by J M Alvey
‘Once they learn that we’re ready to use ostracism against them?’ Aristarchos smiled with thin satisfaction. ‘They’ll scatter like cockroaches when someone opens a storeroom door. No one will want to be the last to hide, so slow that they get stamped on.’
‘Will you truly destroy the evidence?’ I hated to think of our hard work going up in flames.
‘If he remembers to ask me to swear to it.’ Aristarchos grinned, as mischievous as one of my nephews. ‘If I do burn it, what’s been discovered once can always be recorded a second time with newly sworn testimony. Lydis has an excellent memory, I can assure you.’
‘What are we to say to Xandyberis’s family?’ Azamis asked quietly.
‘Is Nikandros not to answer for that murder, when he’s as guilty as the man who wielded the knife?’ Sarkuk reached for his father’s hand.
For the first time Aristarchos’s composure faltered. ‘I fear that no good could come of publicly accusing him. He will simply blame Iktinos, and a dead man cannot answer back.’
He heaved a sigh. ‘Indeed, an accusation might well do more harm than good. As things stand, I believe this conspiracy will fall apart without Nikandros. Megakles will see to that, if only to save his own skin. But it will be months before the ill feeling that these plotters stirred up finally fades away. If we haul Nikandros into court for this murder, then the city’s outraged Ionians will learn that one of their own was foully murdered. Meantime, too many Athenian citizens will feel insulted and unjustly accused for the deeds of a selfish few. The strife that these plotters were hoping for might still boil over, without anyone stoking the fire.’
Tur looked mutinous, cradling his bandaged arm. ‘We owe a duty to Tarhunzas—’
‘You heard what Megakles said.’ I appealed to the older Carians. ‘Nikandros lies at the very threshold to the Underworld. Surely we can leave him to the gods and goddesses of the dead? They can pass more certain judgement than any court ordained by men. If he dies, that’s divine retribution. If he awakens, his penance is assured, lifelong.’
‘I will see to that,’ Aristarchos promised.
Sarkuk spoke to his son in their own language, more sorrowful than rebuking.
Tur bit his lip and subsided. Azamis stared up at the sky, blinking rapidly as he fought back tears.
Sarkuk rose and bowed formally to Aristarchos. ‘I must thank you, on behalf of Pargasa’s council, for all that you have done.’
‘I should apologise, on behalf of all honest Athenians, for the troubles that have beset you and yours. There’s no recompense I can offer you for the grief of a loss that’s beyond mending.’ Aristarchos’s regret was heartfelt.
I looked up at the cloudless blue sky. There was no crack of thunder, no haunting cry of a wheeling eagle to indicate he’d been heard, but I felt certain that the gods above and below would bear witness to what we’d done here. Now I had one last duty to discharge, at Zosime’s insistence.
‘Please,’ I invited the Carians, ‘come back to Alopeke with me. I would like to offer you my household’s hospitality today, so that we might all remember each other in happier circumstances before you travel home.’
After their initial surprise, Azamis and Sarkuk agreed. Tur didn’t get a say. Aristarchos sent Ambrakis back with us, not as a bodyguard but to carry an amphora of very fine wine.
Zosime and Menkaure were waiting and we celebrated confounding the plotters and a measure of justice for Xandyberis with a long afternoon and evening of good food and companionable drinking as my beloved, her father and the Pargasarenes swapped traveller’s tales.
I finally learned that Tarhunzas is the Carians’ thunder god, when Menkaure and Sarkuk discussed the temples they’d visited in distant lands and cities. They both assured me that Egypt has monuments to outstrip whatever magnificence Pericles has planned for the Acropolis.
Some day, I decided, I really must travel beyond Boeotia. Even the Carian boy Tur had seen more of the world than me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
We met in the city cemetery to say our farewells to the Carians. In the field where travellers are buried, Zosime and I watched from a polite distance while Azamis poured oil onto Xandyberis’s grave. He used the black-footed white flask that she’d painted for them. It was one of her finest pieces.
Azamis handed the flask to his son and stood with his head bowed. Sarkuk poured his own libation, reciting prayers for the dead in the Carian tongue. Tur stood beside them, still unpleasantly flushed from the fever that had seized him in the days since he was wounded.
That had delayed their planned departure, but now they were due to sail. Spintharos had finally pronounced the wound free from festering and agreed there was no longer any danger of Tur losing his arm to save his life. Zosime and I had sacrificed a cockerel in gratitude to Asclepios this very morning.
‘Good day.’ Aristarchos arrived at my side, carrying a libation flask of his own. Lydis was a few paces behind him.
‘Good morning,’ I said quietly, careful not to disturb the Carians’ rites.
‘Nikandros has woken up.’ Aristarchos spoke just as softly. ‘His wits don’t seem to be addled, or any more so than they were before that knock on the head.’
‘Good.’ I was glad to hear it. ‘Has he admitted to lying about those loans?’
Aristarchos nodded. ‘Though he claims to know nothing about the source of Iktinos’s silver.’
‘I imagine he took care not to know. He wouldn’t want inconvenient knowledge getting in the way of his profits.’ I didn’t hide my contempt.
‘I want to know,’ Aristarchos said grimly. ‘Whoever did this is a heinous enemy and a mortal foe of Athens.’
‘We’d be fools to assume this setback will make them give up,’ I agreed. ‘Perhaps Nikandros can tell us more about Iktinos himself.’
We hadn’t been able to find the dead man’s family. No one had ever heard him mention which voting tribe or district brotherhood he belonged to. Remembering how he had insisted Nikandros was a citizen without ever claiming such protection for himself, we were starting to wonder if Iktinos was even an Athenian. As to what had happened to any hoard of coin when he died, that remained a mystery.
‘You couldn’t learn anything from his belt?’ Aristarchos prompted.
Hoping for some clue, I’d persuaded the Scythians to let me examine Iktinos’s body. His belt was sufficiently unfamiliar that I’d taken it to Epikrates to see if the wizened slave could identify where it was made.
‘It’s Peloponnesian, though whether it’s Corinthian, Argive or Spartan, Epikrates can’t say.’ I shrugged. ‘And of course, he could have simply bought it in any of those places when he was passing through.’
Aristarchos grunted. ‘On his way here, intent on doing Athens harm, with that fat purse he got from someone who wishes our city ill.’
I nodded agreement. ‘Where there’s one rat, there are ten that you’ll never see, ready to plunder and foul your stores.’
‘So we must keep an eye out for more vermin.’
‘We certainly shall.’ I shared Aristarchos’s conviction that some enemy of Athens had enlisted Iktinos to seduce Nikandros into treachery, using the boy to plant the seeds of conspiracy in the fertile imaginations of greedy and selfish men.
He went on, low-voiced. ‘Kallinos has made his report to the Polemarch. He considers Xandyberis’s case closed with Iktinos’s death, as we anticipated. He sees no realistic prospect of a conviction, even if someone brought a case against Nikandros. The boy will simply say that he had no reason to think that murder would be done.’
‘I’m sure Glaukias would write him some powerful self-justification.’ I found I wasn’t sorry. I had no wish to stand up in court and try to explain the bloody events in my courtyard. Besides, there had been enough death. Spending half a morning with Iktinos’s corpse convinced me of that. I was co
ntent to leave Nikandros to face divine justice.
Aristarchos slid me a sideways look. ‘Lydis tells me Megakles swears, by Athena and Apollo, that as soon as Nikandros leaves his sickbed he will spend his days at the Academy, only going to lectures and to the training grounds. When he’s not there, he’ll be at home busy with further reading and reflection. This will be his offering to repay the gods for saving his foolish life.’
‘May his studies prosper.’ I spoke more out of respect for Athena than any hope of Nikandros learning lasting wisdom.
‘Hipparchos had better prove equally industrious when he returns to the city, though he will be studying at the Lyceum. He should make a better class of friends there,’ Aristarchos said acidly, ‘whatever his mother may think of their lineage.’
To my surprise, he hesitated. What he said next startled me even more.
‘I would be grateful if you’d allow Hipparchos to observe you working on my speeches for the People’s Assembly, in favour of the Delian League tribute reassessment. Show him how you use the Carians’ evidence as the basis for our case. How you anticipate and counter the arguments you expect will be raised against us.’
‘Of course.’ I could afford to play tutor while he was paying me so handsomely. Besides, Hipparchos’s offences had been in a different league to Nikandros’s conspiracy. Aristarchos’s son had been arrogant and gullible but if those were ever called crimes, half the young men in Hellas would be driven into exile.
‘Thank you.’ Aristarchos smiled briefly.
The Carians had retreated from Xandyberis’s grave so Aristarchos went forward to make his own offering and pray to the gods below.
Azamis, Sarkuk and Tur came over to me and Zosime. The old man had been weeping but his faded eyes were at peace. He clutched the oil flask and smiled at Zosime. ‘Thank you, dear girl, once again. His family will treasure this gift.’
‘It’s the least I could do.’ She embraced the old man and he kissed her forehead like a grandfather.
I offered my hand to Sarkuk. ‘We’ll tend his grave at every festival until you return.’
‘Until the Panathenaia.’ The Pargasarene clasped my forearm like a warrior.
‘Commend him to Tarhunzas,’ Tur said abruptly. Realising that sounded ungracious, he tried to make amends. ‘As well as to Athena and Dionysos. We will entreat Tarhunzas to watch over you and yours, in our gratitude for all you have done.’
‘Thank you.’ I was willing to accept an unknown god’s blessing in this mutual spirit of goodwill.
Aristarchos completed his obsequies for the dead man and joined us. We walked back to the city where Ambrakis and some other slaves waited by the Dipylon Gate with the Carians’ baggage. They would escort the three men to Piraeus and see them safely aboard their ship. We said our final goodbyes and watched them set off on their long journey home.
‘Shall we find a cup of wine in the agora?’ Aristarchos suggested. ‘I’d like to hear your ideas for your next play.’
‘I’ve nothing much as yet,’ I confessed.
Aristarchos wasn’t troubled. ‘It’s early days. Still, we must make sure that you have enough time to prepare,’ he said as we walked down the Sacred Way back towards the heart of the city. ‘You want to be ready well before you’re called to read for the new year’s magistrates. We cannot allow this work on the Ionians’ behalf to spoil your chances of being awarded another Dionysia chorus.’
I felt Zosime’s fingers entwine with mine. She had no doubt that I would get another chance to compete with a new comedy next year. Aristarchos wouldn’t be my paymaster though if I won that honour. No man, however wealthy, could be expected to bear such an obligation for two years in a row. I could only pray that Apollo would send me another such agreeable patron.
As we reached the agora, I gazed up at the Acropolis, at those ancient ruins and the bright new temples replacing them. I wondered what good fortune and unexpected challenges blessed Athena might send me in the months to come.
Meantime, I knew where to get a fine jugful of wine to wash away any lingering sadness after the Pargasarenes’ departure. We could sit beneath the plane trees in the agora, discussing ideas for comic plays as we watched the Athenian populace pass by.
I turned to Aristarchos. ‘Let me introduce you to a friend of mine called Elpis.’
Acknowledgements
I’ll confess to a fair amount of trepidation about embarking on a project like this after decades away from serious academic study. I owe sincere thanks to Tony Keen, for his initial and ongoing encouragement, and for a very useful reading list in the earliest stages of this venture. I am similarly grateful to Edward James, and to Kari Sperring, for reading the first draft with suitably critical rigour, and assuring me that it passed muster as entertainment as well as found the right touch with historical research.
Through the writing and rewriting, I am indebted to Julia and Philip Cresswell for cups of tea and conversation to sustain me before and after visits to the Bodleian, and to the Ashmolean. Their interest and sustained enthusiasm for Philocles’s adventures were invaluable throughout the Herculean labour of submissions to agents and editors. I’m similarly grateful to Gill Oliver for her unfailing belief that the book would land on the right desk at the right time, especially on those days when my own stamina was flagging.
Sincere thanks go to Sam Copeland, for putting me in touch with Max Edwards, who is now representing Philocles at Mulcahy Associates. I am hugely grateful to Max for bringing fresh eyes and excellent suggestions to the final round of revisions, as well as for his indefatigable determination to find the right editor for this book. He’s certainly succeeded. Craig Lye at Orion is a pleasure to work with, as well as a consummate professional, and his input has improved this book through each successive phase of editing.
Catching up with thirty years of classical scholarship would have been utterly impossible without the ability to search for, and frequently read, the papers and books most directly relevant to this story via the internet. My thanks to all those academics, institutions and publications who now make their research available online through JSTOR and Academia.edu.
Lastly, but by no means least, thank you to my family, near and far, for all their support.
About the Author
JM Alvey studied Classics at Oxford in the 1980s. As an undergraduate, notable achievements in startling tutors included citing the comedic principles of Benny Hill in a paper on Aristophanes, and using military war-gaming rules to analyse and explain apparent contradictions in historic accounts of the Battle of Thermopylae. Crime fiction was always relaxation reading and that love of mysteries and thrillers continued through a subsequent, varied career, alongside an abiding fascination with history and the ancient world.
www.jmalvey.com
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Orion Books,
an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment
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An Hachette UK Company
Copyright © JM Alvey 2019
Map copyright © Hemesh Alles 2019
The moral right of JM Alvey to be identified as
the author of this work has been asserted in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
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above publisher of this book.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.<
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is
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ISBN (eBook) 978 1 4091 8064 7
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