Shadows of Athens

by J M Alvey

  ‘Thanks.’ Leaving him yawning and eating his barley bread, I headed for the agora.

  The market stalls were busy with workaday bustle instead of a festival throng. Traders offered everyday staples, not exotic dainties, and customers were haggling hard, not tempted into self-indulgence.

  Men were going in and out of the Council Chamber, most likely those taking their turn as the Council’s executive. That particular responsibility is taken in turn by each group of fifty men nominated annually as councillors by every voting tribe. That’s only one of the checks and balances that safeguard our democracy.

  I found it hard to believe these conspirators really could overcome all such measures and pitch Athens into war. These laws had been instituted precisely to make sure that our city never again fell prey to oligarchy or tyranny, subject to the greedy ambitions of a few. But the men at that banquet had seemed very sure of themselves. I glanced up at the Acropolis and silently begged gracious Athena to show me how to bring down these bastards who so blatantly scorned our democracy.

  Public slaves were taking down some of the white-washed and red-painted boards hanging from plinths and altars. That made plenty of space for new decrees and proposals. Those measures would be put before the popular assembly as soon as the executive committee summoned the full council to approve them.

  Normally I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Today I wondered if the plotters had some allies already at work in the Council Chamber, enlisting support for some spiteful rebuke guaranteed to rouse Ionian ire.

  The hum of business-like conversations rather than visiting philosophers’ bold declamations filled the Painted Colonnade. There were no story-telling historians here today to impress idling festival-goers and garner their appreciative coin. There would be plenty of Athenians wanting something or other written though, prompted by family news or a commercial agreement made during the Dionysia.

  I found a space at one end of the colonnade and perched on the topmost step along with the other humble scribblers. That meant I was well able to see inside where the more exalted writers set up folding tables and stools for their clients. Glaukias was in his usual spot, secured by long custom and his exalted reputation.

  ‘Looking for anyone in particular?’ Phrynichos put his cushion down beside me.

  He often sat on the steps close to Glaukias, I recalled uneasily. That didn’t mean he was some conspirator though. All of us lesser scriveners flock to gather crumbs from more famous men’s tables, quick to offer our services when some great speech writer spurns an inadequate offer or an insufficient challenge for his finely honed skills.

  ‘Who was that man looking for you before the festival?’ Phrynichos asked as he sat. ‘That Ionian?’

  ‘He had some mad notion that the Delian League tribute was to be reassessed,’ I said casually. ‘I told him he was mistaken but he didn’t want to hear it. Do you know who recommended me? Who gave him my name?’

  Phrynichos considered this for a moment, his face open and honest as far as I could tell. ‘He’d been asking about everyone who’d been awarded a chorus. He wanted someone with a solid record of wins before the courts but when he found out how much that would cost him, he started looking for someone good but cheap. He told me your name kept coming up.’ He grinned at me.

  ‘I suppose there are worse reputations to have,’ I managed to say lightly before changing the subject. ‘Where’s the historian from Halicarnassus gone?’ That gave me an excuse for openly scanning the colonnade’s shadows.

  ‘Giving a series of lectures at the Academy.’ Phrynichos studied the crowd criss-crossing the agora, alert for any potential customer.

  ‘Who’s that with Glaukias?’ I wondered casually. ‘I’m sure I should know his name.’

  Phrynichos glanced over his shoulder, uninterested. ‘Stratonides.’

  ‘Of course.’ I waved a rueful hand at my apparent forgetfulness.

  ‘Good day.’ A weary-looking man approached us. ‘My son’s ship has been lost at sea. We need a verse for his memorial.’

  Phrynichos was on his feet first, though he waited politely to see if I wanted to compete for the commission.

  I waved him on. ‘Go ahead.’

  I was more interested in watching Glaukias and Stratonides, because they’d just been joined by Parmenides, the fake orator who’d started the riot here on the first day of the festival. The rest of the morning passed in similar fashion. A handful of notable men stopped to exchange a few words with Glaukias. Each time Parmenides popped up from wherever he was lurking. He escorted the men away, leaning confidentially close. I committed their names to memory with increasing misgivings. This conspiracy seemed to be growing more heads than a hydra.

  Meantime, I took on two commissions. A heartfelt eulogy for a beloved grandfather found peacefully dead in his bed. A speech for an indignant farmer from Acharnae ready to argue his case in court. He had been summoned to the city to answer an accusation that he’d fraudulently moved a boundary stone to encroach on a neighbour’s more fertile land.

  The Acharnaean was so outraged that I was pretty sure he was innocent. As a rule I don’t ask, or even try to guess. My job is shaping a client’s arguments into their most convincing form. I leave justice to Olympian Zeus.

  Around noon the Acharnaean was finally satisfied that I understood the enormity of his neighbour’s offence. I reckoned he had a strong case. He certainly had an impressive list of arguments and witnesses to put forward in his own defence.

  We agreed to meet at noon three days hence, when I would show him my draft of his speech. The man departed, hissing under his breath. I was reminded of my mother’s ferrets when something irritates them. As I gazed after the Acharnaean, I could almost imagine him lashing a fluffed-up tail, twisting this way and that as he eased his way through the crowd. Ferrets as a comedy chorus was an interesting idea. Sosimenes could make them some fabulous masks. But could I weave enough of a story around that idea to make a play?

  I stood up, ostensibly to stretch my legs after sitting down for so long. Twisting, I feigned easing a stiff neck as I watched Parmenides approach Glaukias once again. The writer was turning to the slave who kept him supplied with papyrus and pens as well as fetching wine for new clients. The slave gathered everything together and folded up the table and stools. So Glaukias was leaving. If he intended to return after lunch, he’d have left his slave sitting there. I knew that was his usual custom.

  ‘Time for something to eat,’ I announced to the colonnade in general.

  Phrynichos waved a vague acknowledgement. He was deep in conversation with a man wanting a bridal hymn for his daughter’s wedding.

  I sauntered through the agora following Glaukias and Parmenides. Enough other people were going in the same direction for that to be unremarkable. This time though, I was acutely alert for any hint of someone following me. I wasn’t going to be caught out a second time.

  They went to a discreet tavern in a side street to the north of the agora. It looked like an expensive place, and one with a very select clientele. A solicitous, implacable waiter directed passers-by who showed any interest to a less exclusive drinking den on the corner.

  I strode past like a man on his way to an important meeting, his mind on other things. Turning the corner, I ducked back to lurk behind the posts of the drinking den’s vine-clad porch. Athena be thanked, I could get a clear view of the table where Glaukias and Parmenides were sitting. A deft slave was setting out a generous lunch for them to share. A few moments later, Nikandros joined them.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The drinking den’s owner plucked at my elbow.

  ‘Almost certainly,’ I assured him. ‘I’ll be back very soon.’

  Leaving the baffled man behind me, I headed for the Kerameikos district, walking as quickly as I could. I’d have preferred to run, but that risked attracting unwanted attention.

&n
bsp; The workshop door stood open, with all the potters back at their wheels and the painters at their benches decorating the bowls, vases and wine vessels that had been left to dry out over the festival. Kadous spared me a nod. He was helping the old Thessalian as the man prepared the kiln for the second stage of firing that ensured the vivid contrast between the red characters detailed by the painters and the glossy background that would turn black in the heat.

  Menkaure was shaping a mighty pedestal on his wheel. The great vase’s bulbous body and smoothly curving neck were already resting on a board, until the pieces could be seamlessly stuck together with clay. He didn’t look as if he’d welcome interruption, so I went straight through to the back of the workshop.

  Zosime was working on a tall, slender flask, so intent that she didn’t notice me approaching. I wished I didn’t have to interrupt her. I certainly waited till she’d lifted her brush from the white surface, so I didn’t make her smudge the paint. ‘Hello.’

  She turned, her surprise blossoming into a smile. ‘I didn’t expect to see you so early.’

  ‘I need your help.’ I leaned forward and we shared a kiss.

  She looked into my eyes. ‘What do you need?’

  I’d told Zosime about the symposium when I’d got home last night, and everything Nymenios and I had learned, as well as the growing suspicions we shared with Aristarchos.

  ‘I want to find out if Nikandros Kerykes was involved in killing Xandyberis,’ I said grimly.

  The conniving bastard hadn’t hesitated to join in the attempt to murder me, and now we knew he was neck-deep in this conspiracy, not just a gullible fool like Hipparchos. If we could tie Nikandros to the Carian’s murder that was a crime we could haul him before the courts to answer for. Doing that would drag this entire vile conspiracy into the merciless light of day.

  ‘Then we can see his family get justice.’ In her hurry to stand, she knocked her workbench. The flask she’d been working on wobbled. As she caught the black glazed base to steady it, I got a better look at the design.

  ‘Is that him?’ I couldn’t be certain it was Xandyberis, not until she added more colour and the final touches, but the man’s profile looked familiar as the figure gave a speech with one arm raised in a rhetorical flourish.

  ‘Azamis and Sarkuk should take something home.’ Zosime’s eyes were dark with sympathy. ‘Until they can fetch his bones for his family to bury next year.’

  ‘That’s perfect.’ I swallowed a lump in my throat.

  She looked sternly at me. ‘Perfect will be them taking home word of his killer’s arrest and execution.’

  I nodded agreement. ‘Let’s go and do something about that.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  We hurried back to the drinking den and, this time, I asked the bemused tavern keeper for a table. Before he could decide where to seat us, I led Zosime to one with a view of Glaukias and Parmenides, still enjoying their leisurely lunch with Nikandros. I breathed silent thanks to Dionysos for that good fortune. Then I asked the god to keep them all from looking our way, even with the vines around this humble tavern’s porch shading us.

  A serving girl brought us food and wine and looked on with curiosity as Zosime took pen, ink and papyrus out of my bag of work materials.

  ‘Thank you. That will be all.’ I smiled at the girl, hoping that would take any sting out of my dismissal.

  Thankfully, no one else was paying us any attention, more interested in eating and getting back to work. In between mouthfuls, Zosime worked swiftly and skilfully, drawing a vivid likeness of Nikandros.

  She paused, pen poised as she considered the portrait. Deciding it was finished, she turned to me. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We wait here for a few moments.’ I shaded the side of my face with one hand, turning my shoulder to the street.

  Parmenides and Glaukias had eaten and drunk their fill and risen from their table. They were walking this way, laughing together and chatting. I turned my back to the street, to make sure they didn’t see me. The chances of them recognising me were slim but I wasn’t taking any risks. My back itched as if I expected an arrow between the shoulder blades.

  I looked at Zosime. ‘What are they doing?’

  She raised her cup of wine to mime taking a drink. ‘Going on their way.’

  ‘What about Nikandros?’

  ‘He’s still at the table.’ Looking over my shoulder, she frowned. ‘Someone else has joined him. No,’ she corrected herself. ‘They’re getting up. I think they’re going to leave together.’

  It was no good. I had to see. As I turned, my blood ran cold. Nikandros’s new companion was the brute whose arm I’d broken when he tried to kill me. Before I realised what I was doing, I was halfway to my feet. Zosime rose beside me.

  ‘No.’ I laid my hand on her arm to force her back onto her stool.

  She looked at me, astonished. ‘I need to see him more clearly, if I’m going to draw a decent likeness.’

  ‘No.’ I couldn’t command her with a husband’s authority but by all the gods and goddesses above and below, she was going to listen to me. ‘He doesn’t know who you are and I won’t risk him seeing you with me. That’s the man who tried to knife me.’ I raised my cut and bandaged arm as evidence.

  Something in my voice or face convinced her. She sank down, unwilling but complying. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Frustrated, I stole another glance over my shoulder. The brute was waiting with an impatient scowl while Nikandros chatted to the exclusive tavern’s owner. The thin-faced man was bowing obsequiously, clasping the young noble’s hands.

  ‘How are we going to find out who he is, if we don’t have a picture of him?’ Zosime demanded. ‘We need to know. Look, they’re leaving.’

  Hades help me, she was right, and on all counts. I risked turning around, to see Nikandros and the unknown man walking away. They had their backs to us and their heads were close together in conversation. Any moment now I’d lose sight of them in the bustling street as people headed back to their daily labours after their midday break.

  ‘Wait here. Don’t move until I come to get you.’

  They say fortune favours the bold. I begged the goddess of luck to help me, and any other deity who might be listening. Leaving Zosime at the table and praying that she’d do as I asked, I slipped through the crowds. I only wanted to get close enough to hear something, anything, to give us a hint about the killer. Some scrap of conversation that might tell us where to go to learn more.

  As long as they didn’t look round, I should be safe. They had no reason to think they were being watched. If they did turn, if I was seen, then I’d take to my heels, as fast as Hermes in his winged sandals. I wouldn’t care about people looking. Far from it. I’d want every eye on me. Nikandros and his friend could hardly cut my throat in front of a street full of witnesses.

  Whatever they were discussing, Nikandros was getting agitated. His hands waved with increasingly animated gestures. The man with the broken arm walked stolidly beside him, barely answering. Then, all of a sudden, he grabbed Nikandros’s tunic and forced the arrogant youth into a narrow side street.

  I clenched my fists and sprinted to the corner of the building at the mouth of the alley. I felt sick as I recognised the voice of the man who’d tried to kill me two nights ago.

  ‘If you want any more silver from me, you snivelling little bastard, you’ll do what I tell you!’

  ‘Iktinos—’ Nikandros choked on a gurgle.

  That was so utterly unexpected that I looked around the corner before I realised what I was doing. I caught a glimpse of Nikandros pushed up hard against the wall, the other man’s hand around his throat. Even using one arm, this Iktinos was astonishingly strong, powerful enough to lift the young idiot off his feet. Nikandros was on his tiptoes, expensive sandals scrabbling in the dust.


  ‘Do you understand me?’ Iktinos shook him like a dog with a rat.

  I half expected to hear Nikandros’s neck snap. As it was, he gasped some sort of assent.

  Satisfied, Iktinos released him. ‘Then I’ll see you at the Academy, at sunset.’

  I’d heard enough. More than enough. I shrank back, my heart pounding. An instant later, I hurried away, trying to put every man and woman on the street between me and that alley. As soon as I reached the sanctuary of the friendly tavern, I shrank onto my stool, cowering behind the wine jug.

  ‘Did they see me? Can you see them?’

  Zosime ate an olive, reluctantly amused. ‘No, and no.’

  I sat up a little straighter and poured myself a cup of wine. My heart was still racing and my mouth was as dry as the deserts of Egypt. The wine quenched my thirst, though I had to fight to calm my shaking hand enough to drink it.

  ‘Well?’ Zosime prompted.

  ‘I heard his name.’ I managed a smile.

  ‘So?’ She looked at me, expectant.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Now we go home.’ I nodded at the portrait she’d sketched, the ink now dry. ‘When we’ve found out what that can tell us, I’ll take everything we’ve learned to Aristarchos.’

  Zosime gave me a long, contemplative look. Finally, she nodded. ‘Very well.’

  We walked back to the pottery first, to collect Kadous. I wasn’t leaving Zosime at home on her own, even if I was convinced Nikandros and his murderous friend hadn’t seen us. Though, judging by what I’d seen in the alley, their relationship was rather more complicated than well-born paymaster and hired killer. That gave me plenty to think about on the walk back to Alopeke.

  As we turned past the Hermes pillar, I straightened my cloak and my tunic and brushed a hand over my hair.

  ‘You look thoroughly respectable,’ Zosime assured me.