Mark of the Cyclops

by Saviour Pirotta

  ‘That’s Salamina,’ said Peleas. ‘It’s heavily garrisoned with soldiers from the Greek army. We’ll be safe if the wind holds and we make it into the harbour.’

  Slowly, the distance between us and the pirate fleet widened. Soon we could see the entrance to the harbour on Salamina quite clearly. The pirates, guessing where Captain Gorgos was heading, fell away and headed back to the open sea. We were saved.

  On Salamina, the crew offered sacrifice to Poseidon, pouring wine on the altar to show they were thankful he had saved us from the pirates. Captain Gorgos took the opportunity to have the water jars refilled and a priestess from the local temple reblessed our ship.

  As we prepared to set sail again, the captain sacked the oarsman who’d lied about the mouse and we left him on the island. Thrax and I saw him standing stiffly on the quay as the remaining oarsmen carried us out of the harbour. He was glaring at us with eyes full of suppressed rage.

  ‘That man looks positively evil,’ shuddered Master Ariston dramatically, tossing crusts of stale bread to the dolphins in the water. ‘I’m glad we’ve seen the last of him.’

  The night passed without any more adventures and early the next morning we reached the port of Cenchreae near the Isthmus of Corinth. Our sailing across the Saronic Gulf was complete.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Under Attack

  The Isthmus is a narrow land bridge that connects two parts of Greece, the north and the south. The city of Corinth lies at one end of it, overlooking the Ionian Sea, but we had docked at the other end, on the eastern side. A long journey on foot now lay ahead of us.

  The noise in the harbour was deafening. Ships were unloading all kinds of cargo, from wine jars to large slabs of shining marble and planks of dried timber. Naval ships were moored to the quay, each one sporting a bronze ram at its prow.

  ‘How will all these goods be taken to Corinth?’ Thrax asked Captain Gorgos as we led Ariana braying down the gangplank.

  ‘They will be carried across the Isthmus by cart or donkey,’ explained the captain.

  ‘There’s a famous road called the Diolkos,’ I added. ‘It’s paved with hard smooth stone so that sailors can drag a ship on rollers along it.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Captain Gorgos, watching Peleas and Tanoutamon load their crates of pottery on to a large donkey cart. ‘It’s far safer to drag a ship along the Diolkos than sail around the southern half of Greece. The gales around that stretch of coast can be deadly and some of the coves are infested with pirates.’

  ‘Is the Danais going along the Diolkos?’ asked Thrax.

  ‘No,’ said Captain Gorgos, ‘I have cargo to pick up from the island of Crete. But I’ll be back in Cenchreae to take you home after the wedding.’

  He bid us goodbye, as did the archon, who was stopping at the port for a few days.

  Master Ariston had thought of hiring a guide to take us to Corinth but it soon became clear that we did not need one. Dozens of people were making the same journey. We organised ourselves into a caravan and set off before the sun became too harsh for travel.

  As we walked, we could hear sailors singing as they dragged their ship on rollers along the Diolkos.

  ‘A ship across the land

  Pulled by hand

  Pulled by hand

  A siren waiting in the sea

  Just for me

  Just for me

  Will I ever get there?’

  ‘That’s a very good song,’ said Master Ariston. ‘Nico, make a note of it.’ He scrambled on to Ariana and opened his cedar-wood box. Soon he was plucking the strings of his beloved lyre, singing to entertain our fellow travellers. His unusually loud voice carried on the wind and other people in the caravan joined in. I could see Peleas further down the line singing along too. His slave Tanoutamon was walking silently beside him, stopping often to make sure the crates of pottery on the donkey cart were secure.

  Around midday we stopped near an orchard to shelter from the heat and have a meal. We’d just refreshed ourselves at a stream and were ready to continue our journey when a scream rang out among the trees. Thrax looked up from the goatskin he was refilling.

  ‘Master, I think we’re under attack.’

  He was right. Our caravan, laden with luxury goods for the people of Corinth, had attracted a band of thieves. Suddenly the air was full of hissing arrows, and pebbles from slings came whizzing past our heads. Peleas and Tanoutamon, who had joined us for lunch, both pulled out swords and disappeared into the jostling crowd. Thrax followed them, grabbing a fallen branch from the ground to use as a club. I wanted to go with him but Master Ariston held me back. ‘Stay with me,’ he said. ‘I am carrying my jewellery under my himation.’

  He spotted a small wayside shrine to Hera and we hid behind it, begging the almighty goddess to spare us. The sound of fighting stopped as suddenly as it had begun and Peleas returned, his chiton splattered with blood. My heart missed a beat when I did not see Thrax or Tanoutamon with him. Had they been injured or, worse, killed?

  Thrax soon came running back to us with the club still in his hand. He had bad news. Tanoutamon had been felled by a sharp stone from a bandit’s sling. It had struck him in the forehead.

  Peleas went to retrieve the body and we buried it under the olive trees, marking the grave with a water jug Peleas took from his cargo.

  ‘I thank the blessed Hera the rest of us escaped with no injury,’ said Ariston. He turned to Peleas. ‘Sell me a pot, sir. I shall leave it at her shrine as an offering.’

  ‘All my large pieces are made to order,’ replied Peleas. ‘But I can spare you a small lekanis.’

  He opened one of his baskets and drew out a small round pot. It was decorated with a scene showing the goddess Persephone leaving the underworld at the beginning of spring. Behind her, the mouth of the cave was full of shades, dead people cursed to wander in the dark forever.

  Master Ariston placed it in the shrine, amongst other offerings of flowers and fruit that had withered and rotted with age.

  ‘Won’t bandits steal something so precious?’ Thrax whispered to me as Master Ariston sang a hymn to the mother goddess.

  ‘Not even bandits would dare remove offerings from a shrine,’ I answered. ‘Hera would strike them down.’

  The hymn sung, we continued on our way to Corinth, each one of us lost in his own thoughts. The raid on the caravan had shaken me to the core. I’d never been caught up in such a savage attack before.

  But sadness gave way to excitement as we approached Corinth. It was a clear night and the city’s walls glowed like pure silver in the moonlight. Behind it on a steep hill stood a fort, also bathed in moonlight. The sound of sailors belting out rude songs in the harbour nearby carried on the breeze.

  We passed under the flaming torches of the city gate and said goodbye to Peleas, who was lodging with a friend. Master Ariston asked the way to Zenon the Younger’s residence and a small boy guided us to a house on a gentle slope above the agora.

  Ahmose, Zenon’s Egyptian slave and chief-of-staff, welcomed us with cups of wine, then showed us to our sleeping quarters. There was no place for Thrax and me in the slaves’ main bedroom so Ahmose had set up two cots in the storeroom, a large hall packed to the ceiling with amphorae. It was damp and smelt strongly of stale wine but it was to become a very important place for secret meetings in the next few days and a sanctuary that I remember fondly.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Temple on the Hill

  ‘That was a very eventful journey,’ said Thrax after we’d stabled Ariana and were exploring Zenon’s house. ‘Sailors quarrelling over mice. Pirates chasing us across the sea. Bandits in the wilderness. The gruesome death of a trusted slave. You should write it all down, Nico, so we can read about it when we’re old and our memories start to fade.’

  I blinked at him in surprise. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I noticed you are very good with words,’ replied Thrax. ‘You should be doing something more interesting
with your skills than taking down Master Ariston’s rubbish.’

  It had never occurred to me to write anything except what Master Ariston dictated but, now that Thrax had put the idea in my head, I was quite taken by it. All the people I admired were writers: playwrights, poets, historians... perhaps I too could become one of them.

  But what sort of writing would I do? Sappho the poet was famous for her volumes of romantic lyrics, Herodotus for his fanciful accounts of historical events and famous people, Homer for epics that retold ancient myths. I needed to find a genre of writing that best suited my talents.

  ‘Look at this kitchen,’ said Thrax, interrupting my thoughts. ‘It’s got the biggest bread oven I’ve ever seen.’

  Although the slaves’ quarters in Master Zenon’s house were cramped, the rest of the building was palatial. It had at least ten rooms that I could count, including a large hall – the andron – where Master Zenon entertained his friends. The women had a similar space – the gynaikeion – upstairs, where they spent most of the day spinning, weaving or sharing meals with close friends and relatives.

  Behind the house was a narrow lane leading to a small farm and an orchard where Master Zenon’s slaves grew vegetables, tended fruit trees and kept sheep and goats for milk. Here also were the stables where we’d left Ariana and a dovecote so lavish it looked like a small temple.

  Master Ariston was given an airy room next to Master Zenon’s, which he considered a great honour. He was quite impressed with the décor of the house, which was much grander and more colourful than we were used to in Athens.

  ‘Father would call the style vulgar,’ he said as we set out to explore Corinth the next morning. ‘But I think it quite takes the breath away. You should see the bathroom, Nico. Such a huge bath, you can practically swim in it. And the mosaics! There are mermaids and naked water nymphs all over the walls.’

  Thrax and I had in fact already seen the bathroom. We had sneaked in during the night and cheekily given ourselves a good long wash and a rub down with perfumed oil. Rich masters might think slaves and badly paid scribes are not capable of appreciating the finer things in life but we are. It’s just not in our interest to let them know about it.

  Corinth was a bigger city than Athens, with smellier roads and much louder people. It had several temples, public baths, a theatre and the agora we’d seen the night before. These all lay in the shadow of the Acropolis high on the hill. Master Ariston told us locals called it the Acrocorinth. It had a famous temple of Aphrodite, whose beautiful priestesses were said to attract sailors from all over Hellas. Close to the temple was a sacred spring, which gushed out of the rocks into a large bathhouse. Legend told that Pegasus had created it by striking the bare rocks with his hooves.

  ‘One hour in its pools is believed to give authors enough inspiration for a month,’ Master Ariston informed us. ‘I wish we had a magic spring like it back in Athens. I would bathe in it every day and write the most admired poems in the world.’

  The city also had a paved road that led to a busy harbour. Here a weary traveller or sailor could revive himself drinking in one of the taverns that gave Corinth its reputation as livliest capital in the world.

  Master Ariston dragged us up the hill to the Acrocorinth, as he wanted to bathe in the sacred spring at once. We were not the only people there taking the waters. A rather sickly looking man with straggly hair and blotchy skin was sitting in one of the pools, his long curly beard moving lazily with the current.

  ‘I’m Euripides,’ he introduced himself.

  Master Ariston’s leaned forward, his wet nostrils flaring with excitement. ‘THE  Euripides?’

  ‘I am a well known writer of tragedies,’ confirmed the man.

  ‘I’ve seen several of your works,’ gasped Master Ariston. ‘And I was at the premiere of Heracles in Athens five years ago. You write such strong roles for women, and such wisdom coming from the mouths of slaves.’

  ‘I find slaves are often far more intelligent than their owners,’ sniffed Euripides. ‘I take it these are yours?’

  ‘My father purchased Thrax for me at the market,’ answered Ariston. ‘He’s the muscled one. The chubby lad is freeborn. His name’s Nico.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Thrax and Nico,’ said Euripides, holding out a wet, wrinkled hand.

  ‘Nico is my scribe,’ went on Master Ariston.

  Euripides nodded his head at me. ‘Ah, so you’re a writer too. A noble and divine profession, if I say so myself.’

  ‘I agree,’ declared Master Ariston loudly. ‘I am an author as well.’

  Euripides blew water out of his nose. ‘How nice for you. What kind of author?’

  ‘I write songs,’ said Master Ariston. ‘Which I perform at social functions in the manner of the great Arion.’

  ‘Thank the gods you’re not in the theatre,’ replied Euripides. ‘It’s a cut-throat business, I can tell you. Everyone wants to be a playwright these days.’

  ‘The world of a travelling singer is gentler,’ agreed Master Ariston. ‘We’re here to help the merchant Zenon celebrate his daughter’s wedding. Will you be coming to one of his parties? Practically the whole of Corinth is invited.’

  ‘I’m too busy to attend symposiums,’ scoffed Euripides. ‘A revival of Alcestis opens at the local theatre in nine days’ time. We’re re-staging it with major changes for the Corinthian audience. I was hoping to get the great Thespis for the main role but I’m afraid he’s far too popular for our budget. Luckily, I have found a replacement with just as much talent if not fame. His name is Mikon and he plays women very convincingly. You should come and see him.’

  ‘I’ll get seats right away,’ promised Master Ariston.

  ‘Good!’ The famous playwright closed his eyes and leaned back in the water.

  ‘Come away, boys,’ whispered Master Ariston dramatically as he filled a bottle with sacred water to take home with him. ‘The great Euripides is resting. We mustn’t disturb him any longer. Farewell, sir, pleased to have met you.’

  Euripides opened one eye. ‘Goodbye, boys. Do come and see me if you need anything while you’re in Corinth. I am staying at the great inn by the harbour. The one with Pegasus painted above the door.’

  ‘I can’t believe we just met a famous playwright,’ gushed Master Ariston as we made our way down the hill. ‘What a gentleman.’

  It seemed the bath in the sacred spring and the encounter with Euripides had worked wonders for Master Ariston’s inspiration. The moment we were through the door, he asked me to fetch pen and ink.

  ‘I shall compose a poem in honour of Corinth and my new friend Euripides,’ he announced. ‘Take this down, Nico, on the most luxurious papyrus we have, please. I’m sure the master playwright will want to see it the next time we meet him.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Trouble at the Party

  Mistress Pandora’s wedding was still a full ten days away but Master Zenon was already holding parties for his many male friends. These parties, or symposiums as Euripides the playwright had called them, were held in the andron. The guests reclined on soft couches while slaves served up delicious food and wine diluted with spring water. Sometimes there were jugglers or exotic dancers and Master Ariston was expected to perform at each of the parties.

  My job in these gatherings was to sit discreetly behind him and write down any song or poem he made up on the spot. This happened quite often, although I suspect Master Ariston often cheated and composed the songs in his head beforehand. It made him very popular with the guests, though, who were always flattered that they had an inspired an artist.

  Thrax attended the parties too, but mostly for show. He held the lyre when Master Ariston was not using it and mopped his master’s brow when he perspired. This also happened often, and Master Ariston did not have to fake it. He was a very sweaty man. Still, he reckoned all that sweat pouring down his face made people see how hard poets have to work.

  As father of the bride, Master Zenon hosted the part
ies while Ahmose was in charge of the food, the wine and the entertainment. It was clear by the way the guests at this first party talked about Master Zenon that he was very popular in Corinth. Thrax, however, insisted there must be a dark side to him. No one could get that rich without being ruthless.

  We got proof of this dark side during the second party. Ahmose was serving a first course of iris bulbs marinated in vinegar when there was a loud crash upstairs. It was followed by the thud of footsteps running along a corridor. Then we heard two piercing screams, one louder than the other.

  ‘What in the name of Zeus is going on up there?’ growled Master Zenon, scowling at the ceiling.

  Ahmose darted out of the andron and the guests looked at each other in alarm. Had fighting broken out among the slaves? Was the house under attack?

  Ahmose returned with a grim expression on his face. ‘Master, Mistress Pandora’s loutrophoros has been smashed.’

  A loutrophoros is a special wedding vase with a tall neck. It’s a present from the groom to his bride. She uses it to pour the water for one last bath as a single woman before her wedding. Wealthy men compete with each other to buy the most expensive wedding vases and the best ones are imported from Athens.

  Mistress Pandora’s had been brought to Corinth by Peleas aboard the Danais. It had survived a journey across a pirate-infested sea and an ambush by fierce bandits. How strange to think that it now lay in pieces on the floor upstairs.

  ‘Do you know who smashed it?’ growled Master Zenon, a look of absolute fury showing in his eyes.

  ‘The young slave Gaia was the only person in the room,’ replied Ahmose. ‘She must have knocked it over.’

  ‘Forbid her to touch anything else in the house,’ thundered Master Zenon. ‘And send her to the slave market at the first opportunity. Tell Sosicles to order another wedding vase for his bride. I shall not have my daughter getting married without the proper ceremonies.’