AHMM, Jul-Aug 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I thought of the Libyan. “Why didn't they complain to the authorities in Athens?” I asked.

  "Because they are foreign,” Daneus said. “Afraid complaining will cause more trouble for them than just paying the extra charge."

  I knew Pericles would be upset to hear this. “Did any of them ever refuse to pay the extra charge?"

  Daneus shrugged. “There are rumors. We ‘sea trash,’ as the aristocrats call us, at least most aristocrats,” he said, giving me a quick nod, “hear everything down here at Piraeus.” He leaned toward me. “What I have heard is that Zeno had ways of taking care of troublemakers. You might want to talk to Polos of Syria, a wine shipper. You can probably find him down at the commercial agora at the Periclean corn market tomorrow morning.” He leaned back. “It'll be dangerous business, figuring out Zeno's schemes. Polos can tell you how dangerous. So be careful what you say."

  I wasn't sure if the warning was to me or for me. “Thanks,” I said.

  "Are you really becoming a Sophist?” one of the other sailors asked.

  "My half brother says I'm already one."

  "So you know how to persuade the assembly in Athens. I mean on things like paying sailors more money or giving them pensions."

  "I can certainly try. I am a democrat. Demos. Means people, not aristocrats. Only."

  I rose. When I got to the door, I turned. “You sea trash,” I said. “You saved Athens from the Persians. Nice trash.” Daneus flicked some wine toward me and laughed.

  I couldn't tell the nature of his laugh. He was sly. Intelligent, but sly.

  I stepped outside to head to the house where Lamicus and I were staying. It was raining. We would have the evening to discuss the ship we were having built.

  It was then that I saw her again. Aspasia. She was with Cephalos, a Syracusan who had been induced to come to Athens by Pericles. He owned a shield factory and was wealthy enough to have a hetaera, a high-class prostitute, if that's what Aspasia was. I was wondering if I could splash mud on him when I realized that the woman was not Aspasia. She had the same elegant neck, the same graceful body, but her eyes were lighter, as was her hair. She was a beauty, and she was looking at me with interest. I pulled myself up to full height and tried to look as handsome as possible. If I couldn't have Aspasia, I wanted this girl.

  I stepped up to Cephalos. “Excuse me, Cephalos,” I said, thinking of as good a lie as I could come up with, “Pericles is in town. He would like to see you."

  Cephalos gave me a contemptuous look, glancing at the bit of wine I'd spilled on my chiton. “Already has."

  "Oh, I see. Well then I'll say goodbye to you and..."

  "Goodbye,” Cephalos said.

  "Selkine,” the lovely creature said. “I live near the theatre."

  Cephalos gave her an angry look and began to pull her along.

  She yanked her arm from his and nodded to me. “You are?"

  "Kleides of Athens."

  She smiled, turned, and walked past Cephalos.

  He dashed after her.

  She had spirit. I knew I couldn't have her tonight, so I decided to walk to the agora and find a reasonably priced flute girl.

  * * * *

  The next morning the sun burned over the Saronic Gulf, its rays reflecting blindingly off the blue waters. The columns of the long colonnade blazed white in the sun. I walked to the corn market in the colonnade from the hill of Mounykhia, leaned against a column, and watched the sea of felt hats, protection from the sun, moving about, checking out the grain cargoes. I could see the Athenian officials checking to make sure that two-thirds of all grain cargoes stayed in Athens to feed the population. I could see that grain purchasers were buying at high prices since the volume of grain shipments had been lower than expected. I knew Pericles’ policy. The state would sell the grain to citizens at normal prices.

  I made my way past a cargo of timber and pitch from Macedon, holding my breath against the sharp odor that almost burned the nostrils. Further along in the bazaar, I was tempted by black and ivory pillows made by some master from Carthage. Lamicus’ new wife, Cleodice, would love it. I made a mental note to buy one later and continued toward the corn market, succumbing to only one more temptation: some succulent dates from Syria.

  At the corn market, it took me another half hour before I found someone who pointed out Polos of Syria, a short, stocky man with a face that held a nose as pointed and sharp as his dark eyes.

  I introduced myself and told him I wanted to talk about Zeno.

  I learned some new curses, then resorted to invoking Pericles’ name, telling Polos that Pericles wanted the port kept clean, in all ways. That seemed to mollify him a little, but he still looked at me warily.

  "Zeno,” I said, “overvalued cargoes, but entered a more realistic estimate into the books. Am I right?"

  Polos listened to the price a local seller was offering for a load of olives, then turned to me. “Yeah,” he said. “That's right.” He sneered. “So the snake got murdered, I hear."

  "He did. Any idea who might have murdered him?"

  Polos laughed heartily. “Look around. Pick somebody. Anybody. That Egyptian.” He pointed to a man in white linen. “That Phoenician. That Syracusan. Plenty of candidates. Everybody hated him. He hit every foreign shipper, no matter what the cargo."

  "Including frankincense?"

  He face reddened. “What the hell does frankincense have to do with it?"

  I was inclined to take a step back but stood my ground. “You tell me."

  He glared, then smiled. “I don't know and don't care. But I'm willing to celebrate that double-headed monster's death with the best wine and the largest Sicilian cheese."

  He turned to watch two port officials board a merchant ship.

  "Why did you call him double headed?"

  "I'll tell you why,” he said, swinging back to me. “The snake overcharged shippers, then, if they protested, sent them straight into the hands of the pirates from ‘thieves’ harbor,’ the cove to the west. One of my friends died at the hands of those predators. He wasn't willing to pay the price."

  "You think Zeno alerted the pirates to when your friend was leaving port?"

  "Yeah, I think so. So much for your vaunted Athenian law and justice.” He walked away and stopped at the table of a money changer.

  I followed, fingering the lump of frankincense in my pouch: the frankincense I'd extracted from Zeno's mouth. “Was frankincense among the items in your friend's cargo?"

  "No,” Polos said.

  I watched the money changer's hands sift through darics from Persia, coins from Sicily, from Libya, from Ionia. He changed them for Athenian drachmas, with their pictures of Athena and her owl. Athenian money, accepted everywhere as worthwhile coinage. Pericles was right. If Athens were to maintain her superiority, the port had to be kept clean.

  I began walking along the quay, thinking about what Polos had said Zeno was doing. Overcharging, then betraying shippers to the pirates, for a hefty cut of the stolen cargo, no doubt. Then I remembered something else Polos had said. His friend had died because he hadn't been willing to pay the price. I'd assumed he meant Zeno's overcharging. But suppose he'd meant that Zeno would, for a price, double-cross the pirates and send the shippers out when the pirates weren't expecting them to go out. It would account for Zeno's prosperity, far greater than mere overcharging should have brought in. It would also account for the Libyan's comment about paying and paying and paying again. And, if pirates were involved and had been betrayed, they would have had no qualms at inflicting a violent death on Zeno. And that would account for Tisias’ fear.

  It was the jerking on my arm that brought me out of my thoughts. The harpy was pulling at my chiton. “Will you listen? I have a shop to take care of. Tisias wants to talk to you. He says it's important, says something about wanting to explain. He was blathering. He's scared about something. Says he'll be at the agora, at the theatre side."

  I thanked her. She expressed the strong b
elief that she was owed a few obols for her services.

  I obliged and headed for Piraeus’ central marketplace. But I could not find Tisias. I spent an hour or so with Lamicus on our ship's business, then headed for the marketplace again, hoping to find Tisias. I was cutting through the colonnade when the commotion began. I heard someone yelling for Scythian police. I ran to the shop from which the yelling had come.

  The owner pointed toward a large ceramic vat of eels. “I leave my shop to buy some bread and look. Some drunken lout. Help me get him out of there,” he said. “Those are prime eels. Very valuable."

  A man lay behind the vat.

  I knelt to look. It was Tisias, his head half bashed in as Zeno's had been. His mouth was stuffed with frankincense.

  I stayed until the Scythians removed the body and then headed to the villa where Pericles was staying. I had to let him know that Tisias was dead, killed perhaps by the same pirates who had probably killed Zeno. I was feeling depressed. I'd discovered Zeno's corrupt dealings and his likely murderers. But I couldn't be sure the pirates had killed either man. I had not discovered a key part of Zeno's plot, how he had informed the pirates when he was sending a ship into their trap. I knew he would not have direct contact with the pirates. It would have been prison for a harbor official if such contact had been spotted.

  At the villa, I became even more depressed. Pericles assured me that I had done the state a service in discovering what I had. But it did not help that the lovely Aspasia was with Pericles. She poured me a glass of good Syrian wine and gave me some advice.

  "You must,” she said, “find someone who could have contact with pirates easily and without raising suspicion. Someone who could move freely about the harbor.” She looked at the amphora of Syrian wine. “Perhaps even someone like the owners of the ceramic shop where Zeno was killed. My father purchased this wine there this afternoon. The shop owners clearly know where to buy good wine. They know Piraeus."

  I thought about that. I had an idea why someone had provided the harpy and her husband with good wine. They'd betrayed Tisias, telling someone that he had wanted to talk to me. So he was killed before he could. But by whom?

  I walked back down toward the harbor. The afternoon sun was blazing hot. Most of the shops had closed for a few hours and few people were out. In the distance near the harbor, I spotted Daneus and his friends walking up the hill from the bay. I was tempted to find out where they were heading, but I had to get more information first.

  I stepped into Armides’ tavern. He knew the harpy, and maybe he knew Polos. It took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Light came in through two narrow slits in the front wall and through a back window whose wooden shutters were open. Two men sat on stools by the table at which I'd sat with Tisias. They were both old, with gray grizzled hair and beards. They didn't bother to look at me.

  I took a stool from along the wall and put it by the only other table in the place.

  "Armides here?” I asked the two men.

  One didn't move. The other straightened his stooped shoulders, then gestured to a side room. “Served us, then disappeared. A blessing. He stinks."

  "Indeed,” I said.

  I waited. I was wondering about Daneus’ whereabouts when I smelled it. A fragrant odor. Unmistakable. It drifted into the tavern from the side room. It was followed by Armides himself.

  He saw me, stopped, nodded, then went behind his bar.

  I motioned for him to come over.

  I had intended to ask him if Polos shipped good as well as cheap wine. But now I had a different question. “Have any good Syrian wine?” I asked when he'd approached.

  "No."

  I took off my felt hat and pretended to drop it. It gave me an excuse to lean down, bringing my head close to Armides. I could smell the frankincense on his hands, and beneath its sweet odor, a musty smell. Armides had been burning frankincense and using it to take away the smells of eels.

  I straightened up, pushed away from the table, and stood up. “A good cover, this tavern: cheap wine, gloomy, dirty. Any lowlife, including pirates, could come in and no one would think anything amiss. Did they give you the order to kill Zeno for betraying them?"

  Armides said, “I don't take orders."

  "Did you shove the frankincense into his mouth out of anger or as a warning to other officials you and your pirate friends are trying to corrupt?"

  "I always warn those I intend to harm. I warned you."

  I glanced at the two old men. They were staring, fear on their faces. I swallowed. I'd gotten myself in a sticky position. I was young and strong, but Armides was brawny and ruthless. I pushed ahead anyway. My damned desire for knowledge.

  "Why did you kill Tisias? Because he was coming to me? How did you know?"

  Armides smiled. “I have my informants. But don't feel too sorry for Tisias. He was an informant too, though he didn't know it. He talked freely if given enough wine."

  "So Zeno kept clear of suspicion by letting Tisias in on the schedule of ships. And when he told you a ship's schedule, you passed it on to the pirates."

  "Well, well. Aren't you the bright young man? But not bright enough. You didn't spot the shop owners as my informants. They let me know that rotted-out Tisias was having qualms. He'd figured out Zeno's scheme, you know, just as you have. So when he got scared enough over his part in it, he asked the shop owner's wife to get a message to you if she could."

  "And then the harpy told you. Do you always reward your informants with good Syrian wine to drink or sell?"

  "For those who cooperate, yes. For those who don't, this."

  He lunged at me. His hands grasped my neck and squeezed.

  I was caught in a vise. I brought my arms up sharply against his, but his hands held steady.

  I jerked forward, smashing my head against his face. His hands loosened. I gasped. The smell of frankincense and eels filled my nostrils, almost choking me again.

  Armides shoved me against the wall and grabbed my neck again.

  I grunted and reached an arm out to one of the older men. He stood, knocking over his stool, and ran out of the tavern. The second man stood frozen, his eyes as round as the moon.

  I brought my knee up against Armides’ groin.

  He yelped but didn't let go. He pulled me forward, then slammed me back against the wall. My head reeled. I hung on to Armides’ arms, pushing. I couldn't break his hold.

  I managed to kick Armides’ shin, but my leather sandals made little impact.

  I slackened a little, then let go of Armides’ right arm and shoved my thumb into his eye as hard as I could.

  Armides yelled and rubbed his eye.

  I went for him, butting my head into his stomach. He was as steady as a fat old olive tree. I stepped back and prepared to launch myself against him again.

  The door of the tavern banged open. Four men rushed in and flung themselves on Armides, like the hounds of Artemis. I put aside my Sophist disbelief and thanked the huntress goddess. Then I quickly thanked the sea god. Poseidon surely had sent Daneus and the sailors to help, though since I am a skeptic regarding the gods, I couldn't imagine why he should have.

  * * * *

  After the Scythian police had hauled off Armides and the harpy and her husband to a prison in Athens, Pericles and I sat talking.

  "What happy circumstance brought Daneus and the others up to Armides’ tavern?"

  "One of the old men, may Athena bless him, ran out and got help from the first men he saw. The sailors were headed for the agora to buy market supplies. They are shipping out tomorrow for practice maneuvers."

  Pericles nodded. “With new orders to clear the bays of pirates as far as possible. You've cleared the harbor of a nasty scheme. For that, Kleides, I thank you, indeed. I want Athens to be remembered always for its architecture, its democracy, its law. And from now on, the courts will hear any suit brought by shippers, foreign or Athenian, with due speed."

  I had no doubt that he would succeed i
n his plan. Athenians would rise to meet his high ideals. But when he told me that he intended to divorce his Athenian wife and take up with Aspasia, I feared for him personally. His enemies, those against the democracy, would use this against him.

  As for me, I found ample consolation that night with the young and beautiful Selkine.

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  Copyright © 2005 by Marianne Wilski Strong.

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  A Jar of Bean Paste by Martin Limón

  Slowly, so as not to allow rusty hinges to squeak, Kimiko raised the wooden top of the storage bin and peeked out into the darkened courtyard. All was as it should be: wooden stools scattered across a flagstone-covered square, red streamers fallen from festive heights, rotund eathernware jars rolling on potbellies in puddles of sloshed rice beer.

  The aftermath of a kut. A séance led by a highly paid female shaman, with music and dancing and free-flowing rice liquor. It seemed as if every matron in the village of Itaewon had attended, celebrating good fortune, commemorating the death of the husband of the woman who owned this home and hosted the attempt to commune with the dead.

  Superstitious nonsense, Kimiko thought, but she was happy to attend, for she had a motive beyond merely paying her respects to the man who had passed on to the nether realms. She raised the lid and climbed out of the storage bin. Then she crouched and stared into the darkness.

  Listening.

  Kimiko was after money. Cold hard cash. Cash would help her escape from the years of degradation she'd been forced to suffer here in Seoul's red light district of Itaewon. Cash was liberty. And Kimiko would do anything to obtain it.

  After assuring herself that all was quiet, Kimiko tiptoed across the courtyard and, barefoot, stepped onto the raised wooden floor of the hooch owned by the woman who called herself Mrs. Culverson. Her real name, Kimiko knew, was Pak Ok-hi, a poor country girl from Yoju who'd wandered into Seoul when she was nineteen, applied for and received a VD card, and started “entertaining” American G.I.'s in the notorious nightclub district of Itaewon. After experience numbed feeling, Pak Ok-hi latched onto a middle-aged noncommissioned officer known as Sergeant First Class Frederick K. Culverson. But Culverson was overweight and suffering from adult onset diabetes, and the U.S. Army was threatening him with medical discharge before he could reach his twenty year retirement. That threat, plus the stress of a demanding job at the 8th U.S. Army Headquarters nearby—and possibly the threat of a demanding wife—resulted in a coronary. A coronary that, three nights ago, abruptly took Culverson's life.