by Roger Hudson
As he stood aside, other family members followed with the items that were to be buried with Klereides. Philia swayed as she came in, looking ready to faint, but instead, she threw herself on the casket. "No, I won't let him go," she cried. "I want to go with him!" She sobbed uncontrollably and Lysanias took her shoulders, gently but firmly, and lifted her up, feeling her cold and shivering flesh below the mourning cloak she was wearing.
Then she went limp and fell against him, and he was forced to put his arms round her and hold her to him to prevent her falling. He found it pleasant, but he glanced up and Makaria was standing in the entranceway, effectively stopping anyone else seeing Philia's behaviour. Reacting to the stern stance of the bulky black figure, he gently pushed Philia away from him to stand on her own. "Are you feeling better now?" he whispered. A barely audible, "Yes, I think so," was all that came back.
Relatives and guests came in briefly, laying down their grave gifts, usually an oil flask or, in some cases, a pottery or carved statuette representing their own kinship or friendship. The more people in this world who remember the deceased, he recalled, the more respect they would receive in the afterlife.
Hermon was one of the last to enter. He made a sign across his chest that Lysanias didn't recognise and laid down a statuette of a bull with a small medallion round its neck. Lysanias was puzzled. What god, what religion did that represent? Not one he had come across.
As Lysanias emerged from the tomb, first light streaked across the sky. The rattle of a cart drew near and stopped. As the carter jumped down, Lysanias’ cousins took up post beside the cart, looking rather smug. The carter pulled away a covering and there stood a carved panel, sized to fit the end of the tomb, depicting Klereides at the Battle of Plataea. Lysanias wondered how they got a sculptor to create that in time. It must be a standard design with the face added to suit. That didn’t sound very flattering to the deceased. Unless maybe they had expected Klereides to die? The thought surprised him, and Lysanias dismissed it as ungentlemanly.
The return journey was a blur, though it seemed strange walking back through the city in the daylight of early morning, with farmers and market gardeners taking their produce in to the market. Lysanias' responsibilities weighed heavier than ever on his young shoulders, despite the more lively tunes played by the flute-players, intended to ease the departed's spirit across the River Styx and into Hades. But Lysanias knew Klereides' soul would not be able to cross and find rest until the man responsible for his uncle's murder had been brought to justice.
His thoughts drifted to his father and he realised sadly that, if his own father really was dead, his lonely soul could be wandering lost unable to reach the underworld for want of proper burial and funeral rites for which there had been no opportunity. But today was about Kleriedes. He would look to appease his father and the gods when this was settled.
***
To cater for so many guests, stools and couches had been lined up along the wall, where the family and principal guests would sit with the tables of food placed in front of them. Other guests would have to stand, helping themselves to food and drink from tables or from trays brought round by slaves. Otanes had tactfully concealed Klereides’ lurid wall decorations with plainer and more tasteful hangings at Sindron’s suggestion.
Having helped with the preparations, Sindron was to assist with ushering people in and with seeing that food kept coming and that goblets were filled. He would have liked to see Klereides off. He had quite liked him as a lad, though he was not at all sure he would have liked the man. Lysanias’ father now, Sindron did feel that loss. Leokhares had been more than a good master. But slaves have their duties
Once the family were seated, and the cooked food placed in front of them, that strange ritual started. The close relations had fasted since Klereides' death. Now the guests selected tasty morsels and set about persuading them to eat something.
"Let the remains of your beloved son," they would say to Makaria, "rest in peace – your duty now is to live and look after the family. Please eat a morsel."
"You're exhausting yourself with all this grieving," they said to Philia or to Lysanias. "Please eat some food to give you enough strength to keep on with your mourning."
The statements had an oft-repeated, ritual quality, but seemed strangely unnecessary, when Lysanias was so hungry he felt he could eat a whole goat himself. However, he knew that they were expected to refuse with expressions of their deep grief, and only gradually let themselves be persuaded, so he did what was expected, glancing at Makaria to see when to accept.
As soon as they did start eating, the quiet and reserve of all present vanished and conversations started noisily all round, the flute-players played livelier tunes, slaves dashed hither and yon filling goblets from the mixing bowls where wine and water were blended, bearing extra dishes to the tables as soon as those already there were emptied.
As Makaria leaned forward to help herself to a morsel of spiced swordfish, Lysanias glanced across at Philia who had thrown back her veil now in order to eat and drink. She was more beautiful than he had expected, but she looked so pale and drawn from crying that Lysanias felt sorry for her. An urge grew to take her in his arms for a cuddle, as he did with his little sister Ariadne when she fell and hurt herself. Clearly that would not be correct now.
Philia seemed to sense his look and turned. Before he could glance away, her eyes caught his and she gave a wan smile that he returned, trying to look reassuring. Philia blushed and the rush of colour to her cheeks made her look even more beautiful, he thought, and he tore his gaze away as propriety demanded. For the next few minutes, he kept his head bowed over his food, in case Makaria might suspect this impropriety behind her back. Those dark trusting eyes framed by long black lashes stuck in his mind.
The chef had done wonders with the goat that Lysanias had sacrificed only a few hours before, but his favourite was the spiced swordfish cooked the Carian way.
Was it the ginger that left that pleasant tang in his mouth, or another spice he hadn’t encountered before, one that his parents wouldn’t have been able to afford or that would have been out of place in the much simpler living style of Eion? Strangely, drinking seemed to cool the hot sensation in the mouth, but didn't quench it. Sindron had advised him to sip the wine but a mouthful seemed to be necessary. Maybe just one more…
***
Sindron was amazed at the number of people present, presumably all friends or business acquaintances of Klereides.
When Klereides’ father had died, Sindron recalled, Klereides looked set to fit straight into his shoes. With no great intellect and no strong opinions of his own, he seemed content to seek a comfortable life bowing to his mother's strong will. If Klereides had died in those years, Sindron was sure, hardly anyone in Athens would have noticed. Yet here were many figures from Athens' political, social, sporting and artistic life. All because Klereides had accepted the role of patron of one of the most able foreign resident businessmen and become rich in the process. It must be the money that brought most of these people here.
Sindron recalled that he had advised Lysanias that they should keep their ears open. When would they have a better opportunity than this? It was precisely why they had decided against Lysanias carrying a spear in the funeral procession to announce that he intended to avenge Klereides – that would have put everyone on their guard. Yet he found his efforts to listen repeatedly frustrated by the need to react to some guest's gesture, or to call for more of this or more of that by summoning a slave to serve them
Most of what he did overhear was individuals boasting about their own achievements or prowess. The usual chatter of people out to impress one another.
Of course, being a funeral feast, people were duty bound to praise the deceased to each fresh person they spoke to. Early on, these were the usual formal platitudes.
"Fine fellow, great loss to the city, so much to live for."
"Ah, that's fate. Will of the gods."
; As the wine flowed and the noise level rose, people relaxed. Comments became more honest, despite the law against speaking ill of the dead.
"Hubris, my friend. Getting too big for his riding boots. No wonder the gods struck him down."
"Strictly between you and me, quite a few people are pleased he's out of the way."
And another group.
"Never really felt I could trust him but he treated me well enough ...”
"Me too, don't know where I'll turn for those sort of commissions, if his heir doesn't come through."
"Odd tastes, though. Can't say I'd have chosen those subjects myself. "
"Don't you find it humiliating having to ingratiate yourself with some colonial teenager?"
"At least you're always sure the wine will be good in this house. Steward! More of that mulled wine here!"
Sindron glanced across at the main table. There were the country cousins, as he thought of them, deep in conversation with the General, and Lysanias not even trying to overhear. He was too occupied with eating and trying to be nice to his grandmother. Oh, well, perhaps that could pay off too! Sindron only hoped Lysanias would stick to his advice to drink sparingly and make sure his wine was well watered.
***
Turning his head, Lysanias caught the words 'Ephialtes' and 'scoundrel' from his right. When Hierokles reached across to a dish in front of Lysanias, he took the opportunity to ask, delicately. "What's so awful about this man Ephialtes, Uncle?"
Hierokles spluttered, swallowed the wrong way, and coughed to right himself. His face was red, his eyes bulging and a prominent vein pulsed in his temple.
"That scoundrel! Has no-one told you how he hounded me?"
Lysanias' surprised and horrified expression told him the answer. Then things connected in Lysanias' head. The barber's shop. The name Hierokles. Someone nearly bankrupted until Kimon came to his rescue. It must be this Hierokles.
"Are you a member of the Areopagos?"
"Of course, I am ... was. Held several magistracies in my time." There was an element of preening as he said it. "Not any more. Disqualified. And all because that scoundrel claimed in the Assembly that, when I was responsible for street cleaning and dung collection, I'd neglected the poor districts. Everyone neglects the poor districts! No-one from outside is safe in them."
Lysanias wondered if that was the area he had run from.
"Nearly lost our lands, because of that man," burst in Boiotos, half-rising from his seat and leaning towards Lysanias, as though he was accusing Lysanias of complicity.
He was interrupted by the beating of a loud gong as Otanes signalled that it was time for the speeches in praise of Klereides, the main purpose of this, the very last and final banquet at which he was the absent and departed but very generous host. The chatter stopped. Guests crowded in from the other rooms, ushered in by Otanes and Sindron.
General Ariston, as guest of honour, gave the principal eulogy. It was the string of meaningless platitudes that Lysanias would have expected from the General, but somehow so many platitudes piled on top of one another, all praising what one would think had been the noblest Athenian of them all, made one think there must be some substance behind them.
Lysanias was grateful that his was a formal ritual speech that Makaria and Sindron had drilled into him the previous evening. He stumbled once and Hierokles beside him whispered the right word. The man really did remind him of his father. He got through it and everyone applauded. He blushed bright red.
Then Otanes and Sindron together persuaded the guests to move, revealing the table against the far wall. The fabric-covered items on it, Lysanias knew, were a few of Klereides' commissions, which had reached completion in recent days.
A silversmith stepped forward, introduced himself, and pulled away a cloth, revealing a wine-mixing bowl in gold and silver, depicting exploits of Theseos. It was intended as an offering to the Temple of Theseos, he said. Another master craftsman passed around a delightfully engraved lady's hand-mirror with silver handle and mount. Philia couldn't stop herself clapping her hands together when she saw it, assuming it must be for her. She wept a tear at the thought of Klereides giving her nice things even in death, then recalled that this, too, could be intended for a temple. Or, even worse, for another woman! No, mustn't think ill of the dead. Under her breath, she muttered a brief prayer for forgiveness.
Lysanias recognised the silversmith as a well-wisher but the flamboyant personage who next stepped forward he would certainly have remembered, if he had seen him before. In a bright orange cloak, and with silver vine leaves in his henna-stained hair, he offered a startling contrast with the sober citizens around him.
The colourful man seemed to assume everyone must know his name, and simply stated, "For the new Temple of Hephaistos". That alone drew a shocked intake of breath from the watching guests, which changed to a loud gasp as he pulled away the cloth, from what was clearly a sizeable piece of work, to reveal a carved relief wall panel.
It showed a group of blacksmiths beating out a sheet of bronze, their mighty hammers raised over their heads to strike the next blow, their tunics dropped to the waist to reveal bulging muscles. It could have been a scene from any forge in Athens, Sindron realised, the figures looked so lifelike. Where was the stylisation that sculpture was normally expected to show, the simplification and idealisation, the smooth flowing lines? These were angular, abrupt, like real life.
Despite his own strong liking for the traditional style, Sindron found himself excited by the sheer vitality of the piece. And where was the god? There was always a god or hero, yet this sculptor had made no attempt to include the god Hephaistos. That really was a revolutionary departure! Sindron wondered if it was also sacrilege.
Immediately there was a babble of agitated conversation. The silversmith started arguing with the sculptor that he had abandoned all the principles that had made Athenian art respected throughout the Greek world. The sculptor's voice bellowed that the old tired styles must give way to the young and dynamic forces of the new society that was being born. He seemed delighted with the commotion he had caused, a broad smile on his face, his eyes shining.
Other guests jostled forward to look more closely at the sculpture, as though in disbelief. Lysanias found himself penned in behind the table, unable to do anything to quieten a situation he didn't really understand. Philia was staring in wide-eyed wonder. Makaria looked straight ahead with what could have been a satisfied half-smile on her lips.
Sindron saw Ariston, Hierokles and Phraston consult briefly, then Ariston stepped forward to the table and placed the cloth back over the relief panel. Boiotos shouldered his way through the group disputing with the sculptor, pushed him angrily and seemed about to punch him. Ariston reached out an arm to hold Boiotos back, took the young sculptor firmly by the elbow, and with a look that could have spat flames, steered him towards the door.
The sculptor had expected to surprise people but he clearly hadn't expected to be manhandled. As others surged behind Ariston, enforcing the push towards the door, the silver-wreathed head shouted back, "You reject us now, but our time will come. This is the art of tomorrow. All triumph to Hephaistos."
Listening to ordinary citizens near him, Sindron rapidly realised it wasn't the style that had disturbed most of them but the fact that Klereides should have commissioned such a major work for the Temple of Hephaistos, the religious centre of the workers and radicals. It undermined the whole basis of their friendship with him.
Then the gong sounded again, struck, Sindron saw, by Otanes, aiming to pull things back onto a normal footing. That man really is a very good steward, he thought. And manipulator! The animated chatter tailed off as Otanes helped a dignified figure step up onto something that raised him visible to all, a lyre in his elegant, long-fingered hands.
The praise-singer made lyrical poetry of Klereides’ war service in various campaigns, his part in helping Kimon recover the giant remains of Theseos, the clear-flowing water that graced h
is magistracy in charge of the public fountains, and his sponsorship triumphs in a number of games and song contests. However, it was the statue of Poseidon that he had donated to adorn the Temple of Theseos that rang strangest to many ears in light of the new sculpture for Hephaistos they had just seen.
The thought came to Lysanias that the praise clashed fiercely with all the hints that kept reaching him about his uncle's real character and other citizens' actual attitude to him. Suddenly it all turned sour, as Lysanias realised that, in Athens, if one had enough money, one could buy anything. Even praise. Even honour. It is Klereides' money we are honouring, he thought bitterly, not Klereides. And even the money was earned by Hermon not Klereides himself.
It made it very difficult to smile politely when Ariston brought over the praise-singer and introduced him, though he knew that the man, whom he recognised as the dignified-looking man on the ship, was merely doing his job.
***
Philia started to cry. The song was beautiful but, suddenly, it all seemed so final, for her as well as for poor Curly. She thought of dropping her veil to hide her tears but realised that widows were expected to cry and she wanted to be seen to do her duty.
She had never seen so many men together in one place and found that Lysanias compared well with the other young men, even the athletes with their glistening muscles. Even some of the mature men such as the General were much trimmer and slimmer than her Klereides. Now why couldn’t… Oh! Stop it, Philia! Have more respect for the dead! Sorry, Demeter, I'll pour a libation tomorrow...
***
"…I'm saying he did. He deliberately sabotaged my negotiations. Snapped the contract from under my nose. Bribery, I shouldn't be sur... Ah, here's Ariston now. Hello General, fine send off for Klereides."
