According to Spartan law, the throne was inherited by the eldest son. However, if the eldest son was born before the king’s accession, he would be passed over in favor of the oldest son born after the king took the throne. If a deceased king had no issue, the throne would pass to his closest male relative. If the heir was a minor, a regent would rule in his stead (Lycurgus, the legendary founder of Sparta’s political system, had himself been a regent).

Agis had only one son, Leotychides, who was twenty-three. His succession should have been a straightforward matter, but his true parentage had long been a subject of gossip among the Spartan populace. During the Peloponnesian War, the Athenian general Alcibiades had defected to Sparta and was held in high esteem by King Agis. But the handsome and charming Athenian had seduced the queen, a scandal that became common knowledge throughout the city. The humiliated Agis vowed to tear Alcibiades limb from limb, but Alcibiades, catching wind of the threat, shrewdly fled back to Athens. Not long after, Agis’s wife became pregnant. Thus, the Spartan people naturally harbored doubts about Leotychides’s claim to the throne.

Meanwhile, Agis’s brother, the forty-five-year-old Agesilaus, had always conducted himself with excellence. In the eyes of the people, he was a true, traditional Spartan, and despite his limp, he had garnered considerable support.

It was clear that the question of succession would be a thorny issue for the elders, leaving them with little time or energy to deal with a minor affair like that of Theonia.

***

This was the second time the Corinthian merchant Theos had come to Thurii. In the few months he had been away, the port had changed dramatically. The Theonians had excavated inland on the north bank of the River Crati’s mouth, expanding the harbor. Two long, stone breakwaters, like the arms of a giant, now embraced the merchant ships that entered. The docks were no longer the simple structures he remembered; wooden piers now extended deep into the water, and the shore was lined with orderly stone houses and buildings, serviced by wide, flat transport roads.

Despite the heavy traffic of ships, the port officials directed the docking and unloading with an unhurried, methodical efficiency. The dockworkers, too, were swift and diligent, with few signs of the laziness, trickery, or bullying of newcomers so common in other ports.

Theos occasionally saw men in white chitons walking among the docks, holding papyrus and styluses. Wherever they passed, the laborers seemed to work with even greater diligence. He later learned from another merchant that these were officials from the Theonian census office, responsible for observing the work habits of the freemen who wished to become citizens. Any record of poor conduct could make it difficult for them to gain preparatory citizenship when their time came.

Of course, the two or three squads of fully armed soldiers constantly patrolling the port also contributed to the excellent order.

As Theos walked inland, he realized that the Theonian League had now enclosed the entire port with a thick, high wall. The market was situated just outside it. The market, too, was a bustling, chaotic area. The old market walls had been torn down; there were simply too many shops, and the market’s expansion could not keep pace with their proliferation. Shops and workshops stood cheek by jowl, occupying every inch of open ground, leaving only wide pathways for customers, the transport of goods, and, crucially, for firefighters.

Two unique buildings stood apart from the market. One was the hospital. The fame of the Theonian League’s physicians had spread throughout northern Magna Graecia; some even claimed they were far superior to the doctors of Croton. Davos had established a comprehensive hospital, the first of its kind in all of Greece, a world away from the simple clinics of the past. Its facilities, procedures, and management were all strictly regulated. For patients, it was an entirely new experience of treatment; the sacred atmosphere of the place seemed to heal them by half before a physician had even laid a hand on them. For doctors, the hospital was a magnet. It was said that if not for the tense relations between Theonia and Croton, many Croton physicians would have flocked here to study and observe. Naturally, the entrance to the hospital was crowded from dawn till dusk.

The other building also drew a large crowd. Theos learned that it was a special court established by the Theonian League for the market and port, designed to swiftly resolve the frequent trade disputes and conflicts that arose each day, providing a convenient service for merchants, customers, and the great mass of sailors and laborers. Intrigued by this innovation, which existed in no other Greek city-state, Theos squeezed his way into the crowd.

The Theonian League had established the office of judge in early November. With the massive influx of outsiders, the city praetors were already overwhelmed with routine administrative duties and had neither the time nor the energy to handle the intricate and tedious legal disputes. The praetors of all three cities had been complaining bitterly. At Davos’s suggestion, and after deliberation by the Senate, the position of High Judge was created. (In most Greek city-states, there was no dedicated office of judge; cases were typically tried by generals or archons. In Athens, there was no judge at all, with verdicts rendered by a jury. In Theonia, Davos, as the sole Archon, held the supreme judicial power, but he was far too busy to handle any but the most major cases, so the authority had initially been delegated to the city praetors.) The High Judge would oversee the junior judges assigned to each city and handle appellate cases. One of the names put forward by the Senate was Polyxexis, but when the list came to Davos for review, he said nothing, and in the end, Protesilaus was elected, thanks to Davos’s strong recommendation.

Normally, Protesilaus should have presided over the court in Thurii proper (though it was not yet fully built), with the market court being handled by a subordinate. But the fledgling League was like the morning sun, full of vigorous energy, and its people were all busy with their own affairs. There were almost no complex, high-profile cases for him to handle. The new High Judge, brimming with energy and with nothing to do, had come down to the market, usurped his subordinate’s authority, and was now trying cases himself.

“What is the next case?” Protesilaus asked impatiently, having just resolved a dispute.

Junior Judge Phraocleon cast a resentful glance at him. Phraocleon had originally served under Kunogelata, assisting the praetor with legal matters in the city hall. When the judiciary was made independent, he, as one of the few men in the League with legal expertise, was recommended by Kunogelata and swiftly promoted to Junior Judge, entering the ranks of the League’s mid-level officials. But his joy was short-lived. Protesilaus had taken over his court, and there was nothing he could do. Protesilaus was not only a senator but also the High Judge, a position of great prestige, elevated by Davos to be second only to the city praetors to show the League’s respect for the law. As Phraocleon’s direct superior, Protesilaus had the power to report on his performance to the Senate’s Public Office Management Committee and to recommend him for future transfers.

“It is a complaint from the wife of a League citizen, accusing a merchant from Rhegium of discrimination,” Phraocleon reported.

“Discrimination?” Protesilaus looked puzzled.

“The woman is a Lucanian,” Phraocleon added in a low voice.

“Ah.” Protesilaus nodded. “Bring in the plaintiff and the defendant.”

The market court was small, with just enough room for the judge, a scribe, a bailiff, and a few guards. The plaintiff and defendant had to stand outside, in the open air, before a low iron railing that cordoned off a space for them. The public could watch freely from beyond the railing. This served not only to educate the populace and foreigners about the League’s laws, but also to place the judge under public scrutiny.

A man and a woman entered the court. Led by the bailiff, they first recited the names of the three judges of the underworld, Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus, and swore an oath in their names that they would speak only the truth.

The plaintiff then began her testimony. The young Lucanian woman spoke in accented but fluent Greek. “Honorable Judge, I am the wife of Izam, a citizen of the League. Today I came to the market to buy a pottery jar for olive oil. I came to his shop”—she pointed a finger at the merchant beside her—“and saw that he had many beautiful styles of pottery. I decided to buy from him. But because I took a little too long to choose, he suddenly flew into a rage. He said, ‘Damned barbarian, are you going to buy or not? If you can’t afford it, don’t touch my jars with your filthy hands! If you break one, selling you into slavery wouldn’t be enough to pay for it!’ And he also said… he also said…”

“Honorable Judge, she is lying! I never said such things!” the merchant shouted.

“Silence! It will be your turn when she has finished,” Protesilaus snapped. He turned to the woman. “Continue.”

“He also said,” the woman’s face flushed red, and she glared at the merchant, her teeth clenched, “he said, ‘A barbarian woman like you is not worthy of using such a noble piece of pottery. You would be better off as my slave girl. If you… if you pleased me, I might be happy enough to grant you a jar—’”