by Roger Hudson
A whole store of bitterness spilled out. Lysanias couldn't help seeing the justice of her viewpoint, but he didn't feel able to excuse her behaviour. Philia, who had crept closer after her scratches and bruises were cleaned and dressed, found herself feeling a degree of sympathy for the old woman that she would never have expected. She remembered the lessons about women's status, about her own status, she had learned earlier that day.
"You vouch for all this, Otanes?" In a way, Lysanias felt relieved. It looked as though he might not have to accuse Makaria of complicity in Klereides' murder.
"Yes, master. The mistress awarded me a percentage of profits. I assure you there was never any ill intent."
Sindron could see that the only difference from his own embezzlement in using Lysanias funds to invest in cargo without permission was one of scale, though he still could not forgive himself for what he had done. It was still wrong.
Lysanias knew he could not let it rest there.
"What about the false accounts?"
"No false accounts, master." Otanes was standing on his dignity now. He might have embezzled but he had done it in an honest and businesslike way. Sindron smiled wryly to himself at the hypocrisy. "Every obol is recorded here, except for the value of the dowry. That is shown only in the bank's accounts."
"No, the false account at the bank. Klereides' main account," Lysanias insisted. "It has been completely re-written and recently. Sindron is sure."
Both culprits looked genuinely shocked to be accused of what must be a major fraud. They glanced at one another, to assure themselves that the other wasn't involved. Then Makaria answered, modulating the normal harshness out of her voice.
"No, Lysanias, I'm sure you're wrong. Phraston would never do a thing like that. Why should he, a man in his position?"
Otanes spoke, more to Makaria than to Lysanias. "Do you think they could want to cover up Klereides' losses for some reason?"
"No, why should they, it’s none of their business," she retorted.
"Unless what they told us about his debts wasn't true!"
"But I've been contributing money to cover those, when Lydos said it was particularly bad!" Whatever the truth of that, this argument between the two did seem to show that they really didn't know about any falsified accounts and it did do Makaria some credit that she had been prepared to make sacrifices to keep the family afloat. But the opulence of Klereides’ possessions and the size of the household belied the whole idea of Klereides being seriously in debt, as did Hermon’s evident great respect for the man.
Sindron jumped in. "So you dealt with Lydos more than Phraston? Took his word?"
"Of course, he handles all the bank's day-to-day business." Makaria answered, sounding herself like a woman of business. "You can never get hold of Phraston. Too busy with politics."
Lysanias and Sindron exchanged a significant glance. It felt as though they were narrowing down on someone who had been doing wrong, who might have a motive for killing Klereides.
Lysanias challenged, "Do you think either of them would have a reason to have uncle killed?"
"Is that what this is all about? You still think he was murdered?" A tone of ridicule crept into Makaria's voice.
Sindron answered, before Lysanias anger could take him. "I assure you, mistress, that we have found quite enough proof that his death was not an accident, that it was deliberate and that a human agent caused it."
"And I would point out that, in a case of unnatural death, it is the duty of all close family members to seek revenge, or the vengeful spirits will pursue them as fiercely as they do the murderer," Lysanias added firmly, conviction blazing from his eyes.
Their faces froze. Makaria sat like a statue, white-faced. The silence lengthened. Philia, looking on from the doorway, wondered at the drama of it all, a bit like that play Curly took her to where she hadn't understood the meaning but had felt the tension of the conflicts.
Sindron continued. "We have even wondered why you took such pains to try to ensure that the bloodstained cloak was destroyed, if you weren't afraid it might provide evidence."
"Nonsense!" It was an instinctive response from Makaria, but it wasn't an answer. Before Sindron could respond, another voice slipped in.
"She was expecting a messenger with bad news that morning. She kept looking towards the door." Now Philia had said it, she suddenly felt all eyes on her and shrank back a little but then, remembering her new status, stepped forward again.
Otanes stepped in, perhaps to protect Makaria. "I think I can answer that. The mistress was expecting Klereides back with bad news about the state of the family's finances. Lydos had told us that things were getting bad. She thought the message in the night must have been from a man Klereides used to gamble heavily with demanding payment."
It sounded plausible but how could they verify it?
"What about the cloak, then?" Philia was determined to help to put the old gorgon in her place even if she too felt she was an oppressed woman.
Makaria nearly burst into tears. "I just had to get rid of the horrible thing! How could he? Spend all our money and then get himself killed. Landing everything on me again! I couldn't stand it!" Great sobs came out and her shoulders shook. It seemed real.
There was an embarrassed silence. Then, more gently, Lysanias said, "You haven't answered my question. About Phraston and Lydos having any reason to kill your son."
Otanes stood with a comforting hand on her shoulder, but left Makaria to answer, as she recovered herself. "No, I don't think so," she sniffed.
"I concur with the mistress,” Otanes agreed. “If they can create false accounts and keep whatever they were doing from Klereides, why would they need to resort to violence?"
"What if Klereides had found out?" Lysanias threw it at them.
"Or was on the point of finding out, master." Sindron suggested.
"Precisely."
Lysanias looked at Makaria and Otanes as though somehow they could supply the answer to the riddle of Klereides' death, but neither of them could envisage that either Phraston or Lydos would even consider such a deed. Lysanias had become more cynical in his short stay in Athens. He found he could believe it, but, in his general disillusionment at the deceit and deception he had encountered in Athens, he could believe almost anything. He asked why Otanes had been visiting the harbour recently. Merely trying to obtain news of his family, the Persian assured them, on his own initiative, though Sindron was not sure whether this was believable, and Makaria looked surprised.
Lysanias recalled fleetingly that he should be seeking news of his own family but they had to push on. He wondered why they were going down these lines at all. Lysanias knew from Philebos that it was the naval officials, the Men of Poseidon, who had set up the events that had resulted in Klereides' death.
Then Otanes asked, "Master, may I contribute? The old master’s last dinner party, the one for government officials, I overheard heated conversations at one point. From outside the door, you understand. The words weren’t clear."
"The naval officials were there, is that correct?"
"Among others, yes."
That confirmed it. When had Hermon said he would be seeing them? At the dining club, the Golden Trident, at Ariston's place, and tonight! Well, Ariston had suggested Lysanias should attend the dining club as soon as his mourning commitments allowed, so why not go? This was a vengeance commitment and it over-rode all others, mourning included. He would go. The golden trident connection didn’t escape him. Perhaps some of the anonymous plotters would be there as well.
"Otanes, when Klereides went to dining club meetings, who did he take with him?"
"Myself, master, as personal slave and the messenger boy to serve. That is normal for a gentleman of status."
"Right, Sindron. We're going to that dinner party. We'd better get ready."
Then Philia spoke up. "You can't take the messenger boy, Lysanias. His leg is broken. I've just been tending him." She stared at Makaria as she sai
d it, daring her to challenge Philia's right to take charge of a household matter. Makaria stayed silent. "The porter sent the boy to look for us, and he got caught in the riot. He only just made his way back using a stick he found," Philia explained.
They decided that the kitchen boy was too old and too ugly to offer an alternative. Philia knew this was her opportunity, even if the idea both excited and frightened her. "I could dress up as a boy, Lysanias."
"Don't be ridiculous, girl!"
Philia cringed at the old, commanding voice of her mother-in-law. But Lysanias reacted to the impertinence of the woman. How dare she imagine she still had any authority in this household!
"I suggest you keep your own counsel, from now on, Makaria. I will decide what to do with you and Otanes tomorrow." He turned, ignoring them, and went into a huddle with Sindron and Philia. He was obliged to take Philia's suggestion seriously, now he had said that.
Philia saw the men looking at her breasts. "I could strap my bosom in tight, and wear a boy's tunic loose! No-one will recognise me with my face like this." She gestured at her swollen lip and eye and grazed nose. The swelling was enough to fool anyone who had seen Philia before, especially if they darkened Philia's skin with walnut oil as Nubis suggested and slicked her spikey hair flat with grease the way Egyptian slaves did.
The two young people seemed so locked in their conspiracy, so eager to stay near one another, that all the discouragement Sindron could offer carried no weight. It was decided.
Otanes was persuaded to provide a quick course for Sindron and Philia on what their duties would be, and explained to all three what the club procedures normally were, at least for the portions he had ever been present at. It appeared that personal slaves were excluded for some of the time. Lysanias took the opportunity, as he changed clothes, to strap to his body inside his tunic a small dagger he had found among Klereides’ possessions, only too aware that this would be seen as a serious insult to his host if revealed.
***
Hasdrubal, the bulbous Phoenician steward, greeted Lysanias at the door, as though he had been expected all along. He directed Philiako, as they had decided to call Philia in her disguise, to the kitchen with the other serving slaves, and acknowledged Sindron as a fellow steward, pointing out a room where he might wait.
Then he showed Lysanias, dressed in his smartest cloak, into the entertaining room.
About sixteen men lounged on elegant couches arranged around the edges of the large room and reached down to select morsels from cooked dishes of fish and meat on the tables beside them. The succulent smells immediately made Lysanias aware of how hungry he was. Most of the diners had their slave-boy squatting beside the table to help them, while a personal slave stood behind the couch. In Ariston’s case, this was the pretty-boy slave he had seen before.
Heads had glanced nervously as Lysanias entered, as though worried who might arrive next, then turned back to their foods or conversation. There was a sense of fear in the room and slight relief that it was no-one more threatening than a clean-shaven young man. These men huddled together here, speaking in whispers, they must know about the golden trident used to assassinate Ephialtes. Even if they weren’t all involved in that plot, the trident clearly implicated them all. Then Ariston pounced on him.
"Ah, our new member! You decided to join us. Thought you might. Excellent!" Ariston rose from his couch at the head of the room to welcome him, though Lysanias noticed a meaningful glace across at where Phraston lounged that sent a chill through him. Well, he had come looking for confrontation…
Before Lysanias could respond, Ariston had already turned to the assembled dining club members, putting his arm round Lysanias' shoulders in what Lysanias was sure was an unusual gesture.
"Gentlemen, introduction, another new member, cadet member rather." Turning to Lysanias he explained that they didn't normally admit men of his age to membership, but in view of his uncle's long association they would make an exception. "If you all agree. Klereides' heir, Lysanias, son of Leokhares, to whom we all extend our sympathies for the recent tragic death of his uncle."
Lysanias looked around at the now watching faces, trying to look as serious and adult as he could. He had hoped that his mere entrance might reveal a disconcerted look on someone's face, which could indicate a conspirator. However, the Athenian art of dissembling was too strongly entrenched. There seemed to be guests as well as members, for there was Hermon, who did look surprised to see Lysanias.
Ariston called for a vote by acclaim and Lysanias was startled by the cry, "Hai-ai, attack! The Golden Trident," sounding like a regimental cry.
There was a scurry of activity, and someone had vacated a couch for him by moving across to double up with someone else. Then he realised the two men were Inaros and Amynias, the naval officials. Was that so there was no danger he might be asked to share one of their couches and so be able to question them? Lysanias was embarrassingly aware of the dagger he had secreted inside his tunic, hopeful that it would not be apparent and that he would be able to get at it if needed, and scared that the gods would frown on this affront to his host’s hospitality.
As Ariston guided him to the empty couch, he indicated and named other members. Lysanias thought he recognised one who might have been at the clandestine meeting at Aspasia's, but couldn't be sure. There was that plaited hairstyle, though it didn’t seem as dark brown as he remembered, but there was no time to ask Ariston to repeat the name from the list of new names he had just heard. Most were unknown to Lysanias.
He knew Phraston, of course. No room for a second person on that giant's couch, he thought with amusement. He knew Hierokles. And Strynises over there, sharing a couch with that tough-looking man who had been in the tavern with him. The news-teller must be a guest, surely.
"Ah, Lysanias, my boy," Hierokles greeted as he passed. The man sounded desperately tired and defeated, with bruises on arms as well as face. "Boiotos isn’t well. Badly wounded. Doctor hopes for the best. Thought you'd like to know." Serves the brute right, thought Lysanias, but gave the appropriate sympathies.
As he sat on the couch, he could feel the tension in the room, a sense that people were watching him surreptitiously, yet when he looked everyone seemed pre-occupied. Was this because of his uncle? They couldn’t know he was also looking for the killers of Ephialtes. Were they all conspirators in murder and assassination? These dinner parties were ideal gatherings to plot underhand deeds by a closed group.
To identify any more of the plotters by voice he would have to hear them speak, his only memory of them, but that was impossible as voices blurred in a murmur of private conversations.
Otanes had explained the routines, so Lysanias knew to sit on the edge of the couch allocated to him when Philia, no Philiako, must remember, appeared with bowl and jug to wash his feet with rose-scented water. He wished she wouldn't dry them so delicately, not like a boy he was sure. Then he imitated the position adopted by the other diners, reclining back, propped up by an elbow and cushions.
With another slave-boy, Philiako removed the table Inaros had been eating from and brought another, and stayed crouching to move dishes closer to his reach or offer bread. Sindron appeared and stood behind his couch at the same time. Hasdrubal or the chef must have briefed him on the dishes on offer, for he advised Lysanias on the best order to taste them to avoid killing the milder flavours with the spicier ones. At least, Lysanias didn't feel so alone. It didn’t escape him that Ariston’s pretty slave had surreptitiously circulated the gathering, head in air almost as though acting as host, halting briefly at the couches of Phraston and Hierokles and one or two others, he had to assume with some message. Phraston clearly sent a reply.
Now Phraston, his forehead glistening with sweat, called across, "Ah, Lysanias. Calm seas, I hear, young man. Good weather for cargoes."
Lysanias was looking puzzled, when Sindron said from behind him, "Look puzzled, master. I think that was intended to warn and embarrass me."
No, it goes further than that, Lysanias thought. Phraston had said it loud enough for others to hear. He's telling them I'm his concern, not to worry, he'll deal with me. Well, we'll see about that.
"Fine weather in Athens too, Phraston!" Lysanias called back. Let him interpret that as meaning I am near a solution, if he wishes, thought Lysanias. He noticed an uncertainty flicker across Ariston’s face and the pretty personal slave who had accompanied the general before made a casual and elegant circuit to whisper to Phraston and return.
As quantities on the tables diminished, the boy-slaves, including Philiako, left the room.
Hermon sent his personal slave across with a message, which he gave to Sindron, who gave it to Lysanias. Apparently there had been looting in Peiraeos as well. A lot of stock materials had been stolen. That must be why Hermon had been looking so worried. Lysanias looked over with an appropriate expression but, with everyone seated on separate couches, he was more concerned with how he was going to find a chance to confront anyone.
***
Philia was just beginning to think that this was easy work compared to a day on the loom, when Hasdrubal, with a clap of his hands in the Asian manner, summoned the boys back to the entertaining room at the end of the main course.
Rose-scented water again, to allow their masters to rinse their greasy fingers. Floral wreaths for their heads. Serve cups of neat wine for the traditional toast to good fortune. Then it was all rush, grab a table, two by two, follow those in front out and place the tables in line in the courtyard by the kitchen. Tibios, one of Ariston's boys, teamed up with her to carry the tables, so she followed what he did, but they moved so fast, these experienced slaves. Next, remove the leftovers to plain and functional tables, while the chefs and their helpers lay out the fruit and sweetmeats on the same tables. Go back, with birch brooms and buckets to sweep up all the bones and bread balls and other debris discarded by the diners. She was too busy to feel frightened surrounded by all these males and her disguise gave her a strange freedom, as though she had become someone else.
