Death Comes by Amphora: A Mystery Novel of Ancient Athens

by Roger Hudson

  "What do you mean?"

  "Oh, not you too! Sorry I spoke. You're one of them, eh? "

  "My master was born in Athens, sir." Sindron tried to save Lysanias from further embarrassment. "He is returning to take up his citizenship."

  "See what I mean, even the slaves of Athenians are snobs!”

  "That's unfair," Lysanias flamed. "He was only trying to give you information, so you wouldn't make a fool of yourself." Sindron found himself in the strange position of being defended by his young master, rather than the other way round.

  "Hold on, young man! You've got spirit, anyway. Didn't mean to offend. You've not lived here lately, though, have you? Thought not. I guess it's the wealthy Athenians who are the snobs.”

  The foreign merchant set off on a tirade against all the taxes that resident businessmen from other cities like himself had to pay to the city and how they were exploited extortionately by the citizen patrons they were obliged to have, giving names and examples. Among them was a name like his uncle’s – Klereides – but the accent and speed he talked made it unclear. The foreign merchants were all “from” somewhere – “Hermon from Syracuse,” “Isomenes from Kition,” Greeks from cities far and wide but all Greeks, although regarded as foreigners in Athens.

  The man clearly had a mighty grudge against the city where he made his wealth. Growing angry, Lysanias was about to ask the man why he didn’t go back to his home city when a cry interrupted them.

  "Look, over there!"

  Lysanias joined the rush of passengers to the opposite rail. As their ship turned to enter the harbour, a trireme, a fast war-galley, could be seen approaching from the West, seeming to skim over the water. It was a dazzling sight, the slim tall trireme with all three banks of oars hitting the water in unison.

  As it drew closer, he could see the staring eyes painted on either side of the prow to frighten enemies, the fierce figurehead between and, below that, the fearsome lion-headed battering ram repeatedly breaking the surface of the water. A woman screamed nearby, as it appeared to be heading straight toward them.

  "That's odd," said the captain's voice behind him. "Warships normally use the military harbour on the other side of the peninsula. They must be in a hurry."

  "No, wants the whole town to know he's back, doesn't he? Big-headed bully!" The speaker was one of the stonemasons, the only other passengers wearing workers' tunics. Lysanias had seen them often, a young man and an older one, running round the deck or wrestling together, to keep fit on the voyage. This was the young one speaking, short, broad-shouldered, the bronze colouring of his skin, from long hours working in the sun, a match for Lysanias' own. Both wore their hair and beard cropped in the functional way he knew many workers preferred.

  As the trireme turned and passed, Lysanias could hear the boatswain setting the time. "Op, O-Op". The cry came over the water and then the piping of the flute-boy to the same beat. Lysanias could make out the detachment of hoplites, the heavy-armed foot soldiers, in full uniform with bronze breastplates and shields polished to perfection. They flashed brightly, in a dazzling tribute to Apollo, as the trireme swung, briefly facing the risen sun.

  The warship lined up for its entry into the harbour, the oarsmen all keeping magnificent timing. Then, on the final gruelling spurt, a great unison cry came from the oarsmen. "Rhup, Pa, Pai", they cried. "Rhup, Pa, Pai". It seemed almost a challenge to the silence and dignity of the commander, standing upright in the stern of the ship, the banners of Athens and the Delian League fluttering behind him.

  They were so close he could see the anger on the commander’s face. Not to be outdone by his own men, he raised the ceremonial trident he held, beat the staff on the boards and the hoplites yelled in unison “Hail to Athene” in greeting to the city’s goddess. Faced with the patriotic cry, the rowers were forced to join in and most of the passengers on the merchantmen echoed them. “Hail to Athene!”

  Then it came to him. "Hey, I know who that is. We've got a statue of him in our market square. Look, Sindron! That's Kimon, General Kimon!" and he turned chattily to the man next to him, the older stonemason. "He founded our town, you know, Eion, military colony. It was a Persian army base and he besieged it till they burnt it down and themselves in it. What a commander! See that pennant, Poseidon's trident, that's his symbol."

  The stonemason didn't seem as enthusiastic as Lysanias. "Look, son," he confided in a low voice. "I wouldn't shout too much about all that. Out of favour in Athens these days that Kimon is. Democrats in charge now and we think he's been getting too big for his boots. Too Hades keen on war for our liking. Time we enjoyed a bit of peace."

  "But he's a great man. Why shouldn't I talk about him?"

  The stonemason seemed slightly thrown by this challenge to his honesty. "Well, when you're new in a place, you have to be careful ... "

  "Too rich by half, that boastful warmonger." The young stonemason was more outspoken than his colleague. "Time us ordinary people had a go, like Ephialtes says."

  Lysanias couldn't hold back. "But the rich pay for all the festivals and temples, they know how things work, better to let them run things, isn't it?"

  Sindron recognised his own words, coming out of Lysanias' mouth, but knew that was the wrong thing to say. The boy really had so little social experience.

  "You're not rich are you, youngster? You wear a worker's tunic. Which side you on?" And he was pushing up close, fists clenched. Though Lysanias was slightly taller, the man's broken nose and swollen ear announced a readiness to fight for his opinions. Reacting angrily, Lysanias was ready to fight too but he realised he didn’t really have any opinions yet, certainly not enough to fight over, even though he knew he could give as good as he got.

  "No, but ... " Lysanias was aware of Sindron hovering nervously at his shoulder, knuckles white where they clenched his staff.

  "Then why are you sticking up for them?" The worker was becoming decidedly aggressive. Lysanias tensed. He clenched his fists to be ready. Defend with the left, hit with the right, as his father had taught him. Right.

  "Lysanias, I think we'd better get our bags ready to disembark." Sindron was agitated, deliberately avoiding emphasising his own slave status so as not to reveal that his master was no longer the worker he seemed.

  "Calm down, Stephanos,” the older man butted in. “He's new to Athens. He's got a lot to learn."

  "Well, tell him to keep his mouth shut, till he knows what he's talking about." Stephanos turned and shuffled away, muttering to himself. Lysanias was disturbed. He had imagined Athens as somewhere everyone worked together to achieve great things, not a place of argument and hatred. What could justify that? But Sindron seemed to be accepting it.

  "He's right, you know," confided the older man, who introduced himself as Glaukon the stonemason. Challenged by Lysanias to say what he had against Kimon, he revealed only that he wanted real democracy and an end of Kimon and his wealthy friends telling everyone else what to do. He and his son had been working in Abdera, when they heard the reforms were likely to go through, and decided to come back to lend support.

  He ended by closing his fists and thumping the right one down on the left, like a hammer hitting an anvil. He looked at Lysanias as though expecting a response but Lysanias pretended he hadn’t noticed, wondering if he should know the sign.

  "Bit hot-tempered, Stephanos, but his heart’s in the right place. " He moved off and Lysanias was immediately cornered by a dignified-looking man.

  "Don’t you listen to them, young man. Fine man, General Kimon, and he’s done so much for the people. Opened his orchards to anyone, free dinners at his house for all, however poor, generous gifts to the city. Trouble with this rabble, they don’t know who their real friends are."

  He walked away, a young boy trotting at his heels, holding the man’s lyre to his chest. That sounds more like the way people should treat one another, thought Lysanias. His own natural loyalty was to Kimon but now it looked as though there were two opposing sides in
Athens. Perhaps he should wait and see where his uncle stood.

  “Do you think I could ever achieve as much for Athens as General Kimon has?” he asked his slave. “He had to overcome so many disadvantages too.”

  “Now lets not run before we can walk,” replied Sindron with one of those aphorisms he used that were so irritating. Lysanias fell silent.

  Completely surrounded now by the Great Harbour, he marvelled at the shipyards, the timber yards, the warehouses and store sheds for imported goods and the ships from many cities and nations unloading or departing. An Egyptian dhow and a Phoenician vessel gave him a momentary fright. Ships belonging to the enemy! Until he recalled that the ship’s captain who had delivered his uncle’s message had mentioned the expectations of a truce in the long war. The war must be over. The energy and activity along the docksides declared it.

  That strange message summoning him to Athens still puzzled him and he remembered the discussions and arguments with his mother and Sindron. Should he go to join his uncle Klereides in his shipbuilding business or stay to protect his mother, brother and sisters now his father was gone, especially after that big raid had caused so much damage to the town?

  Most puzzling of all, why had his uncle scrawled the message on schoolboy’s wax tablets, smeared and difficult to read? And those strange phrases he had used.

  "What do you think uncle meant by …?"

  "We’ll know soon enough, master, " his slave responded, busy with their baggage.

  As the rowboats turned their ship into position to dock next to the war galley, Lysanias could see that the harbour didn’t look as grand as his father’s description had painted it. Many buildings, from warehouses on the waterfront to structures up the hill behind, seemed to have been re-built in a hurry and there were still burnt-out plots amongst them, though the sounds from shipyards and sawmills, foundries and forges, confirmed that this was a thriving town.

  As they waited to disembark, Sindron registered, among the portside bustle of stevedores and customs officials, General Kimon talking agitatedly with a cavalry officer, another general to go by his helmet. The hoplites lined up in parade formation beside them. The level of social conflict he and Lysanias were encountering was disturbing but he wanted to know more about it before he worried Lysanias with it. He pointed out to Lysanias a small wiry man who seemed to be darting around gathering information from the sailors.

  "Who is he? " asked Lysanias.

  "Marketplace poet and news-teller, name of Strynises. Sells news to the highest bidder before making it public. Satire a speciality. "

  Before he could explain more, they were distracted by the shouts of sailors to enquiring dockworkers as to why Kimon, who had set off at double-pace at the head of his troops towards the city, was in such a hurry.

  "Rushing to get his version to the magistrates before rumour gets in before him. He’s worried this time. "

  It seemed that the Spartans, having originally invited Athens to send troops to help them put down a revolt of their serfs, had become scared by the radical changes in Athens, and asked Kimon, who had always been a friend of Sparta, to leave and take his elite hoplites with him. It sounded as though talk among the rowers to the effect that they should be supporting the revolt rather than suppressing it may have had something to do with it. And the man who said it laughed and winked and was cheered by his fellow rowers.

  The citizens will find that rejection humiliating if not an outright insult, thought Sindron, as he checked again that they had everything with them.

  Lysanias wanted to ask Sindron what was going on here, what these reforms could be that they caused so much fear and anger, how Athenian rowers, who were also citizen-soldiers, could work against their leader and presumably the policy of their city. He wanted to but he wasn’t prepared to give the old bore an opportunity for another lecture. Time to replace the slave with one who would treat him like a master, not a pupil, he thought to himself semi-seriously as they disembarked.

  On the quay, their captain was informing the news-teller that the big raid on Eion had been less disastrous than at first appeared though the colony had lost a lot of people. Lysanias was shocked to realise that the brief phrase included his father killed or captured but anyway lost to him.

  "That’s news,” replied Strynises. “Last we heard they were almost wiped out." Lysanias hoped there hadn’t been another raid and that his family were all right.

  ***

  Philia pushed the shuttle through the loom with force, worked the loom and pushed the shuttle back. She was still angry. Klereides hadn’t come back, hadn’t talked with Makaria. He never kept his promises!

  She had used all her wiles the previous night when, after his dinner party, Curly – what a nickname for a balding man! – had paid one of his infrequent visits to her bed. Finally, despite all his flattering and smooth-talk, she had wrung from him a promise that he would speak to his mother Makaria about allowing Philia to share in the running of the household as a young wife should, even if she was very young.

  Then, just as she was about to reward him with the sex she herself so desperately wanted in the hope of providing him with an heir, the slave-boy had knocked at the door with that message and Klereides had left her bed and gone out and hadn’t come back. So much for his promises!

  So here she was at the same old routine, working in the weaving room with Nubis her personal slave and the two other slave-girls, while Makaria rattled on with the same old stories, the same old moans about her sons and her dead husband and how they had let her down, especially Klereides for going into business and darkening the family’s name, over-spending like his father. This morning though she seemed strangely agitated, pausing from her sewing and looking towards the door, as though expecting something.

  “Philia, you’re slowing down! No day-dreaming!” came the old crow’s voice. “Pay attention to your work!”

  Philia swore a mild curse as she pricked her finger and realised she would have to undo her work and start again. She would make Klereides suffer when she saw him again.

  Suddenly there was a loud banging at the front door. "Mistress, mistress, come quickly,” the steward’s voice called. As the black shape swayed out, Philia fumed at the thought that it was she who should be called "mistress" here.

  Then Philia heard Makaria scream and knew something very bad had happened.

  CHAPTER 2

  "That's it, master, at the top of this rise. You won't remember but that's your uncle's house." Sindron plodded along beside the donkey cart with their luggage.

  "Yes I do, yes I do!" shouted Lysanias, running ahead, as old Sindron puffed and panted after him. "There's a lion's head doorknocker."

  "Everyone has a lion's head doorknocker," Sindron shouted after him, wishing he had young muscles again.

  Lysanias was delighted that his early memories did include that stern frontage with no ground-floor windows and only small casements on the first floor. And blue, he remembered the colour blue.

  Sindron felt re-assured too. He knew that the family had intended to rebuild the house the way it was before the invasion, but, even here in the wealthy part of the Inner Kerameikos district, he'd seen houses that only now were being rebuilt to full size and other sites still in ruins. However, compared to the district of Koile they had passed, where people were still living in hovels, this was the land of the gods. Here at least the streets were obviously swept every morning and the household dung collected and taken away. He was pleased to be back, even if his leg was throbbing from the journey and the effort to minimise the impulse to limp.

  He wondered what sort of woman the widow Makaria had turned into; she had been tough enough when her husband was still alive, rejecting her younger son’s marriage and causing his drastic decision to leave the city.

  Lysanias smiled as he imagined how they would welcome him after all these years.

  Then, as he looked ahead, he could see that the front door was open. That shouldn't be. Visitors
always had to knock on the lion's head knocker. Except when... and he saw that the Hermes beside the door, the bust of the god that protects every Athenian house, was draped with black ribbons, and, yes, there on the other side was the vase of water for mourners to purify themselves on leaving.

  And the keening and wailing from inside. How had he missed that? A death in the family! Maybe it was his grandmother; she was the oldest.

  He stopped in his tracks, his eager smile fading, as he waited for Sindron and the cart to catch up to discuss what they should do. It struck him that he'd never really had to make a decision without Sindron or his parents there to consult and advise. His panic faded as the reliable old retainer drew closer.

  Sindron took over. He roused the porter without causing disturbance. The wrinkled and stooped figure shuffled out, looked closely at them both with his aging short-sighted eyes and grinned broadly in welcome, showing his brown and rotting teeth. He remembered them both, even Lysanias as a very young boy.

  "Sindron, welcome! But you’ve come at a sad time for the household." The old man briefly grasped Sindron’s wrist and looked into his face to be sure who it was, then looked closely at Lysanias. "Would this be young Lysanias? Scrawny whelp he was. Used to pull my old dog's tail till the poor beast yelped. What's he dressed like this for, eh? In a play, is it?"

  Lysanias suddenly became very self-aware and wished he had taken Sindron’s advice to have a bath and change into full cloak and tunic instead of insisting on coming straight here as he was, in his workman's tunic.

  Through the big wooden doors, Lysanias could make out a body lying on a funeral couch, feet towards the door, and keening mourners around it. The wailing went on ceaselessly.

  "You'll not be welcome to them inside," the porter whispered, startling Lysanias. "Come in, but wait here while I let people know." He gestured to the carter to show him where to unload their luggage and Sindron paid. Had Lysanias heard right? Why wouldn't he be welcome?