The Ionia Sanction (5 page)

“Me? No.”

“Got a problem with your pier allocation?”

“No.”

“Other captains bitching about dock space again? Oh Zeus, I hate that.”

“No one said anything to me.”

“If the street kids are stealing your cargo, that’s your problem.”

“I don’t have any problems with street kids.”

“Anyone drowned?”

“No.”

“Your ship sank?”

“No.”

“So you got no problems?”

“I need—”

“Good. Then don’t bother me till I’ve eaten.” He turned back to the brazier and did his best to ignore me.

I stood and watched him stir the sizzling food. The aroma overwhelmed me. Eventually I had to ask, “That smells great. What is it?”

He said without looking up, “Eel in garos sauce, with some extra spices. My own recipe.”

I licked my lips. “Hey, you know what would go well with that?”

He looked up. “No, what?”

“Neither do I. I thought you’d know. Wait a moment.”

I stepped out of the alcove, and ran through the narrow alleys that squeezed between the warehouses and the Emporion, which divides the docklands from the town. On the other side was the larger of the two agoras in Piraeus. I searched among the stalls until I found a small amphora of spiced wine from Chios, and a chunk of goat cheese.

I carried these back to the harbormaster in time to see him ladle the eel into a bowl. I held up the wine and cheese and said, “Share?” I jiggled the amphora to show it was full.

He looked at the amphora suspiciously. “What wine is that? I won’t touch bad stuff.”

“Chian.”

He nodded. “But you leave the amphora behind, all right?”

“Sure, no problem. I’m Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, of the deme Alopece,” I said, naming my father and my family’s district.

“Orbanos, son of Polymenotos—may the bastard rot in Hades—of the deme Piraeus. Take a seat, Nicolaos.”

“There isn’t one.”

He pointed to a packing box that was too high to be comfortable. I broke the cheese while he halved the eel into a second bowl, then reached behind him to pull out two cups. He spat in each and rubbed his finger round to get the dust out before putting them on another packing crate. I levered the wax plug out of the neck of the amphora with my knife and poured for us both.

We held up our cups.

“Ships and women.”

“Athena confound our enemies.”

Orbanos sipped, and then sipped again. “Not a bad vintage,” he conceded. “The fenugreek really comes through on the aftertaste, don’t it? Maybe one part in fifty seawater, maybe two parts?” He swirled the wine in the cup. “This could cellar.” Orbanos looked at me with something approaching respect. “I see you know something about wine.”

If it was good, it was a fluke, because I didn’t know the first thing. I’d merely bought the most expensive amphora I could find. Pericles had given me a large bag of coins for expenses, and I had no objection to spending his money.

We reached for our steaming bowls. The eel was hot enough to burn my fingers as I picked up a chunk coated in garos sauce and small flecks of extra spices. I put it to my lips, wondering what a rough-looking man like Orbanos might have produced.

It was brilliant. I had my doubts about Orbanos as a harbormaster, but as a cook he was first-class. I began to shovel in the food. Orbanos ate delicately, picking a small piece with his fingers, and taking his time over each mouthful.

As I chewed I said, “This is delicious, Orbanos. How did you learn to cook like this?”

“I was a sailor in my younger days, saw a lot of the world. Any port we laid over at, I’d try the local food, anything different. Got to be a hobby with me. I talked to the cooks and learned their recipes. I passed on what I learned in one place to guys in another, and I always tried everything for myself.”

“Have you thought about becoming a cook yourself?”

He snorted. “I’d rather swallow anchovies than waste my time cooking for men who can’t tell goat meat from a decent tuna. The only place you can get work as a cook is in the taverns. By the time the customers order food, they’re so drunk they’ll eat whatever the pigs turned down. I’ve even seen unscrupulous innkeepers serve rat and call it a traditional local dish, and the idiots ate it.”

“Maybe you should start your own place, purely for eating?”

He thought about it for a moment, but said, “Nah, it’d never catch on. If a man wants to eat out, he visits a friend.”

“Write a book then. Tell other people how to cook this delicious food.”

“A book about cooking? Who in their right mind would want something like that?” Orbanos belched. “So, what do you want with me?”

“I’m searching for a man. He left on a boat that was here, the other day—”

“No there wasn’t.”

I blinked in surprise. “There wasn’t?”

“Look, if you’re going to turn up here asking questions, at least get the terms right. We don’t allow boats to dock here, only ships.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You don’t
know
?”

“Not about boats … ships. I’ve never been on a boat or a ship in my life.”

Orbanos dropped his empty bowl on the ground in shock, where it clattered. “Poseidon’s nuts! You, an Athenian, never rowed for the navy?”

“No, but I was an ephebe in the army. Does that count?”

He spat in the dirt. “No, it don’t. Can’t stomach those useless bloody army fools. Show me your hands.”

I held out my hands.

“Not that way, you dolt. Turn ’em over.”

Orbanos inspected my palms and fingers and grimaced. “Not a proper callus on ’em. In my day lad we fought the Persians on ships—our ships—in the navy. You know what I mean?”

“I don’t care about—” I saw the expression on his face. “Er … yes, of course.”

“It was us common men beat the Persians, lad, ’cause a hundred and seventy men pulling hard, and a steersman who knows his business, can put a ship’s ram in an enemy before the dozy bastards can blink.
Pulling.
Getting calluses on our hands, like you haven’t got.” He thrust his hands out at me. Horrible, misshapen things. The fingers were curled in on themselves. The palms were a solid mass of … well, he said callus, but I would have called it scar tissue. “Now those are the hands of a man who fought for his city,” he said with pride. Then his eyes narrowed. “You’re not the son of a wealthy man. Are you?”

“My father’s a sculptor.”

Orbanos relaxed. “One of us, then. A poor man.”

“He’s not rich,” I said.

“Good. The rich are trash, the only decent man among them was Themistocles.”

“But he ran to the Persians.”

“Wouldn’t you run if your own city turned against you? We veterans know who gave us victory. He built the fleet. Before Themistocles, this place was a tiny village. Today, it’s the biggest port in Hellas.”

“And that’s how we beat the Persians?” I asked.

“Hades take me if I lie.”

He paused. Since the Lord of the Dead failed to carry him off, Orbanos took it as proof of his truthfulness. “There, you see? How old were you when the Persians came?”

“Uh, I was one year old,” I admitted reluctantly. Whenever I talked of such things to older men, or listened to them as they reminisced, I always felt a slight, irrational shame that they had fought and I had not.

To change the subject, I said, “You manage the ships, don’t you? You tell them where to tie up.”

“Twelve yesterday. Fourteen the day before that. You’ve got no idea how much business this place does.”

“I’m looking for a long, narrow one, not like a cargo ship, with a single row of oars.”

“You mean a pentekonter.”

“A what?”

“
Fifty
oars.
Pentekonta
. Twenty-five on each side. Katafrakta class.”

The question was in my expression.

He sighed. “Means she has a deck for men to walk upon. If she’d been only a hull with seats she’d have been an afrakta class. The pentekonter’s an old design but she’s good for lots of things.”

“What was this one?”

“Ship for hire, if you ask me. Not a trader, that’s for sure. The pentekonter hull’s not the best for trading, not enough cargo space.”

“Ship for hire?”

“Like a mercenary, only on water. You see?”

I saw. “Any idea where she came from?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Name of the captain?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Did they say what they were doing here?”

“Didn’t ask.”

I sighed. “Is there anything you do know?”

“She arrived two days ago. Rowed into harbor nice and quiet, not like some dumbass captains who come in under canvas and drop sail at the last moment—had a collision ’cause of that last month. This guy only wanted to touch long enough to off-load a couple of passengers. It was barely worth taking his docking fee.”

“
Couple?
”

“Man and a girl.”

A
girl
? “Tell me about the girl.”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Who pays attention to slaves?”

“How do you know she was a slave?”

“Because he stopped and asked me for directions to the slave market. Said he wanted to sell her. She didn’t look none too happy about it either.”

“She might have been captured in a pirate raid.”

“Then that would make her a slave, wouldn’t it?” he said, reasonably enough. “As long as she isn’t Athenian.”

“Was she?”

“Dunno.”

“Thanks, Orbanos, I’m off to find that slave girl.”

“You better hurry then.”

“Why?”

“The market was shut yesterday, but it opened this morning. She could be sold by now.”

4

You ought not to practice childish ways, since you are no longer that age.

The girl stood on the auction block, naked but for a sign hung around her neck, and I knew that before the day was out she would be raped. The sign gave her name, age, state of health, and certified that she was a legitimate slave and not a free citizen. The law of Athens says they have to hang the sign, but everyone knows the seller always lies about the age and health. There’s a saying, “No one ever sold a sick slave.”

The dealer pushed the sign to the side, the better for the crowd to view this particular asset. He had no need to lie this time.

The slave market is run in one corner of the large agora at Piraeus, between the corn exchange and the rest of the vegetables. I’d sprinted all the way there in time to hear the dealer declaim the girl’s virtues: young, pretty, virgin, in good health, the perfect spice to brighten any brothel. He was probably right.

She was perhaps fourteen, give or take a year, and she wasn’t too skinny, quite rounded in fact; light brown hair, slightly curly, thin face, large, scared eyes; but her posture was defiant, her back straight, chin up. The girl had the attention of every man there, all of whom were bored.

One man had a go at feeling her behind. She kicked out at him and swore. Men laughed. I’m sure I hadn’t known those words when I was her age.

The dealer tugged on her chain, and snarled something at her. She snarled back.

That stopped me. I didn’t speak Persian, but I knew it when I heard it, and she’d been speaking it. She seemed Hellene, but she spoke Persian. I pushed my way through the crowd, to the edge of the platform.

“What’s your name?” I asked. I could have read it off her sign, but I wanted to hear her say it.

“Asia,” she replied in perfect Greek. She looked down at me in contempt.

“You speak Persian?”

She replied with a rapid flow that was unintelligible to me.

“Listen,” I said to the slave dealer, “I need to talk to this girl.”

He was a large man with a bushy beard. He looked down at me from the platform and said, “Talk all you like until the auction starts, then you have to stand back. You a buyer?”

“How much do you expect she’ll go for?” I asked.

He told me. I winced. How could I hide this on the accounts? No, it wasn’t possible. Pericles would have me take the hemlock if I listed “purchase slave girl” under state expenses.

“No, I’m not a buyer.”

I said to the girl, “Listen, you came here on a boat—ship—two days ago, didn’t you?”

She nodded and said, “Yes.”

“The man who brought you, who is he?”

“He said his name was Araxes, but that’s a river in—”

“The Persian Empire. Yes, I know.” Why did everyone have to know more geography than me? “Who is he really?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how come he owned you?”

“He didn’t own me. I was taken. I’m not a slave, I was free, I shouldn’t be here.”

“Are you Athenian? If you’re Athenian I can get you freed.”

She hesitated. “No.”

“Where are you from, then?”

Silence. She didn’t open her mouth.

“Your name … Asia was a Titan, the daughter of Oceanos and Tethys, but it’s also the name we use for the land of the Persians. Is that where you’re from?”

Silence again, but I was sure of it. How else could she speak Persian? I didn’t even know if Asia was her real name; she may have adopted it, as Araxes surely had his.

“Listen, I’m an agent working on an investigation. What you know could help me.”

“What’s an agent?”

“Someone who carries out commissions for others.”

Her eyes brightened. “Can I hire you?”

I laughed. “No. How could you pay me? Do you know why this Araxes came to Athens?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you know what he intended to do?”

“To sell me.”

“Do you know what he did after?”

“How could I?”

“Why did he bring you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is Araxes your father?”

“
No!
”

That reaction, at least, was real. “Did Araxes take you off a boat?”

“On land.”

“Who’s your father?”

Silence. The fact she refused to discuss him or her home only increased the likelihood her father had sold her. Such things happened. Maybe she was in denial about it.

“Did your father sell you?”

Silence.

“Are you going to tell me anything?”