by Roger Hudson
***
Philia was pleased with herself. At last she felt she was gaining ground in the struggle against Makaria. Her appeals to the gods must be bearing fruit.
I am the mistress of this house, she thought. I will see what the rest of it is like. Strange that, though she was Klereides' wife, she had never seen inside his personal room.
When she entered, stepping quietly despite her new bravado. She had overheard the slaves whispering and sniggering about the wall decorations and what if they hadn’t been hidden for the funeral. She was shocked by what she saw when she lifted the respectable hangings to look underneath. Then she realised these outrageous scenes were exactly the sort of thing she would have expected Curly to squander his money on, while her room had only a couple of tapestries and one rug. But maybe she was being unfair to her dead husband. All this had probably been done before Klereides even started negotiating with her father to marry her.
"Mistress," someone whispered, and she spun round. It was only old Sindron, standing in the doorway to the inner room, looking tired and weary. "Mistress, are you familiar with Klereides' writing?" Somehow the mundane question after her adventures of the day made Philia laugh out loud. The bloodstained scroll, spread out in the open, gave her a start, but the wax tablet quickly intrigued her.
Before they married, Klereides had sent her some lovely letters, full of affection and promises of a rosy life in Athens, but that was ink and this was scratches on wax.
"Yes, that could be his writing, but it's difficult to tell, it's all so smudged."
Sindron read out some of the clearest phrases and asked if she knew what Klereides meant by them.
"Well-wishes on success of colony…exciting challenges in new enterprise…political developments bring perils and possibilities…need for support in this dynamic time…if Lysanias can be spared…will not regret it…junior role at first…someone close I can trust…urgent need…passage paid…Athena and gods of power protect…brotherly affection…Klereides."
So Curly had thought he was in danger. Lysanias must be right in suspecting foul play. His love letters had had this same way of making things sound exciting and dramatic. Philia mentioned this to Sindron.
"So it does sound like the way he might have put things. Good. But can you think why he felt he had no one he could trust?"
"Sorry, Sindron. He never confided in me about his business."
Suddenly Philia remembered Klereides' nightmares. She hadn’t told Sindron about them yet. She outlined the things she could remember but couldn’t suggest what he might have been afraid of.
"Philia! Philia!" The high-pitched but musical female voice startled Sindron. Philia laughed. "Don’t panic, Sindron, it's only Nubis."
"Makaria wants to talk to you, Philia." She winked at Philia. "I won’t tell her you were in the master's room with this naughty old man."
Sindron actually blushed. "There was one more question, mistress," hastened Sindron, holding back the hangings to reveal the lines of the cupboard door. "You wouldn't know how to open this wall cupboard, would you?"
"Don't be silly, Sindron. He wouldn't tell me anything like that."
"Oh, that," put in Nubis. "You just take this iron rod here in this pocket in the end of the couch, and you slip it in this hole in the wall and press. See, it opens. "
Philia and Sindron stared as she did it. So Nubis' relationship with Klereides had been more than that of serving girl and dancing girl to master, they both thought, though Philia's reflections were more bitter. Nubis actually knew more of Philia's husband’s secrets than she did herself.
Nubis realised how much she had given away. "Uh, I saw him open it once. When I was bringing him some food and wine," she muttered, but no one believed her and the atmosphere between the two young women was icy as they left.
The gods work in mysterious ways, Sindron thought as he eased the cupboard door wide open. Yes, a few scrolls. There was no will, but he found Klereides' contract with Hermon. The terms did look heavily weighted in Klereides' favour, though he had obligations as well and provided much of the capital, but maybe, from the foreign businessman's point of view, they could be regarded as extortionate.
However, what really engaged Sindron's attention was the seal at the bottom, a porpoise riding a wave, exactly the same as the seal on the bloodstained message scroll, alongside another seal with an olive tree and a plough. That must be Klereides' family seal. So it was Hermon who had sent the message summoning Klereides to his death, however good the shipbuilder might be at feigning innocence. Sindron now knew he had been right all along.
CHAPTER 11
Lysanias had realised this was an opportunity he might never have again, to check whether there were any signs of bloodstained feet leaving the scene of his uncle's murder.
He was dressed as a workman; he even still had his carpenter's leather tool strap round his shoulder. He was sure he would look like a shipyard worker going about his business.
He found the ship, though with riggers and labourers busy installing the equipment and accessories it looked very different. The ship must have passed the inspection. The replacement amphora was no longer there, presumably now installed in the vessel but he finally located the Hermes' staff emblem. This must be the spot.
Now how to examine the ground leading to the fence? A quick glance round to ensure no-one was looking in his direction and he ducked under the horizontal pole, grasped the upright and slid down. At least the walkway and platforms cast shadows down here. Hopefully he would be out of sight and not noticed.
Is this what the murderer would have done? Or would he have jumped down? Risky that, in the dark. Presumably he would have taken the quickest route to the fence and climbed over. The soil was baked hard, so no chance of an imprint of a foot, but maybe the sparse, sun-bleached grass would show something.
The specks of red were not big, but to his eager eyes they stood out, at pace sized intervals, someone striding with long legs towards...
"Hey you down there! What do you think you're doing?"
Lysanias froze, recognising the voice. Discovered by Philebos the overseer! Then his head cleared. He wasn’t a worker. His uncle had been murdered here, and Philebos had been responsible for some sort of cover up over the cut ropes. Right, we'll see who’s guilty now!
"Coming, overseer! Just relieving myself," he called up, summoning a ready excuse, made his way back. Philebos had turned to supervise the work. Lysanias composed himself and put on his best accent. “Ah, Philebos, the very man I wanted to talk to." The overseer span round.
"Who? What? I didn't ask for any carpenters to work here this afternoon."
Lysanias noted with satisfaction that his costume evidently did provide an effective disguise. Then Philebos studied his face and recognition dawned.
"Lysanias, my dear sir." Lysanias admired the man's self-control. "There really is no need for this subterfuge. Surely you could have come to me directly, if you were seeking more information about the yard. Perhaps I can help you now?"
"Yes, indeed, Philebos. But perhaps not just here, eh?"
Drawing Philebos to a position where they could not be overheard, Lysanias charged straight into the attack with his prepared question. "Why did you substitute a badly frayed old rope for the knife-severed one that actually held the amphora that killed my uncle?"
"That's not true." Philebos tried to bluster it out. "The actual rope is in the store yard. The rigger who took it down will tell you ...”
Lysanias allowed himself a knowing smile at the word 'rigger', and a look of awareness, even alarm flashed into the overseer's eyes, and his voice tailed off. He had jumped to the wrong conclusion, as Lysanias had hoped.
"He told you! The rigger told you, didn't he? Why I'll ...
Lysanias held the smile and gave the slightest of nods, as though agreeing that the rigger had told him. This confession was much more substantial than speculation about the ropes.
"I'm sure you will, Phil
ebos. But I don't think it will help now, do you?"
Lysanias wasn't sure how long he could retain this cool, authoritative pose, but he needn't have worried. The stern, officious overseer suddenly melted into a fawning, apologetic suppliant.
"Ah, you see, citizen Lysanias ... You must realise ... Ah, when I explain ... " The false starts spoke more than a thousand words.”When a death like this occurs in a shipyard ... an unnatural death in mysterious circumstances. Yes, I will admit they were mysterious. Well, ah, a great deal could be at stake. The future of the yard. Hermon must have hinted ...”
"Are you saying Hermon was involved in this deception?"
That hit him. "Ah, no, no, not exactly. I, ah, take full responsibility. You see, the yard is my responsibility, safety, the workforce, security from intru ..." The overseer rushed on with a flow of words, trying to cover up that near slip. Had he been going to say ‘intruders’? Lysanias was sure he had. That could admit to the possibility of a murderous agent.
"I had to do something, you see. To placate the city officials, to avoid upsetting the workmen, to appease the gods and retain their favour for the shipyard and its ships. I saw the cut ends of the rope and realised it must be deliberate but, for the sake of the yard, I had to make it look like an accident, you understand…?" The tone was almost plaintive.
"I understand that a murder may have been committed, a murder of a prominent citizen, and you have personally taken steps to hide this fact from his family, from the authorities and from the city." The overseer seemed to shrink under the onslaught.
Then Lysanias struck again. "Can I ask where you were on the night of the murder?"
"Now, Citizen Lysanias, I really don't think there's anything to be gained by accusing me ...” His voice ground to a halt. Lysanias waited. The man pulled himself up and braced his shoulders. "At the time the watchman says the tragic event happened, I was rising and breaking my fast prior to a meeting in the city offices at the harbour with the naval officials." So he did have an alibi, but one dependent on his family and slaves, presumably.
"But you didn't go to the meeting?"
"Yes, of course I did. However, a messenger came there from the yard, before we had much business completed, and I rushed down here straight away to see if anything could be done for your poor uncle."
Lysanias didn't believe that for an instant, but, if a messenger was sent straight away and Philebos was at an office on the other side of the Peiraeos harbour when he arrived, that would make it very difficult for Philebos to have carried out the murder himself, though maybe not impossible. Certainly not impossible for an agent of his to have done it, that 'intruder' he nearly mentioned.
"You claim you don’t know who cut the rope?"
"I’ve no idea." His face was stiff, expressionless, no sign whether this was truth or lie.
"No suspicions?"
"No. Uh, I’m told Klereides had enemies. So rumour says."
"Thank you Philebos. You have been most helpful. I may wish to question you again. Of course, you may be required to vouch for your behaviour in a court of law at the appropriate time."
"Citizen Lysanias, please think about the future of the shipyard, all our livelihoods ... before you do … anything rash ...”
Lysanias paced away along the walkway. He was sure the man was lying but what about? He must be covering up for some other reason, so had he organised it all or was he covering up for Hermon? That seemed much more likely but how could he be sure.
The long trek uphill back to the city was tough after all the excitement, and he was glad to return to where all he had to concentrate on was the manual work in hand, as he helped Stephanos and Lampon get the marble slabs fixed into position.
***
Philia entered Makaria's room quietly and carefully. Makaria was reclining on a couch. She gestured to Philia to take a stool beside her, so that Philia was aware that, once again, she was being looked down on. The room was even more simply furnished than Philia's own. One tapestry of the goddess Hera, a soft rug on the floor, a cypress chest and cupboard. The scents of herbs, basil and thyme, filled the air.
"My child, I think it is perhaps time to take your training in household management a little further."
"Mother-in-law, I am not a child. I am a wife and widow, and I would be grateful if you would address me by name." Philia tried to be forceful rather than angry but there was a slight quaver in her voice.
"Of course, my dear, a slip of the tongue," Makaria conceded instantly. “You are still very young, and I admit I may have been a trifle over-protective in the past. My son, you understand, was worried about the perils that might assault a young wife, so inexperienced and beautiful, in the turmoil of temple activities and festival preparations."
"Surely that was my sacred duty, Makaria! How dare you keep me from it?"
Makaria was consoling. "Ah, yes, my dear. Perhaps it was an error of judgement, but we will start to correct things after our day at your husband's tomb. I know the priestesses personally." Philia felt only slightly mollified.
Makaria continued, "Now, my dear, I detect from your attitude towards me that you may have jumped to certain conclusions from things you may have seen or heard today. I feel I should put your mind at rest."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Makaria." Philia decided that, for the moment, she would keep this weapon to herself.
"The Persians, they have this technique of flesh manipulation, body massage, hands on flesh, squeezing and pummelling. It is extremely relaxing, does wonders for my headaches. You understand, Otanes, he knows this technique and, when my headaches are really bad, I, ah, take advantage of this ability. Hmmm?"
Philia had listened attentively but allowed a slight smile to remain on her lips, and an expression of partial disbelief to show in her eyes. But she nodded to indicate she understood. She certainly had to hand it to the old crow; it was a magnificent cover story. At least they both knew where they stood now, and Makaria seemed to be asking at least that Philia not tell anyone else. Clearly the inauguration into city ways was the reward. So be it.
"May I ask one question, mother-in-law? Is it true that some women do own property and investments in their own right, even though the laws forbid this?"
Makaria's mouth came open and stayed that way, as Philia completed her speech. Clearly this was a touchy point. Philia's guess had been correct about who really leased that foundry.
"Ah, well, I think that is a matter for talking about when we are away from the house, if you don't mind, Philia. But we will, we will. I must say you are proving a very sharp young thing. Maybe you could handle a husband yet."
***
Lysanias parted from Stephanos outside Aspasia's front door. He found it easy to brush off Stephanos’ suggestion that he work with them tomorrow. "Got to do my duty at my uncle’s tomb,” he said truthfully. Stephanos looked disappointed. "You really are overdoing this mourning thing,” he muttered. Lysanias sensed that Stephanos now valued him as a friend and work colleague, so he lied about attending a meeting of the radicals the following day and acknowledged a rallying point if there was a takeover attempt. He really couldn’t manage all these things, not if he was going to get any nearer to prosecuting his uncle’s killer. He nearly forgot to ask Stephanos if he would try to locate the rigger for him.
Citizens, slaves and foreigners passed him, going about their business. Lysanias didn't notice them. It was all so complex. The political turmoil. The whole business world of contracts and tenders and loans and investments and gifts – or were they bribes? Who could help him understand it all? Then the thought: Aspasia! She seemed to know a lot and she had said she would tell him. She had said come back another day, but he needed to know now.
His mind made up, Lysanias almost ran back to her house, his tool bag jogging against his side.
"Forgotten some tools, young sir?" The black slave who answered the door looked at him, his big eyes declaring that workers didn't come to this house excep
t to do work.
"No, the mistress asked me to call and see her. Is she available?" Perhaps that was the wrong word, for he immediately felt embarrassed, but it was said now.
"Wait here. I will see." The black face was expressionless again.
Outside in the gathering dusk, Lysanias realised he was in a well-used street, his own house not all that far away, anyone passing might see and recognise him. He huddled in close to the portico, keeping his face turned towards the doorway.
The slave showed him to Aspasia's bedchamber.
"Ah, it's the Adonis of the saw and chisel, "Aspasia purred, reclining on the blue bed, fanning herself with a lacy pale green fan. “I thought I told you I had a dinner party this evening."
Her gown was arranged to reveal rather more of her legs than he had seen before, and he glanced away embarrassed and said to the statue of Aphrodite, which revealed even more, "Yes, but I had to know, you see ...
"Of course, you did." She purred, and rose slinkily from the bed in one smooth movement. "All that young virginity burning to get loose, of course you did."
"No, I don't mean that ...
As she approached him, her nose wrinkled and he realised he hadn't bathed after all the sweat of the day. But her smile widened appreciatively, as she sniffed fully. "Now that's what I call a man's smell! They come in here, smelling of scented oils and perfumes, like the owner of a fragrance shop. But this ... aaah!" She had lifted his arm and was actually sniffing the armpit and licking him.
"Aaah, that salty taste of honest toil."
Lysanias was confused. What could he do now? "You don't understand. I want to know about the crooked business you mentioned, and what goes on ... You told me you would ...
"Ah, yes," She was dreamy-eyed now, lost in the sensual pleasure of smelling and tasting and feeling him. She raised his hand and placed it against her cheek. Her eyes closed and she stroked his hand down onto her neck and on down into the top of her gown and onto and round her breast.
