by Roger Hudson
In the quiet, he could just hear Ephialtes explaining to a smallholder up from the country.
"No," he emphasised calmly. "The rich won't have as much say. The Areopagos won't make the laws any more. The Assembly will – all the citizens."
His voice, slightly harsh and husky, not altogether pleasant on the ear but compelling, rose above the words of Perikles to a citizen-worker. "No, taxes won't go up. There's more than enough from taxes on trade and foreign residents. And we've the tribute money from the allies to fall back on."
As the pause held, both men glanced round momentarily. Their eyes met those of Kimon, oh so briefly, then looked back to their task. They had the power now! Lysanias could smell it. So could the crowd.
As Kimon and his bodyguard turned to march away, the silence broke. A group of workers cheered, while some young aristocrats hissed. One grabbed an egg from a street-vendor's basket and went to hurl it at Ephialtes. Others bent to pick up stones. A swift signal and a low whistle from Perikles and a mixed crowd of workers and stall-holders moved into a defensive ring round the two leaders, a sort of unofficial people's guard under Perikles' command, Lysanias guessed. One dashed forward. Great gods, it was Stephanos, the young stonemason from the ship. He grabbed the arm that held the egg, throwing its owner to the ground. The egg fell, broke and seeped into the dust.
They punched and grappled, as clouds of dust rose around them. A major fight seemed about to happen, with the wealthy youths far outnumbered it seemed.
Suddenly Ephialtes broke through the defensive ring and, with no regard for his own safety, stepped into the fray, the experienced public speaker booming out, "This won't do! Democracy means all views can be heard! We don't need violence to prove our point, not any more!"
The fighters paused, awed, and Ephialtes pulled them apart. But the threat was still there, the tension still in the air, the urge to fight it out. Ephialtes glanced across at Kimon. Was this a plea for peace, a truce?
The bodyguard and Kimon had stopped and turned at the first disturbance. The Scythian archers standing guard on official doorways had unslung their bows in case of real trouble, and one of them had blown a short blast on a small flute-like instrument to summon assistance. Kimon stepped forward. "Enough now, citizens! We'll fight them in the right place! In the Assembly!"
Bloody-nosed and covered in dust, the two contenders drew apart and the young bloods backed off, as members of the protective ring inconspicuously placed themselves between them and Ephialtes. Lysanias glanced at Perikles in time to catch a slight nod of approval. He looked every inch the military commander, even in civilian clothes. Ephialtes walked back and, though Perikles seemed to be congratulating him, there were signs of anger on Ephialtes' face, as though heated words were being exchanged.
But only for an instant. Then they were the calm leaders of the people once again, offering explanations of the reforms to anyone who asked. It was as though everyone was trying to pretend a near-riot hadn't actually happened.
When Lysanias looked behind him, Kimon and his bodyguard had gone. Ariston stood, for a moment, regarding the scene, then, with an arm gesture, turned and, as he stepped out in the direction Kimon had gone, a number of well-dressed men fell into step behind him. Lysanias thought he recognised the cloaks and general appearance of two of the men he had overheard in the barber's. They marched off in step, and took up a marching chant, probably a regimental song, that sounded like a bravado challenge to the workers and radicals. Through the crowd, Sindron thought he saw Phraston edging his way in the direction they had gone.
The street-vendors started crying their wares again and life returned to something like normal. For the first time, as Sindron’s grip relaxed, Lysanias realised that Sindron had grasped his upper arm, presumably to stop him getting involved in the fight.
"Decided which side you're on yet then, junior new citizen?"
A rough hand clapped Lysanias hard on the shoulder. He spun round and grasped the wrist, as the training instructor in Eion had taught. And it was Stephanos standing there, laughing. "Good grip, youngster," he said, somehow twisting and jerking his arm to break Lysanias' hold. "Could have been a good fight, eh?" as he wiped blood still trickling from his nose with the back of his hand. "But we'll show them when the time comes!"
He looked Lysanias up and down. "You trying to look like one of them, then, and smell like them?" His nose wrinkled in disdain.
"No, just getting smartened up, got a wealthy uncle, just die ... " Lysanias started to reply, but Stephanos shrugged.
"Never mind, citizen. Your hands say where your loyalties lie and those are worker's hands." Lysanias felt relief that he wouldn't have to explain, not now anyway, especially as he couldn't be at all certain himself where his loyalties did lie. Then, as Stephanos was about to turn away, Lysanias caught a glint of sunlight on metal just behind him, a knife in the hand of a well-dressed but dusty young man.
Without time to think, Lysanias grabbed Sindron’s staff, the only thing that could reach far enough in time, twirled it and thumped it down hard on the young man's wrist. The dagger dropped and a sharp cry was rapidly suppressed, as the man ran off and was lost among the crowd. Thank the gods that, with the shortage of spears in Eion, they had trained and practiced with staves and wielding them. He stood, holding the staff firmly, excited, eager for more.
Stephanos' eyes widened at sight of the dagger, realising what had just happened. "They are getting desperate! I owe you one, citizen! Thanks. See you in the hiring line, eh?" He darted away to join his colleagues, leaving Lysanias aware how little it could take to ignite the tensions into all out civil war.
"Master, everyone's looking at us," Sindron hissed, and took back the staff, secretly glad it had proved useful. "We were supposed to be trying to be inconspicuous!" Sindron was frightened now, but tried not to show it.
One glance told Lysanias the old man was right. These were furtive looks that people were giving him, confused that a wealthy-looking young man, with short hair in the latest style, should side with an active supporter of the radicals. However, once Lysanias and Sindron had gone a few steps among the dispersing crowd, and passed the statues of the ten tribal heroes, they were as anonymous as ever.
"We must be getting back to the house now," Sindron said, like a parent. "I'll check up tomorrow on whether they can put off your military call-up for a while. By the way, I heard that news-teller again on the way to meet you. He seemed to be referring to Klereides."
"If he was as nasty about uncle as he was about Kimon, I'll want a reckoning when I see him."
"Referred to a crushing force from above, implying the gods or someone helping the gods, ending the life of a greedy rat. Suggesting that all who could should go to the funeral feast as the last chance to get back some of the funds the deceased had won for himself out of state coffers."
"I'll definitely have to have words with him," gritted Lysanias, missing Sindron’s point that this might be another view of Klereides' character they should pay attention to. Sindron decided not to pursue it.
On the way back through Inner Keramikos, they heard a crier making an announcement. Windows and doors opened as he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. "Hai, hai, hai." A special Assembly meeting had been called for the next day. All citizens were summoned to attend.
So Kimon had failed to achieve the date he wanted to be sure his troops would be back in time.
***
"Just what do we know for sure, Sindron? So much is happening. I don't know what to think."
Lysanias felt thoroughly confused, as well as hungry, and increasingly depressed. After he had slipped in by the secret door, a somewhat rushed expedition to the bathroom had done something to justify Lysanias clean and sweetly-smelling state and restore his hair to something like the spikey look it had earlier. He had made a libation at the family shrine to appease the gods for the sacrilege he had committed earlier and sat by his uncle's body for a while. This restored his anger and desire
to find the culprit but did nothing to ease the confusion.
Then he and Sindron had sat down together in Lysanias' room with the door tight shut and told one another all they had heard in the city. Well, nearly all. Lysanias didn't mention his terrified run from the slums. Sindron still didn't mention the cargo loan. He now felt silly to have allowed himself to be talked into it. He would go into town tomorrow and sort it out, and maybe see Otanes about a supply of spending money, just in case.
"Don't despair, master. Several people seem to feel that this wasn't a straightforward accident, so we could be right in our suspicions. We've organised you a dispensation, so we can do some investigating."
"Only every fourth day!"
"Well, that's more than we thought we'd have."
"But who are we investigating?"
"Hermon, of course!"
“Why? I get the impression quite a few people didn't like Klereides very much."
Sindron stopped himself sighing as though this was obvious, but couldn't stop his eyes saying it. "Lets list the points. One – Hermon controls the shipyard where it happened, so he is in a position to plan it and to pay someone to set it up. Two – He sent the message telling Klereides where to go ...”
"We don't know that!" Lysanias interrupted.
"No, but it's not likely that Klereides would have gone there before dawn on a request from anyone else. It has to be an insider and a close one. Who closer than his business partner?"
Lysanias forgot his hunger, as what Sindron was saying started to bring order to the confusion. "But why? Why would he?”
"Remember those foreign merchants you talked to on the ship? I’m sure one of them mentioned Hermon of Syracuse as an example of a foreigner who had been exploited massively by his patron. That has to be him, so Hermon could have a good reason for wanting Klereides out of the way."
"That's three, yes?”
"Yes. Motive. And, four, he arranged to be out of town to provide an alibi. That's suspicious in itself."
"What about the Fellowship of Hephaistos? Couldn't they have done it?"
"Come now, Lysanias! The workers might slow the work down a bit to show their power, but you don't kill your employer! It could close the firm down and everyone would lose their job, quite apart from how the god Hephaistos would feel about something like that done in his name. No, I think that was just gossip. It has to be Hermon."
"But we haven't even met him and how do we prove it? His alibi may be watertight." Lysanias felt like giving up on the whole thing, but Sindron was firm.
"We must take the first opportunity to ask him questions and check out where it happened and how. There may be clues there. Tomorrow I'll see what people in the household know. Meanwhile, you'll have a heavy day, seeing well-wishers, and the funeral the day after. Time for sleep."
Suddenly Lysanias realised just how tired he did feel. He couldn't even produce a retort to the patronising, paternal and over-familiar tone in Sindron’s voice. The old man meant well.
***
Lysanias fell asleep immediately from sheer exhaustion, but he woke when the house was quiet and he tossed and turned.
Everything had seemed so straightforward. His parents and Sindron had told him the way it would be. Between eighteen and twenty, he would do military training and service. Sow a few wild oats maybe. During his twenties, as a full citizen, he would learn uncle's business, go to war with the army when needed, maybe become an officer. About thirty, get married, set about raising sons, get involved in politics, sponsor a drama or an athlete. Later on, maybe stand for public office, spend more time with the philosophers and historians in the shady groves of the Academeia.
So it went, all mapped out.
Now it was all going wrong! Sweet Apollo, what's happening to me?
Or maybe Apollo wasn't the god he should be calling to. Demeter, goddess of death and fertility, maybe? No, a god who likes a joke, a sick joke. Bacchos maybe. No, not Bacchos, not important enough. Dionysos, he's the one! He always thought it was funny to screw up people's lives. No. I didn't mean that, gods! I'll make an offering to Dionysos tomorrow.
Or maybe I'll wake up and it will all be a bad dream.
Finally he slept, but his sleep was disturbed by the recurring nightmare he had had since it happened. The two Scythian horsemen racing from the trees on flame red stallions to attack his father and himself as they peacefully herded their sheep and goats back into the city. Himself stabbing and stabbing at the one he had unhorsed. His father galloping after the other and the goat he had snatched up.
"Don't go, father!" Don't go!" With a jerk, Lysanias woke in a sweat and in tears. For he knew it was real. His father was gone, ridden out of his life forever. But he wouldn't allow himself to believe Leochares was dead. Then his more immediate worries flooded back, pushing even that aside.
CHAPTER 5
The next day, mourning requirements and receiving well-wishers tied Lysanias to the house. Still, that was an important place to start building up a picture of what had led to Klereides' death and what members of the household knew. He had to stay alert despite his restless sleep. Sindron was tired too, not just from the sea journey and the events of yesterday but because he had forced himself to get up early to recall what he could of the layout of the house, speculate on the duties of its personnel and think through what he might be called on to do now.
Before anyone arrived, he and Lysanias sat down with Otanes for a formal talk. Otanes had outlined the plans for the funeral and the feast afterwards, and it became clear that he was still very much taking instructions from Makaria. Lysanias was pleased it was all in hand, and Sindron advised that the way Otanes was organising it would not let the family honour down. They did feel surprised at the number of guests invited, the amount of food being prepared, but Makaria and Otanes must know what was right.
Otanes had been none too pleased when Lysanias told him that he wanted Sindron to have a roving brief to examine anything in the house and to talk to all the other slaves, including Otanes, about the circumstances preceding their master’s death.
He queried the necessity, claiming that he could inform Lysanias on everything relating to the household. Lysanias stayed firm and Otanes asked, "Is master suggesting that my running of the household is in some way dishonest?"
"No, no, not at all."
"Then could I ask the master, what my status will be in the future?"
Lysanias was firm.
"Otanes, please don't take offence. We are both impressed with the way you have organised everything so rapidly." Otanes had bridled a little at this. Was it the 'both', the thought of being judged by a fellow slave, or was it the 'rapidly'? Sindron couldn't be sure.
"I'm sure I will wish to keep you in the post of steward, if you do such an excellent job normally. And all the signs are that you do."
Tactfully put, thought Sindron, the boy was learning. Lysanias ventured a smile and Otanes visibly relaxed a little.
"However, I am new to Athens, to this household, to my new responsibilities. I am tied up in funeral duties.” He had explained to Makaria and Otanes that he had obtained a partial dispensation from mourning – ‘to pursue administrative matters’, he had put it – but had avoided being more specific. “I need someone who can report to me on the many things I need to know."
"I can do that, master.".
"Ah yes, but Sindron is a trusted personal adviser.”
"Is this something to do with the old master's death? " Otanes asked suddenly, but Lysanias continued, “He knows the questions I would wish to ask."
"But, master, everyone is very busy with the preparations. No-one has been alerted to this."
"Precisely. Now please see that he has every co-operation."
Otanes obviously didn't like it but he must know he had no choice. He must also realise that Lysanias had avoided answering his question about suspicions surrounding Klereides' death.
***
Philia's throat was sore with
all the wailing. She decided to ease off and started going through the motions only. Let the professional mourners do the hard work - it's what they were paid for!
It was becoming boring, but it was better than working in the weaving room. She was still one of the centres of interest. The stream of well-wishers all gestured in her direction, but why couldn't she receive the visitors? That young man, Lysanias, he sat in the entertaining room and only appeared at intervals to honour her husband and make a libation to Zeus. That gave her very little opportunity to study what he looked like, though she definitely preferred him with long hair.
For important visitors, her mother-in-law would withdraw from the bier and receive their commiserations along with Lysanias. It really wasn't fair! However, Makaria insisted the widow had to stay by the body or the gods would be offended, so she held her place.
Philia hadn't slept well. She was angry with herself that she hadn't somehow kept Curly from going out that night and that she hadn’t managed to get pregnant and give him an heir. Then she wouldn't have to marry this youngster from the colonies. All the young wives had mature husbands; everyone would look down on her. But then, he was a lot better-looking than Klereides, even if Klereides did have his nice side.
No, she shouldn't be thinking like this! She was mourning a husband. Guilt prompted her to rejoin the keening and wailing with full force.
***
So many loose ends, thought Lysanias, and here he was cooped up in a house of mourning, while whoever had murdered his uncle covered their tracks. How would this stand with the gods, that he was failing to avenge his uncle? Yet maybe there were clues here to the villains; maybe some of these well-wishers had something to hide.
In the event, most of the well-wishers were quite transparent. They were worried that their source of sponsorship had been cut off and wanted to make sure the heir knew what promises they had received, what they were owed. An athlete, a wrestler, two poets, a sculptor, a silversmith, two potters...he started to lose track. As a craftsman himself, Lysanias understood the importance of being paid for work you have done, and could sympathise. He tried to give them reassurance without promises. After all, he didn't yet know how much money there was in the estate.
