by Roger Hudson
***
After all the excitement, Philia felt flat. She was still in mourning but the funeral was over, so what was going to happen now? Was it back to normal? More slaving for that old Makaria?
She went down to the workroom late. That was one test. Makaria hadn't sent a slave to call her, as she normally did. All the slave girls were in place and working in silence. Makaria was in her chair but not working, due to mourning. Philia stood by the door watching. She could sense Makaria looking at her from the corner of her eye, waiting to see if she would sit at the loom. She didn't. This was the second test. Would it work?
"Ah, my dear," said Makaria suddenly, as though just realising Philia was there. "We must start you on your other household duties. If you'll just come through to the kitchen with me ..." Philia didn't hear the rest for the beating of her heart at the surge of excitement that told her she had won at least this small victory. She heard Nubis stifle a giggle, and felt re-assured that at least one person in this house was on her side.
***
"I believe it was along here ...”
Hermon was urging them along the walkway. Lysanias was fascinated. The activity they had passed was incredible, and he had wanted to stop longer and look. The sea breezes had finally cleared his headache, so he could handle the noise. It seemed deafening, with so many people hammering and sawing at once, and vessels of different sizes at different stages of construction and repair.
However, in the part of the yard they had now reached, all seemed quiet and deserted, though sounds still carried across. Now at deck level of the big ship beside them, two, maybe three times the height of a war-galley, as big as the merchant ship they had travelled on, they seemed a long way from the ground. It gave a magnificent view along the shipyards and out across the great harbour and all its comings and goings.
Sindron was unimpressed. He hated heights and the walkway shook, so he stayed near the uprights. Hermon had left his personal slave at the gatehouse but brought his messenger boy with him, who trotted along behind.
"This would be it, just here," announced Hermon. "See that big amphora up there." Hermon pointed upwards. In the ship they had travelled to Athens on, Lysanias had been fascinated by a similar earthenware amphora, holding the ship's drinking water, swinging in its great leather harness twined through loops sticking out around it. This one was supported only by a rope around the top and suddenly the thought of a giant vessel like that falling on Klereides made him feel slightly sick. He held his breath for a moment.
He asked, "Is it safe now?"
"That's not the one that fell," replied Hermon unnecessarily, as the slave-boy sat on the edge of the planking, swinging his legs. “We had to replace everything quickly. Now, as you've seen where it happened, perhaps we can clear the yard, so the inspectors aren't disturbed."
But Lysanias was on his knees examining the planking.
"What's the matter, master?"
Rising, Lysanias muttered to Sindron, "There are no bloodstains."
Despite his low tone, Hermon heard him. "Of course not," he almost shouted. Then, lowering his voice, "The boards have been changed. They were cracked and broken. Can't have too many people knowing where the death occurred, can we? Bad omen in a shipyard, death, especially by a new ship. Workers could refuse to work on it; the client could refuse to accept it. Fear of pollution, even though Philebos has done his best to purify it."
Lysanias was quietly fuming that he couldn't see how things had been after it happened. He understood Hermon’s worries, as the man looked nervously around, but Lysanias ignored him, as he tried to get a mental picture of how it might have happened, where his uncle would have had to be standing in view of the injuries he had seen. Sindron drew his attention to the religious symbol, the messenger's staff and serpents of Hermes, hung on one of the uprights to placate the gods but partly concealed by a hank of rope. Of course! Hermon had said the uprights hadn't been changed! Lysanias knelt to examine the nearest ones.
Just then they heard voices inside the hull, red-painted already, Lysanias had noticed, so that wouldn't show bloodstains anyway. The voices were muffled and boomy at first and then clear, as the speaker came out on deck. "As you see, we've gone to a higher standard than specified in the contract for the ..." The voice tailed off as the speaker saw them. "What are you people doing there?" An authoritative voice, annoyed.
Lysanias was still kneeling, examining the lower part of an upright, where someone had obviously tried to scrub away bloodstains and not completely succeeded. Sindron was leaning over him and Hermon standing by, all with their backs to the vessel. As they rose and turned, the voice said, "Oh, it's you Resident Hermon." Lysanias deduced this must be Philebos, the overseer of the shipyard. From his pose and neatly styled fair hair, the youngish man obviously thought highly of himself.
"Citizens, I think you may have met Hermon, joint owner of the shipyard."
"Ah, Resident Hermon, I've always dealt with Klereides but I've heard about you. Delighted to meet you. Amynias, city naval architect. This is Inaros, chief maritime inspector. And Bryaxis, our financial scrutineer. I must say, on a cursory examination, everything looks fine, just fine."
“Delighted to meet you," Hermon responded, over-effusive as ever. "Always pleased to meet an official of mighty Athens, the city that has been so hospitable to my meagre talents." The false modesty was sickening, and transparent, thought Lysanias, but the officials seemed impressed. Lysanias was standing now and Sindron had slipped behind him to be inconspicuous as a slave.
Hermon went on, "May I introduce my colleague, Lysanias son of Leokhares of Dekelia. He's Klereides' heir. I'm just showing him the scope of the business, you understand."
While Hermon spoke, Lysanias was aware of four pairs of eyes examining and memorising his face for future reference, but only after they had taken in the yellow band that tokened a dispensation from religious duties, and had registered how young he was. He felt like a nasty boil being examined by a doctor. Several doctors, he thought wryly.
"Ah, yes. Sad business." Amynias made the sign of condolence, but behind him the others made the sign to ward off ill-fortune from themselves. He turned to Philebos. "We must talk about safety standards, too, some time soon. Good record your yard up to now. Don't want to spoil it."
"Yes, of course," responded Philebos blandly. "Now, if we could just go to the offices, I can show your scrutineer the accounts and...”
Lysanias realised he was being ignored, as parents do with young children. But he was a partner here now. He felt he should say something, make his presence felt. "Just getting to know the business. All the things my uncle was involved in." Did he sense a slight stiffening as he said that? "Very complicated but it won't be long before I get to understand it. Anyway, I'm sure Hermon and Philebos will see you're looked after. They seem to have everything in hand."
He was surprised again at the ease with which he could slip into his new role. Then Lysanias noticed how red the faces of Hermon and Philebos had become, and the anger in Hermon’s eyes. Even the inspectors seemed put out at a mere youth talking to them like an equal. Then he remembered that in Athens, although one was a citizen at eighteen and obliged to fight in the army and could vote, one couldn't hold any public office and weren't expected even to speak in the Assembly until the age of thirty.
"Aaah, just so. Sorry to hear about your uncle. May Hermes give him a peaceful crossing." Amynias made the sign of condolence again. "Now we really must be moving on."
Lysanias felt himself becoming red and angry in his turn. After all, he was a citizen, Hermon only a foreign resident. Why should Hermon get more respect? But Sindron grasped his upper arm from behind to remind him to hold his patience, so he simply said, "Thank you. May Hephaistos look kindly on your endeavours."
It had come out automatically. Craftsmen said it to one another back home at critical stages of a job but, clearly, from their reaction, it wasn't appropriate to state dignitaries. They turned huffily
and hurried down the walkway, leaving their juniors and slaves measuring and checking the vessel and ticking off the outfitting accessories on long lists.
There was a long pause as they receded, and Lysanias could still hear the shipyard overseer explaining the steps he had taken to placate the gods and ensure they would bless the ship and sail with her. He really couldn’t share Hermon’s view of this arrogant and over-efficient man, who must be no more than thirty-five.
Hermon was angry. "I hope you're satisfied with yourself, young man! Did your father never tell you young men should be seen and not heard? You realise you have just offended the very people the shipyard depends on for its continued prosperity? I shall have to go and try to apologise for your immaturity."
Lysanias bristled. He couldn't allow Hermon to establish that sort of angry father relationship. If Lysanias was to be his patron, the man needed his protection not the other way round. But Sindron stepped in.
"I'm sure they will understand when you tell them that my master is new to Athens and has just suffered a terrible shock with the death of his uncle." Sindron kept finding himself looking on, as slaves are expected to do, but now there was the added fascination of watching the power games people in authority play. It was better than the theatre. He had never been so close to important matters before.
His intervention worked. Clearly Hermon respected his age and experience. "I realise that but this is a critical time for the business ...” the businessman started, but Sindron continued firmly. "Everyone trying not to talk about it and tidy up, as though it never happened, must seem very inconsiderate to his grief."
"Yes, of course, but you know how superstitious these Athenians are. And he keeps going on about it not being an accident and needing to investigate. That could mean a court case and bad publicity going on for ages. The business might never live it down."
An objectionable, whining, pleading tone had entered Hermon’s voice, but that didn't make it any better. Lysanias found his fists clenching, as he tried to suppress his rising anger. Now Hermon was talking to Sindron about him as though he didn't exist. He couldn't remain silent.
"You should have thought of that before, shouldn't you? Before you lured him down here to his death!" He hurled the words like throwing spears.
"What do you mean?" Hermon stiffened, furious, his face reddening. Hearing the angry voices, the slave-boy had sprung up and stood beside his master, as though ready to protect him or run for help. He looked from face to face, nervously.
"That message he had! It must have come from you," Lysanias challenged.
"That's enough, master! We don't know.” Sindron tried to intervene, to calm things. Hermon leant down and whispered in the slave-boy's ear and he scampered off along the walkway, his bare feet pattering enough to set it shaking again.
"You young upstart! How dare you accuse me? He was my partner. I was depending on him to bring in a big new state order. Why would I kill him?" There was no trace of pleading or smooth-talking now, but his face was sweating in the full morning sun and he didn't seem to know what to do with his hands.
"Ah, then you admit he could have been killed," Lysanias spat back.
"No, I don't! It was an accident! The rigger used an old rope, it just frayed through with the weight of the amphora, must have been rubbing in the breeze all night and it snapped. Philebos assured me."
"Where is this rope then? Why has everything been taken away and destroyed?" And Lysanias allowed his sheer frustration to show, the frustration, Sindron realised, of someone little more than a boy at the complexity of the situation he found himself in. It communicated to Hermon and he changed his tone.
"I'm sure it hasn't been destroyed. Philebos saw to the cleaning up and preparations for the inspection, the purification. He'll have had the relics placed under safe restraint somewhere to prevent further contamination, pending a decision by the court.” Lysanias didn’t understand all that and cast a pleading look at Sindron, who realised he hadn’t explained it to him fully.
“But you can't speak to Philebos till the inspectors go."
This gave Sindron his opportunity. "I'm sure that's all my master was requesting, a chance to examine the evidence that will prove it was an accident, as you say."
"But ...” started Lysanias till Sindron tapped him on the ankle with his foot.
Hermon seemed to have calmed down. Two of the inspection team had been measuring the ship's rail supports to check that they were the regulation thickness and the correct distance apart. They had gradually moved closer along the deck to where they might possibly be able to hear what the argument was about. A sound of scuffling feet above them revealed another slave, checking off the outfitting items against a list in his hands. It came to Lysanias that, if someone had caused the amphora to fall on his uncle, they would have had to do it from up there.
Hermon had been keeping half an eye on the inspection clerks and now he dropped his voice. "Very well. I just don't like being accused on no evidence. When you see the rope, you'll agree it must have been an accident."
"But why was my uncle here at all?" Though it was a challenge, Lysanias adopted the same low voice to avoid being overheard. He could see Hermon’s personal slave striding along the walkway towards them, the slaveboy scampering at his heels. Hermon became visibly less agitated with his bodyguard near.
"I don't know! It wasn't unknown for Klereides to make spot checks to be sure everything was ready, before he brought the state inspectors down." Could that be true? wondered Sindron.
"In the middle of the night!"
"It wasn't the middle of the night. It was just before dawn!"
"It was still dark!" Even in this strange, whispered argument, the note of derision in Lysanias' voice was clear. He was determined not to be intimidated by the presence of the muscular slave.
Hermon became more conciliatory. He had started them walking, ushering them, as they talked, to an area away from the inspection team, Hermon’s two slaves backing away before them.
"No, I admit he wasn't one for getting up early usually, but he had a dinner party for government officials the night before. Maybe he heard something about where they would be looking for faults and wanted to see for himself." That brought Lysanias up in his tracks. He hadn't known the dinner party was for government officials.
"Our porter says Klereides received a message on a scroll," he insisted.
"Well, if he did, I didn't write it and you don’t know it was to do with the shipyard.”
"Come on, he went out straight away and came here!" Lysanias' tone was still derisive.
"Well, if this message-scroll exists, I didn't write it and where is it? No-one has seen it, except this porter, one of your slaves. How trustworthy is he?" Hermon was going onto the attack.
"But you must admit it's suspicious, sir," Sindron interrupted, himself feeling insulted at the attack on the truthfulness of slaves. "Klereides comes to the shipyard before dawn, presumably to meet someone, and gets killed."
"Well, I didn't send him a message, and I wasn't meeting him, and I wasn't in Athens!" Hermon’s statement sounded final. He wanted to end the discussion. The pause was tense.
Keep quiet, Lysanias told himself, but blurted out, "You could have paid someone else to kill him!"
Hermon’s face was purple now, his eyes bulged and he looked about to have a fit. His slave took a step forward, adopting a pose that implied readiness to grab Lysanias and hurl him to the planking, if he tried to attack his master. The slave-boy beside him seemed to imitate the pose, laughably considering his spindly limbs. Sindron grasped his new stick more firmly, hefted it higher in his hand, realising how ridiculous this might look. Hermon took refuge in formality.
"Young man, you really have gone too far! If you dare repeat these accusations to anyone else, I will be forced to take legal action against you. I realise I have no patron at the moment to initiate it for me, but I'm sure I can soon find an Athenian citizen of note willing to join forces wit
h a prosperous businessman. General Ariston, perhaps."
"But you asked me to be your patron." Lysanias felt totally undermined. He had gone too far.
"I can hardly sue my own patron! Besides you haven't agreed and we haven’t worked out whether it’s practical or even legal at your age."
"I still inherit my uncle's share of the business," Lysanias responded, hesitantly.
"I agree that could make things awkward, but I shall insist on proof that you are the legal heir and that could delay your inheritance for a long long time." And Lysanias sensed the threat was real, just as the physical threat of the bodyguard was real. This man Hermon clearly didn't make idle threats. "Unless, of course, you agree to co-operate and stop spreading rumours that will damage the business."
Hermon and Lysanias stood staring each other out, like enemies on a battlefield who have both lost their swords and shields in the fray and are down to brute strength. And Lysanias definitely wasn't going to be threatened into submission.
It was Sindron who made a move to resolve the impasse. "Master, this really is getting us nowhere. May I suggest you gentlemen call a truce, until we have seen the evidence of the accident?"
"We can do without advice from a slave," they both responded almost in unison, and then laughed, realising how ridiculous this was.
"I'm sorry, young man." "I'm sorry, Hermon," they both started together. Then Lysanias had the good sense to respect age and stay quiet while Hermon spoke. "I really should be able to control my temper better." He motioned to his slave to stand back, that the crisis was over. "I realise this has come as a shock to you. It has come as a shock to me, too. And it really is a critical time for the business. I apologise if I appeared inconsiderate."
"No, my apologies, Hermon." And Lysanias meant it. "Everything has happened so fast since I arrived in Athens. I get very confused as to whether I should be looking to avenge my uncle or, if it really is an accident, surely I should allow his soul to rest in peace."
