by Roger Hudson
***
"What do you think they'll do to restore order?" Sindron asked in a low voice.
"Nearly all the generals are here today. They’re all scared of civil war. They'll just demand military discipline. After all, we're all soldiers."
"What, do a deal between them, you mean?" Sindron looked at Themistokles and saw that the old man was suddenly confused, concerned. In the euphoria of the vote against Kimon, he must have forgotten that the Board of Generals was still divided politically. "Oh, no! They might at that. The idiots could sell out all we've gained. Better fight it out than that. We must outnumber them today. We’d win."
But at what cost thought Sindron, astonished at the old statesman’s reckless attitude.
Then the herald's cry reached them. For his voice to be that loud, he must be speaking through a bull-roarer, used to amplify the voices of the gods in dramatic presentations.
"Military discipline. Military discipline. All citizens twenty to fifty years old to assemble in military units. Looting will be severely dealt with. By order of all the generals."
It was certainly effective. The sounds of fighting in the market square stopped, though they could still hear shouting from further away, and, as Sindron propped himself up higher to look out, he could see the generals, Kimon and Myronides, Ariston and Perikles, and the others, standing shoulder to shoulder on the platform with the senior magistrates, all stern-faced. Themistokles sat up beside him. "By the gods, they have done a deal. That's why they took so long." Themistokles looked depressed, almost defeated. And old.
The sky began to darken outside, and those who could still walk made their way to the assembly points. There were people out there lying on the square, some completely still, others writhing and moaning, but they didn't venture out to see if they could help. They both knew what can happen in a violent riot to people who are too helpful or too inquisitive, and this might just be a lull in the storm.
Having passed through danger together, it felt almost as though they were old friends, comrades in adversity, and Sindron started to recall his memories of the great days of Salamis and Plataea. "I offered to take an oar, you know," he said, "but they turned me down."
"Ah yes, we were too proud to let slaves row for us in those days," replied Themistokles reminiscently.
Sindron knew he would never have this opportunity again, so he took the opportunity to ask Themistokles his side of the story and was surprised the great man was so open. Of course he had been dealing with the Persians, he said. Someone had to explore the possibility of a truce but the rich men of the Areopagos, prompted by Kimon and his allies, had used it as an excuse to hound him out of the city and, with their agents after him, where else could he find safe refuge but in Persia? With Perikles too young, he’d left Ephialtes in charge of the radical element but the man had proved too weak to stand up to Kimon’s party until Themistokles’ machinations, using Persian money to foment rebellion in Sparta, had paid off. Sindron was amazed how much Themistokles claimed to have been behind, even from exile.
Could he really have engineered all this, calculated in advance the outcome of all these wily manoeuvres? This riot, clearly he hadn’t anticipated that. Sindron doubted that one old man, forced into disguise and to scuttle from one hiding place to another, could really change history, however cunning he might be. But then he had done it before in his life and Sindron recalled his long-standing admiration for the man’s achievements at the time of the Persian invasion.
The politician evidently had dreams too. He appeared to hope that, now in power, the radicals could clear his name, revoke the death sentence on him, and restore him to leadership. Sindron felt a little sad that this old man of seventy, older than himself, however great he once was, still dreamed of a comeback, could not give up and let a new generation get on with it.
"This riot. What if Kimon's men now have the upper hand and take over again?"
"No risk of that. Kimon's hoplites won't be here till tomorrow at the earliest.” He actually giggled at his own cleverness in delaying them. “Without them, we've got enough able men to handle things. Don't worry."
Could he really be that confident? What would happen when four thousand fully-armed hoplites did reach the city and discovered that their hero had been exiled in their absence? What then? But Sindron left the old man to his dreams. The fighting seemed to have quietened down and he hoped that Lysanias had managed to keep out of trouble. It would be too ridiculous, after all that had happened, if the boy got himself killed in a street riot.
***
At the temple site, Lysanias discovered that the workers had placed a canvas over two piles of building stones to form a shaded area for their meal breaks. As luck would have it, no-one else was using it as a hiding place. He lowered the gently-crying girl to the ground, and knelt over her, smoothing her hair back from her brow. She stopped crying and tried a smile.
"Philia, show me where it hurts most." He must find out if she had any serious injuries. He could see a nasty scratch and grazes on her left arm that ought to be washed and dressed but nothing serious. Lost in the worry and pain, she pulled up her gown to reveal her legs. Her knees were bloody, as was the whole side of her left leg, but no deep cuts. He felt her thigh delicately to check for broken bones. Only then did he realise what he was doing, and he was sure she realised too. He blushed, and pulled her gown down to cover her legs again.
"Philia, you must tell me why you were alone." She told him that Makaria and the groom and cart had disappeared, and she had no idea where. That Glykera had been with her but they had been separated. She hoped Glykera was alright but fear for herself and for Lysanias pushed that concern aside.
"I'll try to see if Glykera has taken refuge in the Temple," Lysanias said. "You'll be safe here. I won't be long."
Terror gave the girl strength. He couldn’t desert her. She couldn’t face being alone again with all those violent men. She suddenly lifted herself, threw her arms round his neck, pulled him down and clung to him fiercely. He heard running feet, and the shouts of men. He thought he heard, "I'm sure he ran up this way." Then another voice, shouting, "Order is being restored. Anyone in hiding, it is safe to come out now." Somehow it didn’t sound like a herald's announcement and the voice sounded strangely familiar. It was followed by a laugh. Could it be that someone was hunting him? After those spears came so close, he could believe anything.
He put his hand over Philia's mouth, in case she said something. They crouched low, hearts beating, tense, aware of their closeness, not daring to utter a sound till the men had passed. This was cowardly, hiding from the fight. He whispered, insistently, "Philia, I must see if Glykera's safe." He kissed Philia's grazed forehead to try to calm her.
"You could be killed. We could both be killed." It came out slurred from lips she couldn't fully control. He knew it was true. If this was civil war, everyone was at risk.
She turned her face to his, her eyes still wet with tears, sad, desperate, lonely. He kissed those poor bruised lips. She winced slightly, then returned the kiss. The comfort and the release that at least beautiful Philia was safe and in his arms was so great, that Lysanias relaxed as her hands stroked his hair and his shoulders, and he felt the sexual attraction grow.
"No, we mustn't do this, Philia. We'll be married soon." But he found that his hand was fondling her soft round buttocks and then her thigh where her gown had rucked up and then inside her gown and over the buttocks again, and her hand was exploring similar regions on his body. The stress and tension they had just been through lent fire to their ardour and all thought of other people and the outside world was lost in the careless, all-excluding twoness of sexual passion.
Philia looked up at him and smiled contentedly, though one eye was puffed up and her mouth was very much awry with bruising. "Mmm, Lysanias."
"Yes, beautiful Philia," he murmured back, dreamily.
"Don't kiss me again. It hurts." She tried to laugh, but her bruises wouldn't let her.
More running feet, but again they passed by. Then, in the distance, they heard the herald calling for men over twenty to assemble. He made to rise but she gripped him tight. "That's not you. You're only eighteen."
***
"Order is being restored. Please return to your homes. Looters will be arrested. This is a joint decision of all factions."
Looking out, Sindron could see that groups of men had started marching in different directions away from the assembly area. They were in ordinary clothes but they were armed. The leader of each shouted the message as he went and it seemed to echo from all over the square.
A group was approaching. The gruff voice boomed the message. "I think I know that voice," Sindron said. Leaving his companion, he slipped over to look out between the columns. Yes, it was that awful young stonemason. Still, from what Lysanias said, this man was well in with the radicals. It could be the only chance of getting Themistokles away to safety. He stepped out and beckoned Stephanos over and whispered to him. Stephanos halted his squad and came into the colonnade.
"Is that Lysanias' slave? Good fight, eh? Gave them a bloody nose. Made up for last night."
"Looks like they weren't the only ones hurt."
"Yes, well, we got a few injured as well, but we still outnumber them." When Sindron indicated Themistokles, his tone changed to fear for the aged politician. "Silly old fool,” he muttered to himself angrily, and to Themistokles, “Why didn't you stay hidden, sir?"
Themistokles' hood was pushed back enough to make out his face, though in the gathering dusk that didn't reveal much. "I couldn't stay away when Kimon was getting what he deserves, could I?" he grinned and giggled, he actually giggled.
Stephanos quickly told them what had happened. The rioting had scared the leaders on both sides, and the poor had been looting shops and homes during the meeting.
"They made a deal. Both sides work together to stop the chaos, end the violence and looting. Didn't want to call a curfew and admit order had broken down. So joint patrols, workers and aristos ...”
Themistokles became more and more agitated. "What concessions have they made? The fools! Have they given it all away? All we gained? This is terrible! You must take me to them!"
Stephanos looked concerned now. "Lower your voice, sir,” he said, his sense of respect returning. “And please pull that hood over. My deputy is one of them. If they recognise you..." The sound of running feet told them that his deputy, coming into the colonnade to see what the delay was, had indeed recognised Themistokles and gone to report it.
"Quick, I'll try to get you to Perikles' house, but we'll have to run." He called to someone else to take over the squad and set off at a trot, that, surprisingly for a man of his age, the old politician managed to keep up with.
Sindron breathed a sigh of relief. At least the problem was off his hands now.
He slipped into the shadows and made his way in the direction of Inner Keramikos and home, hoping he wouldn’t meet any looters or young men eager to take their anger out on someone.
***
Sindron came across Glykera wandering, staggering, turning first this way, then that. As he approached her she seemed dazed. Her eyes looked right through him.
Sindron called out, "Glykera, are you all right?" He knew she wasn’t. Her gown was dirty and torn, she limped with only one sandal, and now it was clear that her pendant and its chain were missing. Up close now, he said, as gently as he could. "What happened to you?"
He still wasn't sure if she recognised him. "Don't worry about me. Look for my mistress. Oh, my poor mistress," she wailed. "She's so pretty and so young. Oh ...”
It didn't take much imagination to guess what had happened to Glykera, or, from that, to imagine the fate that might have befallen Philia. But the fact that all Glykera could worry about was Philia said something about the woman’s loyalty, or something about the way slavery and subservience can totally erase a slave’s own self-awareness.
Sindron took Glykera in his arms, there on the street, amazing himself. He felt her shaking gradually subside and he said, "Glykera, think of yourself for once. The mistress will be safe and sound. You're here now. You're the one that matters." Glykera looked up into his eyes, with wonder more than gratitude, suddenly aware that he was expressing concern and care – for her! Somehow Sindron knew he had taken on responsibility for protecting this woman, who he discovered he did care for quite deeply.
***
When Lysanias and Philia recognised the very different shapes of Sindron and Glykera silhouetted against the walls of houses in the evening light, they called out.
Relief that all were safe was tangible. The women forgot all about the men to sympathise and croon over one another's hurts, as though they were mother and daughter rather than slave and mistress.
Lysanias and Sindron didn’t show their feelings so openly, hiding it in mutual concern for the women, worry about the chances of the fragile truce holding and about how far the looting had stretched beyond the square. From there, however agitated still, it took everyone’s mind off things to recount their adventures and discoveries of the day.
Philia found a way of letting them know of Makaria's insistence that she would do nothing to hurt her son, though, for Lysanias, that had a strange ring, knowing the way his grandmother had forced his own father, her younger son, to leave Athens. Philia told, too, her own belief that Makaria had been trying to win her support for whatever underhand activity she might have been involved in. The pieces still didn’t fit together and there were many more of them now.
On top of all that, he told Sindron of his promise to Stephanos. The old slave felt very uncomfortable about that degree of commitment to one side in the political turmoil and said so, but, as a loyal slave, he accepted it and agreed to give it thought, though,
CHAPTER 15
The arguments started as soon as they met Otanes coming down the main street through Inner Keramikos to look for them with the cart and the groom. They hardly allowed him time to report that looting had not extended as far as the house and that the rest of the household were safe with only one slave injured at all.
Lysanias berated the groom for deserting his young mistress. The groom wailed that he had only obeyed orders from his old mistress. With all the crowds in the streets, and the panic, there was no way they could have driven the cart around looking for Philia and Glykera. All he could do was get Makaria and the cart home as fast as he could.
"So why did none of the men venture out again to search?"
It was Otanes who pleaded now, offended at the slur on his courage. "Master, you were there, you saw what it was like! I'd have needed full armour and a sword to fight my way through."
So it emerged that Otanes had been in the city centre. With that, Sindron remembered where he had last seen Makaria and Otanes and, back at the house, challenged them with the fact. Both master and slave, Lysanias and Sindron, were engaged emotionally now, protecting their women, and their anger was up. It was difficult not to let their suspicion, even dislike, of Otanes as a Persian fuel their anger.
Dismissing the groom, Lysanias ordered Makaria and Otanes to accompany them to Otanes' room, where they made him take out all the scrolls, open them up on his bed, and turn round the picture so that the lease was visible.
"And where is Philia's dowry?" It was a demand rather than a question. Makaria's eyes flicked from side to side like a trapped rat, but Otanes, realising he couldn’t conceal any more, put a bold front on it.
"It's here, master. All here." From another small chest, Otanes produced a large leather bag of silver coin. In the chest could be seen gold and silver statuettes and trinkets, and a small pile of precious jewellery.
"So that's why you were in such a hurry to get back! To protect all that!" The contempt in Sindron’s voice was sharp and clear. They must have used the cart to return from the bank with the dowry and then found it impossible to get back into the centre because of the riot.
The expressions on Makaria’s and Otanes’ faces confirmed Sindron’s guess. They would have to tell the truth. Lysanias and Sindron hounded for explanations and at last they got them.
It appeared that Klereides had left Philia's dowry in Makaria's safe-keeping, because legally it remained Philia's and went with her, if she ever returned to her father's custody. After her husband's death during the Persian invasion, and with Klereides off with the army, Makaria had kept the family going by building up the trade from the weaving room, making cloaks and blankets to aid the war effort, and running the farm through the steward there.
Then Klereides' had the good luck to meet up with Hermon and become his patron. With the income from the business, there was no need any more for the weaving room to do more than supply household needs, but Klereides had not objected when she had kept it up. The proceeds had built up and Makaria had looked for ways to invest as a safeguard against her son’s extravagance.
Klereides had brought Otanes back from the war. She and the Persian had struck up a friendship, and he had helped her find methods of obtaining interest on the money she was saving.
Then the opportunity to acquire the lease of the foundry had arisen, which offered profits sufficient to secure her old age and even save the family, if Klereides lost all their money. There wasn't enough cash immediately available, so they had persuaded Phraston to accept Philia's dowry as security against a loan to make up the difference. They had been close to redeeming it when Klereides had died.
Makaria hadn't meant any harm, she declared. Why were women expected to slave and toil to keep a household going and never allowed to enjoy any of the benefits, always totally dependent on men? During the war, women had shown what they could do and, now it was over, they were forced to be appendages and ornaments, worse than slaves.
