13
It was bound to happen. I may have been foolish enough to imagine that Darius would forget Athens, or that his reach wasn’t long enough to punish the one Greek state powerful enough to contest with him — but I was wrong. Darius never forgot Athens, and as the dead of Lade rotted on the sea floor and the timbers of broken ships washed ashore to become firewood, as a year passed, and another, and Artaphernes sought to heal the wounds Datis had caused and return his satrapy to peace and prosperity, so Datis, ever eager for power and the praise of his uncle, raised ships and soldiers for a new expedition. His intention was to do to Athens what he perceived Athens had done to Sardis — to sack the Acropolis and burn her temples.
For whatever reason, Datis bragged of his intentions. So when ships docked at Ephesus and Tyre, and on the blackened quay where men were rebuilding Miletus, they saw the evidence of the gathering of a mighty fleet, and they heard tell of a regiment of Sakai, the bronze-clad heavy archers from the steppes of Colchis, and two regiments of Medes, marching all the way from Persepolis to bolster the Lydians and Carians in Datis’s army.
I will digress here to say that I have always thought that Datis planned to take Sardis for himself, and then to knock Darius from his throne and make himself King of Kings. Such has always been the Persian way — the war among the strong makes the winner stronger still. Not unlike the Greek way, come to think of it. Very like the competition to be first man in Athens, if you ask me.
Miltiades told me of the Sakai and the Medes while lying at my side, eating figs. ‘Paramanos brought me that titbit,’ he said, ‘from a messenger who came over the passes from our friend the Jew of Sardis.’
I admit that even there, in the safety of Attica, far from Sardis, I felt a frisson of fear. ‘So Datis is really coming,’ I asked. And I thought of Artaphernes — and Briseis.
As if my thought could be translated into concrete reality, Miltiades put a small ivory tube in my hand. ‘Another friend sent me this,’ he said. ‘Datis really is coming.’
I opened the tube and took out a scroll, and my heart hammered in my chest. For the first time in days I forgot Euphoria, her father, my farm and my forge. In my hand was a slip of paper in Briseis’s handwriting.
Datis sails after the great feast of Artemis. 660 ships, 12,000 men.
Tell Doru that I live and so does my brother.
Tell him that our Heraclitus took his life after Lade.
I couldn’t breathe. ‘I thought her brother was dead too,’ Miltiades said. ‘Now he commands ships in the Great King’s fleet. He is becoming a great man, among the Greeks who serve Persia.’
I barely paid him a thought. ‘Heraclitus is dead,’ I said. I wept.
But in my head, I rejoiced, because Briseis was not dead, and she had written to me.
‘He is.’ Miltiades rolled on his back, drank wine from the kylix that was circulating and flipped the lees across the room, where they rang on the rim of one of my bronze water urns. He cared little for Heraclitus, or any philosophy. ‘If they come,’ he asked carefully, ‘can Athens count on Plataea?’
Suddenly, his addition to my hunting party was put in perspective. But he had, at least, waited two days to ask his question.
A hush fell over our part of the party, and I could see Aristides, who lay with Sophanes, lean towards me, the better to hear me.
I laughed grimly. ‘Unlike Athens,’ I said, ‘Plataea is a democracy. We would have to vote to stand with you against the Medes.’ Then, seeing their faces, I shook my head. ‘You know we will stand with you. Plataea exists because Athens stands ready to march on Thebes. We are not ingrates.’
Aristides rolled off his couch and clapped my shoulder. ‘I told you he was a man of honour,’ he said. Perhaps not his best-thought-out compliment.
Miltiades looked serious. ‘This won’t be about honour,’ he said. ‘This will be about survival.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘Forget Briseis, boy. She is not for you. Marry this girl, have strong sons and help me save Greece. That is your fate.’
Just for a moment, I hated him. Then I caught sight of Euphoria at her loom. She was chatting with Lykon — but she flashed me a smile.
In telling of politics, I threaten to forget Euphoria, which is unfair to her. She adorned some dinners, and played the kithara for us, and she and Pen and Leda sang together. I still remember them, their heads together, singing the Paean of Apollo in a way that haunted me, their high voices like the Muses themselves, and I mean no hubris, one voice brushing lightly on another in the heart of the music.
And there was a small feast — I think it was a local peasant feast, for Pan, who is a peasant god from the old days and almost unknown here. In normal times, I don’t think the household would have been allowed a feast, but with so many important guests — and more came in, including Themistocles, of all men!
He took my hand and embraced me. ‘Well met, Plataean,’ he said.
I considered a sharp reply — but again, the dignity of my elders restrained me. So I returned his embrace and we were reconciled.
Aleitus gathered his people and took us all on a cold picnic to the shrine of Pan in the hills, fifteen stades away.
The festival was a small thing, and had never seen so many rich, famous men. But Miltiades refused to allow the ‘big men’ to wreck it. This is where his touch was gold. He threw himself into dances and drank harsh new red wine with shepherds and farmers, and Aristides and Themistocles had no choice but to join him. I think they were better for it.
We sacrificed a bull to Pan, the richest sacrifice any man there could remember, and we added a hundred voices to the hymns. As darkness fell we gathered wood for a bonfire that was the largest I think I ever saw, because after a week of agon, manly competition, even gathering firewood was something at which every man sought to excel. The farmers and peasants laughed to be waited on by Euphoria and Penelope and Leda and half a dozen other gentlewomen.
When the dancing started, it was clear that on this hilltop the women danced with the men, and Aleitus allowed it, and so our maidens and matrons joined the ring of women, and we saw them dance — a rare sight in those days and rarer today. I remember spinning Euphoria in the middle of the circle when it was my turn, and her face grinning up into mine. And when the men and women went off into the dark, I envied them. I tried to kiss her at the edge of the fire, and she laughed and slipped under my arm and vanished. A few moments later, she was with Pen and Leda, giggling. Pen waved at me — and I could not take offence. Aristocrats’ daughters do not lose their virginity on the cold grass.
Briseis would have, though.
While I was thinking on Euphoria and Briseis — their similarities and differences — Miltiades came up and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Marry her quick, before she sees how old and ugly you are,’ he said.
I tried to smile, but I couldn’t. She was talking to Lykon, who was, I fear, both younger and prettier than me. But even as my heart began to grow warm, Lykon pointed at me across the fire — and when his gaze met mine, he smiled.
I smiled back. Hard to be jealous of a boy so open-hearted as to plead your suit for you. Which I still think he might have been doing.
‘Cleitus has gone into exile,’ Miltiades said.
‘That sounds good,’ I said. My thoughts were elsewhere.
‘Not for you, Plataean. He swore at the Temple of Athena to have your head. I have witnesses. He went into voluntary exile to have a freer hand in arranging his revenge and my downfall. He’s hiring mercenaries from all over Greece — masterless men and wandering warriors.’
I laughed. I could deal with Cleitus much more easily than I could deal with Euphoria. The firelight played on her golden hair and turned it orange, and now she and Pen and Leda were dancing together, a woman’s dance that moved the hips and shoulders. Euphoria swayed her hips in a way that suggested there was fire in her, and I had to look away. My eyes met Miltiades’.