Death Comes by Amphora: A Mystery Novel of Ancient Athens

by Roger Hudson

  Lysanias was clearly aiming for a table by the far wall but Sindron’s old eyes didn't allow him to make out why. Then he saw Lysanias grab someone by the front of their cloak and pull the man to his feet. Oh, no, Sindron thought, he’s going to start a brawl himself!

  Now Sindron was close enough to see it was Strynises, the news-teller. How had Lysanias picked him out right across the crowded tavern?

  "What have you been saying about my uncle, you maligning word-twister?"

  "Let me go, young fellow. I'm quite prepared to listen to your complaint." Strynises hadn't made any effort to resist or fight back but, by the time he finished speaking, he was free again, and Lysanias held off by two heavy-built men the news-teller had been talking to. Strynises' tone made it sound as though being confronted aggressively like this was a normal event for him.

  "Please, sit down." Lysanias didn't really have much choice. Though he struggled, the men pushed him down onto a bench. As Sindron reached the group and stood catching his breath, he could see Lysanias was fuming still, though the anger seemed to have countered any effects of the wine.

  "Now, young man, please introduce yourself." Strynises made it sound as though he was the epitome of politeness.

  "Lysanias, son of Leokhares, heir of Klereides." Lysanias glared at the poet, making it almost a challenge. The man's thin face and sharp, pointed nose reminded Lysanias of a weasel.

  The news-teller's eyes opened in surprise and a broad smile developed as he saw advantages for him. "Really? Curly Klereides, eh? I can understand why you're angry, and I can only plead that it's my profession. Gossip is my business. That's what people listen to, what they laugh at, what they pay me for. I can only assure you that I'm equally nasty to everyone whatever their status or political opinion. In fact ... " and his tone was almost confiding " ... it's the only way I survive. Frankly, if you heard some of the nastiness I pick up, you'd see how much I do censor out. Others would have accused Kimon of selling his sister to old moneybags Kallias to buy himself out of debt and launch his career. I didn’t do that. And, if I'd revealed all of Kimon's adulteries, I'd have upset his wife even more.”

  "You didn't censor out much about my uncle, I hear!"

  "Ah, well now, you have to admit it was a very good story. 'Exploiter and lecher struck down in his own shipyard.'" Lysanias anger flared again and he was on his feet, fists clenched, until he was pushed down again. "Now, young man, I'm sorry, maybe you don't know everything about your uncle. I assure you I didn't use half of what I've heard. I didn't go into detail on his gambling debts now, did I?"

  "But ... but ... never speak ill of the dead!" It was somehow the only thing Lysanias could think of to say. Yet Sindron was wondering if maybe this news-teller's network of informants might not have told him more about Klereides' death than he and Lysanias had unearthed with all their questioning.

  "My dear sir ... close acquaintances yes, but I didn't even know the man. I can't turn down a story as good as this out of moral scruples now, can I?"

  Lysanias realised he was not going to get anywhere with this man. It was amazing no-one had beaten him up in an alleyway before now.

  "If you're wondering how I get away with it, well I don't always.” He pointed to a scar on his forehead and a broken finger badly mended. “Fortunately most people respect the fact that we satirists are protected by the great god Dionysos but I prefer to give him a little help. That's why my good friends are here."

  "You must have some opinion yourself, some standpoint."

  "No, no, I can't afford that luxury. Besides all men are foolish or corrupt in some way, and long may they stay so! It puts food on my table."

  Lysanias was shocked at this degree of cynicism, but he didn't interrupt.

  "Now, young man," Strynises leaned across the table. "It isn't often I get to talk to the subjects of my poems. 'Battle of Love at Funeral of Squashed Boar.' Now that was a good story, drama and laughs, excellent."

  Lysanias tried hard to control his anger. Did this mean he had already been ridiculed in the market place, laughed at by all and sundry?

  "'Revolutionary Sculptor Shocks Funeral Party.' If you can come up with more stories like those I'll pay well for them."

  The man kept a straight face but Lysanias knew he was making fun of him. Sindron half-realised he should find some way of intervening to calm Lysanias down, but he was impressed. This poet's information network was good!

  "Perhaps you can tell me how your hunt for the murderer is going, how it feels to find yourself an heir and about to marry your uncle's widow at only eighteen, how you managed to upset so many city officials in so few short days."

  The weasel was openly laughing at him now, and his companions were joining in. Lysanias wasn't going to take this any more. He stood up.

  "You ... you ... " He couldn't find words for his disgust. "You watch out, that's all. I'm here to defend my uncle's honour."

  They laughed even louder and he realised how inadequate this was, especially coming from a stripling of his tender years and brief experience in the world.

  He stomped away, Sindron running after him with the heavy basket.

  "Let me know if you have any more good stories for me. Or want to hear what I know!" The news-teller shouted after him, to further roars of laughter from his colleagues. Sindron wondered if that could be an offer, Strynises' way of making amends.

  "Master, master, maybe he does know more than we can find out ourselves. Perhaps we should talk to him some more."

  By the time they reached the street, Lysanias had calmed down enough to accept Sindron’s argument. They went back. Sindron took the lead this time, apologising for his master's anger. Strynises made more effort this time to be understanding and offered that the least he could do as recompense for any offence caused was to pass on a few snippets of information he had garnered.

  "One thing that has puzzled me is all these scurrilous stories about Klereides. Now one of the beauties of satire is that it doesn’t have to be true but I do like to base it on something real and it was difficult to see how one man could have done all that. Brothel-hopping both sexes, illicit affairs with other citizens' wives, massive bets that went wrong, investments in cargoes that didn't pay off, extortion." Lysanias found himself getting angry again as the list went on, but Strynises' tone didn't sound as though he was maligning Klereides and he was looking very thoughtful, so Lysanias held it under control. He merely said, "What are you getting at?"

  "Let me finish. He was an old rogue, your uncle, no doubt about it, but it was sounding ridiculous, especially as, at one time, people referred to him as Lucky Klereides. So I checked back on some of the stories, and quite a few didn't appear to be true. Now you always find that with gossip, but these all came from the sort of sources I normally use, reliable sources. It looked as though someone was planting false stories to discredit him. Or to confuse. I even suspected he might be doing it himself to conceal what he was really up to, so I put someone onto following him."

  Sindron was getting caught up in this. "Did they find anything?" he blurted out.

  "A little. It looks as though he was meeting up with representatives of the radicals. Now he wouldn't want that widely known ..."

  "You didn't use that in your satire?" Lysanias was really agitated now, and Sindron felt concerned.

  "No, I was saving it till Kimon returned to throw into the political cauldron. By then, Klereides was dead." The news-teller looked disappointed that a great opportunity for causing uproar had been lost.

  "Another thing, that steward of his, he’s started making visits to the harbour, especially when there are ships in from Eastern countries, presumably under instruction.”

  “He is Persian,” offered Sindron, “possibly looking for news of home.”

  “Dangerous. Could give people the wrong idea. And there was something else. Klereides somehow managed to get away from my informant at certain times."

  Sindron brought him back to the point. "So you
think he was planting stories to hide something else?"

  "Yes, possibly, but I also think someone was putting around stories to discredit him. That's what I thought you'd want to know. I never found out who. That's all I can tell you."

  The thought came to Lysanias that, if the man had told him this out of a feeling of guilt, he might as well push it a little further. "If you do find out anything that would help me find my uncle's murderer, will you let me know?"

  "Don't rely on me to do your work for you, young man!" The news-teller had suddenly changed from the friendly sympathiser back to the rude hater of all men.

  "Just one thing," Lysanias pleaded. "Can you leave me out of your poems, at least until I've discovered who murdered my uncle? I'll never find out, if everyone in town knows every step I'm taking."

  "You have my word, young man. I normally charge a small fee for such a service but, as you've given me more than your fair share of stories already..."

  “Master. Eion!” Sindron whispered. And when Lysanias looked puzzled, out loud he asked, “Any news from Eion.”

  “No, all normal. At least that’s what the last ship in said.”

  “So that rumour of being…”

  “Over-run? A rumour.”

  “Good.” they said together, greatly relieved.

  He called them back. “Ah, I’m being less than honest there, but then I usually am. I admit someone did pay me to exaggerate that story a little. As the conquest of Eion was one of Kimon’s big achievements, they thought it would help deflate that image. My apologies if it has caused you any difficulties. I have to make a living. It could happen again.” The cynical smile gave Lysanias no reassurance.

  As they were leaving for the second time, Sindron remembered Niko. The dog growled but allowed Lysanias and Sindron to pick Niko up, and followed when they helped him back to his hovel of a home. Having to carry the basket of rope as well made the watchman a heavy burden but a mule-cart made the journey home easier. Niko's sighting of what they both agreed must have been the actual killer bending over Klereides confirmed their belief that it was indeed a murder and gave Lysanias’ mind a new determination

  "You wicked girl! What wife would defy the gods and ruin her husband's chances of reaching the underworld by hiding his death clothes and worshipping them in secret? How could you?" Makaria was in a flaring rage and all Philia could do was stand there and shiver.

  "I didn't mean anything wrong by it, mother of my husband," Philia whimpered.

  "Wrong? Wrong? You risk bringing the wrath of the gods down on the whole house and you didn't mean anything wrong?"

  "I'm sorry, I'll make amends, I'll pray to all the gods, I'll make an offering to Demeter and to Zeus of the dead, and ... "

  "You certainly will, my girl, you certainly will and straight away. What's more this slave-girl,… " and she turned to Nubis who was hovering, shivering herself, beside the doorway behind them, " ... this slave-girl is a slave of the household, she is not your personal chattel to involve in your devious and sacrilegious schemes."

  All Philia had done was ask Nubis to take a message to Lysanias' room. 'I have cloak' Philia had scratched on a flat stone and asked Nubis to leave it there when he was out, so that they wouldn't be alone together. How could it all have gone so wrong? "I shall see that this disobedient slave-girl is sold as soon as possible, unless she learns her place a lot more thoroughly!"

  At that Philia burst in. "Oh, no, Makaria, please don't sell Nubis, it wasn't her fault." Makaria stood black and bulky and grim-faced. "It was my offence, mother-in-law. I persuaded Nubis. I will atone." Philia looked down at the floor, not daring to look Makaria in the eye.

  She heard a deep sigh and a "Hmm". Then, "Very well. You girl!" Makaria called to Nubis. "Take this reminder of death to the bronze foundry in Armourer's Alley and see it is burned in the furnace. It should have been burned long before this!" Makaria thrust the bloody cloak at Nubis and pushed her out of the room with sharp prods from her long-nailed fingers.

  "As for you, independent-woman Philia, remember your promise! Off to the household shrine with you straight away! We'll go to the temple tomorrow. And we will not tell Lysanias about this sacrilege. Agreed?" Philia nodded.

  Now she had lost the cloak! What would Lysanias say? Whatever the old woman said, she would have to tell him. She still had the message-scroll, though. Perhaps that was more important, but how could she let him know?

  ***

  "Where are you going, young lady?" Sindron had intended it as a joke, to try and get on better terms with the slave-girl, but she responded with a start and tried to rush past him. He instinctively put out his right arm with the stick extended to block her. "Let me past, old man! I'm on an errand." The guilty look in her eyes told him he should find out more.

  While Lysanias performed mourning rituals at the household shrine, Sindron had gone to the market square to try for another talk with Lydos but his friend was nowhere in sight. Crowds surrounded Strynises as, somehow beating the official herald to it, he announced the dramatic news that Kimon’s troops had been refused transit through the territory of Corinth, the only route back to Athens. Everyone realised that it would make a serious difference to the way voting went at the ostracism meeting if they didn’t arrive back in time. Neither Phraston nor other senior aristocrats were in sight, doubtless conferring on what they could do. Perhaps that accounted for Lydos’ absence as well.

  He had sought out the merchant once again. He knew it was a vain hope but felt he had to go through the motions to set his conscience straight. He tried offering that he would influence Lysanias to make major investments in the future, if Hipponikos would release him from this small contract. "Too late, old friend, ship's already sailed." Why did that give him a thrill? His first cargo was now at sea! Surely, he should have been horrified that his embezzlement was now beyond retrieval, vulnerable to pirates, storms, shipwreck. "Shouldn't you be with it?" he asked, suddenly worried for his cargo's safety. "No. No need for that. Trustworthy captain, and I've an agent on board. It's quite safe. Don't you worry." He looked pityingly at Sindron as one would at any fearful novice.

  "Your friend’s ship has gone down though." He gestured at a board that announced a shipwreck. "He had a lot of money on that cargo. Still you win some, you lose some." The merchant seemed unconcerned but Sindron was sure Lydos would be unhappy about it. It really frightened him for his own investment. All the more reason to tell his master soon before anything drastic happened to it.

  He did get Hipponikos to agree, as a goodwill gesture, to have the captain of his next ship to Eion take a hurriedly written message from Lysanias to his mother saying they had arrived safely and were well. They felt he couldn’t really say more for fear of worrying her unduly.

  Sindron found the place that chariots stand waiting for customers and talked to a few drivers. No-one recalled a driver who used a grey horse or who dressed all in black but, then, no-one they knew worked during the hours of darkness. In fact, no-one did except by prior arrangement when the moon was full. So they thought the driver must be a private one. Sindron realised that, though the driver could be a key to the whole puzzle, there now seemed no way of finding him.

  Making his way home through the back alleys, he had seen the usually springy figure of Nubis shuffling towards him, head drooped and frowning, clutching a bundle.

  “It can't be that urgent." Sindron now grasped her upper arm in a firm grip.

  "No, please let me go, she'll beat me!"

  "No, she won't. You've a new master now. And who is 'she'? Philia?"

  "No, of course not! Philia's nice."

  "Who? The housekeeper? Makaria?" From the way Nubis tensed he knew the answer. And suddenly it all poured out.

  "I didn't mean to tell her, honest I didn't! I meant to do what the young mistress said, but Makaria threatens to sell me to a dockside brothel, if I don't tell her everything. I was taking a message. She caught me." She looked up pleadingly, widening her big dar
k eyes with the long black lashes, the picture of young innocence.

  Sindron knew this expression at least must be a studied act. He sighed. "Yes, yes, I understand but what did you tell her? And what's in the bundle?"

  "I told her that Philia had found the cloak.”

  Sindron couldn’t believe it. He dropped whatever friendliness and fatherliness had been in his tone. "Right, open the bundle!" She responded, as a slave must to a direct order, placing the bundle down and kneeling to unwrap it. "Klereides' cloak! The actual cloak!" Sindron gasped, trying hard to control his excitement. "Not destroyed! This is marvellous. Quick, open it out. Is there anything in it? A scroll?"

  They quickly but carefully pulled the cloak open where it was stuck together with dried blood, but there was no scroll. The droop of his features betrayed his disappointment but he recalled where they were. "Quick, roll it up again."

  His heart was thumping as he glanced up and down the alley. Sindron wasn't sure what to do. Perhaps he could slip in through the secret door and lock the cloak in the chest but, if the bundle didn't reach the foundry and get burned, Makaria might find out.

  "Keep an eye on that end of the alley, girl! I've got an idea." He turned his back to her facing the other way. He had to remove his cloak to get his tunic off from under it and he didn't want the girl to see that she and the excitement were capable of arousing a man of his sober years. He blushed as he re-wrapped his cloak around him, just in time as a slave with a basket on his humped back turned the corner towards them.

  "Quickly, turn round, give me the bloody cloak, don't let anyone see, and put this tunic in its place." He kept his voice low as he slipped Klereides’ cloak inside his cloak.

  With the tunic stuffed inside the cloth bundle, Sindron instructed Nubis to make sure she arranged to throw it into the furnace herself and to make sure they knew where it had come from.

  "Oh, they all know me,” she said, smiling. “They always make saucy remarks when I go in and I do them my wiggle." She giggled, did the wiggle, and glanced up at Sindron to see if she had succeeded in embarrassing him. She had, but he managed to conceal it.