“I’m sure he’ll enter Elysium. An unselfish man like him should enjoy the best in the afterlife.”
Alerio figured the funeral mentioned by the soldier must be for the man, Timocleides. It didn’t concern him and he half listened while enjoying his food. Then a loud voice drowned out the others.
“Yes, Timocleides was a good man but who will fill his position?” a short, muscular man demanded. His eyes were wide open with excitement and he waved his arms around. “Without him, Cleinias has all the power. He could declare himself Tyrant and no one could dispute his claim.”
“Abantidas. Why do you always bring up kingships and the role of tyrants when discussing government?” an older man inquired.
“It’s almost as if you long for the old days before we reclaimed the democracy,” another commented.
“What about that Abantidas? Where do you stand?”
“As always, I stand with the good of the citizens and the wellbeing of Sicyon,” Abantidas replied briskly. “To prove it, I will be debating for the other governing magistrate position in the theater.”
“Timocleides never liked you, Abantidas,” offered another man. “He felt you were too bullheaded and ambitious to have power.”
“What power? We have two magistrates,” Abantidas stated. “Well, we did before all the authority and responsibility went to Cleinias. He sits alone as the head of state. Who is to say he won’t seize the opportunity?”
“Because Cleinias is a fair man,” the older citizen shot back. “You, Abantidas will never win the vote. Your thirst for control is obvious to anyone who bothers to listen.”
“I guess we’ll find out during the debates,” Abantidas suggested. “I may surprise you.”
Abantidas was the man the old fisherman warned him about. And Cleinias was one of the brothers Alerio had been sent to meet. Logically, getting an appointment with a busy government official would prove difficult. Abantidas, on the other hand, wasn’t anyone he needed to worry about.
Tomorrow, he planned to seek out Prophantus, the other brother, to discuss buying the artwork. But tonight, Alerio wanted to get cleaned up and rest on a soft bed. He was sick of sleeping on a rocking deck or trying to get comfortable on crunchy sand.
Chapter 31 – The Streets of Sicyon
Sunlight sneaked through the shutters and drew lines on the floor of the small room. Alerio opened his eyes and stared at the glowing streaks. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was. Throwing off the covers, he swung his legs off the bed, placed his feet on the floor, and peered around the room.
The Inn at Sicyon offered comfortable and private lodgings. Compared to the sleeping arrangements of the last few weeks, it felt as good as his bed at his father’s farm. Except at the farm, he would have been up and working when the sun rose and not laying around like an old sow.
With a smile at his lazy attitude, Alerio stood and ran a hand across the top of his head. Instead of the Legion bristles, his fingers brushed long strands. In Sicyon, the fashion was mid-length beards and hair. After getting dressed, he would need the services of a tonsor. It wouldn’t be right to conduct the Senator’s business unshaven and untrimmed.
The other thing he noticed, most of the citizens didn’t carry weapons. But considering the attitude towards Latians he’d encountered, going unarmed wasn’t prudent. A compromise was in order. A few adjustments to the dual harness dropped the sword hilts below shoulder level. With the red cloak covering them and the golden valley dagger in the small of his back, Alerio appeared unarmed. He left the hunting knife behind and went out to find breakfast and a barber.
***
“Good day, gentlemen,” Alerio greeted five stern-faced men sitting around the barber’s stall.
“A Latian,” one remarked. “We don’t see many of your kind in Sicyon.”
“I’m in town on business. Is my being Latian a problem?”
“Just an observation, young man,” the barber assured him. “You have the start of an elegant beard.”
“One man’s beard is another man’s fashion miscue,” offered Alerio.
The men chuckled and nodded their approval at the remark. When Alerio sat on the barber’s stool, the conversations turned to politics.
“Abantidas will never win the seat.”
“He has a good way with rhetoric and passion behind his thoughts.”
“That will sway a lot of votes.”
“For those who haven’t weighed the meaning of his words.”
“Lots of citizens feel the government needs to move quicker on public works. Timocleides was a good man but tedious in his execution.”
“Don’t talk bad about the dead.”
“I said he was a good man.”
“And don’t discount the backing of the General and military-minded people. They will vote for Abantidas.”
With specific instructions from Alerio, the tonsor used a novacila and shortened his hair. Then after honing the razor over a whetstone, he scraped the growth from the Legionary’s face.
“What are Cleinias’ thoughts on who should fill Timocleides’ position?”
“He hasn’t made any statements. Not public or, as far as anyone knows, in private either.”
“That’s Cleinias, a fair man to the end.”
Once Alerio’s beard hairs were close, the barber rubbed off the stubble with a pumice stone. When he finished, Alerio ran his palm over his chin and cheeks.
“You have an even hand, tonsor,” he complimented the barber.
“There are a few hot spots. Let me apply a lotion.”
As the tonsor massaged oil into his face, the subject of the men’s conversation changed.
“After a shave, I like the berry perfume.”
“No. No. You go around smelling like a bush in spring.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“I, myself prefer the spices.”
“And you carry the aroma of an Egyptian for the rest of the day.”
“It’s exotic. My woman swoons when I get home.”
“Your woman hasn’t swooned in fifteen years.”
The barber pointed to a row of bottles.
“Which scent would you like, Latian?” he inquired.
“I believe in the natural order of the universe,” Alerio announced.
“What does that mean?” questioned one of the men.
“It means I’ll neither be a bush or an Egyptian,” Alerio explained as he stood and paid the barber. “I’ll trust that my own smell will successfully carry me through the day.”
“The Latian is clever.” Alerio heard a man say as he left the stall.
Despite his thoughts about sleeping late, the sun was still low in the morning sky. Feeling it was too early to present himself at the home of Prophantus, Alerio left the agora and began a walking tour of the city.
***
Across the boulevard and a few blocks from the Temple of Artemis, Alerio watched men in robes with scrolls held in their arms. They rushed in and out of a large building. While lacking the wide porch of the temple, it had majestic columns and seemed to be an important place.
“What building it that?” he asked a man heading towards him.
“Why that’s the Bouleuterion,” the man replied as he walked by.
“The what?”
“The government building. Everyone knows that.”
Then the man was beyond Alerio and climbing the steps to the Bouleuterion. Based on the brisk manner of the man and the flow of traffic, Alerio realized his plan to start with Prophantus and not try to see Cleinias was the correct choice.
From the corner of the government building, Alerio saw another large structure set into the side of a hill. Curious about its function, the Legionary strolled in that direction.
“What manner of structure is that?” Alerio inquired of a man coming from the direction of the wide low building.
“It’s our gymnasium,” the man responded.
Thinking a workout wou
ld be good, Alerio started down the walkway. Then two lads in their late teens came from the entrance. Both wore scarlet cloaks and carried short Spartan swords on their hips.
“You there. Take off that cloak,” one demanded.
They both rushed from the porch, stomped down the walkway, and stopped three paces from the Legionary.
“I don’t understand,” pleaded Alerio.
“Masquerading as a Spartan is punishable by death,” one with acne above a thin beard announced.
“By what law?” Alerio inquired. “Because you both are wearing cloaks.”
“You dare to ridicule us?” shouted the other. His skin was smooth above sparse facial hair.
Alerio didn’t see a signal but the young Spartans drew their swords in unison. Even in their youth, Spartans trained so there must have been a sign passed between them. In response to facing two naked blades, the Legionary shrugged off his cloak, reached over his shoulders, and struggled to draw his swords.
“Do we have to fight?” questioned Alerio while tugging on the snarled swords. “If I have no choice, give me a moment, please.”
The teens laughed as the fake Spartan’s blades hung up on the ridiculous double sheaths mounted on his back. One sword came free but the man had to place the blade between his knees to free his hands to pull the other. Then the clean-shaven man gripped the right one by the hilt, holding the blade downward. In his left hand, he held the other sword with the blade turned to the side and extended far from his body.
“You must be Spartans?” Alerio guessed. “I hear you like combing your beards before a battle. Maybe you’d like to, oh, sorry. You don’t have beards yet.”
“You dare to jest with us?” the acne-faced teen threatened. “We’ll teach you to disrespect a Spartan.”
“Wait,” begged Alerio. “Can’t we wrestle or fight Apollo style? The sight of blood makes me sick to my stomach.”
“An unskilled coward,” the clear-skinned teen observed. “Not to worry Latian. We will not kill you.”
“We’ll just make you wish you’d never tried to imitate a Spartan,” added the other.
There was a pause, then both teens jerked forward…
“Hold!” a rough voice ordered.
They froze and Alerio looked over their shoulders. Standing at the entrance to the gymnasium was a Spartan. His beard trimmed and combed and two muscular arms leading to fists pressed angrily into his sides.
He marched down the pathway and stopped beside the teens.
“What is the purpose of your bare blades?” he demanded.
“Sir. This Latian mocked us by wearing a scarlet cloak,” the teen with acne replied.
“It looks to me that his cape is red,” the Spartan stated. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“Commander Kypselos. He threatened and teased us,” the smooth-faced teen added.
“Who drew first?”
“We did. As we’ve been taught,” acne responded. “Sir. We were defending the honor of Sparta.”
“When I consulted with the King before departing, he failed to mention the requirement for lads to defend the honor of Sparta in a street brawl,” the Spartan Commander offered. Then he turned to Alerio and examined the Legionary’s odd manner of holding the swords. “Have you two bothered to objectively study your opponent?”
“He’s clumsy and hides behind snide comments,” the clear-skinned one reported.
“Got your blood lust up, did he? Maybe to the point, you couldn’t think straight?” the Commander inquired. “Let me quiz you on what I’m observing. One man facing two young Spartans should put him on edge. Do you see sweat on his forehead or fear in his eyes?”
“No, sir,” they both answered.
“And I see two matched, custom built swords. Both blades well used but sharpened and oiled. Plus, there are scars on both arms with equally developed forearm muscles. Are those the blades and arms of a careless man with little experience?”
“No, Commander Kypselos.”
“And while his arms are out of position at the moment, his feet are spaced apart and his weight perfectly distributed. Is he truly unprepared for your assault?”
The teens stared with a new awareness in their eyes and took stock of all the questions. Alerio repaid their ogling with a toothy grin.
“And you, Latian,” questioned the Spartan Commander. “What do you see?”
“They stopped the correct distance for organizing an assault. Room to draw blades while still out of reach from my blades but near enough for a quick attack. But the lad with the acne is a quarter of a step ahead,” Alerio stated. “He’d arrive a heartbeat before his companion. He’d be wounded first, then I’d use his body as a shield while I crippled the other.”
To accent his description, Alerio twirled both blades. When they stopped, his arms were in perfect guard positions with the swords’ tips pointing at the teens.
“Your name?”
“Weapons instructor, Centurion Alerio Sisera of the Republic’s Legions,” he said using the officer title. “I didn’t ask for this and I have no wish to harm your people.”
“I assumed that from your performance. I’d like to see you fight, Legionary. However, not today,” Spartan Commander Kypselos remarked. Then, to the two teens, he said. “Fight if you must. But if you’re hurt, catch a boat back to Sparta. I’m an ambassador on diplomatic missions and don’t have days to waste caring for an injured ward. Choose, now!”
Both teens put away their swords and snapped to attention. The Commander nodded his approval and looked at the Legionary for his decision. In response, Alerio twirled both swords, raised them to shoulder level, and smoothly inserted both into the sheathes on his back. Without comment, the Spartan Commander and his wards marched away.
Having lost the urge for a workout, Alerio went in search of Prophantus’ house.
Chapter 32- No Need for Humility
Heading north from the agora on the intersecting boulevard, Alerio reached the base of a plateau. A road provided access to the upper level of Sicyon and created a defensible chokepoint for an attacking enemy. The main road rested on dirt and rock fill that created a slope allowing it to angle up at a steady grade. As Alerio marched upward, he eyed the almost vertical slopes on either side. Once on level ground, he strolled past high walls of large villas. After turning right, the Latian followed the road between more high walls.
The Villa Prophantus sat in the center of the flat. Obviously, the builder didn’t trust the ground on the cliffs. Others did as Alerio saw by the homes built right up to the edges of the plateau. Although he couldn’t see details, Prophantus appeared prosperous based on the length of the walls of his compound.
Alerio located an open gate and entered the villa’s grounds.
“Can I help you, sir?” a servant inquired.
“I’m Alerio Sisera, a representative from Spurius Carvilius Maximus,” Alerio replied. “I’m here to buy art.”
“Please follow me,” the man instructed.
Alerio expected more questioning or a demand of proof before being invited into the house. Maybe Prophantus was so accustomed to buyers coming and going, he just trusted the word of a stranger as a function of the business.
***
Alerio held the glass of good wine and munched on a piece of spicy meat. Around him, the courtyard of the villa was a peaceful garden. Soft morning rays filtered in and flowers gave off pleasant smells.
“Master Sisera?” a shapely woman asked as she entered from between a row of tall ferns.
“Ma’am. It’s Centurion Sisera,” Alerio corrected while jumping to his feet.
“Of course, Rome sends a soldier to select artwork,” she ventured. “And who is the patron?”
“Spurius Carvilius Maximus, ma’am. An old acquaintance of Master Prophantus and his brother, Master Cleinias.”
“Let’s start with our own agreement. I’m Soso. And I will allow you to call me Soso if I can call you what?”
&n
bsp; “Alerio, ma’am.”
“Soso. Call me Soso, Alerio,” the woman directed. “Do you have a letter of credit?”
Alerio handed her the temple parchment and the letter from the Senator. She read both, rolled them up, and handed them back.
“Where are you staying, Alerio?”
“The Inn at Sicyon, ma’am. Ah, Soso.”
“Here is how this works. You will move into our visiting buyer’s quarters,” she explained. “My husband is in Argos attending to family matters. You’ll need to meet with his brother, Cleinias. I’ll arrange the meeting. He will take your letters and assign you an art guide. That guide will take you on tours of the schools and the quarries. Once you’ve seen where the art is made, selected pieces will be brought to the visiting buyer’s quarters for your approval.”
“Soso. I don’t know anything about art,” admitted Alerio.
“Between the guide and me, we’ll be sure you take only the best back to Spurius Carvilius Maximus. Now if you are refreshed from your trip across the city, go to the inn, and pack your things. I’ll have a runner bring a message about the meeting with my brother-in-law.”
Somewhere, Alerio had heard the cadence before but, he couldn’t place it. Besides, his mind spun from the rapid-fire speech of the woman.
“Thank you for the hospitality.”
“Welcome to Villa Prophantus, Centurion Alerio Sisera,” she said with a smile. “My house manager will see you out.”
Soso brushed aside the ferns and left the courtyard as gracefully as when she entered.
“Sir. I’ll show you out,” the house manager offered from a doorway beyond the greenery.
“Is she always so…?”
“Efficient is the word you’re searching for, Centurion,” offered the servant.
“She is that,” Alerio assured him as they strolled to the front door.
***
Alerio ordered a glass of wine and sat on the porch of the inn. Maybe it was his farm roots, his combat experience, or his lack of sophistication. In any case, the language and mannerisms of the people of Sicyon sat uneasily with the Legionary. Gruff statements, quick off the cuff insults, and the mechanized process of selling art, felt calculated. And the unstable political situation, at least from his perspective, made him feel as if this was the eve of a battle.
Fatal Obligation Page 20
