by J M Alvey
The gate opened behind us. I was halfway to my feet before I realised the newcomers were a handful of slaves looking to Lydis for instructions. One girl carried a heavy jug and another had a bundle of well-worn linen rags. Two men had brought kindling and charcoal, along with some embers in a hollow fennel stalk. They quickly lit a fire in the brazier and one of the girls set a pot on the flames to heat up some water.
The last slave was an older woman with a basket of small pots and vials. As she opened one, I caught the aroma of familiar herbs. It smelled like my mother’s salve for everyday cuts and scratches, made with the leaves she harvests on her forays outside the city walls, and pounded into the lanolin from her brothers’ sheep. The scent was unexpectedly comforting.
Lydis was giving further instructions to the men who’d brought the firewood. ‘Keep a lookout for strangers. Tell the maids to keep their ears open for anyone asking nosy questions. Watch for some stranger hanging around with no real reason to be in this neighbourhood.’ He turned to one of the girls, gesturing at my ripped, filthy tunic. ‘Find them some clean clothes.’
Sarkuk stood up, tense. ‘I must get back to my father, at our lodging. He will be wondering what has become of us.’
‘Aristarchos will make certain he’s safe.’ I looked expectantly at Lydis. ‘Your master will want to hear what he has to say, I am sure of it.’
‘I will see that he’s brought here.’ The slave nodded as he ushered the other slaves out and left us in the courtyard with one remaining girl and the older woman.
‘Clean yourself up before your father arrives.’ I dampened a clean scrap of soft linen and handed it to Sarkuk. ‘The more normal you look, the less distressed he will be.’
Scrubbing the blood and dirt from my hands stung ferociously but the slave woman’s salve worked wonders. There wasn’t anything to be done for my bruises, but a clean tunic would cover the worst. I drew a cautious breath and was relieved to feel only a dull ache in my side, not the stabbing pain of a broken rib.
Sarkuk hissed with pain as he cleaned a deep gash between his knuckles. His hands had suffered badly. Thankfully his face was unmarked. Hide those swollen, bruised fists inside a cloak and no one outside on the street should look at him twice.
Tur was another matter entirely. He sat dumbly on a stool as the slave woman tended his hurts, with the younger girl standing ready to swap soiled rags for clean ones. She threw the gory scraps onto the brazier, where they hissed on the coals.
Blood matted the young Carian’s hair and beard, and his broken nose was as bad as any injury I’d seen among wrestlers at the gymnasium. Both of his eyes were closed tight. One was so nastily swollen that I feared for his sight, though I didn’t ask the nurse what she thought. There would be time enough for such worries later.
Sarkuk murmured something fond and reassuring in their Carian tongue. Tur managed a nod, clenching his jaw against the pain. I saw his lips were quivering like Nymenios’s little son Hestaios after he’s taken a bruising tumble. The nurse stroked the young man’s dirty hair and he leaned his forehead against her comforting belly, broad shoulders shaking.
Sarkuk heaved a sigh. ‘Whose house is this? What are we doing here?’
‘This property, these people, they belong to Aristarchos Phytalid.’
Sarkuk’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are Pargasa’s affairs this rich man’s concern?’
‘He was concerned when I told him you expected your tribute to be reassessed at this festival. He knows that you have been lied to. If someone’s out to make trouble by convincing our allies they’ll see some relief when, truly, there’s no chance of that happening this year, it concerns all honest Athenians. Aristarchos Phytalid is a man with the authority to convince the magistrates that you have been duped by this Archilochos. The city’s authorities will definitely want to know what he has to say for himself.’
Tur managed to squint at me now that the nurse had wiped away the blood sticking his less-injured eye shut. ‘Will we see justice for Xandyberis?’ he mumbled indistinctly.
‘Let’s all ask the gods for that,’ I said grimly.
Judging by the boy’s grunt, he’d prefer more direct action to prayer.
‘I’ve brought some honeyed wine.’ Lydis returned with a jug, which he set on the brazier as a young boy followed with a bundle of clothing.
The older slave woman was examining the gash in Tur’s eyebrow. ‘This needs to be closed with a stitch,’ she said briskly. ‘Wait here while I fetch—’
‘We must get back to Grandfather.’ Tur stood up and swayed.
‘Sit down.’ The slave woman was easily able to force him back onto his stool before she bustled off through the gate where a thick-necked man stood watch. I recognised him as Aristarchos’s personal bodyguard.
‘Tur?’ I looked at the lad, wondering uneasily just how hard he’d been hit on the head. ‘Your grandfather’s coming here. Don’t you remember us saying that?’
He stared at me, bleary-eyed. ‘What?’
‘Tunics and a cloak with a hood for the boy.’ Lydis gestured at the bundle the lad had put down on an empty stool. He bowed politely to Sarkuk. ‘Once you’ve had something to eat and drink, and your father has arrived, my master has a house nearby where you can stay. He will escort you.’ He nodded to the burly slave by the gate.
I assumed Mus and Lydis had sent someone equally brawny to fetch the old man. I hoped Azamis would get here soon. I wanted to get to my family’s house as quickly as possible and not just in hopes of honeycakes. It wasn’t only the cool in the shadowy courtyard raising gooseflesh on my arms.
Xandyberis had been asking around the agora where he might find me, and Elpis had sent him to my brothers’ house. I was worried that whoever lurked behind all this would send brutes to my family home, to harass my brothers into telling them where I was. They would surely want to beat me into telling them what I’d learned from the Carians. Then they’d want to discover where these three had gone.
Sarkuk and I stripped and dressed in fresh clothes. It was strange to see the Carian in an Athenian tunic. Between us, we managed to get Tur out of his filthy garb and into something clean.
‘Please offer my sincerest thanks to your master,’ Sarkuk said stiffly to Lydis.
‘The gods bless those who help strangers in need.’ The slave gathered up our discards.
The motherly slave woman returned with a box of medical equipment. She clucked with disapproval when she saw what we’d done with Tur. ‘You couldn’t wait till I’d stitched him up? Oh well, just hold his hands down.’
She tucked more clean rags into the neck of the boy’s tunic and got to work. There wasn’t much blood, and he bore the pain like a hero though, to be fair, he was in no condition to fight back. He couldn’t have fended off a garland girl from the market.
By the time she was done, he was shaking like a bay tree in a winter gale. There was an old hoplite cloak in the bundle of clothes and I wrapped that around his shoulders. Sarkuk poured a cup of honeyed wine from the jug on the brazier. He held it to his son’s lips, coaxing the boy to drink.
The slave guarding the gate peered through the grille to see who was knocking. As he opened up I was relieved to see the old Carian, Azamis, flanked by two muscular escorts.
‘Did anyone come looking for us?’ Sarkuk demanded. ‘Has anyone sent word of the riot in the agora?’
‘No.’ The old man was mystified. Then he saw Tur and gasped. ‘Oh, my poor boy!’
The young Carian’s bruises were starting to colour, and his cut and swollen face looked truly frightful. At the same time, he was unhealthily pale beneath those gruesome injuries and his uninjured eyelid was drooping ominously.
Sarkuk ushered his father to a stool, forcing him to sit. He said something in their own tongue.
‘Here, drink this.’ I reached for the jug of warm wine and poured a generous cup
ful. We should have thought to warn the old man how shocking his grandson looked. The last thing we needed was Azamis keeling over from some spasm of the head or heart.
Thankfully a couple of swallows brought a flush of colour to Azamis’s sunken cheeks. I took a cup of wine for myself and offered the first taste to Apollo and his healer son, Asclepios.
The gate opened yet again and Aristarchos appeared in the archway. He took the scene that greeted him in his stride, though even he raised his eyebrows when he saw the extent of Tur’s injuries.
‘Good day to you all.’ He turned to his slave. ‘Lydis, send word to the Academy. I’d be grateful if Spintharos could call here as soon as he finds it convenient.’
How nice, I reflected, to be able to summon your chosen doctor when you needed him, instead of carrying or cajoling a patient to one of Apollo’s shrines, where you could only hope that whoever you found on duty was a halfway competent physician.
‘If you please,’ Sarkuk said, strained, ‘we cannot afford—’
‘If your son has been injured in Athens, it is Athens’ duty to see him cared for.’ Aristarchos’s courteous manner nevertheless made it clear that particular discussion was closed. ‘Philocles, what do you have to tell me?’
I’d been organising my thoughts while we waited, and gave him a succinct summary of everything that had happened in the agora. While I was speaking, two slaves appeared with refreshments, two more carrying trestles and a table top. They set out wine, olives and pine nuts, together with fresh sliced cheese and wheat breads.
Aristarchos poured a polite libation to Hermes, for the sake of all messengers and travellers. ‘And your conclusions?’
Before I could answer, Azamis raised his hand like a student at a lecture. ‘If you please, honoured sir, do not believe what that other Ionian in the agora claimed. I swear that Pargasarenes have no wish to be ruled by Artaxerxes. We know how harsh any satrap’s rule would be. The Medes still remember how Ionia rebelled against them in my grandfather’s day. They bear us a mortal grudge.’
He shook his head, his grey beard flowing. ‘We wish to stay in the Delian League and not just for fear of the Persians. As long as we look to Athens, this city’s authority helps to uphold our own small council, our people’s assembly and our town’s law court. Cleisthenes’s reforms, which guarantee your own freedoms, are what inspired so many of our towns to throw off Darius’s rule, so we might govern ourselves in the Athenian way.’
That wasn’t how my father told that story. According to him, Ionia’s revolt was the bright idea of a couple of Milesians who’d been Darius’s vassals to begin with and got ambitious on their own account. Athens had been dragged into Ionia’s wars for the sake of our shared Hellene blood and to uphold the rights of free men and popular rule against tyranny. What we got in return was the Persians marching into Attica to plunder and burn, and the bloodshed of Marathon and all the battles that followed.
This was neither the time nor the place for that debate, so I held my tongue, drank my wine and ate some food. Now Azamis was saying something much more interesting.
‘If we break our ties with Athens, even if we stay free of the Persian yoke, there are Hellenes in Pargasa who claim ancient blood rights to rule.’ The old man’s voice grew harsh with emotion. ‘Foreign tyranny or home-grown oligarchy? What choice is that? To be devoured by Scylla or by Charybdis!’
‘No one on the council wants to see a favoured few putting their boot on our necks.’ Sarkuk took up the tale as Azamis reached for his cup to wash the bitterness from his mouth. ‘But those citizens who think they can seize power are always the first to complain, and the loudest, whenever the council and the assembly discuss gathering the levy payment each year. This is why Xandyberis was determined to stand before the Archons and have his say, to make our case to have this burden eased.’
‘Only we find that we have been lied to, and our friend has been killed.’ Azamis could barely restrain his fury. I was starting to see where Tur got his temper.
‘Then we must find out who has lied and why,’ Aristarchos said crisply.
‘I’ve been thinking about that.’ I spoke quickly. ‘Sarkuk, did you recognise that Ionian’s—’
‘What?’ Tur interrupted, startling us all. ‘You think we must all know each other?’
‘No,’ I shot back, ‘and if you’ll keep quiet, I’ll explain why I don’t think he was an Ionian at all.’ I asked Sarkuk again. ‘Did you recognise his accent as Carian, or Lydian, Mytilenean or Hellespontine?’
He considered this for a moment. ‘No. I’d have said he was a man who’d left his home town or island many years ago. Still Ionian in his speech but anything distinctive to mark out his birthplace has been smoothed away by years of travelling and speaking only Greek.’
‘You called out to him, in the agora. What did you say?’
‘That he had no right to speak for the rest of us,’ Sarkuk said robustly.
‘I don’t think he even realised you were talking to him. I don’t think he understood a word you said.’ I turned from the Carian to Aristarchos. ‘I think he was in league with the man who was making that speech condemning the Ionians. I saw the two of them swap a glance when the rabble-rouser was so surprised to see Tur step forward. They made use of the interruption quickly enough, though.’
Sarkuk frowned as he considered this. ‘I believe you are right.’
‘Someone’s conspiring to stir up trouble, turning Athenian citizens against Ionians in the streets.’ Aristarchos looked grim.
‘And we were unlucky enough to walk right into it.’ All the same, I had some good news. ‘But I believe we have a scent to follow. I reckon that man who was playing the Ionian is an actor. I’d say he’s a professional who specialises in regional characters.’
‘I suppose that’s possible.’ Aristarchos sounded dubious all the same.
I pressed on. ‘I think that orator’s an actor as well. He made a joke about Greek handmaids giving Persian satraps hand-jobs.’
Aristarchos pursed his lips with distaste. ‘Hardly high-flown rhetoric.’
I nodded. ‘Quite so, but I’ve heard that joke before.’
‘Where?’ Aristarchos leaned forward. ‘When?’
‘When I was called to read for the Archon the year before last, in hopes of a chorus for the Lenaia. A playwright called Timodemos used that exact line for an Athenian oarsman at Salamis.’
More fool him, thinking he could make a comedy out of that crucial battle. The Archon’s distaste had been clear before any announcements were made.
Aristarchos took my meaning. ‘So these conspirators have most likely hired an Athenian writer as well as at least one actor.’
‘How will you find them?’ Sarkuk asked.
I grinned. ‘At the theatre, where else? Keep your eyes open when you come to watch my play tomorrow.’
Tur was still determined to be contrary even though he was swaying on his stool and every word he spoke was an effort. ‘You think you’ll recognise two men among however many thousand . . . ?’
‘Maybe,’ I retorted, ‘and regardless, you’ll all be safer there than anywhere else in the city. No one’s going to try knifing you or beating you up with an audience that size to witness it.’ I looked at Aristarchos. ‘But I think we’ll have better luck if I ask Lysicrates which actors have a particular talent for playing foreigners, and who among them might be persuaded to do something like this.’
‘Persuaded or merely paid. That’s a sound notion, Philocles.’ Aristarchos turned to Azamis. ‘Forgive me, but I don’t think it’s wise for you to return to your hostel. I have property nearby where you can stay as my guests and we can ensure no enemies know where to find you.’
I could see that Azamis was reluctant, but equally he could see that Aristarchos was a man used to being obeyed. The old man exchanged a glance with his son and Sarkuk nod
ded.
‘We are honoured by your hospitality,’ he said formally.
‘It’s little enough restitution for all that you have suffered. Lydis, send to the hostel for their belongings and pay any outstanding bill. Meantime, I will send word to the Polemarch’s office, so you may claim your friend’s body.’
When the Pargasarenes had finished interrupting each other, thanking him profusely, Aristarchos turned to me.
‘I really have to get to my brothers’ house,’ I said quickly. ‘My mother’s going to have my balls for loom weights as it is.’
‘Of course.’ Aristarchos set aside whatever he intended to say.
When I arrived at my family home, I was relieved to find that all was peaceful, or as peaceful as any festival day can be, with laughter and music and feasting all along the street. Of course, there was a harsher note here and there. With too many people sharing cramped quarters, indulging in late nights, too much wine and rich food, family rows often break out. Drama’s never limited to the theatre during the Dionysia.
No strangers had come asking after me. They hadn’t even heard about the riot in the agora. My fears receded as I considered how quickly Pamphilos and the other neighbours would come to the household’s aid if troublemakers turned up.
The best of the festival food had already been eaten, so I was glad Aristarchos’s slaves had fed me. Not that I said anything about visiting his house. I just hinted that nerves over tomorrow’s performance had dulled my appetite.
My mother saw my hands were bruised. There was no hiding such details from her eagle eye. I made light of it, insisting I’d just run into some drunks on the Panathenaic Way. Mother was ready to believe that. As far as she’s concerned, Athens is a city of lawless brutes, so unlike the peaceful countryside she’d known as a girl.
Mother was born out in Kolonai. Her family have lived thereabouts since the time of the Titans. There’s every chance she’d have stayed within half a day’s walk for the rest of her life, happily married to a local boy. But when the Persians invaded, everyone in their path came scurrying into Athens for safety.
