by Roger Hudson
As she knelt, she felt a stray hand pat her bottom outside her tunic. She had seen it happen to another slave-boy, so she kept her nerve enough not to react. She thanked the gods that wealthy families dressed their slave-boys in knee length tunics these days.
Then back with the small amphoras for the gentlemen to relieve themselves. It was embarrassing but most of the diners were discreet, holding the amphora under their cloak.
At this stage all the diners were standing and walking around, greeting one another, as the slaves continued tidying before bringing in the second tables.
As Philia moved around, she tried to overhear snatches of conversations, as Lysanias had urged her. For a brief moment, she heard a stammer, something Lysanias had especially mentioned, but the speaker didn’t continue. Mostly it was meaningless chat, or business matters she didn't understand, but not all.
"Why did Ariston invite that beardless youngster? Don't care if he is Klereides' heir, too damned young to be trusted in the sort of discussions we have!" "What I hear, he's been making a nuisance of himself all over town." "You've been listening to that Strynises again." "That's another thing. Why's he here? Damned scoundrel!"
"Don't you see? If Kimon could find some way of getting the hoplites into the city without the radicals knowing, then we'd have enough strength to take over." "Come on! They'll have all the gates closed and guarded as soon as they hear the troops are approaching. Wouldn't you in their position?" Was that Hierokles' voice? Better keep her head down and move away.
"Phraston, see Phraston!" The voice sounded frightened. Then an angry and confused one. "But Philebos distinctly named you two." Sounded like... Philia glanced up. Yes, it was Hermon. "No, Phraston, Phraston dealt with it. He's over there talking with Ariston." "I can't interrupt him there. This is ridiculous ...”
Then the other boys were leaving to fetch the tables with fruit and sweetmeats and she had to go with them.
***
As the diners started getting to their feet, Lysanias thought this might give him an opportunity to talk with Amynias and maybe hear other voices, but, no, he was cornered by another guest, who made small talk about his uncle and how Lysanias was finding life in the big city.
Lysanias realised he couldn't break away to tackle the naval officials. Over the man’s shoulder, he saw that Hermon had managed to confront Amynias and Inaros and the conversation looked animated. I must say something to be polite, he thought.
Then Thoukydides, the young man who had spoken at the Assembly meeting, joined in. "Don’t you think we young men could organise things so much better," he said, confidingly, grasping Lysanias forearm. The voice was high and sharp, like one he recalled at Aspasia’s, but was it the same? He had heard so little of it and the man seemed too rational to be an assassin. "If we’d made sure our supporters were all together in solid blocks, that would have encouraged them, maybe frightened our opponents …"
Lysanias first reaction to the hand gently kneading the muscle of his forearm was to pull away in distaste but he wasn’t sure if that would be regarded as rude and, anyway, the touch wasn’t at all unpleasant and the man was personable. Perhaps in Athens one should be prepared to experiment as the Athenians seemed to.
Then the second tables had arrived, and he was able to break away prior to returning to his couch. "Would master like some fruit?" Philiako said softly, brushing her hand lightly against his, and Lysanias immediately felt guilty. Perhaps she had seen his discomfiture. Or his indecisiveness. He turned to look at her, but she avoided his gaze.
He found the sight of her strangely disturbing, half girl, half boy, and realised rather late that he shouldn’t have allowed her to do this, bringing her into the groping reach of other men, exposing her to yet more danger. She seemed to be carrying it off, though. Brave girl.
"Ah, now I see why you're not interested in us! A well-formed slave!" Thoukydides interrupted his thoughts. "But what did he do to make you beat him so?" The tone implied that it was perfectly acceptable to beat a slave, but one should ideally have a good reason. Lysanias decided it was better, in this gathering, to appear a little brutal.
"My slaves obey me, no earnings on the side." He said it as though it were a joke, but then realised that it could be heard as a warning to keep away from his slave-boy. Philia looked shocked, and scurried off without another word.
***
When all were back on their couches, Hasdrubal called for silence, and Ariston raised himself to a sitting position. Sounds of activity, voices of new arrivals permeating through from the front door and vestibule seemed to be making people both expectant and worried.
"For our new members and guests, hah, should say, this stage in the evening, normally discuss matters of common interest regarding political future, our great city, hah, and so on." Lysanias felt sure this would have included how to apply influence on behalf of club members to obtain public offices they wanted or to win contracts. Maybe it was at a dinner similar to this that the naval officials and overseers had discussed Klereides' behaviour and, in effect, condemned him to death. Ephialtes too, if that golden trident meant what it implied. The thought sickened him for a moment.
"Today, special situation, special guest of honour who will be king of our feast."
With that, Hasdrubal threw open the doors, and in marched General Kimon, tall and impressive as ever, appearing to have regained his old confidence and self-assertion despite his ostracism.
Instinctively, Lysanias slid from his couch and sprang to his feet, at attention. He saw that most of the others had done the same, offering a salute Lysanias did not know. Cries that must be regimental rang out from many mouths. Lysanias felt caught up in the wave of admiration and, it could only be, pity, for the great man rejected by his native city. Even Ariston's eyes looked moist.
Kimon stood for a moment, still an imposing figure, and acknowledged their salute, but no tears in his eyes. Sharp as ever, they swept round the gathering, registering familiar and unfamiliar, settling on Lysanias himself, who tried to look nonchalant to cover his sense of guilt at his role in the great general’s downfall. A quick word with Ariston appeared to satisfy him, though his eyes narrowed a little before moving on. His manner suggested that, exhausted by his campaigns over the years, he was grateful that it was over, that he no longer had to feel responsible for the city and its fate.
Behind him entered two women. This is unusual, thought Lysanias, for Sindron had told him that it was men only at such dinners, except for maybe dancing girls and 'companions'. That explained one of the women, Aspasia, looking radiant in her usual colours of pale blue and green. Stunning but a little frightening. He felt more comfortable with Philia, he realised. Aspasia’s eyes met his for an instant, twinkled in amusement, and moved on.
Was the slim older woman Kimon's wife? No, Ariston welcomed both women by name. It was Elpinike, Kimon's sister. A still beautiful woman, she had the elegance and self-assurance that comes from birth and money, her expensive-looking gown embroidered over-elaborately with small flowers and butterflies that Lysanias did not find at all appealing, brought up as he was to simplicity.
Couches were quickly made available for these guests. In the general re-shuffle, Hermon took the opportunity to slip over to share Lysanias' couch. Across the room, he saw a look pass between Inaros and Amynias that showed they had noticed. Amynias glanced back at Phraston, for some reason, and received a slight answering nod in reply.
A hearty voice called out, "Hey, king of the feast, get on with it, we're dying of thirst!" Evidently, this club liked its wine. Kimon retaliated by naming the strongest mix of wine, three of water to two of wine, rather than the weaker blend that was more usual.
Even now, Kimon did not take his couch. Obviously he had come with a purpose – to put heart back into his defeated supporters.
Having paced rapidly across the floor to thank his closest supporters, including Phraston and Hierokles, Kimon strode to a prominent position. No longer in uniform, he h
ad chosen a plain but regal-looking purple gown, as though he no longer cared that people might consider he was getting above his station – after all, he would shortly have no station, no status at all in Athens.
"Gentlemen, all is not lost." The great voice boomed out, as though he were addressing the troops lined up before a battle. Lysanias was genuinely surprised. Something must have happened since this afternoon that he didn't know about. "The future looks brighter than it did this afternoon, but we must all use our utmost tact and delicacy in the coming months."
Everyone listened intently, admiration in their eyes. It was shared, he noticed, by Aspasia, who he had regarded as a cynic, while it was on Elpinike's face that cynicism, superciliousness and a trace of a satisfied smirk could be detected.
While he spoke, the mixing bowls had been brought in and the first cups served, then the slaves had all left the room to allow the gentlemen privacy of conversation. Lysanias felt uncomfortably aware that his only ally here was Hermon, who whispered, "They claim it was nothing to do with them. Say they didn't know how to go about hiring someone who would frighten Klereides for them, so they asked Phraston and he said he was sure his slave Lydos would be able to arrange it. So they left it to them."
"This is ridiculous! Everyone's blaming everyone else," Lysanias whispered back. A dirty look from the host obliged them to stop talking and listen to Kimon.
***
Philia was glad of a chance to loll in the courtyard with the other boys, picking at the leftovers from the main course. She had forgotten how little she had eaten today and now realised she was famished. It felt peculiar being so close to so many boys of her own age or younger but she had no trouble with them. One glance at her scars and bruises, and they concluded this strangely unmuscular boy was a scrapper.
"They'll all be drunk tonight," laughed one of the slave-boys, “after what happened today."
"And last night," rejoined another.
"Shh, we're not supposed to talk about that."
Then a voice close by, talking to her. "We’ll miss your old master." It was Tibios next to her, and as she turned he winked knowingly. “His fault it ended,” he said, indicating Ariston’s personal slave, delicately helping himself to the best bits.
"Whadja mean?" Philia grunted, in as deep a voice as she could manage. "Come on! You know! His affairs with other people’s wives. Used to come here secretly, when the general was away. Generous tips." Philia nearly burst into tears and had to turn her head before she gave herself away. She was horrified. Curly had been deceiving her! Not just with whores but with Ariston’s wife. The adulterer deserved to die. No, Demeter, Kore, Aphrodite, Mother, I didn't mean that. Rest his soul. But she was badly shaken. That must be why Ariston's wife was always crying, for her dead lover, my Curly, but did it mean Ariston had killed him?
With an effort, Philia blinked and turned back. "Oh that! All masters are the same, aren't they?" She did her best to grin and wink, but her swollen lips and eye made it difficult. It hurt too.
***
Kimon went on to outline the details of the accommodation he had reached with the leaders of the people's party, who he referred to as the radicals.
"What have we gained? Clipped the wings of young Perikles for a start…” That drew cheers. “Stopped them building that eyesore Temple to Hephaistos. One in the eye for Arkhestratos and his damned rowers." With a gesture, he quieted the shouts of support. In return, Ariston and he had agreed to civic spending on new housing for the poor, because, after the looting and Olinthios’ threats, they had no choice.
"That scoundrel Themistokles, he's to be shipped back to Persia straight away on pain of death." There were mixed reactions to this but again Kimon silenced them. "I know you'd all like to see him dead but he's an old man, he'll be dead soon anyway. With their best speaker eliminated and their sharpest mind out of the way ... I'll say no more."
Lysanias had registered that, if he kept drinking at the pace the others seemed to be setting, he would never be able to keep his wits about him enough to confront Phraston. If the opportunity occurred! He discovered that, while everyone's attention was on Kimon, it was just possible to tip some of his wine into Hermon’s cup without him noticing. He rationalised that, being more accustomed to wine, Hermon could probably take it better.
***
Sindron found Hasdrubal eager to be friendly and especially keen to show off the house, presumably to demonstrate his able management. In the entertaining room, he had found himself restricted by procedures. There was no way he could help further any of Lysanias’ objectives but maybe this was an opportunity.
As Hasdrubal took Sindron into the stable, he commented, "I persuaded the master to buy these Arabian mares too, much faster and sleeker animals than your Scythian breeds." They were fine animals, Sindron had to admit, two blacks, a fine chestnut, and a silver-grey. A bell clanged in Sindron’s head. The watchman had remembered a silver-grey horse pulling the chariot that brought Klereides.
"Magnificent, isn't she?" crowed Hasdrubal. "Very rare these, only one in Athens, I imagine. Master lent her to some fool recently who must have raced her over rough ground, judging by the state of her fetlocks."
It could be the one, thought Sindron. He felt it was appropriate to reach out a hand to stroke the horse, but the mare shied away from his touch, as though frightened of a strange hand. "See what I mean? Someone must have ill-treated her!"
"Does your master race, then?"
"Used to, I believe. There's an old racing chariot somewhere around. No, a cavalry general needs good mounts, both for battle and for ceremonial parades."
There was no way Sindron could break away to look for the old chariot, but he could make out an area at the end of the stable where something bulky was covered with large cloths.
"One word before we go back in. Your young master. Not making himself very popular, going round asking questions. Perhaps you could point it out to him? My master could do him a lot of good. Entry to one of the best regiments. Swift promotion as an officer. You know how it goes."
Sindron was taken by surprise. Another one! The phrasing clearly was Ariston's not Hasdrubal's. The slave must have been instructed to speak to him. This and the horse clearly moved Ariston higher up the list of suspects.
"Quite," Sindron said, stalling. "Finding his feet, you understand. Not sure what's acceptable. But he's learning. I'll see what I can do." This disjointed Ariston phrasing is catching, he thought to himself. The steward seemed satisfied. Then, as they passed by a display of war trophies, Hasdrubal added, "The master thought your master might like to have this," and held out a fine medallion cast in gold, celebrating Kimon's conquest of Eion. Very clever. They couldn't have thought of anything that Lysanias would value more, and, for that reason, Sindron couldn't refuse. "Just a small guest-gift, you understand."
***
Lysanias was getting worried. Hermon was already tipsy and muttering to himself that all these arrogant idlers had conspired together to kill his partner and loot his factory. What if the shipbuilder revealed all they knew? They could be in real danger. His own fault too, he really shouldn’t have given the man that extra wine.
"Of course, I do have to go into exile," Kimon was saying. "Like all citizens I must obey the laws of our land, and I have no wish to see our great city descend into chaos.” Lysanias sensed that Kimon was determined to do all he could to avoid the civil conflict that could destroy all his achievements.
“So, I have agreed to ride out tomorrow with the generals who support the radicals to persuade our hoplites to accept the situation."
From one of the couches came the rather plaintive cry, "But they're our last hope!"
"Were! If they had arrived in time!” Kimon answered. “They didn't! We must all accept. For the time being. We all know what damage civil conflict has done to other cities – we can’t allow that to happen to Athens!”
“But you could …,” came back, though Kimon forestalled any mention of
making himself tyrant by, “No, I haven’t spent all these years bringing independence and democracy to the Ionian Greeks to destroy it here. Not my way.” His stern expression closed that avenue firmly. Lysanias could almost feel the relief radiate from Hermon’s body that the aristocrats had not discovered the delay had been a plot.
"Even in exile, across the border, I will be close enough to receive information, and give advice. It will not be forever. I have a secret assurance that, at the first opportunity, when the city needs me, I will be recalled."
Was the man deceiving himself, or could the radicals really have said that? It had happened before with other exiles, Lysanias knew, but only in real crises like the Persian invasion and he himself had ensured that wouldn’t happen again. Kimon clearly seemed to think he could continue to control the aristocratic faction from outside Attika, guide them back to power, and maybe he could – there seemed to be no-one here willing to challenge his authority and take charge. But once he was gone, the situation would be different…
***
"Philiako!" Philia alerted on the 'Phil' and recognised Sindron’s voice, albeit in an unfamiliar commanding tone. He beckoned her over and bent down to whisper. He wanted her to slip away and look at something in the stables. He almost seemed to have forgotten she wasn't a slave-boy. It felt good to be trusted with something important, but she wasn't sure now if she really wanted to do anything to help Curly's soul rest in peace.
***
Kimon concluded by thanking Ariston for his support. He clearly saw the General as his successor among the aristocrats and, from the way he preened, so did Ariston. His face darkened, though, when Kimon also praised Thoukydides for the leadership promise his speech revealed, even including Lysanias in the hand gestures that accompanied his trust in the younger generation, which made him feel even guiltier.
