Shadows of Athens

by J M Alvey

  The ink was still glistening. I waved it in the hot sun to dry. ‘You’re a marvel. I don’t deserve you.’

  ‘Just as long as you remember that.’

  Even though she smiled at me, I felt a chill in the warm sun.

  Every coin has two sides. As no more than my lover and as a resident foreigner besides, Zosime has none of an Athenian citizen’s rights. That also means she has none of the ties that bind women like Melina to their hearths and homes: love for their children, and with Aphrodite’s blessing, for their husbands as well.

  My mother, my sisters, my brother’s wife, they spend their whole lives within sight of the Acropolis, under watchful Athena’s grey gaze. They share every passing year’s joys and sorrows with family, friends and neighbours. Leaving their homes and friendships would be like cutting off a limb.

  Menkaure and Zosime could take a ship from Piraeus tomorrow and not look back. They’d already lived for years in three different places. Another new start would hardly be a great challenge. With their skills as potter and painter, they could make a good living in any Hellenic city.

  Zosime must have seen something in my face. ‘Stop moping,’ she chided. ‘You earned that headache.’

  ‘True enough.’ I hid my apprehensive thoughts with a repentant smile. ‘Give me a moment to get dressed and we’ll get to the theatre.’

  I threw a silent prayer to Dionysos that we’d still be able to get decent seats.

  ‘We’ll see today’s plays then find somewhere to eat in the city,’ I suggested. ‘If we have an early night, we can be up and at the theatre tomorrow first thing.’

  ‘You said you’d see your mother today,’ Zosime reminded me.

  ‘Okay, but that’ll just be a quick detour.’ I scrubbed a hand through my wet curls to try and quell the thumping in my head. ‘Let me get dressed.’

  I found a plain brown tunic in my clothes chest. That would do. I carefully rolled up the portrait Zosime had drawn and tucked it through my belt for safe keeping.

  ‘I should stay here today,’ Kadous said glumly as I went back into the courtyard. ‘Better not leave the house unguarded again.’ He managed a wry grin. ‘If I see anyone creeping up with a paint pot, I promise the fucker will end up drinking it.’

  I considered that for a long moment, looking around our little house. I assessed what someone might find, breaking in here to smash and steal. The chickens. Zosime’s jewellery. My precious library of scrolls. Whatever treasures Kadous might have stowed under his bed.

  All were things we’d grieve to lose. There was nothing that couldn’t be replaced though, given time, money and effort. Nothing was as valuable as Kadous’s life. The men who’d dumped Xandyberis’s body had already come back here to try and intimidate me a second time with their painted slanders. I wouldn’t bet against these bastards cutting my slave’s throat if they found him here alone, to make sure I got their message for the third time of telling. Whatever their message might be.

  It was humiliating to admit I didn’t feel safe in my own city, in my own home. I didn’t like the idea of yielding to an enemy either, but I’d learned the difference between a rout and prudent retreat in Boeotia.

  ‘You’re not staying here on your own,’ I said firmly. ‘Until we know who our enemies are, we watch each other’s back.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’ Kadous didn’t protest too much. Either he’d thought this through like me, or he really wanted to see today’s tragedies.

  Setting out, I wasn’t sure if the walk to the city would kill me or cure me. Thankfully a fresh breeze was blowing. By the time we were approaching the Itonian Gate, my headache had subsided and my stomach no longer felt as if I’d swallowed something dredged from the River Styx.

  Just before we reached the gate I was surprised to see Mus striding down the road. He saw me and waved a broad hand, clearly relieved. ‘The master sent me to make sure that all was well with you.’

  ‘Is Aristarchos at the theatre?’

  Mus nodded. ‘With the Pargasarenes.’

  ‘Let’s not keep them waiting,’ Zosime suggested.

  ‘Of course.’ Mus turned around and set a punishing pace back into the city. I was hard pressed to keep up with him. For all that I’m more of a runner than a wrestler as the sculptors classify a man’s physique, I was evidently still suffering the after-effects of that fight in the agora, as well as last night’s drinking. Just to rub salt in my wounds, Zosime had no trouble keeping up with the big slave, lithe and limber as always.

  When we arrived at the theatre, I saw Aristarchos on the edge of the dancing floor, chatting to Azamis and Sarkuk. It wasn’t Lydis standing with him today but the broad-shouldered slave who’d carried a torch on the eve of the festival. Anyone menacing Aristarchos would have to go through that bruiser, so I wouldn’t bet a mouldy olive on their chances.

  ‘Go on.’ Zosime had seen me looking. ‘It’s all right, I can see my father.’ She pointed and Menkaure waved at us both. Thank all the gods he’d got here early enough to claim a well-placed bench.

  I kissed her quickly. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘I’ll see you later.’ Kadous looked further up the slope to the slave seats.

  I hesitated. I’d much rather he sat with us. It wasn’t as if anyone who didn’t know us could tell he was a slave. The city is full of all manner of accents, even more so at festival time. But we knew that someone was out to make trouble for me, for all of us. Someone who knew where I lived, and I guessed they knew my household. If Kadous sat with us, someone could accuse me of encouraging my slave to claim a citizen’s rights. They couldn’t make a case that would hold up before the courts, not out of one transgression in the theatre, but they could make a lot of noise around the agora. Like thrown mud, some slander always sticks.

  I nodded. ‘But we don’t leave the theatre without each other.’

  ‘Of course.’ Kadous looked grim.

  I made my way towards the Pargasarenes. Sarkuk waved as he saw me coming.

  Aristarchos turned to greet me. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good day to you all.’ I looked at the Carians. ‘Tur has no taste for tragedy?’

  Though I wasn’t sorry not to see the boy. His appalling bruises must be an even more shocking sight today. Add to that, I still didn’t trust him to control his temper if some unknown enemy sidled up to taunt him.

  ‘The doctor set the bone in his nose straight, first thing this morning.’ Sarkuk grimaced. ‘He has no interest in going anywhere today.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ I winced with genuine sympathy. I once broke a bone in my foot and that had been agony until it healed.

  Azamis was looking a lot brighter today. ‘Let us join our fellow delegates.’ The old man nodded towards the seats reserved for Athens’ allies.

  Those distant towns’ and islands’ representatives were settling down for the day’s entertainment. I noticed a good few clusters of three or four sitting with their heads close in conversation. I recalled the way these visitors had been looking around before yesterday’s comedy competition. They’d been gazing out across the theatre, admiring the city, or twisting in their seats and craning their necks to look up at the Acropolis behind them. They’d been eager to take in all the sights of our grey-eyed goddess’s city. Today though, whatever they were discussing was evidently more important.

  Sarkuk glanced at his father. ‘Let’s see what someone may let slip about whoever’s urging us to defy the levy.’

  ‘We’ll see what they say when they learn that someone thinks that we’re just foolish monkeys to be led into trouble so that foxes can profit.’ The shrewd glint in Azamis’s eye suggested that the people of Pargasa had good reason to keep him on their council.

  I pulled Zosime’s portrait of Xandyberis from my belt. ‘See if anyone remembers seeing your friend on the day he died. Show them this. If we can le
arn where he went, and when, that might help us find his killers.’

  ‘Is this your delightful companion’s work?’ Aristarchos pursed his lips, admiring. ‘She is very talented.’

  Sarkuk’s hand shook as he took it, making the papyrus rattle. ‘It’s him, to the life.’

  ‘Let’s meet at the end of the day and share what we’ve learned,’ Aristarchos suggested.

  ‘Are you sure you want to be seen in public with the three of us?’ I asked him bluntly.

  This conversation might still be taken for a passing encounter. Whoever was behind the riot in the agora already knew that I was linked to the Carians but perhaps they still thought that Aristarchos was no more than my play’s patron. Seeing us meet up again risked confirming that we had ongoing common interests.

  ‘Oh, I think so.’ He smiled without humour. ‘Let’s see what these rabble-rousers make of our alliance. What they do next may give us a hint as to who they are.’

  ‘If you think that’s best.’ I glanced towards the actors’ entrance onto the stage. People were already milling about in costume, though not yet masked. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and see if I can find Lysicrates before the plays get underway.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Aristarchos nodded.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I got a few odd looks as I arrived at the rehearsal ground. Today’s chorus men remembered seeing me in all the bustle of parading their masks and costumes on the festival’s first day. They knew I’d written a comedy. I had no business here now that tragedy had taken over the theatre. No playwright ever composes both.

  As it happens, I’d have liked to try my hand at tragedy, but committing to writing three full dramas and the satyr play that follows would have taken more time than I could ever spare from keeping my household fed with my other commissions.

  Add to that, Thalia, muse of comedy, has claimed me for her own while Melpomene has resolutely withheld her gift of tragedy. No matter how serious my theme, whenever I try my hand at penning solemn drama, jokes always edge their way in.

  I smiled at the curious chorus men and went on my way. Thankfully I couldn’t see any sign of Oloros, whose Theseid was to be performed today. The few times we had spoken, he’d struck me as a remarkably humourless man. Taut with festival nerves, he’d be perfectly capable of telling the nearest stagehand to throw me out.

  Inside the actors’ enclosure, there was plenty of elbow room without five comedy choruses and their leading characters all crammed in together. As was customary, actors who weren’t involved in this year’s competition had come to hang around with their fellow professionals, as had the comic actors whose work was now done.

  I spotted Apollonides. He laughed as I approached.

  ‘You’ve recovered from last night? Did you wake up with your head in a bucket?’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ I said ruefully. ‘Have you seen Lysicrates?’

  Apollonides thought for a moment. ‘I saw him by the Shrine of Dionysos a little while ago.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I waved farewell and hurried away.

  I didn’t have long, and I really didn’t want to be one of those people irritating the rest of the audience by sneaking back to their seats after the first play has begun. I especially didn’t want to disappoint Zosime after I’d got her here in time for us to watch today’s tragedies.

  To my relief, Apollonides was right. As I skirted the back of the stage building, I saw Lysicrates chatting with a group of friends, all sat on the front steps of the ancient temple. When I beckoned, he obligingly came to meet me. Better yet, he came alone.

  ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘Better than my stomach. Listen, I have a favour to ask.’ I drew him close with an arm around his shoulder. Quickly and quietly, I explained why I wanted to know of any actors who were particularly adept at foreign accents.

  ‘You’ll have to give me some time to think about that.’ He looked at me, wide-eyed with shock. ‘Should I ask around?’

  ‘If you must,’ I said uneasily. ‘But don’t let slip why you’re asking and don’t mention my name. These folk are always one step ahead of us. We need to find some way to outflank them.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Make sure you are. They’ve already murdered one man and they started a riot in the agora the day before yesterday. Anyone could have been hurt or even killed in that uproar. They didn’t care.’ I didn’t want his blood on my hands.

  The sound of the theatre crane got our attention. The stagehands were making their final preparations for the first play’s opening scene.

  ‘I’ll see you later.’ I hurried back to my seat.

  I wasn’t the last one to arrive, but I cut it painfully close. Zosime’s expression was studiously neutral as she and Menkaure made room for me on the bench. I sat quietly, swallowing lingering queasiness and wishing the crowd wasn’t so loud.

  The family behind us were discussing what they knew of the tragedies in this year’s competition.

  ‘Oloros will need something special to beat Myron,’ the mother prophesied.

  Menkaure leaned forward to talk to me past Zosime. ‘Tomorrow’s trilogy will be about Tantalus and the curse he bequeathed to Pelops and then to Atreus.’

  I’m sure it would be very fine, cannibalism and incest notwithstanding. That’s another reason why I’ve made my peace with being a comic playwright. I’d rather spend months polishing jokes about big red cocks and donkey dung than wading through grim tales of tainted blood.

  The noisy conversations all around me hushed as the first actor walked out onto the stage. Theseus in his youth had arrived from Troezen with the sandals and sword he’d found hidden under a rock. These tokens were to prove he was King Aegeus’s son, heir to Athens’ throne.

  Even burdened as I was with wine-sickness and other distractions, Dionysos worked his magic on me. Thanks to the actor’s mask and costume, no one saw an ordinary Athenian, a man we might pass in the street or the agora. Great Theseus stood before us, his passion ringing around the theatre in the very shadow of the mighty rock where he had built his citadel.

  A chorus of citizens appeared to interrogate him. Who was he? What manner of man? Could they accept him as his father’s heir? The audience shuddered as the hero regaled these noble Athenians with tales of the monsters he’d defeated as he fought his way to their city. Each challenge revealed a different facet of his merits.

  A shiver ran down my back when Medea appeared on King Aegeus’s arm. The chorus recalled how she had claimed sanctuary here. They confided their fears to the audience. It looked as if she was intent on claiming a good deal more.

  Maybe so. To me, the witch looked extremely Persian in her dress and mannerisms. Her accent, too. Though I strained my ears for the voice underlying every word, I was forced to conclude whoever wore that mask wasn’t the actor we were looking for. This wasn’t the fake Ionian from the agora.

  Had this trilogy’s patron insisted that Oloros put those particular words in Medea’s mouth? Who was responsible for the choice of costume and mask? Was it someone keen to stir up more fear and mistrust of anyone from the east? How far did this conspiracy reach?

  Or was I getting paranoid? Medea is always an ominous figure and Oloros had hardly invented her origins in distant Colchis, in the furthest eastern reaches of the Black Sea. That has been part of her story since Jason first returned with the Argonauts.

  Her attempts to kill Theseus are equally well known, relived here as she connived to send him off to fight the bull of Marathon. His victorious return was loudly cheered by everyone whose fathers and grandfathers had fought the Persians on that same plain.

  But Medea wasn’t done. We sat tense as she tried to poison Theseus. We breathed sighs of relief when her scheming was uncovered. Defeated, she fled before Aegeus could call her to account. Her parting shot was a war
ning that she would watch and wait and take her first chance of revenge. Was that merely Oloros reminding us all of the gruesome fate that would befall Jason’s children – or some more pointed hint that the Persians still menaced Athens?

  My suspicions notwithstanding, it was a very good play. The audience cheered and stamped their feet enthusiastically as the chorus made their exit. Though the family behind us still reckoned tomorrow’s trilogy would be better.

  Zosime caught my eye and grinned. I could see she was eager for that treat. As I returned her smile, I vowed I’d make sure she saw it.

  It seemed the gods were determined to hold me to account today. Nymenios tapped me on the shoulder as I queued for three cups of wine in the interval before the next play. ‘Where are you sitting?’

  I pointed. ‘With Zosime and Menkaure. I’m sorry, we didn’t see you when we arrived. Where are you all?’

  ‘Up there.’ As he jerked his head, I saw Chairephanes waving, sat with the others. They had a good enough spot, but we had better.

  Nymenios had other things on his mind. ‘Come on, I’ve just seen Dexios.’

  I stared at him blankly. ‘What?’

  Then I remembered Epikrates on my doorstep with his tale of woe and undelivered leather. That seemed like half a year ago.

  Nymenios had already turned away, expecting me to follow him to wherever he’d seen the tanner. I wanted to argue, but today just the thought of trying to dissuade my brother made my headache three times worse. I sighed and trailed after him.

  Dexios was deep in conversation with someone I didn’t recognise, both of them sipping wine. As Nymenios strode towards him, he greeted us both with an ingratiating smile.

  ‘Good day to you. Such a pleasure—’

  ‘Where’s our leather?’ Nymenios demanded.

  ‘Forgive me, I am so embarrassed.’ The tanner spread apologetic hands, though his dark eyes were as hard as agate. ‘My stock’s run low, a temporary situation, I assure you.’