Death Comes by Amphora: A Mystery Novel of Ancient Athens

by Roger Hudson

  ***

  Lysanias phrased his question as casually as he could but it still sounded a bit like an accusation. "You must be the last citizen to have seen my uncle before he was killed?"

  The watchman had clearly taken quite a few drinks but he was still cautious. "What do you mean ‘was killed’, sir?" He was evidently wary lest he be tricked into saying something he shouldn't.

  "Before that amphora fell on him."

  "Yes, sir, that'd be me, if you don't count One-Ear, the old dog." He gestured to the mangy dog lying beside him on the sawdust-strewn earthen floor of the tavern. "Sorry, sir. Didn't mean to make light."

  There was an awkward pause. A thought struck the watchman.

  "But I hadn't been drinking that night! Sober as an owl, sir! It's just my normal routine. Leave work at sun-up when the workers arrive, go home and sleep till midday, then a few cups with the boys and that gives me time to sober up before coming in at dusk. But I was sober that night, sir! I swear it by Poseidon and Athene and Hephaistos and any other god you like!"

  It hadn't been difficult to find the Seamen's Rest. The first stevedore they asked had directed them, though he did look a little surprised that people not in worker's tunics or clearly travellers should want to go there.

  The tavern turned out to be a favourite haunt of merchant seamen and dockworkers, so it was a mixture of nationalities and languages. There was a smattering of passengers, just arrived or about to depart, so they weren't too out of place, they hoped.

  The watchman had been easy to identify. He was ensconced in a shady area under the trellis, surrounded by a group of stevedores spellbound by his tale of a night of horror. Lysanias and Sindron ate their barley cakes and olives and herrings at a nearby table, waiting for the stevedores to go back to work. Even from a distance, they could verify that he wore sandals, very worn and dusty sandals.

  Sindron had taken the opportunity to tell Lysanias that, while he was in the shipyard office with Hermon, he had managed to chat to Hermon’s personal slave. It made them even more puzzled about Hermon’s reasons for not giving a detailed alibi. The best brothels in all Greece were in Corinth and Hermon had gone to visit the best of them, as he did regularly at the end of every month. He had given money to his slave to visit another brothel that accepted the custom of slaves, again as he did regularly. Yet there was no dishonour in visiting a brothel. Why not admit it? Presumably the prostitute could vouch for him, or the brothel-keeper. Could the slave be lying to cover up for his master?

  At that moment the stevedores left, looking suitably impressed, even cowed, by the watchman's story. The empty wineskins around him confirmed the sensation value. Lysanias and Sindron moved in on Niko, setting down on the table in front of him their own friendship offering of a fresh flagon of wine and a jug of water. When Lysanias had told him who they were – for they needed the truthful not the dramatised version of the story – he tended to freeze up.

  "So you can remember it all clearly?" Lysanias' question jerked him back into their world.

  "Oh, yes, sir. You're the new owner, eh?" A nod seemed the best answer. "Thought you must be. You’ve got that manner, like someone just taking over, wants to know what's what." The watchman was trying to be ingratiating, but it seemed to be leading him into trusting them more, thought Sindron, though all Lysanias saw was that this man had important information and was taking a long time to tell it.

  "I’m trying to find out what happened to my uncle. Will you stop blabbering on and tell me something useful?"

  The watchman's developing trust had been broken and he jerked back alarmed. Sindron interrupted gently.

  "My master just wants to ask a few questions about that night. We haven't much time, so if we could stick to the point?"

  "Yes, sir, anything you say." Now the fearful expression in his eyes showed he really was worried about whether he should say anything at all. "You won't get old Niko into trouble, will you?" It was a whine now, the hands shaking as he tried to hold his wine cup steady. "It's not easy to get a job at my age, not with all these foreigners and slaves around. That Resident Hermon fires people sometimes for little things. He's changed half the gang on that ship. You don't think he'll mind if I talk to you, do you?"

  This was news. Quite different to the impression Hermon had given earlier.

  "No, of course not." Lysanias had the sense now to keep his tone gentle and re-assuring. "I'm his partner now. If you haven't done anything wrong, you'll be quite all right." He hoped that he would be in a position to protect the man if necessary.

  "Oh good, only ... " The man mumbled into his wine cup and took another big drink. He clasped the cup firmly in both hands, but the shaking was still evident. The man's nerves were in a terrible state.

  In the same tone, Lysanias asked, "Do you mean Hermon actually fires workers himself?"

  The man glanced up, decided there was no point in refusing to answer and maybe something to be gained. "Well, no, he gets Overseer Philebos to do it, but we all know who gives the orders, don't we? Mind you, it was kind of Philebos to tell me to take a few days off to recover after seeing what I saw."

  So they did want the man out of the way, thought Lysanias, and the fever story really wasn't true. Sindron put in gently, "Can you tell us what happened on the night, Niko? The way it really was?"

  The watchman took another drink, then looked up almost eagerly, his eyes flitting between them. It was as though he had been waiting for just this chance to tell the full story to someone and get the horrible experience off his chest, though now he kept his voice down, so other people in the tavern wouldn't hear.

  "Well, I was out on my rounds. I walk round about every hour to see that the fence is sound, and no-one's broken in."

  "Yes, yes, but what about my uncle?" Lysanias felt Sindron touch his arm in a signal to let the man talk, but it was out.

  "I'm coming to that, aren’t I?" Now he had started, he seemed a little more confident. "Well, we were on our rounds, old One-ear and me. You know how quiet it can be in the hour before dawn. Then we hears this chariot clattering down the hill and I says to One-ear I says, wonder what madman's driving that fast in the dark…"

  "This was the chariot my uncle came in? Driving fast?"

  "Well, yes sir, I think so, because soon after that the noise stops and then there's this godsawful hammering on the gates and on the gong outside.” His bleary, red-rimmed eyes registering the impatient look on their faces, he went on. “So I hurries as fast as I can along they walkways. I sends One-ear on ahead to bark at them, let them know I'm not on my own. Could be thieves, you know. I remember when.... Oh, yes. So I asks who it is and Owner Klereides he gets impatient but I recognise his voice, so I lets him in and he hops straight over to my fire to warm himself."

  In the momentum of telling his story, the man's confidence seemed to have returned, but his left hand fiddled irritatingly with his grizzled beard.

  "Did you get a look at the chariot or the driver?" asked Sindron. "He might be able to tell us something, if we could find him."

  The man was busy refilling his cup. The amount of water he added seemed to get less with each cupful, but he had heard.

  "What? Driver? No, can't say I did…” He paused, thinking. “Ah, now. I did hold up the lamp, as old Klereides slipped in. There’s this one-horse chariot. Light-coloured horse, I remember that. Silver grey, that's right. I thought, that's unusual, don't often see many of them in these parts. And this tall, thin man standing there. Wrapped all in black he is, right up over his head, hides his face. Like one of those Semites from the desert. Guess he knew it would be cold out, eh? Can't say I blame him. Mind you, I worked out in the open all my life, so I don't feel it so much as some."

  Still impatient, Lysanias started to say, "Look, old man, we haven’t got time for all this" but Sindron stopped him, by coming in slightly louder with, "Is that all you remember?"

  The watchman had responded to the flash of anger in Lysanias' eyes, and his p
urple-veined nose was in his wine cup again. Sindron dropped to his re-assuring tone again. "Klereides came in a one-horse chariot drawn by a silver-grey horse and driven by a tall man cloaked in black and they drove fast? Is that right?"

  The man nodded.

  "What sort of chariot was it? A racing chariot or one of those that plies for hire?"

  "Yes, one of those, sir, like those you see by the market place up in the city. For the wealthy ones who are too lazy to walk."

  "You're sure, now? About the type of chariot?"

  The crumpled old man looked surprised at the idea it could be anything other than a hired chariot but the bleary eyes stared into space, trying to retrieve that brief visual image. "Ah. Yes. Now you ask. All painted over it was but, under the paint, some sort of pattern, a bit like those reliefs of heroes they have on racing chariots. Couldn’t be sure though."

  "Did you hear the driver's voice?" Sindron kept the same tone, and Lysanias realised he was better to keep silent, though the afternoon heat, even in the shade here, was making it difficult to concentrate.

  Niko thought. "No, sir, not a word. Owner Klereides tells him not to wait, I think. That's right. Then the driver laughs. Funny sort of laugh. Like there isn’t anything anyone can do to hurt him. Not like you'd expect a chariot driver to laugh, though I hear some of them can be rude when they want to."

  The man was relaxing again. That was good, thought Sindron. He eyed the wine, and saw Lysanias drinking agitatedly to hold his impatience in check, though he noticed the lad seemed to be controlling it by adding copious water. After all the tension, Sindron would have liked to take a decent drink himself, but they had to get the full story. It was terrible wine anyway, he consoled himself.

  "What about Klereides? Did he tell you why he was there?"

  "Doesn't say much at all. I think he must have still been sleepy. I say to him it’s a strange time to be coming to the yard. Then I think I asks him what he thinks about the reforms and he just pulls a scroll out of his cloak and waves it at me ... "

  "The message, that must be the message!" The words burst excitedly from Lysanias' throat.

  "What did he do with the scroll?" Sindron went on doggedly, feeling he was building up a very useful picture.

  "Stuffs it back in his cloak, as far as I know. Does it matter?'

  "Try to remember." Sindron leant forward, calm, persuasive. "When you found the body, was the scroll there?"

  "Wouldn't know, sir. I just catch sight of the body and all that blood and yell for help. Besides I have to put the fire out."

  Lysanias blurted out, "What fire?" Then he remembered the charring on the planks, the black marks on the earthenware.

  "The oil lamp smashed when that thing fell on him. Starts a blaze across the boards. His cloak, that’s smouldering too."

  "Oh gods, perhaps the scroll was burnt!" Lysanias was getting a little self-pitying, Sindron observed, but at least he wasn't interfering.

  The watchman took it as an accusation. "I got the fire out quickly, sir, I don't think much got burnt. We have leather buckets of water along there, in case of fire. Then the overseer, no, the assistant, no, the overseer, I’m not sure I was a bit shaky, he orders them to put up new boards and clean up, because the inspectors are coming."

  "Before anyone had inspected to find out why the amphora fell?" Lysanias was horrified. It didn't seem right, for a serious accident in mighty Athens.

  "I suppose so. First man in runs for Overseer Philebos and for a doctor. Then, as soon as the body is moved back to the offices, Overseer Philebos tells all the workers to stop standing round and to get things back to normal."

  Lysanias and Sindron looked at one another with stony expressions but it was Sindron who carried on the questioning.

  "Did Klereides say why he was there?"

  "Like I say, he just waves this scroll and says he's off to a meeting by the new ships and to send the others on when they arrive, and off he goes without saying who 'the others' are. "

  It was Lysanias, the craftsman, who realised what this implied. "What? In the dark, along those walkways? You didn't show him the way?"

  "He didn't want any help, sir. Just grabbed my lamp and went off, he did."

  "And that's the last you saw of him till you found the body," Sindron asked.

  "That's right, sir."

  "What did you do then, after he walked off?"

  "Me? I go back in my hut. Those early morning breezes off the sea, they can be a bit cold, so I prefer to sit down in shelter."

  He was continually looking away with an occasional sideways glance, or looking down into his wine cup. Was he trying to hide something?

  "You were in there when you heard the crash and you went to see what had happened?"

  "Something like that." He was still looking into his wine and the answer was muttered and slurred. Niko fell silent and it looked as though he had fallen asleep, his head bowed, motionless. Lysanias nudged him.

  "Come on, Niko! We need to know."

  "You're sure I won't get into trouble, sir?" He looked at Lysanias through bleary eyes. The man's breath was foul. No wonder, with that mouthful of rotting teeth. Lysanias tried not to feel repelled. The old man had his sympathy, having to plead like this after a full life's work.

  "No, citizen. I'll see to that ... You may even get a reward." Lysanias was getting desperate.

  Niko brightened up. "Another flagon over here," Sindron called to a tavern slave. That cheered Niko up even more.

  "Well, I hear him clumping along the scaffolding at first but, what with the birds and the cocks and the donkeys waking up, I don't hear much after that."

  "So what did you do?" Sindron could see Lysanias trying hard to keep his patience. He leant over and pointedly added a good measure of water to both their cups.

  "Well, I get to thinking that he’s been gone a long time and no-one else has come, so I tell myself I'd better go see how he is. So I sets off with old One-ear here but, before we get very far, there's this almighty crash and a whoosh of flame with the oil catching light, and it’s all over for Owner Kleriedes. Poor old owner! Gods really had it in for him!" He raised his head and looked around, as though playing to a larger audience. Sindron realised that other customers had indeed gathered close to listen.

  "All your money doesn’t do you any good when the gods decide to drop a massive great amphora on your head. Couldn't have been Dionysos, eh? Wasn't a wine holder, was it? Big water one, wasn't it!" He cackled at his joke. He'd forgotten who he was talking to and gone into one of the jokes he had enlivened the story with for other barflies, who he felt would ignore the sacrilege. "Me, I pray to Hephaistos, like all the shipyard workers, and to Athene, of course, the Athene who looks after all artists and craftsmen not the one for virgins. But then, Klereides, he wasn't a craftsman, was he?" The watchman was mumbling now, to himself, his head sinking lower and lower.

  Lysanias shook him awake. "Did you hear anything, man?"

  "Don't you call me 'man' in that tone of voice!" Niko was drunk, slurring his words, having difficulty finding the right ones. "You can call me 'cit'zen'," he slurred, trying to stand up as befitted the dignity of the title, but swayed and sank down again, thinking better of it. "I called the owner man 'cit'zen' 'n' he di'n't like it but they all have to get used to it now, don't they?" The watery eyes looked at Lysanias for support.

  Lysanias was mellowing with the wine and sympathy for the old worker. Sitting next to him, he put his arm round the man's shoulders in the comradely gesture that would have applied in Eion but was rare in Athens. "Look, citizen, I didn't mean to be rude but do you remember anything else? Did you hear anything before the crash?"

  Niko stared blearily at him, his brow creased in an attempt at thought, memories stirred.

  "I thought I heard him talking to himself. I sometimes do that myself, it's that lonely. You do it to frighten off evil spirits. But he seemed to be shouting. I never heard of that, shouting to yourself. Maybe he seen a rat or s
omething. I thought at first might be someone with him but no-one had come in the gate or I'd have seen them."

  "You didn't see anyone?"

  "Of course not. Lots of shadows flickering round from the flames and I think I see his soul rising from his body like a dark shape merging with the other shadows. Then I realise it must be one of those Furies feeding on his entrails, sucking his blood, stealing his soul."

  He shuddered at the thought, even though he must have told this climax to his tale many times already. "Turned me over that did. That's why I’ve been drinking, don’t want to remember that bit!" And he burst into tears, shaking with great sobs.

  Then suddenly he sniffed to halt his tears, pulled himself together and shouted, shrugging Lysanias' arm off, "Hey, what you doing, you filthy aristocratic pervert. You get your hands off me or I'll ... " and he pushed himself upright, aimed a punch at Lysanias, fell backwards onto Sindron, rolled gently to the floor under the table and passed out. One-ear licked his master's face and lay down beside him on guard.

  "Help me get him on his feet," said Sindron, bending to grasp Niko's shoulder. "Then we'd better find out where he lives and get him there."

  But Sindron found himself waiting, while the old dog growled at him but thankfully didn't bite. He glanced up. No Lysanias at all. Where was the boy? Across the tavern, he spotted the lad's haircut, the only short haircut in sight.

  Grabbing up the basket with the rope, Sindron headed off in pursuit.

  Not far beyond Lysanias, an Athenian stevedore was jabbing a finger at the chest of what could only be, from his skin colour and multiple earrings, a Phoenician seaman. A fight was clearly developing and Lysanias seemed to be heading straight for the centre of it, but the boy swerved, pushed through the small group of onlookers that was gathering, and disappeared from Sindron’s sight. Hurrying as fast he could, Sindron skirted the crowd just as the first blows were landed and cheers egged on one or the other protagonist.