Bulis and Sparthius were as curious as cats, prowling among the last hemp nets of cargo, unfolding a linen boat sail, and inspecting the equipment of my marines. I had eight men in each ship and a pair of professional archers, and then I had Ka and his six men — all good archers, and also willing deck crewmen.
Aristides owned his own ships — not just one, but two, big, long, narrow sharks. The very height of Athenian shipbuilding, which, back then, six years after Marathon, was just developing into the very best in the world. He had his own oarsmen and his own followers who turned out as marines. The splendour of their equipment utterly eclipsed that of my men, who looked merely practical — although through the influence of Brasidas, my men had matching rust-red cloaks and matching red, black and white horsehair crests. The Spartans are great ones for uniformity of equipment.
But if Aristides wanted to tell the voters of the assembly what they were doing when they exiled him, the display of his two warships — only the very richest men could own warships — fully manned with citizen oarsmen whose wages he paid, and protected by marines who were his ‘gentlemen’. .
Let me pause in my story for a moment. I, in fact, owned three warships and a round ship. Those of you who have been listening know that I didn’t pay for any of them except the merchanter. I took them from other men. When I took slaves, I often used them as oarsmen for six months or a year in lieu of the price of their freedom. I have been a pirate for most of my life — a pirate whose actions were often sanctioned by Athens or one of the other states. But Aristides was a true aristocrat, who spent his fortune on the good of his city, sponsoring athletic contests, contributing to temples, paying for the chorus in the Dionysian plays, and buying warships.
Themistocles didn’t come to gloat. But Phrynicus did, and he was one of the orator’s closest friends. He came down to the beach and hugged me, and he gave Aristides a letter. They talked for some time, and in the end embraced.
I tried not to stare, but what I saw confirmed my notion that Aristides’ exile was, at some level, contrived.
I had Harpagos and Moire under me as trierarchs, and Megakles as the captain of the Swan. Aristides had Heraclides, one of my oldest mentors, as his second trierarch.
With five triremes and a stores ship, we were probably the most powerful squadron in the Aegean that summer, and the pity of it was that we were bound on nothing more profitable than an embassy to the Great King — and even I suspected that pillaging some Egyptian ships and a few Carthaginian or Tyrian freighters would not enhance our reception at Susa.
But as we ran along the coast of Euboea and east to Skyros, on the balmy summer zephyrs, the sea was full of potential prizes, and my oarsmen looked at me as I stood amidships — watching a pair of Carthaginian biremes bound for the Hellespont, watching a Tyrian merchantman wallow in the soft breeze, downwind and easy prey.
When they grumbled, I’d catch someone’s eye and point to the wreath of olive at the bow.
I had in mind a little scouting on my way to Tarsus. In fact, all the men who could navigate were scratching their heads. Tarsus is south of Rhodos and around the corner from Cyprus and beyond.
On the beach below the temple on the rock — I never caught its name — Aristides and I laid out our plans for our officers.
‘Our first intention is to see if Xerxes is really building a canal behind Mount Athos,’ Aristides said bluntly. ‘Second, to see if he is bridging the Hellespont.’
Bulis’s face gave nothing away, but Sparthius laughed. ‘So — we’re suddenly hoplites in an Athenian naval expedition?’ he asked.
Aristides got along well with both of my Spartans — of course he did. He admired their way of life. So he shook his head. ‘Nothing of the sort. On the one hand, we all learn about how advanced the Great King’s plans are; on the other hand, we look at his defences. The sailing season is young. We have more than a month to reach Tarsus and start inland.’
I have to mention that, before I knew that Aristides was coming, I had made the plan to go to Susa or Persepolis via Tarsus. There were a number of reasons for this, but the most important was simple distance. It is much easier to travel by sea than by road. Most Greeks going to the Great King went to Tarsus, which placed a man almost two-thirds of the way to Persia, or at least to Babylon.
I had also dispatched letters — to Artapherenes, to Briseis, and to my friend Cyrus, asking for letters of safe conduct and permission to use the messenger stations on the Royal Road.
When Aristides announced his intention of joining us, I told him of my plans, and he agreed.
‘I had no notion of safe conducts,’ he said.
And that was that.
The sailing weather was perfect. But keeping my men together — that was harder. The voyage offered no chance of heavy profit, but once news of our intention to scout the Great King’s preparations made its way down to the oar benches, every man knew that we were running risks.
So that night on Skyros, when we were done briefing the officers, I assembled the oarsmen — all of them — and gave a speech. I can’t quote it — but I told them the truth. I told them that we were the first ships of a free Greek navy. That we had to do what we were doing for every free man and woman in all of Greece. And that it was just as important for them to behave themselves well in Asian ports as it was for them to row well as we slipped along the Thracian coast.
When I was done, no one cheered, but they walked off into the darkness in a sombre mood.
Aristides shook his head. ‘You could be a fine orator,’ he said. ‘Your voice is high pitched, but you make men listen.’
Bulis lay on the sand by my fire, his head on his hands. ‘You believe that?’ he asked me.
‘Yes,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Do you think we can defeat the Great King?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’I said.
‘Good. So do I. So do all the Spartans. It is the other Greeks for whom I have concerns.’
We spent the next night at sea. We had the store ship, and she had a bricked hearth for cooking. It is not easy to feed six hundred men out of one hearth, but with cold meat and bread, we got them fed.
We laid to for as long as it took to get a good rest and get food. I spent the entire time worrying about that fire on Swan. Fire, at sea, is not man’s friend.
Then we ran almost due north. I had the stars as a guide, but these waters were relatively unfamiliar to me. Not so for Harpagos or Moire, who had sailed to Thrace for slaves and hides and everything else all the years I’d been gone. I followed the Pole Star as the Carthaginians taught, and in the dawn, Sekla slapped my back and called me the king of navigators as Mount Athos rose out of the sea, due north.
Our warships stood off, well over the horizon from any but a watcher on Athos’s highest peak, or the gods themselves, and the tubby Swan bore in as if sailing for the Chersonese. We sailed parallel and a little farther out to sea — a standard trick of piracy when scouting a potentially profitable coast.
We didn’t have to close the Athos peninsula to see the Persian preparations. Megakles did, because he’s an excellent sailor and a daring man, but before the mainland was more than a smudge, we could see the shipping all along the coast — small boats, round ships and galleys.
Perhaps fifty sails in view. For the wilderness of Thrace, that was. . incredible.
We swept north on a favourable wind for Thassos, and I began to have real apprehensions about the Persian invasion.
As in — was it imminent?
Nor did I any longer think our five ships were the strongest squadron in the Aegean.
We had our sails down as soon as we began to see warships, and we rowed — oarsmen cursing — under bare poles. Aristides had a different rig from mine and unstepped his masts.