by Roger Hudson
"You've got spirit, young man, that I will say for you. Long time since I met a youngster who could stand up to his elders as you do. But you won't get far in Athens, if you keep on like that. You'll need to learn tact, if you're going to take over from your uncle."
Hermon was smiling broadly now, in a way that seemed to accept Lysanias into the fold. Somehow the argument seemed to have brought them closer together. Lysanias felt he understood Hermon better, though, when he thought about it later, he realised there was still a lot that Hermon hadn't told him, that nothing had really changed, and that Hermon was still the prime suspect.
"I'm sure my master will learn," said Sindron in that patronising but useful way of his. "Now if we can see this rope and maybe talk to the night-watchman who was the last person to see Klereides alive?"
“I believe the watchman is off-duty. Illness, Philebos tells me." Was there an edge in Hermon’s voice when he talked about the watchman? Lysanias couldn't be sure. "Don't want anyone bringing fever into the yards, so he's laid off till the danger's over. When he’s back maybe."
Odd that the one person who might have seen something was unavailable to be questioned, thought Lysanias. Then something else struck him. "What about the rigger who tied off the amphora?" It made Lysanias heart beat faster, as it brought back a mental picture of a crushing weight falling on his uncle and that poor mutilated body. Pre-occupied, he only half-heard Hermon’s reply, so he had to ask, "What did you say?"
"The man's been sacked, of course. Negligence." Hermon called it back over his shoulder, as he led the way to the store yard, so he didn't see the look of suspicion on Lysanias' face as the young man realised yet another key figure had been neatly removed from the scene.
***
Makaria went through, with Philia, the system for ordering food and cooking materials – olive oil, vinegar, herbs, spices. How to check quantities in store of things that lasted, how to draw up a list and to order, which stall or shop to tell the slave to get which item from for the best quality and price, where they could use their own initiative. The mechanics of all this Philia already knew. Her mother had taught her, but, in the country, many things were done differently. The aspects specific to this household and to the market in Athens, that was new. Here, spices and foodstuffs she had never heard of before arrived at the Peiraeos from all over the known world. She needed to learn their names and what they were used for. Philia's interest was engaged.
Makaria showed her how to draw up an inventory for longlife household goods, pots and pans, linen, clothing. Philia knew all that too, it was very like her mother's system, but she held her tongue.
"Now this afternoon, while I'm consulting with the steward, why don't you draw up your own inventory just to show me that you've learnt how to do it?"
"Yes, Makaria." Test it, test it! "But couldn't I learn more from watching you and the steward?"
Makaria spluttered and had a coughing fit. Philia patted her on the back. That was something she wouldn't have dared do before.
"Thank you, my child." The old woman's eyes were watering, there was almost a glint of sly amusement there. "No, my dear, we must take this tuition in easy stages. That will be enough for today."
CHAPTER 8
While Hermon went to pacify the inspectors, the assistant overseer led Lysanias and Sindron to the storage yard, leaving them to the slave in charge. And there, roped off in a corner, with signs warning people to stay away from the deathbringer, was the giant amphora, cracks ringing it but still substantially intact, with blood stains soaked deep into the earthenware especially around one of the loops, which must have dug deep into Klereides’ chest. Beside it, the cracked bloodstained timbers.
The storekeeper was reluctant to let them close for fear of spreading the miasma, the pollution that attaches to bringers of unnatural death, but Sindron explained that Lysanias was the heir and needed to establish the guilt of these inanimate objects. He looked doubtful but, fingering a strange necklace he wore round his neck, left them to it. As he bent in close to look and touch, Lysanias hoped they were right in thinking this was a deliberate murder and that the pollution would attach to the murderer, not the tools he had used.
Around the neck of the amphora were the remains of a thick rope, knotted and with a loose end curled beside it, terminating in frayed strands. Hanging on the wall behind was its twin, presumably the part of the rope that had been tied above, holding it suspended. It looked like the results of wear and tear, though how such a thick rope could have frayed through in one night Lysanias couldn't see, unless they had used a very old frayed rope to start with.
Lysanias examined it more closely. The colour of the hemp suggested it had been in use for some time, faded from constant sun, wind and weather. He recalled that the hemp he had seen tying the scaffolding together had seemed younger. He tested it between his hands, tugging a short length. There were signs of give, but it should have held that load. Then he looked at the frayed ends. Yes, there were freshly broken strands, he could tell by the lighter, yellower colour, but the ends of many of the strands were indistinguishable in colour from the outside of the rope. They had frayed and snapped long before. Would that amount of sound strands have held that weight? Maybe, just maybe.
Yet would a shipyard of this one's reputation use ropes as old and frayed as that? Then, as he pulled on the rope to test it, it actually shifted where it was tied round the amphora. It wasn't tight! Surely, if it had hung all night and part of the previous day, that knot would have been pulled so tight the rope would have to be cut away.
Cut! A knife could have left marks on the neck of the amphora. The thing was heavy but, with Sindron’s help, Lysanias managed to turn it round. Yes! There! Those bright scratches, shining lighter through the rich brown of the earthenware surface. Someone had used a knife there and it looked recent! Lysanias looked for anything else out of the ordinary.
The storekeeper had left them to it, while he went about other business, but, on his return, looked agitated that they were pulling things apart, so Sindron engaged him in conversation. Asking questions he drew him further away, while Lysanias pulled out the cracked and broken planks. There was charring as well, he noticed.
Suddenly he was staring at his uncle's blood, so thick there was still a congealed layer on the surface as well as that soaked into the timber. It made him feel queasy for an instant. Then he saw the footprint. And dismissed it. The night-watchman’s probably, when he found Klereides’ body. But no ... this was a bare foot. Was a watchman who had to wander round a shipyard in the dark and could tread on splintered timber or old nails likely not to wear sandals? Could it be the murderer? His heart thumped at the thought.
Lysanias longed to tell Sindron about his discoveries, but his slave was talking with the storekeeper and Lysanias overheard. "Prides himself on running a tight ship, that overseer. Waste not want not. We re-use or sell as scrap. That's why I have to keep a detailed record of everything coming in and going out.
"Now that old rope. If that wasn’t commandeered by the court, that would go into the pile of disused rope in the scrap store like other worn ropes the workmen report. Then the rope maker collects them to make fresh ropes. Or the rug maker, if they’re too old for that. Mind you, they should have collected by now. Maybe frightened by the death.” He touched the necklace round his neck.
"That sounds very economical," interrupted Lysanias, as casually as he could, moving closer. "Could we have a look?"
"We haven't time, master. We must get back." Sindron sounded impatient, but then the expression on Lysanias face told him this wasn't just a whim.
"You really interested?" The storekeeper sounded pleased to find other people with his own fondness for neatness and order. "Come on then!"
In the next yard were piles of timber, old sails, a broken mast, and many other worn and used materials. There was also a heap of ropes from ships' rigging and, hopefully, from shipyard use as well. The slave was proudly explaining the dif
ferent heaps, as Lysanias whispered to Sindron to keep the man talking while he looked at the ropes.
It wasn't a big pile, but it confirmed the slave's statement that ropes were normally scrapped long before the state of the one on the amphora. He pulled a rope out full length across a clear space in the yard to look at it and another one tumbled down from the top of the pile. It had a cut end! A recently cut end!
Lysanias glanced round. Yes, Sindron was still ensuring that the slave looked the other way. He turned back to the pile. One cut end, yes! Clean, done with a very sharp knife. And near it a knot. A very tight knot! Now on one of these along from the knot, there should be another cut end to match. Another knot. Carry on. There it was! And it did match! Same cut. Put them together, yes, that's about the size of the neck of the amphora. And ... he couldn't believe it ... little chips of earthenware among the strands near the cut. This rope had come off the amphora. Firm evidence!
Now what about the other length out from the knot, either knot. Slightly longer this, a bit tangled. And ... another cut end. More ragged this time. A different knife maybe? Or someone in a hurry or nervous? Or cut through in two stages? Could that be it? Yes, that would explain it. Proof positive!
On the other side of the scrapyard, Sindron interrupted the storekeeper’s lecture. "Strange thing, the way the shipyard’s owner got killed, eh?" Sindron spoke confidentially, almost conspiratorially, slave to slave.
"We've been told not to talk about it, but ..." He glanced to see that no overseers had come through the gateway. "Shook us all up it has. Bad luck runs in threes, they say. You wonder who'll be next. Not that I'm superstitious, you understand, but you like to feel you're safe when you come to work." He fingered the thong round his neck. What Sindron had thought was a necklace actually carried a miniature replica of the symbols of every god Sindron could think of and some he couldn't. He was surprised to see that the one singled out was the sword and scales of Nemesis, goddess of retribution.
Then he realised why. Anyone with the excessive wealth of Klereides, with no measure to control it and the arrogance to play on both sides of the political game the way he had, could be regarded as asking for the attentions of the vengeful goddess. But how much of this could the storekeeper have known? Was it common knowledge? Fingering the symbols seemed to comfort the man, let him feel he had appeased the relevant god in some way.
"Of course you do," said Sindron. "The gods defend us all!" He edged to the subject that concerned him. "The night-watchman that discovered the body. He took it in his stride, did he?"
"What? Old Niko? You should see him! He's a nervous wreck. Scared for his soul. Reckons he saw the Furies down there. Athene protect us!" His fingers found Athene's owl and raised it to press against his forehead.
"Off sick I heard," Sindron muttered casually.
The storekeeper burst into laughter. "That's a good one. Niko’s never had a day's illness in his life! He'll be on a six-day binge down the Seamen's Rest. With a story like that to tell, he could drink free for months."
Over at the rope pile, Lysanias' sense of triumph had slumped into depression. How could they stop the rope from being destroyed? How could they get it away from the yard? If only he had his tool bag with him.
A desperate idea came to him. Lysanias called out.
"Hello there, I think someone is calling you from the store yard!"
The storekeeper turned and his eyes widened as he saw the rope trawled across the ground.
"Here, what you been doing? I had that pile all neat and tidy, ready for collection."
"Don’t worry," Lysanias blurted out, "We'll tidy it up, you go and see what they want." Fortunately, the storekeeper believed him.
“Quickly, Sindron, wind this rope round me," he said as soon as the slave was out of sight, pulling off his cloak without regard to what was on display. "Master, really! Is this necessary? Oh!" Sindron’s voice tailed off as his eyes took in the cut ends. "I see."
Starting under the arms, Sindron wound the cut rope round and round Lysanias' body and did his best to tuck in the last end. Then they re-draped Lysanias' cloak to look as normal as possible. It made Lysanias a rather funny shape. How was he ever going to walk home like this?
The storekeeper's voice came back to them from the other yard, shouting angrily, "There's no-one here. What you playing at?" Then, recalling who he was speaking to, “Are you sure you heard someone, sir?”
Sindron hurriedly bundled the other rope back onto the pile and the storekeeper inspected it for tidiness. Sindron kept between him and Lysanias, so the change in girth would not be noticed.
Lysanias waddled back to the gate, with Sindron keeping a careful eye behind him for trailing rope ends showing below his cloak. Their pace was slow but they got out of the yard without anyone speaking to them and found a cart willing to take them into the centre of Peiraeos. Here Sindron discovered a shop selling baskets and bought one big enough to take the rope. Lysanias felt greatly relieved, as he sloughed it off in an alley and then slumped exhausted onto a low wall, laughing at the way Lysanias had looked.
“I just hope you’re right about the pollution, Sindron.”
“It has to be, master, and we’re even more certain now that there’s a murderer.” Not absolutely, he thought, only that someone is covering something up but that’s almost as good. But he didn’t say it.
“At least, the other objects will be safe there while everyone thinks they’re polluted,” replied Lysanias.
“Until the court decides to throw them over the border,” Sindron said. “But hopefully they won’t move that quickly.”
“Shouldn’t we get it changed to ‘killing by person unknown’?”
“And let every one know we’re looking for a murderer?”
“No, maybe not,” Lysanias conceded, remembering he had promised not to do anything that might damage the shipyard.
After hurriedly recounting what they had each discovered, the obvious next step was to look for the Seamen's Rest. They carried the basket between them, feeling that, in this area, a master assisting a slave would not attract the curious glances it would in the city.
***
Philia had played five stones with Nubis during the lunch break, chattering about the young man she was to marry, about Makaria suddenly being nice to her.
Nubis joked about what Makaria and the steward got up to together every afternoon, but it was only a joke. Philia knew Makaria wouldn't. Not with a slave!
Philia didn't like it when Nubis said she fancied Lysanias, and offered to bet that she would sleep with him first. "Don't you dare! He's mine!" She went into a sulk that Nubis couldn't get her out of, running off to her room and throwing herself down on the bed. Philia hadn't realised that being married to this handsome young man had become so important to her. After all, she still hardly knew him and Klereides was only a few days dead. It seemed so disloyal but then Curly had been so much older than her and they’d spent so little time together that she hadn’t really known him very well. Her father had arranged the marriage after all. It was all very confusing.
Philia pulled herself together enough to go down and start on her inventory, writing with a piece of charcoal on a thin plank of whitewood. Glykera, the cook-housekeeper, with her rosy shining face, plump arms and work-roughened hands, was there to tell her where things were kept and what qualified as long term. Philia had always liked Glykera, a kindly woman with a homely common sense, though, kept away from these areas, Philia wasn’t very familiar with her.
One large bronze bin, not as big as the one for charcoal, had no markings. Philia asked, "What's in this bin?"
"Oh, that's just where I put things I think should be burnt," replied Glykera. "We bundle them up and take them round to the foundry furnace, if we're not having a fire ourselves. Things like food that's gone off, and bedding and clothes from when people have been sick ...”
"Oh I see." Philia automatically opened the lid and looked in, just as Glykera was saying
" ... menstrual cloths ... " She didn't complete her list, because Philia had spotted and recognised the decorative edging round the red coloured cloth at the bottom of the bin and screamed, dropping the lid with a clatter.
"Oooooh! It's Klereides' cloak. Ooooh!"
For an instant, Philia felt dizzy. Though she seemed suddenly cold, her hands and face were sweaty.
"I'm sorry, mistress, I thought I'd seen to that." Glykera tried to forestall any rebuke.
"You told everyone you'd burnt it!" Philia challenged.
"I'm sorry, mistress. I really thought it had gone. That kitchen boy, he must have forgot."
"Ooooh, look at that!" Philia was strangely calm now and had re-lifted the lid, reached in and pulled out the cloak. It wasn't like a cloak any more, just a clump of stiff, crumpled material, stuck together with congealed blood in shades of dark red, almost to black. It felt so dry and hard. "It's all right. I'm not scared any more."
"I'm sorry, mistress, let me take it away now." The cook reached gently for the cloak, but Philia turned away, still staring at it, fascinated.
"Not yet! Not yet! Look at it, though! That's Curly's life all run out of him and dried on his best cloak! Trust Curly to put on his best cloak to die in." He must have worn it for the dinner party.
"Mistress, mistress, you mustn't talk like this. Here let me take it away before the old mistress sees it still around." The cook was worried.
Philia was herself again now. Glykera grabbed at the cloak and tried to pull it away, but Philia stepped back out of reach. She was sure Lysanias would want to see this cloak, and, there, stuck in the folds, was a scrap of parchment, but Glykera was still grasping for the cloak. Time to play act, Philia thought.
"Noooo!" She screamed. "No, it's my Curly’s, my husband! I want to do it. It's my last duty to him. I’ll see it’s dealt with." She grabbed the stiff awkward mass to her and ran out of the kitchen, with a frightened Glykera shouting behind her, "No, mistress, please mistress, I was told …”
