he admitted. 'It is your windbag, Aristagoras of Miletus. My spies tell me he is to speak to the assembly in Athens.'
Hipponax yawned. 'Ephesus can defeat Athens without help from any of the other cities, if it comes to that,' he said.
Artaphernes shook his head. 'Don't be too sure,' he said. 'Their power is growing. Their confidence is growing. I do not want the westerners involved, if there is to be trouble in the islands.'
There was more of the same – indeed, an old man's memory being what it is, I'm not sure that I even have what they said in the right order. But Hipponax and Euthalia took the parts I have given them. They were supportive, loyal subjects of the Great King.
As the companion to Archilogos, I was excused a great many duties in the house, but I was smart enough to know that it was by willingness to work and not by arrogance that I would gain the alliance of the other slaves and the steward. So I put my master to bed and then returned to the andron to help tidy up. It wasn't bad work – there was plenty of wine going around among the slaves, and as long as we didn't chip the ceramics or dent the metalware, Master didn't seem to care much what we did. I took tray after tray down to the kitchens, and then I helped the girls wash the cups in hot water, which was what Cook liked to see.
My young master had a sister I hadn't met yet, named Briseis after Achilles' 'companion'. People choose the oddest names for children, eh, honey? Greece is full of Cassandras – what kind of name is that for a girl? Anyway, her companion was Penelope, the same as my sister, and I met her that night. Penelope was just my age, had red hair like Miltiades and was of the same mind as me – to do some extra work and be seen as a help. So we washed cups and drank wine together, and we talked of our lives. She wasn't born a slave, either. Her father sold her when her family lost their farm. He still came and saw her, though.