Xerxes nodded. And tugged his beard and looked again to his right — and then to the left. I could not see who stood on the left.
He straightened himself and leaned forward. ‘I do not concern myself with the impieties of the foreigners,’ he said. ‘It is not for me — Great King, King over Kings — to act like the Lacedaemonians, who, by killing the heralds, have broken the only laws which all men hold in common. As I hold you in contempt for such barbarism, so I will never be guilty of it myself.’ He leaned forward more. ‘I will make war on you, and wipe you from the face of the world, and I will not, by killing you, allow the gods to let you escape from the consequences of your outrageous impiety.’
I confess I still think it was a noble answer — for all that it was composed by Demaratus, as a slap at the policies of Cleomenes. That is how it was — four thousand stades from Athens, we saw Spartan diplomacy play out in the throne room of Darius.
Xerxes motioned at the Spartans — dismissal. He wasn’t angry. But he ignored them, and when a pair of guards motioned for them to leave — they turned, and left. Both were in shock. They were prepared to die with dignity, but ill prepared, I think, to be treated as contemptuous wrongdoers.
They were evicted.
The Great King turned his liquid brown eyes on me for the first time.
‘And you,’ he said. ‘You were a slave?’ he asked.
I smiled. ‘I was,’ I agreed.
‘And you have saved my friend Artapherenes from death — and saved the entire delegation of noble Persians travelling to Tyre in Libya.’ He waved. ‘Why have you brought me no gift?’ He meant — I seemed to have more sense.
I bowed again. ‘My lord, I am not rich enough to give you any more of a gift than I gave when I saved your envoys.’
He looked away, and smiled, and looked back. ‘You sound more like the other Greeks I know — a ready answer for everything. Will you serve me?’
I shook my head. ‘As a man — in any way my lord commands. As a Greek? Never.’
Cyrus — just at the edge of my peripheral vision — gave a nod, and I knew I’d made a good answer.
Xerxes smiled — he was charming, for a tyrant — and nodded. ‘Strong words — the better to negotiate. Isn’t that the Greek way?’
He looked off to his left, and I saw a man — I’d seen him at a distance in the Foreigners’ Courtyard, surrounded by soldiers. Mardonius — the king’s most trusted counsellor and the most open advocate for war with Greece.
Now, at a signal from the king, he came forward to stand beneath the throne. He bowed low — but did not quite throw himself on the floor. He wore long robes of white and red, with red trousers. He was heavily muscled, like an athlete, and yet I found him faintly ridiculous in his trousers — some habits of thought are difficult to overcome.
‘What level of power or wealth will buy you, Greek?’ he asked. His Persian was different from the king’s. He spoke a northern dialect of Persian. He was one of the few courtiers to wear a sword.
The guardsmen were still standing with their spears in both hands, points aimed at me, like men hunting wild boar on the flanks of Kitharon. But I truly doubted that Xerxes would kill an accredited ambassador, more especially one with a safe conduct.
I bowed again. ‘Great King, I am neither a wealthy nor a powerful man — so there is no point in offering me such things.’
Behind me, Aristides snorted.
Xerxes had to know that Aristides was the true ambassador — the man of wealth and power. Yet he ignored him. I suspect that Xerxes’ hatred of Athens blinded him as effectively as my notions of men in trousers blinded me.
Aristides leaned forward and very quietly, in Greek, whispered, ‘Mardonius is going to seek to trick us into something — an impiety, or an outrage.’
I could feel that, as well.
By one of those ironies so dear to the gods, Mardonius was in the same position that Cleomenes had been with the Persian ambassadors. He wanted war — and if he could arrange to kill me, he’d have put the Great King in a position from which he could not withdraw. I saw this — a little too late, but better late than never — as Aristides spoke.
Mardonius bowed — again — to the king. ‘May I question this Greek, Great King?’ he asked.
Xerxes smiled at me. ‘Be my guest.’ He sat back and a slave put a cup in his hand.
Mardonius nodded affably at me. ‘Is it true you were born a slave?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘No.’
Someone had given him the wrong information.
‘You were a slave to Artapherenes,’ he said.
I bowed — again. ‘No, my lord. My lord is misinformed.’
I thought he’d explode. His tanned skin flushed with blood so fast I suspected it would burst from his eyes.
‘You have been a pirate?’ he began again.
I ignored him. ‘Great King, King over Kings, I am here as a representative of the peoples of Plataea and other places in Greece, to speak of matters of peace and war. I am not here to discuss my personal life with your servants, however charming.’
All throughout the hall, there was a rush of muttering like the first gust of wind in leaves.
But the Persians are brave men, and they detest cowardice as everyone does. Cultures are different, and my feeling, since youth, has been that they mistake our Greek love of talk for a form of fear — they think that our negotiation and our business dealings and tendency towards both argument and compromise are signs of weakness.
And we, in turn, think they are a nation of slaves, heedlessly obedient to the whim of one tyrant.
I doubt we, either of us, see the other clearly, but one thing I knew from having served Artapherenes, and that was that the Persians prized straight talk, bluntness and boldness.
At any rate, the mumbling went on, and Xerxes raised three fingers, and the hush that fell was absolute.
‘Yet,’ Xerxes observed — genuinely curious, I think — ‘yet you have been a slave. You admitted it to me.’
I nodded. ‘Great King, out beyond the rule of laws that makes your empire great, there is a wide world with no law. If a man is to sail the seas and trade, he must needs run the risk of slavery and death. I have been a slave twice.’
‘No man born a slave can speak in this assembly, and to do so invites a charge of impiety and sacrilege in the king’s sacred presence.’ Mardonius was a hothead, I could see.
I thought of Heraklitus and his views on slavery. I managed a smile, even though I was growing afraid that Aristides and I were to be the sacrifices at this feast. ‘My lord, I was not born a slave, nor am I one now as I address your king. Yet to us, lord, you are but a slave. You do what your king orders you — every one of you. You have no assembly in which to vote and not one of you plays a part in the creation of your laws. To a Greek. .’ I shrugged, knowing from the rumbles that I had offended nearly everyone present. But the voice of Heraklitus in my head pressed on, and I said his words. ‘And — taken another way — what man here present is anything but a slave — to time, to the gods, to his own appetites and desires?’
Aristides put a hand on my shoulder.
I braced for the spear point. But I’d rather be slaughtered as a lion than a lamb, and I had a feeling that Xerxes was a man for a big gesture.
Xerxes sat back — and smiled. ‘Artapherenes chooses his friends well,’ he said. ‘Go back to Greece and tell them to submit and I will be merciful. But my armies are formed, and my will is set. I will march.’
I bowed, but I stood my ground. ‘Merciful, Great King? To Sparta — and Athens?’
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘For them, nothing but salt and ash. I vow — before the gods, and may my crown be taken from my head-’
An older man emerged from the right of the throne. ‘Stop! Great King, I beg you not to swear.’