Mark of the Cyclops

by Saviour Pirotta

  For my brother Lino

  With fond memories of all the long, lazy summers

  spent reading The Famous Five or Biggles and longing for almond granita.

  Contents

  A New Slave for Master Ariston

  Of Mice and Sailors

  Under Attack

  The Temple on the Hill

  Trouble at the Party

  An Offer of Gold

  Enter the Cyclops

  Our First Secret Meeting

  Enquiries at the Market

  An Ode to a Vase

  In the Women’s Quarters

  Sour Wine and Rowdy Sailors

  Gold Dust, and a Sinister Face

  A Gang of Thieves

  A Song of Swallows

  Spartan Mice

  Trouble at the Theatre

  The Last Vase

  Shadows in the Graveyard

  Prisoners

  Thrax Explains the Mystery

  The Gang Revealed

  The Wedding Feast

  The Medusa League

  Bonus Bits!

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  A New Slave for Master Ariston

  I knew Thrax would be brilliant at solving mysteries the very first time we spoke. It was the morning after the spring festival and I had gone running to work off some of the rich food I’d eaten. When I returned home, there was a boy with a newly shaved head – the mark of a slave – coming out of the kitchen. I guessed Master Lykos had just bought him at the festival. He seemed to be a year or two older than me and was carrying a water jar.

  ‘Give us some water,’ I gasped. ‘My throat’s drier than a rubble wall.’

  The boy handed me the jar. He had the darkest, most intense eyes I’d ever seen.

  ‘You must be a scribe,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know that?’ I asked, knowing I had no ink stains on my hands.

  ‘You have scrubbed your fingers too hard,’ he chuckled while I gulped water straight from the jar. ‘They are still raw. And I can detect a faint whiff of pine sap coming off you. That’s one of the ingredients in ink – you mix glue made from the sap of pine trees with soot and water. It’s in your hair.’

  ‘I did fill up a fresh pot of ink before my run this morning,’ I admitted as I handed back the water jar. ‘And I have a habit of running my fingers through my hair when it gets too long. By the golden chariot of Apollo, I’ve never met anyone so observant. I wouldn’t want you on my tail if I’d broken the law.’ I stuck out my right hand. ‘My name’s Nicomachus, but everyone calls me Nico.’

  The boy returned the greeting, pumping my hand so hard I nearly winced. ‘Master Lykos has decided to call me Thrax,’ he said. ‘It’s a good name, I think. A lot of wrestlers are called Thrax.’

  ‘Welcome to the house,’ I said.

  ‘Master Lykos said I’m going to be a personal slave to his son.’

  ‘That would be Master Ariston,’ I said. ‘He’s a professional singer and travels around, performing at weddings and festivals. He writes his own poems and songs too, and plays the lyre. If you’re going to be his personal slave, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. I’m his scribe.’

  ‘Does Master Ariston treat you well?’ asked Thrax.

  ‘I’m a freeborn apprentice,’ I replied, ‘but my life’s not much better than a slave’s. Not that I’m complaining. Life in this house is very comfortable. Master Lykos likes to bark at everyone but deep down he’s very kind. The entire household gets to sleep in warm beds and there’s always enough food.’

  I didn’t tell Thrax that Master Lykos also sold off one or two slaves every autumn festival; the ones who didn’t obey his every word or cost too much in food and clothing.

  By now the sun had fully risen and the courtyard was getting hot. ‘I must go and clean myself up before Master Ariston comes back from his morning visit to the barber,’ I said.

  ‘And I must hurry indoors with this water,’ said Thrax. ‘Mistress has set me scrubbing Master Ariston’s sandals and boots but she keeps interrupting me to fetch things. I’ve never seen anyone with so much footwear as Master Ariston. He’s got a chest full of it. It’s my first job in the house and I think it’s going to take all day.’

  I started towards the bathroom, which was on the ground floor. Master Lykos’s house is very traditional. All the rooms overlook a central courtyard with an altar to the gods and grape vines growing up the walls.

  ‘I’ll see you this evening at supper, Thrax,’ I called as he hurried up the stairs with the water.

  Master Lykos stuck his head out of his bedroom window. He was a thick-set man with jowly cheeks that wobbled when he spoke. ‘What’s all this shouting for?’ he bellowed. ‘Can’t a man have breakfast in peace?’

  * * *

  When Master Ariston returned from the barber’s, he asked me to write down a rambling poem about roses, the symbol of love. We were off to a very important wedding in Corinth soon and he was busy composing romantic songs for it. My job was to write down the verses as they spilled out of his mouth. Once in a while, he’d ask me to read them back to him and he’d make changes and corrections.

  The household cook brought fresh barley bread and figs for lunch, which Master Ariston and I ate at the writing table. We worked through supper too so there was no opportunity for me to see Thrax again till bedtime.

  I might be a freeman but, as a lowly scribe, I still sleep in the same room as the other male slaves. In our house that’s the storeroom near the front door. I suppose we sleep there in case robbers attack the house at night and we are needed to defend the women. Not that I would be much use against violent robbers. Despite my early morning runs and occasional trips to the gym, I find it difficult to keep my weight down.

  Thrax, on the other hand, looked like he could give a professional athlete a run for his money. As he patted down the straw on his low wooden bed, I could see he was lean with not an ounce of fat on him.

  ‘Did you have a good day?’ I asked.

  Thrax plumped up his straw pillow. ‘It turned out to be surprisingly easy. Cleaning Master Ariston’s boots and sandals didn’t take as long as I feared. Then I was sent to the market with another slave to have a pair of sandals mended, and to get Master Ariston one of those heavy woollen cloaks that swirl around your ankles. Himations, I think they’re called. Master Ariston has as many himations as he has pairs of boots. I must say, the life of a slave is much easier in the city than the country.’

  ‘Is that where you used to live?’ I asked, getting into my own bed.

  ‘I belonged to a farmer outside Thebes for ten years,’ replied Thrax. ‘He was a kind man but last autumn the crops failed and he had to sell some of us to pay his debts.’

  ‘Were you born a slave?’

  Thrax ran his hand over his smooth head. ‘No. My father was a freeman from Thrace. A silversmith by trade, quite a successful one I think. We lived in a small house built right in the city walls. There was a picture of a glaring Medusa painted above our front door to ward off evil. I don’t remember much about my father, just that he was very tall. He died when I was young. I do remember my mum’s face clearly, though. I can still feel her soft lips against my cheeks when she kissed me.’

  Just then the other two male slaves in our household came in to make up their beds and Thrax stopped talking. Being reminded of his early years must have changed his mood for he didn’t say another word before he wished me goodnight and blew out his lamp.

  As I lay on my straw, listening to everyone snoring, I wondered how Thrax had become a slave. Had he been kidnapped by pirates? Had his mother been forced to sell him into slavery to pay off her husband’s debts? I shuddered
to think how painful losing your family and freedom must be and I offered a quick prayer to the gods for my own good luck.

  Although my parents are poor farmers from the island of Kos, I was lucky enough to be schooled for free by a temple scribe. He’d noticed me scribbling letters in the soil with a broken reed one day and offered me an apprenticeship. Now I make enough money to send a little to my parents twice a year. Because of me they have a roof over their heads and warm food in their bellies.

  But things might have turned out very differently had I not met that kind scribe. I might have become a penniless farmer trying to eke out a meagre living from the dusty land. Or my parents might have had to sell me into slavery too.

  Shortly before dawn I was woken by the sound of muttering. I opened my eyes to see Thrax sitting up in his bed. His shaved head was glistening with sweat and his fists were balled up tight against his chin.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I whispered.

  Thrax turned but I could see from the glazed expression in his eyes that he wasn’t looking at me. He was having a nightmare.

  ‘I’ll return, Mother,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll come back and find you. As soon as I buy my freedom. I promise!’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Of Mice and Sailors

  We started out for the wedding in Corinth a few days later. There were three of us going: Master Ariston, Thrax and me.

  Master Lykos wasn’t keen on his only son going to a city he considered full of greedy businessmen and drunken sailors.

  ‘Everyone there is a traitor to the Greek spirit,’ he grumbled as he offered sacrifice to Hermes at the household altar. ‘They’ve been at war with the island of Corcyra for two years, though I hear Athens might come to the island’s rescue any day now. And what if war was declared while you were there? You might be denounced as a spy and pushed to your death off a cliff.’

  ‘The fighting is happening at sea a long way from Corinth, Father, and well you know it,’ laughed Master Ariston. He was a thin, gawky fellow with big ears and a puny chest, but he had a surprisingly loud voice. ‘Our host is Zenon the Younger, one of the most respected merchants in the city. His eldest daughter Pandora is marrying the son of a much-admired colonel. A champion runner called Sosicles. There will be influential people at the wedding from all over Hellas. It’ll be good for business.’

  ‘Business,’ thundered Master Lykos, who was a retired trierarch. ‘I remember when Athens depended on nothing more than a brief, exciting war and a spot of olive farming in the winter.’

  ‘Goodbye, Father,’ said Ariston as Thrax opened the front gate. ‘Keep offering sacrifices to fast-footed Hermes that he might bring us back home safely.’

  He looked up at the terrace on the second floor where a woman stood watching. ‘Give us your hand in blessing, Mother, so that Athena may look upon our journey with favour. We’ll bring you back something nice.’

  Ariston’s Mother nodded and raised her hand. Then we all trooped out of the house and down the street, Ariston sitting sideways on a donkey. He wore a wide-brimmed hat to protect his face from the sun and carried his precious lyre in a cedar-wood box on his lap.

  The donkey, a sweet furry creature called Ariana, also carried a large wicker chest strapped to her side. It was packed full of the master’s clothes and footwear as well as a miniature bronze statue of Apollo. Master Ariston’s dedication to the god knew no bounds and he travelled everywhere with the statue, to which he prayed and offered sacrifice every night.

  Thrax was weighed down with a second chest lashed to his back. It contained a huge pile of scrolls, an entire library that Master Ariston carried everywhere.

  As a freeman, I was not required to carry anything for Master Ariston. Instead I had a bag slung over my shoulder filled with the tools of my trade: a kalamos to write on papyrus, styluses for working on a wax tablet and small blocks of dried ink.

  We could have travelled to Corinth by land, joining pilgrims on their way to a famous temple of Poseidon on the outskirts of the city. Master Ariston however had a great fear of wild animals and much preferred travelling by sea. He had booked us passage on a small cargo ship called the Danais. It was sailing out of Piraeus, a harbour on the outskirts of Athens, and it would take us all the way down the Saronic Gulf to the Isthmus of Corinth in southern Hellas.

  The ship’s captain was an old friend of Master Ariston’s called Gorgos. They’d had the same tutor as kids, and they still drank together to his memory whenever the Danais was in port.

  We were not the only fee-paying passengers on the ship. A very fat man from Corinth was also travelling with us. He had the bushiest eyebrows I had ever seen and spoke with an unexpectedly high-pitched voice. He introduced himself as Odius the Elder.

  ‘Don’t you dare laugh at him,’ whispered Master Ariston, while we found Ariana a safe spot on the ship. ‘He is one of the archons in Corinth.’

  ‘What’s an archon?’ asked Thrax.

  ‘A powerful magistrate,’ I explained. ‘Every city-state has them. They are in charge of the law, the army and the temples. They even organise festivals.’

  A pottery merchant called Peleas and his Nubian slave, Tanoutamon, were also on the ship. Peleas knew Master Ariston too and was really pleased to see him.

  ‘I believe one or two of my more expensive pieces are destined for the wedding you’re attending,’ said Peleas as Tanoutamon and two other slaves stowed the pots in the hold. ‘A grand affair it’s going to be from what I hear. How are things with you, old friend?’

  ‘I thank Apollo for bringing me good fortune,’ answered Master Ariston. ‘I have bookings all over Hellas and I am blessed with a new personal slave.’

  ‘The gods favour me too,’ said Peleas. ‘Business is booming and I have taken on a very talented new painter. His name is Scorpius. He signs his pots with a little scorpion, drawn at the base.’

  The passengers continued chatting as the Danais was unmoored and the crew pushed her away from the quay with their oars. She had both a sail and six strong rowers, who had brought their own oars and cushions to sit on. They manoeuvered us deftly out of the harbour and, with a strong wind behind us, Captain Gorgos soon raised the sail.

  The oarsmen relaxed and began sharing gossip and news of their families. Their voices got louder as they spoke and before long we realised that two of them were quarrelling.

  It seemed, on a previous voyage, the men had found some mice nesting behind a sack of almonds. They had tamed them and taught them to do simple tricks. One by one the mice had died or tumbled overboard into the sea. Now there was only one left and two men both claimed they owned it.

  ‘I must nip this quarrel in the bud,’ Captain Gorgos said to Master Ariston as they stood with the archon and Peleas at the prow of the Danais. ‘Small arguments like these can easily turn into big fights.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the archon gravely. ‘A ship needs harmony to run smoothly. You must get rid of the man who’s lying or he’ll bring the wrath of Poseidon on you.’

  Captain Gorgos frowned. ‘But how do I know which man is telling the truth?’

  ‘If I may be so bold, sir,’ said Thrax, who was serving Master Ariston a cup of wine. ‘I can help you solve the problem.’

  Captain Gorgos looked at Thrax hopefully. ‘How?’

  ‘Tell the men that unless they settle their dispute right away, you will throw the mouse overboard,’ said Thrax. ‘I think you’ll find the liar will soon be unmasked.’

  Captain Gorgos whistled loudly to get the men’s attention and asked to see the mouse. One of the quarrelling rowers handed it to him, holding it gently by the tail.

  ‘I cannot have this kind of bickering on my ship,’ announced the captain. ‘Unless you can decide who really owns the little fellow, he is going overboard.’

  ‘I agree, sir,’ said the first man. ‘This kind of fighting angers Poseidon. Chuck the mouse into the sea.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ cried the second man, the one who’d passed the mouse to
the captain. ‘Let my colleague here keep him. I swear on the life of my children I won’t argue about the matter again.’

  ‘I think you’ll find the second man is the real owner of the mouse,’ Thrax whispered to Captain Gorgos. ‘He’d rather see his pet go to another than be drowned.’

  Captain Gorgos handed the mouse to its rightful owner, who stowed it inside his chiton. The archon and Peleas looked at Thrax with a mixture of surprise and admiration.

  ‘It’s a crying shame you’re a slave, young man,’ said the archon, ‘or you could have a glorious career in politics. If you ever buy your freedom come and see me. I could do with an intelligent man like you in my service.’

  ‘Or you could come and work for me,’ added Peleas. ‘I bet you’d be excellent at selling expensive vases.’

  Ha! As if Thrax should waste his time compiling reports for the archon, or selling pots for a commission. He was proving to have a brilliant mind and I was sure he could put it to better use than that.

  Later in the day, we were settling down to a small meal of olives and bread when the archon cried, ‘Captain Gorgos, look!’

  We all looked up from our food to see a small one-masted ship making its way towards us. It was soon joined by two more, which seemed to appear out of nowhere.

  ‘They’re pirates,’ said Peleas.

  Thrax and I both looked at him in alarm. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They’re coming from the direction of Aegina,’ replied Peleas. ‘It’s an island known as a hideout for pirates. And they’re all heading towards us. They mean to take our cargo.’

  ‘And they’ll take us too,’ wailed Master Ariston. ‘I might end up a slave.’

  ‘The lord god Poseidon, protector of all who sail the seas, help us,’ whispered the archon.

  ‘Aye, may he help us, your honour,’ said Captain Gorgos. ‘But we need to help ourselves too. Please sit down and let my crew do their work.’ He turned to his men. ‘Put your back to it, lads, if you want to see your families again.’

  The men started rowing harder, all arguments between them forgotten. By now there were five pirate ships on our tail. Captain Gorgos ordered the sail turned and we changed direction, heading towards a small island on the horizon.