I translated for Bulis, who shrugged. It was a shrug of contempt. ‘Only militia and slaves huddle together,’ he said. ‘Our men keep their places in the line.’
Quite a long speech for him.
I’d like to say that the Persians were so impressed with us that they stayed home and didn’t invade Greece. But we all know that’s not what happened. Instead, Mayu made it clear that he thought our dance was pretty, but nothing to do with war, and over food and wine, Shahvir explained to me that Marathon had been a fluke caused by the unreliability of some of their Greek subjects.
Well.
Bulis sat in silence, and Brasidas asked for translations, and sometimes smiled. Sparthius looked angry, and drank too much. I suspect we were sullen — I was surprised at how hostile the Anûšiya were, and as we walked home, Cyrus apologised.
‘They are not gentlemen. Merely warriors. I see what your dance teaches.’ He shrugged. ‘I suspect in time, Mayu will see, too.’
We cooled our heels for two weeks. It was a glorious time, and if I hadn’t been pining for Babylon, I suspect it might be one of the favourite times in my life. Everything at Susa was an adventure, and I tasted saffron, drank rare wine, eyed noble beauties, and saw the most beautiful horses I’d ever seen.
Really, Persia is a fine place.
A little less than two weeks after we’d arrived, Brasidas disappeared. He left a note to say that he was going to visit a friend. Bulis and Sparthius looked. . knowing.
And told me nothing.
A few hours after he left us, Hector brought me a message he’d received from a slave.
‘A Greek slave,’ he said.
It invited me to a meeting at a time and place. There was no signature.
I have been a slave, and that gives me a natural tendency to caution in these matters. Besides, after our somewhat hostile reception by the Anûšiya, I had become aware that I was sometimes followed.
I shrugged. ‘No,’ I said.
The next day, a helot — I’d know those Messenian features anywhere — plucked at my elbow in the Foreigners’ Courtyard of the palace.
I ignored him.
‘Just come with me?’ he asked.
‘No!’ I said. It had to be a provocation. They’d pretend there was a slave revolt, or ask for money — we all knew our turn with the Great King was coming, and we all knew about Xerxes’ little ways. He tested his guests. And then killed a few.
‘My master asks to see you,’ he said.
‘Who is your master?’ I asked.
‘Are you dense?’ he spat, in a very unslave-like way. ‘Demaratus!’
I presented myself to the former King of Sparta in an olive grove six stades south of the city. His helot had taken me out of the palace grounds to a brothel. I chose a girl — none of your business — and was escorted to a room, from which I was then escorted out through another door to a waiting donkey, and we rode out through one of the military gates past the great bridge. That’s all I remember of the route.
Demaratus, contrary to the propaganda of the last few years, was a handsome, older man, did not have a hunchback or a limp, and looked like what he was — one of the greatest aristocrats in the world. He was richly dressed, even in an olive grove. Brasidas sat under a tree, with a scroll, looking for all the world like an Athenian gentleman reading philosophy.
I didn’t bow. He wasn’t my king. But I did present my wax tablet. ‘From Gorgo,’ I said. ‘Wife of-’
Demaratus laughed. ‘I know whose wife Gorgo is,’ he said. ‘Are you ready to see the Great King?’
I believe I shrugged.
‘I have spent a week flattering him into letting the two fool Spartiates live,’ he said. ‘The murder of his father’s envoys was an incredible insult at the time. Even today, it is widely remembered.’
‘And Aristides?’ I asked.
‘Athens is doomed,’ the former King of Sparta said. ‘Everyone in this city lost someone on that beach. Athens will be destroyed. All the omens foretell it. But I would see Sparta saved.’
I frowned. ‘Aristides will be killed?’ I asked.
Demaratus looked at Brasidas reading. ‘If I have my way with the Great King, all of you will be loaded with presents and sent home,’ he said. ‘He is. . mercurial. Curiously not in control of himself, for a man with such power. Oddly in need of the good opinions of others.’ Demaratus shook his head. ‘He is not Darius, but then, almost no one is.’
I must have looked surprised. He raised his eyebrows.
‘Not what you expected, Plataean?’ He shrugged. ‘I can never go back to Sparta. I was treated worse than a helot. But I will not be an agent of my city’s destruction.’ He waved the tablet at me. ‘With your permission, sir?’
I stood back and watched him turn away. He went to Brasidas, and they talked for a moment — there was a loud snap — and then both of them were looking at something. The former king nodded.
‘I broke your tablet — foolish of me. I’ll send a new one with you. For Gorgo, you understand.’ He nodded.
I nodded in turn. It’s not always good to tell people everything you have guessed.
‘May I ask one more question?’ I asked.
He laughed. ‘Plataean, I am retired — an old man. I have nothing but time.’
‘Is there anything we can do to induce the Great King to make peace?’ I asked.
He didn’t hesitate. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The coin is tossed. The soldiers are ordered and the fleets are gathered. Your arrival at this time is viewed as a piece of foolish effrontery. A year or two ago — perhaps. Now — if it were not for me, you’d have been refused, seized as enemies, and crucified.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps not you. Artapherenes got you a safe conduct by name. That means something here.’
As always, Artapherenes saved my life.
I nodded. ‘I never thought we could make peace,’ I said. ‘But it seemed worth a try.’
Demaratus scratched his beard. ‘I truly doubt that Xerxes can move an army from here to Corinth and then seize Corinth — much less reach Lacedaemon,’ he said. ‘But Athens will fall. Sparta. . can hold.’
‘I hope you are an ill prophet,’ I said.
‘Everything has come about as I told that fool Cleomenes when he first started to challenge Persia.’ He shrugged. ‘I was a King of Sparta. War is my business. Without the direct intervention of the gods, Greece cannot stand against Persia.’ He shook his head. ‘Aristides has made himself very popular with the magi. His knowledge of Greek and Aegyptian philosophy will probably save his head. The magi are very powerful here.’
Brasidas got up. ‘I’ll go back with him,’ he said.
The former King of Sparta smiled. ‘It has been good to see you.’
They did not embrace. I had decided that Brasidas was his son, or perhaps his lover — I revised that.
We went back to another gate, led by the helot, who took me into the kitchen of the brothel, where I emerged into the common room to be heckled by a pair of Babylonian Jews for riding the best girl for three hours. I bought them wine and we were friends.
Brasidas watched it all with interest. On the way back to the palace compound, he shook his head. ‘So now I’ve been in a brothel,’ he said.
This from a man of thirty-five.
The Great King summoned us.
We dressed carefully.
The summons was to me, as the ‘Ambassador of the Greeks’.
Aristides as my mage.
The Spartans, as ‘heralds of the Spartans’.
These titles were settled by the court chamberlain, and I read into them that Aristides was not to be killed — because his being Athenian would never make the court calendar. In fact, despite being in every way the senior member of our party, he was being dismissed as a functionary.
But there is my name, in good Avestan — Airyaman Navazhar, of Palatay in Jawan. Noble-minded light-bringer — that’s me.
It was Mayu who appeared to lead us to the Great King. He shook his head at our naked legs and offered me his own trousers.