Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [138]
Heraclitus grunted. He raised his face, and his tears showed in the firelight. ‘The logos is but words,’ he said. ‘But words can take on the breath of life. Freedom is a word that breathes. Ask any man who has been a slave. Is it not so, Doru?’
‘Indeed, master,’ I said.
‘Every man is slave to another,’ Artaphernes said.
‘No,’ Heraclitus said. ‘Your ancestors knew better.’
Artaphernes let anger master him. ‘You have been held up to me as a wise man,’ he said. ‘As long as I have come here, men have told me of the wisdom of Heraclitus. Yet here I stand, surrounded by the stinking corpses of your friends. I offer to preserve your city, and you prate to me of freedom. If my men storm Ephesus, who among you will be free? Have you ever seen a city stormed?’
Heraclitus shrugged. ‘My wisdom is nothing,’ he said. ‘But I am wise enough to know that war is a spirit that can never be put back in a wine jar once released – like the spirits of strife in Pandora’s box. War is the king and master of all strife. This war will not end until everything it touches has been changed – some men will be made lords, and others will be made slaves. And when the world is broken and remade, then we can make peace.’
Artaphernes took a deep breath. ‘Do you prophesy?’ he asked.
‘When the god is on me. Sometimes I see the future in the logos. But the future does not always come to pass.’
‘Listen to my prophecy then, wise man. I will come in two days with fire and sword, and I predict that submission would be the wisest course.’ Artaphernes remounted his horse. ‘I desire to show mercy. Please allow me to do so.’
Heraclitus shook his head. ‘Every woman whose husband lies here will demand vengeance,’ he said.
‘And their vengeance will be to spread their legs for my soldiers?’ Artaphernes sighed. ‘There is no Greek army in the world that can stand against the Great King. Go – use your head, philosopher.’
Heraclitus was wise enough to bow, instead of saying what came to his lips.
Cyrus came over to me. ‘You are a fool,’ he said. ‘Ten times over. Why do I like you?’ He embraced me. ‘Do you need money?’ he asked, with typical Persian generosity.
I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I have my loot from Sardis,’ I added, with the foolishness of youth.
‘Don’t let me find you at the end of my spear,’ he said. ‘Walk in the light,’ he called as he mounted, and then he followed his lord and they rode away into the darkness.
And just like that, the enemy left us with our dead.
The enemy. Let me tell you, friends – I never hated Artaphernes, not when he was ten times deadlier to me than he was that night. He was a man. Hah! It is fashionable to hate the Medes now. Well, many are better than any Greek you’ll find, and most of the men who tell you what they did at Plataea or Mycale are full of shit. Persians are men who never lie, who are loyal to their friends and love their wives and children.
Aristagoras, now. I hated him.
We walked down to the river together. We had no choice, because Heraclitus and I had to carry Archi, who was unconscious – so deeply gone that I had begun to fear that the teacher had hit him too hard.
We only carried him a stade, but it gave me a taste of what the slaves had endured all evening.
When we got to the water’s edge, I realized that I had no plan past that point. As I stood there, my hand in the small of my back like an old man, panting from the exertion, I wondered where Herk could be and what I would do if he didn’t come.
Heraclitus sat in the grass, catching his breath. He was not young, and he had stood his ground in the phalanx – or the mob, to be honest – and then helped carry the bodies. Now he was done. Too tired to move, or even be wise.
I left them in the false dawn, cold and desperate, and walked the riverbank a stade to the south and then back again.