by JM Alvey
Menekles shrugged. ‘Go later and your performance is fresher in the judges’ minds.’
Apollonides would have said something but the first full-throated verses in praise of Dionysos drowned him out. The choir competition had started. All the actors’ heads turned and I swear if their ears could prick like a dog’s they would have.
If this was any indication, the standard of singing this year would be higher than ever. I reckoned Menekles was right. None of these choirs had been lumbered with tone-deaf croakers forced into their ranks to please a patron and his cronies by securing their sons’ exemption if the hoplite phalanxes were mustered to fight.
I clapped Chrysion on the shoulder. ‘I’m going to go and sit with my family.’
I waved a brief farewell to the chorus, who surprised me with a discreetly muted cheer. None of them wanted to interrupt the singers. These men had first proved their own talents in such choirs, volunteering to represent the districts that acknowledged them as citizens.
Circling round the back of the theatre building, I saw Euxenos hissing at the stagehands hefting his chorus’s baskets through a storage-room door. He shot me a filthy look, as baleful as Hephaistos with a hangover. I couldn’t think why, though it raised my spirits to see him so agitated.
Further down the slope, the broad stone altar outside the ancient shrine to Dionysos had been swept clean of old ashes and freshly whitened with chalk. Bundles of firewood were stacked ready beside it while the robed and garlanded priests sharpened their sacrificial knives. Muscular acolytes stood ready to subdue any beribboned bullock inclined to change his mind about participating in the forthcoming ritual.
Reaching the theatre’s western entrance, I waited until the boys’ choir from the Acamantis tribe filed out, to be quickly replaced by fifty beardless youths from Pandionis.
I climbed up the hillside before cutting across to join my family, stooping low and whispering apologies as I edged between the benches. Nymenios shuffled along to make room for me beside Zosime. As I sat down, she slipped her hand into mine and squeezed, loving, reassuring.
‘Your costumes look… interesting,’ Nymenios murmured mischievously.
I shot him a warning glance. He grinned at me, unrepentant. Thankfully a stout man in the bench below turned around to glare at us both. I guessed he must have a son or nephew singing his heart out down below and was determined to hear every note.
Chairephanes passed along a wineskin and Kleio produced twists of cloth holding spiced pastries from the basket at her feet. I eased my arm around Zosime’s shoulders and drew her close. There was nothing I could do about the play now, so I might as well enjoy the choir contest.
I didn’t sit there taking note of particularly fine voices or graceful movers as the choirs came and went. I wasn’t about to tempt Dionysos or Athena or any other deity to slap me down for arrogantly assuming I’d be awarded another chorus by the freshly appointed Archons at the new year.
Instead I drank wine and ate treats with my family and enjoyed the spring sunshine’s warmth on my face and arms. Melina, Kleio and Glykera all covered their heads with lightly woven shawls though, and their long gowns had loose, flowing sleeves. They weren’t about to risk the darkly tanned skin that marks out the poorer women who work in the marketplaces. Zosime had no such concerns. Her father’s blood had bronzed her complexion and her Cretan accent ensured nobody cared.
Not everyone stayed for the entire competition. People discreetly took their leave in the brief intervals as one choir made way for the next. After three more performances, Nymenios nudged me in the ribs and leaned close to whisper, ‘Shall we go down to the sacrifices now?’
‘Good idea,’ I mouthed. It was already nearing noon.
Nymenios looked along the bench, catching Chairephanes’s eye. He nodded and nudged Pamphilos and Kalliphon, who gathered up their cloaks.
‘We’re going to the shrine,’ I murmured to Zosime, and she nodded her understanding.
As soon as the singing stopped again, we made our way quickly to the end of the benches and headed down the hill. That did leave all four women under Chairephanes’s sole protection, but nothing untoward could happen in broad daylight in the middle of the theatre.
Besides, nothing short of Pegasus could have carried Melina away from her entertainment. She and Kleio and Glykera would be sitting there until the judges’ votes were counted and the winners announced.
The sacrifices were already well underway at the Shrine of Dionysos. The whitened altar was liberally splashed with blood, and ashes were piling up around its base as fresh wood was heaped on to keep the flames burning fiercely for each new offering. A soot-smudged priest slapped down the next portion of bones wrapped in fat. The altar fire hissed and flared and savoury smoke surged upwards for the gods’ delectation.
The smell set my mouth watering and I realised I was ravenous. Fortunately, with so many beasts being sacrificed, the priests were happy to share out the treats that were usually their sole privilege after the omens had been read. Youthful acolytes were cooking strips of liver on skewers over the altar fires, handing them to slaves to be distributed among the crowds. I beckoned one of the slaves over and relished the succulent offal.
‘We’ll meet you back here.’ Pamphilos and Kalliphon headed off to join another group of men who were watching shrine slaves haul a freshly gutted bullock away for butchering. As well as both being carpenters, they’re men of the Kollytos voting district and I recognised one of their councillors over there.
‘Aischylos!’ Nymenios waved to one of Alopeke’s officials.
The thin, balding man greeted us with flattering enthusiasm. ‘So good to see you both. Philocles! We’re all looking forward to your play.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ I hastily swallowed a mouthful of hot liver, meek as a schoolboy.
I first met Aischylos as a wide-eyed three-year-old at the Spring Anthesteria festival, clutching my little jug. Aischylos was the man who had filled it with the wine pressed the autumn before. That’s when I’d poured my first libation and first tasted Dionysos’s great gift, suitably well watered.
Along with all the other boys born in the same year, I’d been presented to the brotherhood that my father and grandfather and all our forefathers had belonged to since time out of mind. District brotherhoods may not boast noble names like the Phytalids, but our roots go just as deep. Every man who’d stood witness when my father swore my brothers and I were his true-born sons would vouch for our citizens’ rights life-long, just as we would vouch for their sons.
For the moment, everyone was catching up with everyone else’s news of family doings, joys and calamities since the last festival had brought us together. Friends asked Nymenios about his children’s health and sent good wishes from their wives to Melina and our mother. Some took the opportunity to do a little business here and there.
Meantime, Aischylos, along with the treasurer and the other brotherhood officials, was scanning the crowd for unfamiliar faces. With so many visitors in the city, there are always some slinking around, trying to claim a fraudulent share in the sacrificed meat. Then there are the men who’ve been convicted in the courts and lost their citizen privileges as a consequence. Woe betide anyone here today who was challenged and couldn’t call witnesses to confirm his rights. Hauling slaughtered bullocks about gives temple slaves the muscles to inflict painful chastisement for such impiety.
I felt a familiar pang at the thought of Zosime missing out on this bounty, but there was no point trying to bring her to a family festival meal. She wouldn’t agree to come, for one thing. My relatives were happy to spend time with her out and about in the city and no one had any concerns about us living together. But she wasn’t my wife and she wasn’t a citizen, so asking her to cross an Athenian threshold while we honoured the city’s gods simply wasn’t appropriate. She would be as uncomfortable at our family table as my mother would be to see her there.
As we watched some slaves expertly skinning
a beast, Nymenios nudged me. ‘I’ve been asking around, to see who could supply us with leather if Dexios lets us down.’
‘And?’ I really wished we could leave this until after the festival but I knew Nymenios wouldn’t shut up until he’d had his say.
Nymenios scowled. ‘Pataikos has precious few hides not already spoken for, and none of his finest quality, though we’re welcome to the pick of the rest. He’s having his own troubles getting fresh skins.’
‘Really?’ That got my attention. This was bizarre.
Nymenios nodded. ‘He’s been dealing with the Sanctuary of Castor and Pollux for years now, but the priests said they’d had a better offer for raw hides, and he needed to go elsewhere. He’s negotiating with the Sanctuary of Heracles out at Acharnai.’
‘He can’t find anyone closer?’ Acharnai is as far out of the city as a man can walk and return in a day and still have time to do some brisk business there.
But before we could discuss it further, Aischylos called for our attention. A junior priest was hacking up a sacrifice and, unlike some, he wasn’t keeping the choicest cuts for his own friends and family. We each got solid, meaty chunks of haunch and loin. I decided to take that for a good omen. Dividing a bullock into equal portions is all very well in theory but some shares are definitely more worth having than others.
We carried our spoils back to the theatre, so Chairephanes could carry the meat home to be cooked long and slow into tender succulence for the evening. I took particular care not to get any bloodstains on my smart new tunic. As we arrived, one choir was making way for the next and people were quitting or reclaiming their seats. As Nymenios waved to attract our brother’s attention, insistent fingers plucked at my elbow. Startled, I turned to see Lydis, Aristarchos’s personal slave.
‘My master’s compliments.’ He smiled and handed me a letter. Before I could ask what it was about, he slipped away through the crowd.
‘What’s that?’ Nymenios demanded as I passed him the beef I was carrying.
‘How about you let me read it?’ I cracked the wax seals and found Aristarchos’s neat script, concise and to the point.
I’m told that the Pargasarenes are at a travellers’ hostel owned by Proclus of Miletus in Heliotrope Lane, in Kollytos. The head of their delegation is called Azamis.
As far as I can establish, no one has informed them of their companion’s fate. If you are the first to tell them, make note of how they react. That may tell us something significant.
Don’t delay. Once you have spoken to them, come to my house. Don’t mention my name at their hostel, and be careful where you share your own.
There was no signature. Had Aristarchos heard something to give him cause for concern or was he simply being cautious?
Never mind. I could ask him when I told him how these Pargasarenes took the bad news. After that, I could head for my father’s house and eat sacrificial beef, along with fish and fowl and cakes and whatever other festival dishes Melina’s slaves had prepared, with or without Mother’s help.
I waved the papyrus at Nymenios. ‘I have an errand to run. Tell Zosime I won’t be long.’
Chapter Nine
I left the theatre and headed for the Kollytos district. Thankfully it wasn’t too far, between the agora and the city’s southern Itonian Gate. Once I left the main roads I was familiar with, I began looking for someone I could ask for more detailed directions. That took longer than I expected. These side streets were deserted. Everyone who wasn’t at the theatre was evidently enjoying their leisure with relatives and friends. Here and there I heard snatches of laughter and conversations carried on the breeze.
I quickened my pace, eager to get this done and get back to my own family feast. A few more twists and turns and I saw an elderly man sweeping wilted petals from festival garlands out of a gateway. Most likely he was a slave but it’s never wise to assume, so I greeted him as politely as I would speak to any citizen.
‘Good day to you. I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for Heliotrope Lane.’
He obliged with a toothless smile. ‘Take the first left down there and then the third on your right. You can’t miss it.’
He wasn’t wrong. Heliotrope plants flourished along both sides of the hard-packed earth, and someone had crowned the Hermes pillar on the corner with a garland of the dark green foliage. Someone, or perhaps the same person, had wound another spray around the pillar’s jutting stone cock.
Gates stood wide on either side of the lane, showing me broad courtyards enclosed by pillared porches. I heard a handful of different languages as I passed by. Travellers and their coin were warmly welcomed here.
A dark-skinned man with Phoenician features was walking towards me. I waved a hand. ‘Good day. Can you tell me where to find Proclus of Miletus’s house?’
Incurious, he barely slowed as he pointed and answered in heavily accented Greek,‘That one.’
‘Thank you.’ The open gate revealed paving crowded with tables and stools. I knocked on the doorpost. ‘Hello within! I’m looking for Azamis of Pargasa.’
A slave boy in a grimy tunic big enough for him and a friend to share appeared from a dark doorway.
‘Who shall I say wants him?’ He was barely as tall as my elbow, but he knew to be cautious when strangers asked for paying customers.
I remembered Aristarchos had told me to be discreet and decided not to give my name. The courtyard’s porches were crammed with pallets offering festival visitors a temporary bed. A good few were still occupied by men who must have drunk deeply and unwisely last night. They might not all be asleep and there was no knowing who could overhear me.
‘Tell him I have news about his friend Xandyberis.’
I could see the lad recognised that name, so I was in the right place. Good.
‘Please, have a seat.’
As the slave vanished into the house I went into the courtyard to take a stool, trying to compose suitable condolences. It’s not often that I wish I write tragedy, but that would surely have made this task easier.
The boy reappeared with a venerable old man. Ice-grey hair flowed to his shoulders in the eastern fashion and his beard reached almost to his belt.
‘Good day to you. I am Azamis of Pargasa.’ Carian-accented, his Greek was nevertheless fluent. He looked at me anxiously.
I swallowed a surge of acid burning my throat. ‘Is there somewhere more private we could talk?’
The wrinkles on his face crumpled deeper and for one horrifying moment I thought he would start weeping. He had clearly been fearing the worst. Well, he’d have to be a fool not to, two days after his friend had disappeared.
He clenched his fists, breathed deep and nodded. ‘Follow me, please.’
He led me into the house and up the narrow stairs. I discovered Pargasa’s supposedly meagre funds had hired their men an airy room, spacious even, with four beds in it, one set against each wall.
Two men were sitting down. They looked up as soon as we entered, as apprehensive as their elder. The younger one was the Carian who’d insulted me in the agora, but this wasn’t the time to air that grievance.
He sprang to his feet, as hot-headed as before. ‘What are you doing here?’
I ignored him, addressing myself to Azamis and to the other man whom I guessed was the greybeard’s son. He looked about the same age as the dead man.
‘My sincerest condolences. I regret I bring you grievous news.’ There was no stirring honey into this bitterest of cups. ‘Your companion, Xandyberis, was found dead just before the festival. The Archons’ slaves took his body for safekeeping, on the Polemarch’s behalf.’
Was it truly only the day before yesterday? It felt as though half a lifetime had passed since I’d tripped over the poor bastard’s corpse.
The oldest man sought for some explanation to soften this awful blow. ‘Seized by some sudden illness? An apoplexy?’
His son’s face twisted with grief. ‘Struck down by some thief?’
&
nbsp; The youth broke into loud protests in his mother tongue. They might be Hellenes but Ionians speak their own incomprehensible dialects as well as civilised Greek. Though I could make no sense of his words, his denial was clear enough.
Before his father or grandfather could answer, he took a long stride across the room to challenge me. ‘What proof do you have that he is dead? What do you know of his misfortune? Did you have any hand in it?’
I folded my hands behind my back, curbing an impulse to slap some courtesy into him. ‘Your friend was wearing fine red shoes in a Persian style and a tunic with a central panel brocaded with olive leaves. He had a beak of a nose that any eagle would envy and a life of hard work had carved him a permanent frown.’ I traced the deep creases I’d seen on the dead man with a finger on my own face. ‘He was dark-haired in his youth but in recent years he’d been growing grey, his beard most of all.’
The young buck shook his head, obstinate. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Then where is he?’ I demanded, exasperated. ‘Do you think he’s been dallying with wine and whores for the last two days?’
The youth had no answer. I thought he was going to try hitting me instead. As I glared a warning his father barked a swift rebuke. One or the other convinced the young fool to step back.
The oldest man, Azamis, sat down heavily on the bed behind him. As he buried his face in his hands, his muffled sobs broke the oppressive silence. The youth sat down and put a muscular arm around his grandfather’s shaking shoulders. My opinion of him improved a little.
The man in his prime got his own emotions in hand, square-cut beard jutting. ‘Please forgive any discourtesy that my son has shown you. My name is Sarkuk. Azamis of Pargasa is my father and my son is called Tur.’ Then he fixed me with a steely look. ‘May I know your name and how you come to bring us such tidings?’
Fair questions and he deserved some answers. This man, Sarkuk, didn’t look likely to give way to grief like his father, or be overtaken by foolish anger like the lad. Add to that, I was already convinced he’d had no hand in Xandyberis’s murder, and nor had either of the others. After spending the last nine months with Athens’ finest comedians, I was confident I could spot play-acting. No one here was trying to hide a guilty conscience. This news had come as a genuine shock.
