School of Athens
Page 14
₪₪₪₪₪
ATHENS
₪₪₪₪₪
Alcibiades spends the rest of his evening losing game after game of dice, but does so with a carefree élan that endears him to the rest of the tavern’s customers. The prostitutes attending him on a rotating basis throughout the evening display pouting faces to express their sadness at their patron’s fortune. Alcibiades plays his role dutifully, consoling the girls with promises of imminent winning streaks and, when victory fails to materialize, more wine. Finally, even a happy warrior like Alcibiades could take no more.
“Girls,” he says to the swarm of women hanging on his every word. “My luck cannot possibly be any worse than it is tonight. Aristophanes, what do I owe you good fellows?”
Eupolis finishes making his tally on thin sheet of scrap paper. “382 drachma,” he announces with a measure of sadistic glee.
The sum is enough to scare off several of Alcibiades’ new friends, but not the young man himself. “Then I should quit while you’re ahead,” he says cordially.
Alcibiades reaches for his coin bag to no avail. He pats his waist and digs under the folds of his robe in search of it, but it continues to elude him. His face flushes with a shame heretofore unknown to Alcibiades.
“What’s the matter?” Aristophanes asks. “Have you been playing with imaginary coin?”
Alcibiades laughs nervously. “I must have lost my bag,” he announces. “You gentlemen won’t mind if I pay you in the morning, will you?”
The tavern falls silent and the patrons turned their attention to Alcibiades.
Though he had long been fond of gambling, Alcibiades had yet to have much experience laying wages in this district of Athens where the custom is to settle all debts at the end of the evening. Failing to do so is unacceptable. Eupolis slowly rises from his seat, folds his arms across his chest menacingly and looks down angrily at his new debtor.
“I’m afraid you exceeded your line of credit with us some time ago,” Aristophanes says, casually inspecting the cleanliness of his finger nails.
“Gentlemen, please, be reasonable!” Alcibiades pleads. “I’m sure these girls can attest to my ability to repay my debts,” he continues, pointing behind him to where his gaggle of painted women had eagerly attended to him but who were now missing.
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t take a whore at her word even if there was one around to testify on your behalf,” Aristophanes notes.
Alcibiades grows nervous as he hears the sound of footsteps slowly walking across the floor toward his table. The clientele of the tavern begins congregating around him. A few regulars are merely curious, but several wear the glowers of men who have been taken by delinquent gamblers before and have a vested in interest in maintaining the honor of their pastime. Alcibiades wipes the dewing beads of sweat from his forehead, his fear sobering his head while the wine settles in his stomach leaves him with a belly heavy with gut rot. The young man nearly collapses to the floor when he feels a strong hand fall on his shoulder.
“Is something wrong here, good friend?” a voice asks. Alcibiades turns his head to find a drinking companion from earlier in the evening. Behind the man gather more familiar faces, men whose friendship Alcibiades had won over with copious servings of women and wine. The pub begins to divide itself among supporters of the dispute. Behind Alcibiades stand a dozen or so men ready to defend their patron, lest they find themselves responsible for his debt. Behind Aristophanes and Eupolis gather twice as many men, each of whom have taken offense at Alcibiades’ inability to pay.
“We pay our debts when they are called for in this establishment,” says a man across the table from Alcibiades.
“Stay away, stranger! This isn’t your fight,” replies a voice from behind Alcibiades’ shoulder.
“Just pay your debt and leave this place, boy!” orders a man standing behind Eupolis, who lunges at Alcibiades in an attempt to grab his arm.
“You’ll regret laying hands on my friend, you dickless pig!” yells another voice to Alcibiades’ side as a single arm emerges from the crowd to swat the other away.
The two arms grab each other and pull their respective bodies out from the crowd and next to the table where Alcibiades now rises to propose a solution to the quarrel. One of the men throws a punch at the other, but it misses its mark and strikes Alcibiades squarely in the face, knocking him out instantly.
Before Alcibiades’ body can even hit the ground below the table the tavern erupts into an all out brawl. Alcibiades needs a few moments to regain consciousness, but once he does he stays low to the ground and crawls quickly through a gauntlet of flailing legs until he reaches a corner between the back wall and another table. His nose bleeds onto his robes, which are now cut for reasons he can not explain. He thinks briefly about making his escape, but when he rises to do so he feels a spell of dizziness overtake him, sending him right back to the floor. He waits a moment to compose himself and is just about ready to try again when a long shadow falls over him.
Alcibiades looks up and sees a man holding a short knife walking toward him, his back turned to the chaos of the tavern. It’s Aristophanes and in his other hand he tosses Alcibiades’ coin bag up and down the way a child would a ball.
“You took my bag?” Alcibiades says. “But why?”
“I love a good prank!” Aristophanes replies.
Alcibiades scans the tavern. Fists fly indiscriminately and as rapidly as the insults. Tables are overturned and stools are used by smaller men to keep their assailants at bay. Most of the prostitutes have retreated to the balcony leading to the compartments they keep for their clients, hovering over the tavern hall where they rain down wooden wine glasses and utensils on the melee below.
“You call this a—,” Alcibiades starts, looking back up at Aristophanes, but he turns his head only to discover the young comedian has vanished.
Five quick blasts from a whistle pierce through the violence as a stampede of soldiers enter the pub and draw their weapons on the belligerents. “The next man I see raise a fist will be pissing in a prison latrine for a week!” the captain of the guard announces with a haggard growl. One by one, from either fear of the authorities or sheer exhaustion, the fighters bring down their fists and the tavern returned to order.
Alcibiades unleashes a sigh of relief and lets his head droop down to his chest as the sound of soldiers escorting men into the street fills the tavern. He wants nothing more than to fall asleep right where he sits when a large sandal-clasped foot falls into his line of sight. Alcibiades looks up and discovers the captain of the guard standing before him, arms crossed, head shaking and lips pursed—the unmistakable expression of a disappointed father.