Telamon the Greek: Aegina’s Struggle with Athens in the Year 460 Before Christ

By Bob Miller

This saga opens in the year 460 B.C. Two decades have elapsed since Persia’s naval defeat at Salamis. Eighteen miles to the west lies Aegina which Athens must defeat before she can achieve her Golden Age. Telamon, Aegina’s leader is captured by Persians near Cyprus and for two years is forced to assists Persia with its struggle against the Scythians and a revolt in Egypt. Indebted to Telamon, Persia’s King returns him to Aegina where he plans to marry Souria.

In the second part of the trilogy Telamon marries Souria, as Aegina’s protracted struggle with Athens unfolds, and ends with Aegina’s defeat and Telamon and Souria’s escape to Carthage.

The third book follows Telamon and Souria’s lives in Carthage and then Curium on the Island of Cyprus in the eastern Mediterranean.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796058192

Bob Miller

BOB MILLER is Nevada’s longest serving governor, holding office from 1989 to 1999. His son, Ross, who is named after his grandfather, is presently in his second term as Nevada’s secretary of state.

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BOB MILLER

TELAMON THE GREEK

Aegina’s Struggle with Athens in the Year 460 Before Christ

Copyright © 2019 by Bob Miller.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 10/02/2019

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CONTENTS

‘Efharisto’

A Historical Note

TODAY

Aegina’s Harbor

YESTERDAY

Postscript

Warships at Salamis in 480 B.C

A Brief History of Aegina

About Telamon The Greek

The Telamon Trilogy

About the Author

To Themis Varanghis,

and his uncle, Ali Moskos, two unsung Aegian Greeks

who challenged me to correct Herodotus.

OTHER BOOKS BY BOB MILLER

AMERICA’S DISPOSABLE SOLDIERS: The Real Truth behind 1990’s Gulf War Illness. (A bestseller which led to Congressional oversight hearing to enable Veterans Administration to care for chemical injuries among veterans in 2002).(Non-fiction)

AMERICA’S ABANDONED SONS: The Untold Story of 25,000 American POW/MIAs Murdered in the USSR. (A national bestseller/expose which led two American Senators to shut down America’s POW/MIA accounting Organization in 2014 and created a new one.) (Non-fiction)

THE Z-5 INCIDENT: America’s Ultimate POW/MIA Betrayal. (An American POW (name changed) who escaped the Soviet GULAG and lives for revenge.) (Factual fiction)

NOVEMBER 17: Greece’s 20th Century Terrorist Syndicate. (Greece’s terrorist on the CIA’s ‘most wanted list for a quarter century - 1977 to 2002).(Factual fiction)

THE RUSSIAN CONSPIRACIES: From Gorbachev to Putin. (America’s Iraq wars and post-Soviet work to end the American Century.) (Factual fiction)

Some of the author’s

INTERNATIONAL CONFERENCE PAPERS

• The Legal Dynamics of Women in Iran’s Judicial System

• The Ultimate Cyprus Solution

• Iran’s Revolutionary Guards: Nuclear Weapons, and Caspian Security

• Hadith: The Basis for Islamic Intolerance.

• Abu Ghraib: An American Scandal

• Oil Trust Funds: Key to a Democratic Iraq

• Pakistan’s 1982 Air Superiority Fighter Decision

• Turkey’s F-16 Program Challenge

• Guns versus Missiles in U.S. Air-to-Air Combat

www.bobmillerbooks.com

‘EFHARISTO’

The author owes a deep debt of thanks to JoAnna Harper Clary, also known as Janice Stacry O’Brien. In her youth she was a unique lady from a well-to-do San Francisco family: an accomplished pianist, an aspiring actress, and well known among the rich and famous of her youth in California. She married wealth in the late 1950s, had children in an unhappy marriage. Divorced she abandoned her homeland for seclusion in the eastern Mediterranean, where as a well known writer, historian, and raconteur, she resided for the last few decades of her life on the island of Aegina near Athens.

A HISTORICAL NOTE

For two hundred years before Athens’s ‘Golden Age,’ in the fourth century before Christ, Aegina was the naval and commercial superpower of that era. She had the largest navy, most lucrative Mediterranean trading emporiums, and, the turtle, the world’s widely accepted currency of the time.

History erroneously refers to the 480 B.C. Greek/Persian battle of Salamis as antiquity’s largest sea battle. It was not. Another took place twenty-three years later, between Athens and Aegina, in which their combined fleets of some 1,500 oared galleys fought for several days just west of Aegina and the nearby island known today as Anghistrion. In 457 B.C., Athens and her twelve naval allies finally prevailed, setting the stage for Athens ensuing thirty year death struggle with Sparta.

Herodotus only briefly alludes to Athens’ naval victory over Aegina in the year 457 B.C., as ‘Kerkophalia.’ Had Aegina prevailed at Kerkophalia, which she almost did: doday Athens’s golden age would be remembered as, Aegina’s Golden Age.

PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

TODAY

MAP%20OF%20AEGINA%20CITY%20TODAY.jpg

AEGINA’S HARBOR

August

A narrow lane intersected the top end of Aegina’s fish market. Odors of freshly caught fish wafted across the alley toward Marcel Ramboulette, intermingled with the more pungent stench of other marine debris clogging a nearby sewer. Balconies overhung the street on both sides, shading the small sidewalk tables lining the narrow pavement of Stavro’s caffenaeon. It was Marcel’s favorite spot each morning for a strong cup of metrio coffee with an ouzo chaser while he watched the scantily clad northern European female tourists looking for excitement. Paying his tab, he moved through the narrow alleys to his newly acquired property several streets behind the harbor, only to find it cordoned off with tape and a man leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. Within minutes, he realized this Greek man was in fact an official of the local government. The Greek’s abrupt mannerisms annoyed Marcel.

What in hell are you talking about? Why can I not enter the property? Marcel demanded.

The officious little man was only half Marcel’s size, while his only sign of authority was a small metal logo on his faded fisherman’s hat. It was the symbol of the Greek Antiquities Department. Marcel knew it carried significant weight in the affairs of Greek government intervention when antiquities might be involved. He had also seen this man on occasion at the local museum on the corner of Mitropoleos and Pelekanou a few blocks away. Then, he had paid no attention to him.

Let me pass! Marcel insisted.

Non! Verboten! the slightly built official shouted back at him in an artificially high voice, taunting Marcel’s Gallic pride with Greek philotimo.

Je suis Francais … fou, Marcel replied, realizing the little Greek thought he was German, while Marcel was a Frenchman, and proud of it.

Va bien! the official replied. OK. Non!

Pour quoi? Marcel demanded again.

Nembirazi, the Greek shot back.

This puffed-up Frenchman thought he was somebody special just because he’d brought money to Greece to invest. So what? Greeks were proud people and didn’t need French charity. This Frenchman could go to hell as far as he was concerned. Oxxhi! he said with a dismissive expression. But Marcel still would not heed his instruction and was trying to push past him into his property. To instill the seriousness of his order, the official glared back at the Frenchman, threateningly placing his index finger against the Frenchman’s chest.

Marcel pushed it away.

Forbidden! a passerby observing the confrontation commented to Marcel sarcastically in broken English.

But why? Marcel inquired of the stranger.

Why? the stranger asked. Because … c’est interdit!

"Forbidden? Mais pourquoi?" Marcel shot back.

Buuu! the stranger observed with a typical perplexed Greek expression. Je pense c’est un place archeologique maintenant.

"Mais pourquoi?" Marcel continued. There is nothing here?

Buuu, the Greek repeated again. It seems they have found something. It will probably only be a small delay.

"Skataa!" Marcel said under his breath as he turned and moved away toward the corner and the police station two blocks away.

By midmorning, Marcel was certain his problem might cause him an ulcer. The police informed him that the operator of the backhoe excavating the basement for Marcel’s new house had uncovered an archaeological find. Je regret! the policeman indolently told him. There was nothing anyone could do until an archaeologist arrived from Athens. The backhoe operator had dug into an ancient cut stone wall, and in its middle, someone in antiquity had obviously hidden a copper-sheathed wooden chest and then resealed the wall to conceal it. Greece’s laws were very explicit in such instances. The site had to be closed until such time as its treasure and environs could be explored and catalogued. It would probably not take long to resolve, the policeman assured Marcel bravely, but he gave Marcel that shrug, which meant it could be weeks, months, or longer.

Marcel called his attorney, and they agreed to meet for lunch by the harbor. Marcel sipped at his ouzo while he waited for his attorney.

Good morning, Monsieur Ramboulette, his attorney said as he took the chair across from Marcel at a harbor side restaurant near the fish market. He insisted he had no time to eat. But he had already looked into Marcel’s problem and assured him he would do all possible to speed things along. Such excavations, he assured Marcel, often required years. The Athens Metro, for example, took thirty-six times longer per mile to construct than did the Cairo subway, and seventy times longer than the Paris Metro. The Athens Metro was still years away from completion, even after several decades. The attorney suggested Marcel go to the beach this afternoon and relax. Peter the local restaurant owner informed Marcel he was more sanguine: he’d already endured painful experiences with the idiots from the MDA—Le Ministre du Antiquite! He advised Marcel to consider building elsewhere and, under the new European Union rules in such matters, to sue Aegina’s city government for relief. Frequently, Peter told him, when such a suit was lodged for damages, such archaeological finds were quickly determined to be of little value, and the Antiquities Department then agreed to leave them ‘in situ,’ as long as the new building did not interfere with it.

Marcel’s attorney demurred, suggesting the delay might be considerable, as the chest in question contained a treasure trove of Aegian gold jewelry and silver coins inside. The coins were gold turtle coins, the attorney explained, the official minted currency of Aegina in the ancient Mediterranean world before Athens’s golden age. It was a time when Aegina was the most powerful island city-state between Egypt to Spain and her coinage was the currency of trade of that time. Like the American dollar in today’s world, he explained.

After lunch, Marcel visited his architect and, for the first time, felt all was not hopeless. Of course, engineering changes could be made, the architect assured him. Greeks did it all the time. Greece was crawling with archaeological ruins, and every time someone dug a hole, the possibility existed that they would disturb some ancient site, so the system provided ways to get around them. Where was the copper pot they’d found? Marcel pointed to the location on the blueprints. After some calculations the architect assured him that for only 12,800 euros, the footings over that wall could be moved two meters and cross-braced above, and construction could continue without disturbing the wall. Marcel ordered him to make the blueprint changes immediately. The architect smiled indolently. It would not be so easy, he replied. Such changes would have to be reviewed first by the MDA, then approved by the Ministry of Housing in Athens. The new European Union historical preservation legislation was also being updated at the moment, and that too had to be factored into the delay.

How long? Marcel demanded.

Maybe three months, the architect replied. Another application and not more than 3,000 euros … maybe?

Later that afternoon, Marcel stood forlornly before the fluttering barricade of yellow tape warning passersby not to pass. He suspected that his future vacation home might now be on indefinite hold. His bankers and financiers might not look kindly on an extended delay during which project costs could escalate.

Fuck it! he said and headed off down the street toward his hotel. Fuck the Greeks and their idiotic system. He’d decided his health was more important than getting upset over a goddamn pile of stones.

He had visited Aegina a couple of times and knew the locals liked their laid-back lifestyle, and that their system was not efficient. But that was one of the things Marcel liked about the Greek islands. Life here was unstilted, less hectic, less frenetic, and with that je ne sais quoi attitude that he yearned for in Paris but of which Frenchmen were incapable in France. Here in Aegina a man could be a man, and do what men liked to do. Here, one could also throw one’s empty Gauloise cigarette box on the street without fear of some nincompoop calling the police and the police issuing a citation for littering. One’s dog could defecate on the public street without some stupid American tourist making a scene because the shit was left on the pavement. The common market had united Greece with Europe and made Greece a haven for Central Europeans fleeing the barbarous winters along the Rhine, the Seine, and the Thames River valleys. Two hundred and eighty-nine days of sunshine, the Greek brochures announced. Europeans could build and own property here with the same barrage of bullshit legalities that confronted the locals—but not more! These, Marcel thought, he understood. But the goddamned Antiquities Department? Everyone feared them, even the fucking Greek prime minister.

"What’s the matter monamou?" Marcel’s Greek girlfriend asked, stepping out from the shower as Marcel slammed the hotel room door behind him. He’d met Hellen two years earlier in Paris, and she’d encouraged him to consider visiting Greece. She’d hinted she had wealth somewhere in Greece but had remained distant regarding details.

"Do you know anyone in the Antiquities Department in Athens, mon chou?" he demanded.

My father knows Pippis. He’s a senior curator for the Athens Museum, she replied.

How well?

Why do you ask?

"I need to know, mon chou!"

Let me think for a moment? she replied, spreading herself seductively on the bed, her hand suggestively massaging the cleft of her newly denuded mons pubis."

"Merde! he exclaimed. You play with me. This is important!"

I’m sorry. I did not realize you were serious, she replied, a hurt expression in her voice. Pippis is the nickname for Grammos Xenofontos, she explained. Pippis’s sister’s great nephew is the great-grandmother of the second cousin of my father’s uncle. That would make Pippis his…

OK, OK. Marcel smiled, unbuttoning his shirt and dropping his trousers as he knelt alongside the bed. I’ll tell you my latest problem over dinner. Leaning forward as he slid into Hellen, he hoped her family contacts might help solve his problem.

* * *

Pippis and his fucking useful friends, Marcel thought as he finished his first demitasse of Greek coffee with Ms. Effie Tomasides. He’d just met her an hour ago at the hydrofoil landing area in the harbor nearby. Her business card announced in Greek that she was Athens Polytechnic Inspector for Ancient Attican Artifacts. Hellen, Marcel’s girlfriend back at the hotel had assured him that Ms. Tomasides was the best her father’s contacts in Athens could arrange for the moment; after all, Hellen had explained to Marcel, it was August, and no one worked in Greece in August.

Effie was good-looking, younger and more attractive than Marcel’s girlfriend, who was still sulking in bed back at the hotel. Hellen had pissed him off last night, insinuating that French men only wanted to fuck Greek women and didn’t respect them, and made sarcastic comments about their mustaches and braiding their armpit hair! Hellen had read an expose in the Simera newspapers condemning the gradual decline of the racial purity of Greek women, and that six in forty Greek women now consorted with foreigners, of which France had the worst showing. Most Greek women also married Americans, she’d told him, followed by the English and Italians, with Frenchman way down the list.

Why should any man marry a cow, Marcel had stupidly replied, if the milk were free? It had been the wrong response, and Hellen had taken off on a tangent and refused to sleep with him after dinner. And this morning, she’d sent him off once again without his usual dose of le chose.

Now Marcel wondered if the areolas of Effie’s breasts pressing against the flower design of her blouse were pert and stuck out the way others did when anticipating foreplay.

How long will you stay? he asked Effie condescendingly, wondering if she had a boyfriend.

Four weeks, probably.

And where are you staying, if I may be so bold?

The Acropolis Hotel in Perdika. It’s a town nearby.

That’s at the other end of the Island, past Marathonas, Marcel explained.

Yes. Why? she smiled.

It’s quite a ways away. I have a car and would be pleased to take you there.

I must visit your property briefly, and then the museum curator.

Afterward then?

I shall see, Effie replied.

Is this your first visit to Aegina? he inquired.

No. I came here many years ago with my parents, when I was a child.

Now you have come by yourself?

Yes. Why do you ask?

No wifely duties, no husband, no children to care for? He’d noticed she wore no jewelry on her fingers. Archaeologists were probably too poor, he thought.

No.

Then when I finish my home here, you must return and be my guest.

When had you planned to finish this house? she asked demurely. Assuming … there are no difficulties with removing whatever else there is which may be found?

Next May.

Hmm, she muttered. Eight months.

Come. He dropped some euros on the table for their coffee and stood up. It is only four streets to the property, and then you can visit the Museum.

They have not let you look at your property since the discovery?

No. I guess they do not trust foreigners, he replied, following her up the side street.

It’s probably more associated with what they found, she replied.

* * *

After lunch, Effie emerged from the museum and found Marcel waiting.

Following me?

Of course not, he replied with conviction.

So what did they find on my property that is so important? Marcel asked.

You would be surprised, she said. It’s a copper chest buried in the wall that contained nine hundred and fifty gold coins and almost two thousand silver turtles. There is jewelry too. Archaeologically, it’s a significant find. The gold and silver alone, at today’s market price, would exceed half a million euros. Have you ever heard of the Aegina treasure?

Is this it?

No, she replied, that treasure was found here back in 1891, and is now in the London Museum. It is some one hundred pieces of beautiful gold jewelry. About eight kilos in weight, it was found in a tomb here whose location today is still unknown. The treasure is dated from sometime around the twelfth century before Christ. This latest find appears to be similar, but I think it is more recent, maybe around the fourth century before Christ.

The time when Aegina was defeated by Athens.

Probably, but more research is needed.

Thank God. So my problem is solved, he stated. Now the treasure has been removed, and I can get on with the excavation.

I am afraid not, she informed him. There may be other treasures in the foundation, and we must be certain. It will take some time.

How much time? he moaned.

Everyone in Greece is on vacation now. This project must now be put on our books, funds found and approved for the excavation, specialists assigned, and the work completed. It may be months, maybe more. I should think early next year for certain? Before that … I would be deceiving you if I said otherwise.

And you, Effie. What will you do now?

For the next few days, I will make drawings of the site and take photographs of some of the chest’s contents, then make my report to the Archaeological Department in Athens and see what their response is. They will advise regarding how to proceed.

Can I watch you when you do the survey?

Because of the nature of the site, I think it better you not be there.

And now?

I will take another quick look at your property and then catch a bus to my hotel in Perdika.

I have a car, Marcel insisted. I shall drop you at your hotel. There is also a lovely place to swim on the way there. It belongs to old friends of mine. If you would like, cool off with a swim?

The Frenchman seemed nice enough, behaved politely, was unassuming, and not too flashy. She liked that. To build such a house in the port area, he was also obviously well off. From the local museum curator, she’d learned that this Frenchman had paid just over four hundred thousand euros just for the property. Marcel had also confided he was French from Paris’s 14th Arrondissement; plus, he mentioned a summer home near La Scala in Spain, and alluded to other interests in Valencia farther down the Spanish coast. He didn’t say much about what he actually did for a living—only that it involved international investments. Effie preferred foreign men anyway: they were less aggressive than the locals and still practiced the ancient arts of courtship. Greek men, on the other hand, especially those on the islands at the height of the summer vacation, were little more than Kaimaki: boors who referred to themselves as hunters, but in fact only sought the fastest way to open a woman’s thighs so they could insert their manhood and ejaculate. Why not accept his invitation? She thought.

A half hour later, he drove her along the coast road toward Perdika. Just past the promontory below the sleepy coastal town of Marathon, he took the first right turn after a badly worn hotel placard along the road which announced the Moondy Bay Hotel. He drove down to the last house by the beach.

Voila! he exclaimed as he slid open the large living room windows to the spacious balcony overlooking the sea. Five minutes later, they dived from the small dock into the clear warm water.

Someone loves octopus, Effie observed while rinsing herself off at an outdoor shower beneath the balcony, where yet another royal-blue octopus had been painted on the wall, its tentacles entwined around the shower faucet. He told her a crazy American had used the house years ago and had a fetish about them.

Marcel was intrigued by Effie’s well-proportioned hard body, chiseled face, and perfect white teeth, which stood out prominently, especially in her tanned face when she smiled. He stood close to her, offering to wipe soap suds from her back and shoulders as she rinsed her hair.

What brought you to such a backwater place? she inquired later over wine and feta cheese on the balcony.

Peace and quiet, he replied. Clean water for swimming, a small-town atmosphere, and close proximity to Athens. Once my place in town is finished, I shall be able to jet down from Paris on weekends. Tell me, Effie, if everything goes without interruption in your work here, what will become of the gold and silver treasure you found? Is any of it mine?

She gave him a wide smile. Dream on, Frenchman. It will be transferred to the Athens Museum. Why?

What a shame. He shrugged. I guess no one will ever see the treasure after that.

Such historical artifacts can only be exhibited in museums or sold to the public to raise funds for new excavations, she assured him.

So you know much about the history of this place? Marcel asked.

There is not much to know, Marcel, she replied. Aegina is unfortunately one of those forgotten backwater places in our history.

"Au contraire! I disagree," he observed.

Well. It’s true, she said that for a while anyway, ancient Aegina did set the standards of her era.

A while? Marcel laughed derisively. "From Gibraltar to Egypt, hers was the dollar currency of her times for a couple hundred years? Je pense c’est beaucoup pour … awhile? n’est pas?"

It’s true, she replied. Aegina was the military superpower of the Mediterranean world of the fifth and sixth centuries before Christ. She had more warships than any other city-state in Greece, and immense economic power because of her widespread emporiums from Spain to Egypt. But that was before Athens assumed her golden age. Our written histories too do not reflect Aegina’s glory of that time … probably because Athens got to write Aegina’s final chapter after she defeated them and destroyed everything on the island. Even our great historians like Herodotus and Thucydides say little about ancient Aegina.

I think that is, Marcel replied haughtily, only because Aegina lost a sea battle which took place right here in front of us, probably around the year 456 BC. He pointed in a wide arc across the seascape before them. It happened right here between us and Anghistri over there. Of course in those days Anghistri was called Kerkphalia. Right there in front of us the largest naval battle of ancient history too place. Over a thousand warships fought it out for several days … until Athens and her allies finally prevailed. Had Aegina won that battle, then Herodotus and Pericles might have had their thumbs cut off instead, and Athens’s golden age might have been recorded as Aegina’s golden age.

Effie smiled. So, you are a romantic?

Marcel leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek. He could smell the scent of shampoo in her hair. She did not withdraw from him, turning her head slowly until their lips were close.

You are so beautiful I want to make love to you. Marcel whispered. Would you consent to a poor Frenchman’s request?

My mother would object, Effie replied with a smile passing her lips across his. Her tongue barely pressing between his lips. We have just met.

Next time? Marcel murmured.

It is possible, she replied.

* * *

A week later Effie, suspected the treasure in the excavation below the Frenchman’s house indicated its ancient owner had been exceedingly wealthy. If so, then as the excavation continued, other treasures would probably be found. And if so, by the end of the summer, archaeologists worldwide might be reading about the new Aegina treasure, one even more significant than that found in 1891. From the way the chest had been concealed in the wall, and with an easy knock-out wall section to facilitate its removal from time to time, there was little doubt in Effie’s mind that this family had left in a hurry and had probably hoped to return one day, but never had.

YESTERDAY

The Year 460 Before Christ

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CHAPTER ONE

Aegina’s Harbor

A narrow lane intersected the top end of the fish market of Aegina’s commercial harbor. Odors of freshly caught fish wafted across the alley toward Shurab, intermingled with the more pungent stench of assorted detritus clogging the nearby sewer. Balconies overhanging the noisy thoroughfare partially blocked the morning sun from the pavement around him, while multicolored sections of old sailcloth suspended everywhere between the buildings focused what little sun reached the pavement below into bright pillars of dusty light.

Good morning, Persian! a shop owner called out to him as he passed. "Haletune chetowrid?"

I am excellent this fine morning! Shurab replied.

The maze of alleys behind the harbor throbbed with a colorful cross-section of city life as housewives of patrician families rubbed shoulders with the less well-to-do purchasing their daily needs. This lane, known as Alaminos Street, and the intersecting fish market alley, constituted one of the city’s main meat and fish markets. A short block west lay the commercial harbor, its quays lined each morning with rows of small coastal ships known in Greece as caciques, each bearing assorted produce from farms along the coast and nearby islands, their decks groaning with multicolored crates of vegetables: the royal purple of the eggplant, bright greens and yellows of squash, shades of red tomatoes, and the dark greens of cucumbers and peppers. Quayside hawkers did a brisk business until late morning when shoppers departed to prepare the noon meal. By midafternoon came the ubiquitous afternoon nap—a self-imposed quiet time when the city went into hibernation for several hours.

As Shurab pressed forward through the densely packed crowds haggling before scores of arched store enclosures, he felt his forehead, noting the beads of sweat. It was only the end of the fifth month, but already the heat of summer had arrived with a vengeance. Today would make the eighth consecutive day the city baked in the heat. But here on this lane behind the fish market, the air was cool. It was Shurab’s favorite place each morning. Here he could revel in the incredible diversity of his adopted world and listen to the babble of eight or more foreign languages, while observing shoppers as they pushed to and fro between the myriad of narrow stalls exhibiting everything from spices to condiments, pottery, footwear, cloth, and jewelry. And in the midst of this chaos, hugging the walls across from the confluence of the fish market and Alaminos, was Ambra’s restaurant. She catered to the ultra-poor. Four tiny tables hugged the sidewalk, while another ten were strewn around the interior. Known as the Orange Crab, its proprietor was a woman, an acquaintance to many, and a friend to Shurab. Ambra liked those she liked and cursed those she didn’t.

Taking his usual curbside seat, Shurab dabbed once again at the perspiration on his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic, wondering if the early summer would improve the quality of Ambra’s wine next year. Aegina’s main exports were wine, pottery, olive oil, and worked silver and gold. Last summer was cooler than usual, and Ambra’s wine was more bitter. It didn’t seem to have damaged Aegina’s trade much because the best wine was always exported while the poor drank whatever was left. The unseasonable warm weather would make the grapes and olives grow quicker and be juicier this year.

Shurab sat for a while observing the comings and goings across the street, cocking his head as he listened to the latest rumors from neighboring tables. Ambra appeared. He signaled the overstuffed proprietor to bring his usual fare: grilled octopus and tomatoes soaked in olive oil with oregano, some bread plus a quarter krater of wine.

Wasting your master’s time again, Shurab? a Greek patron two tables away demanded. I wish I could have such employment!

Shurab ignored the comment. Each morning after his master left, Shurab had free time until noon. His master cared little what Shurab did with it, as long as he attended to his responsibilities. For an eighth of an obol, Shurab could fill his stomach here while enjoying the sights and sounds of his adopted world.

Today the street throngs were heavier than normal, and he suspected many were out to observe the executions about to be held one street away beside the harbor. Shurab would go and watch for a few moments. He’d seen a lot of men die in war, many on the tip of his own sword. But now, with the experience of age and maturity, he was tired of death. On too many occasions in his youth, bloodlust had overcome him on the killing fields of Afghanistan, India, and the plains above Zadracarta, and most recently at Salamis, where he’d been captured twenty years earlier. His part in the wasting of so many lives now haunted him, and from time to time, he’d awake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, tormented by images of little children and the helpless he’d sent along to the next world. This morning, some local citizens would die beneath the statue of Poseidon beside the quay of the commercial harbor.

Because of his military background, Shurab, like all slaves, was required by local law to be at the place of execution, as a witness. A reminder for slaves not to contemplate things best left alone. First to die this morning would be a young Crimean girl who’d been foolish enough to kill her Greek mistress. As an alien, she’d been condemned to death by the local court. The other was an elder Greek citizen accused of espionage. Public executions helped remind the less fortunate among Aegina’s populace of the established order of things.

The island’s population now stood at almost four hundred thousand, and three in five on the island were slaves. There had never been a slave uprising on Aegina, because on the whole, its Greeks treated their slaves well. Many even received a monthly allowance for their labor. Some too also received their freedom after loyal and faithful service. Shurab received sixty obol a month from his master who was a wealthy Aegian soldier named Telamon Atalante. Over the years, Shurab had accumulated fifty silver drachma from his master, more than enough to build himself a palatial villa, if he were ever lucky enough to return to his homeland?

Across the narrow lane, a pretty maiden with flaxen hair and a beatific face awaited her turn in a queue while a fisherman gutted a grouper for an ugly hag ahead of her. Shurab was entranced by her beauty, staring at her long slender legs backlighted by sunlight through her thin cotton chiton. People with blonde hair and blue eyes were rare among the Greeks. For a moment, Shurab recalled his own wife, Mehri. "Kheli gashange," he muttered to himself appreciatively. Mehri too was only thirteen when his father found her in a nearby village. In four years Mehri had born him three sons. But Persia was then expanding its empire, and he was called away to military service. Five years later, Shurab returned to find Mehri fat and less desirable. Again he left for military service. Then word reached him when he was far to the East that all the villages in his valley had been erased during an earthquake. The military now became Shurab’s career, and he was eventually appointed an Immortal… one of an elite band of ten thousand warriors assigned as the king’s personal body guard. When Xerxes had marched west to conquer Greece, Shurab had accompanied him. But it all ended following Shurab’s capture at Salamis.

That was twenty years ago, and now, at forty-seven years, he was beginning to feel the effects of the passing years. His skin had wrinkled noticeably, while his pate was gray and thinning. He’d lost several back teeth while others pained him. Arthritis in his back reminded him of his life’s passage. A tall man among the Greeks, Shurab’s once-lean body now sagged slightly around his midriff. He made a note yet again that he needed to shed some weight. As the flaxen-haired maiden passed by within arm’s length, he stared longingly after her.

How are you, Shurab? the plump restaurant proprietor inquired as she placed his food on the table, noting his stare as she poured wine. Not for you, my friend! She squeezed his earlobe.

Why not?

Too young! Ambra laughed. She needs quick lusty thrusts to sate her, tsak tsak, tsak … not the long purposeful strokes of the elderly.

You enjoyed it enough last time.

One must know one’s place. Ambra smiled.

He laughed as he daubed some bread in the salad oil. Ambra was a good woman who fed him well. She was a slave like him. But it hadn’t always been so for Ambra. She’d once owned the entire building that fronted the Orange Crab restaurant. She’d inherited it from her parents. An only child, born late in life, her father married her off at fourteen to a husband who was a profligate fool who gambled too much and had fled the island five years ago, leaving her with his debts. Now she too was a slave like Shurab, one who labored