Free The Ionia Sanction by Gary Corby

sat a clay model of his next work, a votive statue of Zeus. It was probably destined for someone’s courtyard as their altar to Zeus Herkios; which every proper home must have. He pinched bits here, adding there, and standing back to see how his creation looked.
    “Father.”
    He looked up. “Nico. What do you think of this piece?”
    “It looks fine,” I said without glancing at it. “Father, I need to talk to you. I am required to travel to Ephesus, part of an investigation for Pericles.” I didn’t tell him it would be my last.
    By rights I should have asked my father’s permission the day before, straight after Pericles and I had discussed it, but I knew Father would permit my travel since it was in accordance with our agreement, granting me two years to make a success of investigation. Father could not reasonably deny me if I was to receive a fair chance, and for all our differences, he was a fair man.
    He grunted. “Ephesus, eh? That’s a long way for a young man who’s never been outside Attica.”
    “Yes, Father, it is.”
    “You might learn something of the world. It’s not all like Athens, you know.”
    “May I ask a favor? If I send you any mail, could you please pass the wrapping cord on to Pericles?”
    “The wrapping cord?” He looked at me strangely.
    “Don’t cut it, untie the knot and have a slave carry the cord to Pericles. He’ll know what to do with it.”
    “This is something to do with your work?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ll do as you ask. But I won’t change my mind about that woman you want, Diotima. That’s what you’ve really come to see me about, isn’t it? Whether I’ll change my mind about this girl you’re so besotted with?”
    “No. I … well, yes, I did,” I said, though I hadn’t realized it myself until that moment. If Father relented, then when I arrived in Ephesus there’d be something I could say to Diotima without having to flinch. Perhaps I could even bring her home. This was my last chance.
    “Father, I admit it, I do want Diotima—”
    “No.” He put down his tools and laid a cloth over the model, then sat back on his stool.
    “Son, Diotima is the daughter of a prostitute.”
    “A hetaera,” I corrected him.
    “A high-class prostitute then, but still a prostitute. Granted, the mother’s not a pornê walking the streets—”
    “She’s wealthier than we are.”
    “That’s not the point. Nicolaos, you’re not listening to me. She’s not a citizen .”
    “I don’t care.”
    “I do.”
    Father lifted the cloth off the model and resumed his work. He was not good at dealing with conflict at the best of times. I knew this was his way of avoiding any more conversation on the subject. I said, “Thank you, Father, for your permission to travel.”
    “It’s my pleasure, son.” He raised his eyes from his work one more time. “A father has to do what’s best for his son. You understand?”
    “I do.”
    He said, “By the way, I received a note requesting an appointment from a man called Anaxagoras. He says he knows you. Any idea what he wants?”
    “Anaxagoras? Er … no, I can’t imagine,” I said, as innocently as possible.
    With any luck, by the time Father found out, I would be overseas and well out of reach, but I regretted not being there to hear Father’s reaction when a complete stranger offered to buy Socrates. I looked at the model before him, into which he pressed his fingers with the most delicate care. You could never find two men more different than my single-minded, practical father, and the abstruse philosopher, nor two men less likely to have even a single point of view in common.
    “Father, will you listen to my advice on one thing?”
    I was bound to accept my father’s decision on Diotima, but …
    “Certainly.”
    “When Anaxagoras visits, why don’t you ask him what your clay is made of?”
    *   *   *
    The house was too quiet. You don’t notice the noise slaves make until they’re gone. Onteles and I