by Tracy Groot
“Fair enough. Earn your meal, and we’ll call it good.”
Lysias told Tallis the names of a few more teachers, names Tallis already knew. He also told the fates of some of those names.
“Polonus ran the school, and Antenor was his . . .” He gestured for the word.
“Assistant.” This Tallis already knew.
“Yes. One of the women ran things too, in a way my friend said was hard to define. Her name was Portia. She’s supposed to be a priestess in the temple of Dionysus in Scythopolis.”
Tallis kept his face smooth, while the name cleared his senses like a slap. Dionysus, god of wine . . . god of madness.
Tallis blinked. He pushed it down, he pushed it away. He took a slow sip of wine.
“There was a teacher named Bion,” Lysias was saying, “who committed suicide. And one, a fellow named Theseus, was found—in large chunks—outside a disreputable bathhouse on the bad side of town.”
Tallis was not aware he had slammed down his drink until he saw the surprise on Lysias’s face and noticed the purple slop of wine on the table. He took his napkin and blotted the mess, cheeks growing warm. It came too quickly on the heels of Dionysus. For the first time in a very long time, memory threatened to push back, and sweat broke on his scalp. He refused to remember. Callimachus forbade him to remember.
“If they were your friends, I am sorry,” Lysias murmured.
Tallis inclined his head to acknowledge the gracious comment. “They were friends of my master. He will be grieved at these tidings. Please continue.” Then he said suddenly, “This—thing that happened. To Theseus. Was it before or after the Decaphiloi disbanded?”
“Before,” Lysias had responded, after thinking it over. “Shortly before.”
“What do you know of Portia, the one who is the priestess?”
“Nothing, except what I said. She serves in the temple of Dionysus in Scythopolis. She was the plain one.”
They all came to Athens the summer before the school started in Hippos. Tallis had been much occupied with lodging details, food details, endless errands. It was eight years ago. He rubbed his temple. Portia . . .
Lysias continued over his thoughts.
“The other woman, the pretty one whose name I do not know, she simply disappeared like the rest of them. Except, of course, for the one named Kardus.” Here the slave had snorted. “Everyone around here knows him. Most don’t know what he used to be, only what he is now: a raving lunatic. The local legend. Crazier than a rabid dog on hard ale. Possessed, they say. And that is all I have to tell you.”
Weakness entered Tallis’s limbs. What he had tried for years to forget pursued him like Achilles on a rampage.
Lysias stood and wiped his mouth with the fine linen napkin, then folded it carefully and laid it on the table. He lingered for a moment, gazing first at their small table and its leftover evidence of an elegant meal, watching a haughty servant sweep past with a silver platter on his splayed palms. He looked at the neatly trimmed ivy in the latticed arbor, beneath which genteel customers engaged in languid conversation, and he smiled a little. Then he bent to inhale the fragrance of the sprig of lavender in the bud vase on their table. He wished Tallis well, told him not to come for him again, and was gone.
Tallis sat motionless. Callimachus would tell him it was his fancy, tell him it was only old grief rolling over, it would go to sleep again. Tallis knew it was more. Knew it by the strange uneasiness he’d felt at unexpected times at the inn, knew it by too many blows in one single conversation, too many suggestions of one certain conclusion, though Callimachus would tell him he was wrong. Callimachus would forbid him to remember.
Dionysus, god of wine, god of madness. Dionysus was here.
Tallis stood in front of a building with two tar smears on its side. He’d last spoken with Lysias two days ago. Yesterday he had sent his dispatch to Callimachus.
He thought of earnest young Kardus. He was one of the few Tallis had had occasion to speak with on that weeklong gathering in Athens. There were two servants for fifty guests, and a few of the newly recruited teachers had volunteered to help with the endless details incumbent upon a collection of fifty scholars at the estate of Callimachus. Kardus was one.
Tallis remembered him because of their mutual interest in Alexander the Great. Kardus had made a proud comment that he was descended from Macedonian colonists in Hippos, colonists who had been with Alexander himself on his great march east. He owned a small clay replica of Bucephalas, Alexander’s beloved horse, which he claimed had been given to his ancestor by Alexander’s own hand. Kardus had produced the trinket, and though Tallis doubted such a treasure to be genuine, he afforded the object due respect, and Kardus had been satisfied. The one named Theseus—the one now dead—rolled his eyes behind Kardus’s back.
Tallis vaguely remembered Polonus, the leader of the Academy of Socrates in Hippos—a kind man, as Lysias had said. That had been Tallis’s own impression: kind and enthusiastic. A purposeful man, as suited a leader of one of the academies.
He didn’t remember much of Antenor, Polonus’s assistant, or of the women, or anyone else. What he did remember was excitement. He remembered a simmering enthusiasm in the crowd, a near giddiness . . . he had watched for their reaction upon meeting the great Callimachus, and he remembered it. And as Tallis watched Callimachus speak to them of the new academies, he felt privileged himself to be a part of this great undertaking. Even as a servant.
He looked at the two tar smears on the side of the whitewashed building. He barely remembered Portia. Egyptian, he thought. Had he known then what he knew now, of her association with the cult of Dionysus, he would have afforded her the respect due a snake pit.
He had one more idea to play out in this quest to discover the truth of the Decaphiloi, conceived just today when he passed Athena’s temple with his fragrant loaf. In front of the temple, in the center of the forum, was the public message board of Hippos. For a few coppers he could post a notice.
It could prove to be a dangerous idea, but seeking the truth always meant risk. And it might take patience, a commodity Tallis had never learned to hoard. What he did have was a nice supply of calm fury. For three years someone had stolen rent and salary monies from Callimachus, the only person on earth he loved. For three years someone had sent progress reports to the academy in Athens, reports that were carefully crafted lies, all for the bilking of an honest old man out of his life savings.
Did Tallis care what had happened to the Decaphiloi? Not as much as he cared about revenge. He could hold out at that backwater inn as long as it took.
He hefted the loaf in his hand and took an envious sniff. He was already formulating the words for the message on the public boards. First, he had a loaf of bread to deliver.
In the silent tombs of Kursi sits a man with no silence within. He used to have a name. If he could remember the name, it would change things.
Remember. Poor stupid man, remember.
They won’t let him remember.
Ancient babble, endless babble, a cacophonous din within keeps an endless frenzied pace where no remembrance is possible. He often screams above the din to create his own silence. If he screams, he does not hear the voices. When he stops, he hears.
Blasphemies. Abuses. Accusations. Worst of all, plain babbling nonsense.
WouldifIcouldifIcouldifIwouldbarleyandpeas
barleyandpeasbarleyandpeasbarleyandpeas
somasemasomasemasomasemasomasemacheese
withyourbreadcheesewithyourbreadcheesewith
yourbreadcheesewithyourbread . . .
If he could remember his name, it would stop the voices. He thinks it is in the endless stream of information passing through him every second. He could dip into the stream and pluck his name from it.
He dipped into the stream long ago, and it unleashed hell.
He can’t remember his name because he can’t get Them to shut UP! Ancient babble, endless babble, and an abandoned name tumbling w
ithin.
Remember. Remember.
Poor stupid man. Remember.
Stupidmanstupidmanstupidmanstupidman . . .
II
TALLIS KNOCKED until he was irritable. He blotted more sweat on his sleeve, dismayed at the smudgy look of it. This loaf did not deserve to be left on the doorstep. A dog or a beggar would have it before he turned the corner.
“Excuse me,” he called to a woman across the street. “Do you know if a fellow named Demas lives here?”
She gave an airy wave. “I don’t keep track of that lot. They come and go. Try the theater.”
Tallis considered the loaf. He could give it to the woman to give to Demas, but if Demas was not at the theater, the loaf was rightfully his. He unwrapped the cloth and stole another sniff—ground cinnamon, grated gingerroot, and other intoxicatingly fragrant spices. He groaned and rewrapped the loaf, and reverently placed it in his shoulder pack.
The theater was not the biggest Tallis had ever seen, probably seating around five, six hundred. He’d expected Hippos to have a decent theater, but thought this city on top of a hill would have given more consideration to housing space and fortification. He knew Hippos dated back at least three hundred years, not long after Alexander’s time, but this theater couldn’t be more than fifty years old. It was probably added under the influence of Herod the “Great”—an appellation likely courtesy of himself.
Tallis came to the public entrance and paused before going through the archway. He noticed the stone columns on either side, twined with stone ivy. He had only to look up and see what sort of archway the columns supported. He knew he would find sculpture work in honor of the patron god of the theaters . . . Dionysus. The god’s tie with the theater was the only association he had not been able to break. He had learned to live with the Dionysiac theater guilds as a mere consequence, like being a servant for the privilege of living in fashionable Athens. Or being near Callimachus.
He had learned to ignore any emblems or symbols associated with the god: Cal taught him to reduce the symbols to mere elements of composition, to see sculpture as stone, pottery as clay, carvings as wood. He had even learned to drink wine again. Why, then, this sweat when he looked at the ivy on the columns, why the cold on his heart, and why was he here—why didn’t Cal send Aristarchus? If he looked up at the archway he would see what Cal had taught him to nullify. Slowly he let his gaze travel up an ivy-twined column.
The archway was only a bas-relief of Dionysus and his women, only stone, an element of composition. Tallis told himself this as he studied the ringleted, pointy-bearded god and his adoring women known as the Maenads. He ignored the un-Callimachus-like tumult in his belly as he regarded Dionysus as most knew him, the merry god of wine, the cheerful companion of those gathering for entertainment. Any theater in Greece had depictions in some form of Dionysus. Any drunkard in his cups knew the good old god of comfort.
It was only stone, and he was only a myth, conjured by the minds of the needful . . . so Callimachus said. He was myth. Myth and legend.
Olympias, the mother of Alexander the Great, was a devotee of Dionysus. The mother of his hero, such a shrewd woman . . . devoted to myth. And in the form to which she was devoted, Dionysus did not remotely resemble his theater-guild or wine-god persona. There was another side to Dionysus, a side that oceans of wine could never make Tallis forget.
“The posting for performances is regrettably late,” a voice called.
He broke from his study, felt the cold instantly lift, didn’t know he’d been cold. He came through the archway of the amphitheater a little disoriented, relieved by the distraction, and looked down to the stage. There an elderly man with a white tumbling beard sat on a stool. Seated on the stage around him were five or six young men.
“Oh—I’m not here for the performances,” Tallis began.
“I don’t blame you,” one of the young men quipped, and the others, including the bearded one, laughed. He shook his finger at the young man.
Tallis left the archway behind. He came down a few steps, already enjoying this, grateful for the beguilement from his troubles. He gazed about the amphitheater.
The stage components had contemporary styling. There was a fine row in the left bank of seats near the front of the stage, fitted with tiny tables for refreshment. The very front row of seats had not only tables, but footrests and seat backs.
“If I did come I would surely sit right there.” Tallis pointed.
“If you can afford one of those seats, I will call you my master,” the same young man said.
This time Tallis laughed with the others. “A pleasant company I am in,” he said as he came down the steps. “I miss the theater.”
“You are an actor?” said the white-bearded one.
“No. I am a playwright—in my spare time. You probably haven’t heard of my works yet.” Then he added hopefully, “The Day of Odysseus?”
They looked at one another and shrugged.
“Agamemnon’s Regret?”
No response, though someone offered politely, “I may have heard of that one.”
Tallis sighed as he reached the bottom of the stone steps. “You’re being kind. It’s probably the best I’ll get.”
“These do not sound like the wretched raucous comedies of the day,” the old man on the stool said, tapping his lips with his finger. “You are a student of Homer?”
For anyone associated with the theater, the question was a familiar challenge. Homer was out of style, as were all the classic tragedies. Tallis lifted his chin and declared, “I am. When I die he will be immensely popular again, and my plays may see stage time. I’ll be postmortem rich.”
Tallis had passed the test. With a deepening twinkle in his eye, the old man slowly grinned, then clapped his hands. “Wonderful! Students, attend this man—the spirit of Homer lives, and we may yet put on a book or two of the Iliad. Sir, my name is Patroclus, master of the theater. May I have the honor of your name? And how may I be of service to a student of Homer?”
Tallis smiled and gave a little bow. “The name is Tallis of Athens, and the service would be to point out the fellow to whom this loaf belongs—it was baked by a pretty maid just for him.” He unwrapped the loaf and displayed it high, to a chorus of appreciation.
Later, when Tallis thought on it, he would say the jovial air in the elderly man faltered then—before he ever mentioned the name of Demas—and this, Tallis later decided, was very important.
“And what is the name of the man who should receive that loaf?” asked the young man who had spoken earlier. “I hope it is Claudius, a man infinitely worthy of such splendidly fragrant fare.”
The others groaned.
“The name is Demas,” Tallis said.
“Why, fortune favors me!” Claudius cried. “That’s my second name. And if the maid is pretty, I am definitely Demas.”
Tallis chuckled with the rest—it was good to laugh, he hadn’t laughed since he left Athens—and glanced for advice at Patroclus.
Patroclus was not smiling. He gazed on Tallis with an unreadable look. Then he said, “He is in a traveling troupe. They just left for Caesarea.”
“I’m Demas . . .”
“No, I’m Demas . . .”
Tallis held the look. Now that he was closer, the man did not seem so elderly. A white beard grown amok, wild even for native Palestinian tastes, could not conceal eyes without enough wrinkles to match the white of the beard.
“Tell the maid he left.” There was polite dismissal in his tone.
“Tell her he left other women as well,” someone sighed. “Remember the nut pies from Sophronia?”
“Pastries from Anna?” sighed another.
“Remember how he used to share his goods?”
“He even shared his women!”
Claudius held out his hand for the loaf. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing this. He’d insist that I, his former best friend, should have it.”
Tallis smiled tightly, aware o
f the new atmosphere. The young men didn’t sense it. He rewrapped the loaf and said, “Sorry, lads. I have strict instructions to enjoy this myself if I cannot find Demas.” He nodded to them and to Patroclus. “Good day, good sirs.”
“Come for one of our performances,” one of them called as he ascended the stone steps.
Tallis inclined his head, said he just might, and left the theater. He glanced behind only once, when he reached the archway. The man Patroclus was watching him.
He concluded his business for the day at the public message board in the forum, regretfully paying out a few coppers to the man with the ink-stained fingers, and left Hippos for the two-mile walk to the inn.
Tallis’s own name had brought upon Patroclus some strange speculation. Did he know Tallis? Did Tallis know him? Was he a former teacher of the academy? Tallis couldn’t place him—that wild beard concealed much.
“I didn’t know you had returned,” came a surprised voice.
Tallis roused from his ruminations. It was the innkeeper’s daughter.
She stood to the side, arms clasped about herself, looking at the lake. “You’re back early.”
She didn’t like to look in the eyes, Tallis had noticed. Today that fact irritated him.
“Why can’t you look at my face when you talk to me?” he groused. “Is it a superstition of foreigners, or is it because I am a man?”
Ho, that brought her eyes around. They were fresh and snappy now, a vivid shade of light brown. Her hair was thick and very wavy, deeply auburn, nearly brown. The wind tossed what wasn’t captured by braid or band. The loose strands blew across her smooth, freckled face, and she pushed them aside to glare at Tallis.
“Why are you always unpleasant to me?” he asked more mildly.
“I am not unpleasant,” she snapped.
“You’re not pleasant,” Tallis pointed out. “Nobody around here is, except for your father and the little boy. Even your slave looks at me funny.”
