A Captain of Thebes

by Mark G McLaughlin

  “Grey mullet! Octopus! What are we, shopkeepers and laborers?” said Solomon with a startled look upon his face. “I feed my servants better than that, Dimitrios! What kind of a host would I be if I served my guests such common fare. No, my friend, we will have a proper meal, and one that you will remember! Now, how about a nice, piping hot slice of tuna from that stall over there?”

  Seeing that Solomon was determined to have his way, Dimitrios nodded in acceptance, and joined his friend at the tuna-seller's cart. A few slices of hot fish did much to lighten his mood and restore his energy, but afterwards, while passing one fishmonger's stall, he caught his reflection in the tub of water in which some live eels were still wriggling. The wretched apparition that greeted his gaze was enough to make Dimitrios look for the closest barber, as would any sailor fresh off the boat from weeks at sea. With his long hair, Dimitrios worried he might be mistaken for a Spartan – or, worse, with his longish, scraggly beard, a philosopher.

  Piraeus had almost as many barbers as tavern keepers – and whores – and when Dimitrios signaled to Solomon his intent to visit one of the first, the merchant responded with an understanding and relieved look. “I did not wish to offend you last night or this morning,” Solomon explained, “by remarking on your rather disheveled if not wild appearance. Go get your hair curled or cropped, whichever your preference, and by all means have your beard trimmed – perhaps to a neat point,” added Solomon. Then you will look a proper gentleman. Oh, and by the way, a little dye would help, too,” he jibed, “for you are getting as gray as a goat in places.”

  Barbers being as talkative a lot in Athens as anywhere else in the world where he had traveled, Dimitrios soon found himself bombarded with gossip, and in the center of a debate among the barber and his waiting customers as to which tavern nearby offered the best wine, the most edible food, the most honest gaming tables and the most comforting companions. The talk, however, as is also common to barbershops everywhere, turned to politics, and at the center of that, what Alexander's coming meant for Greece – and for Athens. Dimitrios longed to break into their argument but held his tongue, for such discussions often ended in fights or stabbings, and as he had a greater purpose – and others dependent upon him – he clamped his lips and his jaw tight shut.

  When it came to be his turn, and the barber asked him the usual question “how would you like your hair cut?” Dimitrios responded curtly: “In silence.”

  Afterwards, Dimitrios found himself sorely in need of a drink. He eschewed the wine cart outside the barber’s, as he did not think it proper to drink in the street, and passed up as well a few taverns whose customers were already boisterous, even though the sun had yet to reach its zenith for the day. Men who have a thirst as well as a temper to quench, however, soon give in to their desires, as did Dimitrios upon reaching the end of the street, which, as is so often the case, had a tavern on the corner.

  Elbowing his way inside, Dimitrios found a stool in the corner, away from the larger, common tables. “Wine,” he called out as a man in a wine-stained smock carrying empty cups brushed past. “A cup of wine, and be quick about it,” Dimitrios added in a tone that was as surly as it was impatient.

  “Wine? Wine?” the man said as he stopped abruptly in his tracks and turned about to face Dimitrios. “You some Spartan who cut his hair just to look human,” he chided Dimitrios. “Only a Spartan or a drunk would so insult me. Or perhaps you are a Thracian. They are infamous for swilling cheap wine, for they care nothing of its texture, aroma or even taste. Why not just drink beer like some barbarian if you are just looking to get drunk or quench a thirst. In the kapeleion of Sarambus one does not simply just ask for 'wine,' good man. For I do not serve 'wine.' Nor do I serve it in a 'cup' like some street vendor.”

  Taken aback at this unexpected diatribe, Dimitrios rather curtly replied: “Well, if you don't sell wine, what's in those jars over there?”

  “Those 'jars' as you call them,” the man replied rather snootily, “contain the nectar of the gods. The finest Mendean, Chian and Thasian wines you will find in all of Athens. And I, sir, do not 'sell' wine; I prepare it. I am exact in my measurements: two parts wine to five parts water; no more, no less. One does not ask merely for a drink in my establishment,” the man continued, “but must first tell me why he wants a bowl, and if he does not know what kind of wine he wants, as most do not, I divine it. You, sir, for example, seem to need something to chase away a bad odor that has spoiled your disposition. Either that or you have lost someone or something that mattered to you. For that I would suggest the Thasian, with its lovely apple smell – a perfume sure to waft up your nose and into your head while it trickles down your throat and warms the belly.”

  Dimitrios did not take offense at this scolding schooling. An importer of wines since his late father brought him into the family trade, he knew a kindred spirit when he met one.

  “Not the Thasian, thank you. You wouldn't happen to have any Magnesian, by chance? I long for its smooth, generous body, and that little touch of sweetness that can make anyone's day just a little bit, well, sweeter.”

  The man raised his eyebrows, nodded his head and changed his tone at that remark. “Forgive my impertinence, good man,” he said with a slight bow. “I see you know your wines, and no one who does so can possibly be of low character, as, forgive me, I mistook you for being. I apologize, too, for inferring that you were a Spartan or a Thracian or worse. Someone with your understanding of wine could never force down some cheap, common swill that so many establishments around here serve and call 'wine.' I can offer you a nice Magnesian – but for someone who seems to know his wines, perhaps you would like to sample a wonderful Mendean I have been carefully tending. It has just come into full bloom, and is nearly at its peak.”

  “That would be welcome, friend,” replied Dimitrios. “It is easy to miss the peak with the Mendean, for it soon begins to tire and then decline once it does.”

  The man smiled again, obviously impressed at his customer's knowledge of fine vintages, and hurried off to prepare, as he had put it, a proper and expertly mixed krater of fine Mendean. Dimitrios watched in approval as the man added wine to the water, rather than the other way around. This method flavored the water more than watered down the wine, and showed Dimitrios that the man was as he had described himself, a preparer of wine as opposed to a mere tavern keeper.

  “It is a pleasure to have someone in my establishment who can talk intelligently about the glory of the grape,” the man said when he returned with the wine for Dimitrios. “So, are you just a lover of wine, or is your knowledge, how shall I put it, based on something more than just one too many nights drinking? You're not one of those idle rich who flit about from symposium to symposium, getting stinking drunk with politicians, philosophers and others of a similarly useless lot, are you?”

  Dimitrios smiled, took a sip of the deep, dark Mendean wine and, after nodding appreciatively, answered the man's question, and added one of his own. “I would not be a very good importer of wine if I could not tell good wine from bad, or which wines would be best purchased with the intent to let them turn to vinegar rather than try to pass of as something worth drinking.”

  “Ah,” reacted the man with a knowing smile. “Well, as one purveyor of fine wines to another, then, let me properly introduce myself. My name is Sarambos, as was my father's and his father's before him and, if the gods so ordain, will be the name I will give to the child now growing in my wife's belly, should it be a boy, of course. This is more than just a tavern, as someone with your experience I am sure has already figured out. I provide the wine to some of the finest homes in the city. Should you be invited to one of the better of the symposia I was talking about, just ask from whom the host purchased his wine for the evening. My name, most certainly, will be his answer.”

  Dimitrios realized that he had not stumbled into this particular tavern purely by chance, but had been directed there by the gods. “Sarambos, how would you like to meet my
friend Solomon?”

  “Why?” replied the tavern keeper, “is he in the wine trade as well?”

  “Sort of. I have a warehouse full of the best wine you could ever hope to find, and he is prepared to act as my broker. I would, of course, instruct him to make a special deal for you...”

  “There is, methinks, some urgency to your disposing of the contents of this warehouse,” Sarambos interrupted. “Since you do not have the look or demeanor of a pirate or smuggler about you, might I guess that you are in a hurry to dispose of your wares as you need money, and quickly, for some new venture....or because you are planning to leave Athens and quickly?”

  “Not just Athens, my friend,” replied Dimitrios, “but Greece. And yes, I need the money for a new venture.”

  “And may I ask what that venture might be?” said Sarambos in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “To go fight against Alexander.”

  14

  Piraeus

  Two weeks later...

  The hospitality of Solomon, two weeks of solid rest in his home, and the profits from the deal with Sarambos, did much to restore the health and spirits of Dimitrios, Klemes, and Aristophanes, whose wounds, although not fully healed, showed much improvement. So, too, did they find comfort in the arms of the flute girls and other female companions for hire that frequently graced their after-dinner drinking bouts in Solomon's home. While Klemes preferred to spend his time discussing science and medicine with one of the more mature, more intelligent (and more expensive) hetaira, Aristophanes took full advantage of the healing powers of one of the younger girls. Dimitrios, however, like their host, found sufficient enjoyment and distraction in the music, dancing and other little performances put on by the women.

  “I find as I get older, my dear,” sighed Solomon one night while a girl tried her best to entice him to come to bed, “that I am more than likely to disappoint you, and hence myself, in these matters. So, let us save each other the embarrassment and the mutual let down when I am unable to perform. Just looking at you and feeling your warmth and inhaling your lovely scent will have to suffice. If you want something more, then perhaps my friend the captain here...”

  “No thank you, Solomon,” replied Dimitrios. “I am more than entertained as it is.”

  “Oh, but surely, Dimitrios,” Solomon argued, “a young man such as yourself...”

  “I am not that young, not anymore,” laughed Dimitrios lightly.

  “You are younger than I,” Solomon pointed out.

  “As are most men,” Dimitrios replied with a little laugh. “No, it is not age or the lack of ability to perform, but something else.”

  “I can hire a pretty boy or two next time if you would...”

  “No,” laughed Dimitrios quite loudly, “that is not what I mean. It is just that, well, my wife...well, when we came together it was because we both wanted to, and that has rather spoiled the other women for me, if you know what I mean.”

  “Of course,” said Solomon, “I understand that, and all too well. The plague took my wife, just as the fever took yours. It has been many years now but, still...”

  “Then, my friend, let two old widowers raise a cup in memory of their late wives, and find what consolation we can in the more modest of the entertainments these lovely ladies can provide.”

  Such frivolities, although appreciated, were mere distractions, especially for Dimitrios. The Athenians had breathed a collective sigh of relief when Alexander returned north, but Dimitrios knew Alexander was not going home to rest. He would mobilize more soldiers and make preparations to join the Macedonians already across the Hellespont. That Alexander himself would soon be taking the field again, only added to the urgency Dimitrios felt about leaving Athens. The Macedonians were already fighting the Persians, and if Dimitrios was going to be part of that fight, he had to cross the wine dark sea to Asia – and soon.

  Finding a ship to go east was not difficult. It was not yet the end of the rowing season, although once the Pleiades vanished from the evening sky, there would be precious few captains willing to risk a crossing to Asia. The cranes were already beginning to migrate south to Egypt. Every sailor knew that meant winter was coming, and soon it would be time to pull up the ships into their sheds or onto solid ground, so their hulls could dry out and their bottoms be scraped. Dimitrios had made the journey by sea often enough before, but this time it would not be in search of wine to import. It would be a one-way passage, at least for the foreseeable future, if not forever.

  Solomon knew better than to try to talk Dimitrios out of his quest, and decided that if the captain was going to war, then he should go in style.

  “Dimitrios,” he told him one evening, “you need look for a ship to the east no longer. I have found you a berth on the finest ship in Athens, and at no cost. The captain is willing to make room for your brother and your friend, as well.”

  “And what lumbering hulk is it that you have procured passage for us in,” laughed Dimitrios. “If they are willing to take passengers aboard at no cost, does that mean they plan on making up for it by robbing us blind or selling us into slavery – or dropping us into the sea as a sacrifice to Poseidon?”

  Solomon drew himself up to his full height, standing as tall and as straight as Mount Olympus itself. “The 'lumbering hulk' as you call it, is the Paralos. And it is captained by the treasurer of Athens, who has no need of whatever paltry sums you three would command in the slave markets.”

  Dimitrios was taken aback, and it showed. “That is impossible, Solomon. That is the ship of state – the flagship of the Athenian navy!”

  “Only in time of war, my friend,” corrected Solomon. “We are still at peace, even if we are to send other ships and men to serve in Alexander's war with Persia. He is carrying a delegation of priests and ambassadors on a circuit of the island city states of the Cyclades and the Ionian shore.”

  “'He?' What do you mean 'he'...”

  “You Theban landlubber. 'He' is the Paralos. It is the only ship anyone has ever heard of that is not named after a woman or a female goddess. As it is named after Poseidon's son, we can hardly refer to the ship as 'she.' Tell your brother and your friend that, too, so none of you risk insulting the Paraloi.”

  “The who?”

  “Damn it, Dimitrios,” sighed Solomon, shaking his head back and forth. “The Paraloi – that is what the crewmen of the Paralos call themselves. Oh, and don't make the mistake of calling the captain a trierarch. He is simply one of the Paraloi, too. Every other ship in the navy may have been built by one of those rich men or their sons, but the Paralos was built by the city. It is our ship – more than that, even. It is a symbol of how our dear Athens is married to the sea, with Paralos acting as the groom and Athens the bride.”

  “So how did you manage...”

  “Never mind that, Dimitrios. Let us just say that the treasurer owes me a few favors for making up some alleged shortfall when the treasury was audited, and leave it at that. All that matters is that you get where you are going, and get there safely. There is no better ship in the world, nor a more experienced crew than those that sail aboard the Paralos.”

  “How can I ever repay you for this, and for all of your other kindnesses, Solomon. I don't know...”

  “Do not worry about that,” said Solomon, gesturing with his hand for the captain to be silent. “If you can in any way take that spoiled Macedonian brat down a peg, then it will be repayment enough. And while you are at it, perhaps you would mutter my name when you take out a few of those Macedonian bastards.”

  The evening before boarding the Paralos, Dimitrios tried to talk his brother and his friend out of going with him. “Why not stay here, with Solomon?” he suggested. “He can surely find more patients for you, Klemes, as well as work for you, Ari. You could both make a good life here, in Athens.”

  “So, my brother,” replied Klemes sternly, “you think you are the only one who can stop Alexander? The only one who wants revenge for what that barbarian
did to Thebes?”

  “No, no, brother, that is not what I...”

  “Well, that is exactly what it sounds like, Dimitrios,” jumped in Aristophanes. “We didn't follow you this far just to escape a dead city, or to hide ourselves away as if the past did not matter. No, my friend, that is not why we followed you. We are not staying behind while you go off and have all the fun.”

  “Fun? Fun?” laughed Dimitrios. “You've only been in a couple of battles, Ari, but they should have been enough to show you that war is anything but 'fun.'”

  “I know that, and know it all too well, as does your brother,” said Ari, pointing to his bandages for emphasis. “I have no illusions, and if ever I did, what happened to our home took care of that.”

  “But you know you can't stand in the line with that leg, or even keep up on a march...”

  “Yeah, but like Klemes and I told you back in Thebes before we set out, there are other ways to fight a war than to just hold a spear and shield. At the very least you will need a friend, someone to help keep camp, or to clerk for whatever company you lead. And Klemes...”

  “...can speak for himself, thank you Ari,” interjected the physician. “My services will be needed even more than yours, Ari, or even my brother's. Soldiers only fight battles; physicians clean up afterward, and there are damn few of us as it is even here in Greece, let alone out there, and most won't go anywhere near a battlefield. So shut your mouth, dear brother. We are coming with you – or, maybe it is you who are coming with us,” Klemes added with a bit of smirk. “Maybe it is you who should be trying to talk Ari and me into taking you with us.”

  That, of course, was something he did not have to do, for Klemes and Ari both knew that the former captain would have no trouble finding employment. Although a wine merchant by education, tradition and trade, Dimitrios had trained and served as a citizen soldier his entire life. As a veteran captain, a well-educated man and an experienced traveler, Dimitrios was just the sort of man who would rise up the ranks in one of the numerous companies of Greek mercenaries. Those soldiers for hire formed the heavy infantry core of the private armies of the Persian governors, or satraps as they were known, in Asia.