Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [63]
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,