The Walled Orchard

by Tom Holt

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We spent the night in a drainage ditch and woke up at sunrise. I suppose I had been hoping that our problems would evaporate overnight, but they were still there when I opened my eyes; and I felt extremely frightened. My trusty comrade was still asleep, curled up in a ball like a little puppy or something equally helpless, and I woke him with my foot.

  “Where the hell are we?’ he moaned.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I don’t think this is the road we came up yesterday.’

  ‘How would you know?’ he grumbled.

  ‘Because we didn’t see this ditch yesterday,’ I replied.

  ‘What does that prove?’ replied the son of Philip.

  ‘Besides,’ I went on, ‘this is a drainage ditch, right?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Aristophanes cautiously.

  ‘Of course it is, you idiot. Now it stands to reason that it drains into something, or leads out of something. Agreed?’

  Aristophanes looked at me. ‘You’ve been seeing too much of Socrates,’ he said.

  ‘Agreed?’

  ‘If it makes you feel good, yes.’

  ‘Now what could that something be except the river Terias?’ I said. ‘And the Terias goes to the coast, just above Trotilus. Agreed?’

  ‘You, of course, know where Trotilus is,’ said Aristophanes.

  ‘Correct. It’s about a day’s walk from Catana. I don’t know which side the Trotileans are on, but maybe they don’t either.’

  ‘What has this to do with the fact that we have no food left?’

  Now that was a good question, which I answered as best I could thus. ‘Listen, you,’ I snapped, ‘I’ve had just about enough out of you to last me the rest of my life. You and nobody else got us into this mess, and I’m going to get us out of it, if I can. But if you interfere just once again, then so help me I’ll cut your tongue out.’

  ‘You’ve really got a way with words, son of Euchorus,’ said Aristophanes. ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘We follow this ditch to its logical conclusion.’

  ‘Up it or down it?’

  I looked up at the sun. ‘This way,’ I said, pointing north. ‘Then we follow the river down to the sea. Then we go north along the coast to Catana. Then we go home. Simple.’

  After maybe half an hour we reached the river Terias, and this cheered us both up considerably, since something had gone right at last; also we hadn’t seen any Sicilians. In fact, the absence of people was quite remarkable, and I couldn’t think of a reason for it. But quite suddenly it was explained.

  We hadn’t gone far along the river-bank when we saw a party of people coming in the opposite direction. They had seen us, and so there was no point in trying to hide. As we got closer we saw that it was a man and his whole family, dressed in their best clothes and carrying baskets decked out with wreaths.

  ‘They’re going to a Festival,’ said Aristophanes brilliantly.

  The family, which consisted of the man and his wife, two old women and three small children, waved to us cheerfully as we came closer to them. Aristophanes looked at me and said, ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘As little as possible,’ I replied. ‘Keep your mouth shut.’

  They were within shouting distance now, so I shouted.

  ‘Keep back, for pity’s sake,’ I shouted. ‘Plague. We’ve got the plague.’

  ‘What plague?’ replied the man.

  That threw me for a moment, but I couldn’t be bothered to think of anything clever. ‘Get away from us,’ I yelled, as loud as I could. ‘Go away or you’re all dead!’

  The Sicilians stared at me but didn’t move. ‘Where are you from?’ they asked. I made a quick guess and said, ‘Leontini.’

  ‘There’s a plague in Leontini?’ shouted the man. ‘Since when?’

  ‘It’s the Athenian plague,’ I said. ‘Athenians brought it there a day or so back, they were escaping from the war or something. The whole city is like a slaughterhouse. Don’t go near it, whatever you do.’

  ‘But the Festival,’ said the man. ‘We’re going to the Festival.’

  I shook my head violently. ‘Keep away,’ I said. ‘Go home, don’t let anyone near you. It’s the Athenian plague.’

  The man shook his head in perplexity. ‘Where are you going?’ he said.

  ‘To the sea,’ I replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said, why not?’

  ‘Oh.’ The man looked at his family. One of the old women had started jabbering at him and all the children were crying. ‘Well, thank you,’ he shouted. ‘Do you need food?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Very much.’

  ‘There’s bread in this basket,’ he said, pointing to the basket he was carrying. ‘I’ll leave it here for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I shouted — I was nearly hoarse by now. ‘Please go away, before you catch it. It’s very contagious.’

  The man put down the basket and ran, followed by his family. When they were safely out of sight we fell upon the basket. There were five freshly baked wheat Festival loaves in it, and two honey-cakes. Good honey-cakes too, as I remember.

  ‘I wonder whose Festival it is?’ asked Aristophanes with his mouth full.

  ‘Search me,’ I replied, ‘I expect it’s Demeter or Athene. It wouldn’t be Dionsysus at this time of year.’

  ‘Well, whoever it is, it’s a stroke of luck,’ he said. ‘I was starving.’

  ‘You amaze me, were you really?’ I licked the last of the honey off my fingers. ‘Right, let’s press on, shall we?’

  Not long afterwards, we came to a farmhouse. It was completely deserted except for a sleeping dog. Everyone was away at the Festival. After making sure there was nobody about, we kicked open a door and went in.

  There is a story about old Alcmaeon, the founder of the illustrious Alcmaeonid clan of Athens. The story runs that he founded the family fortunes by doing a favour for the celebrated Croesus, King of Lydia, the richest man who ever lived. His reward was that he could go into the King’s treasury and take as much gold away with him as he could carry. Well, when Alcmaeon went into the treasury his eyes nearly burst in his head; there was gold everywhere — gold cups and plates, gold armour, gold rings, gold tripods, gold statues, gold everything. But as soon as he had calmed down a bit, Alcmaeon realised that the most efficient way of carrying gold was in the form of gold-dust, of which there were many full jars. So he tied up the legs and sleeves of his gown to make a sort of sack out of it, and emptied a whole jar of gold-dust down his chest; then he poured gold-dust into his hair, which was thick and curly and well-oiled; then he found two big gold jars, as heavy as he could carry, and filled those with gold-dust. Finally he took a handful of gold-dust and popped it into his mouth. Thus laden, he staggered out of the treasury to his quarters and collapsed. He nearly died from swallowing gold-dust, but his servants managed to make him throw up in time.

  That was how we felt when we broke into that farmhouse. There were jars of every kind of food, wine, and oil. There were fresh clothes, and newly made boots, and leather hats. Everything a man could reasonably want was there for the taking.

  ‘It’s like paradise,’ Aristophanes said.

  Then it occurred to me that it wasn’t like paradise at all; it was like my house in Pallene, except much smaller and less affluent. Ordinary people lived here, farmers, people who worried about having enough to eat in a bad year. There we were, two rich men of the Cavalry class, who had lived our whole lives surrounded by the sort of wealth these people could never aspire to; and this ordinary house was more desirable to us now than anything we could think of.

  Our first instinct was to loot the place; but we calmed down after a while and took fresh clothes and five days’ food. We felt like gentlemen, for all that, in clean woollen tunics and cloaks and boots and big leather hats, with walking-sticks and a sword for Aristophanes, and linen satchels for our food. We also
found a razor and a mirror and trimmed our hair and beards — you have no idea what pleasure that gave me. Needless to say, Aristophanes went one stage further and ferreted out the family’s purse. There were twenty staters in it, and he refused to put any of them back.

  ‘What we need now,’ said Aristophanes, ‘is a horse.’

  ‘You’re never satisfied, are you?’

  ‘No,’ he said truthfully. ‘I’m an Athenian, aren’t I?’

  He had a point there. Nicias and Demosthenes had failed, but here were two Athenians carrying off the wealth of Sicily. Somehow I felt a little better about plundering the house after that. A little better, but not much.

  As we left, I closed the door behind me as best I could, and looked round. I saw two things: one good, and one bad. The good thing was an outhouse with its door slightly ajar, and inside it was a cart; a small two-wheeler ox-cart, just like the ones we use at home. Its storage capacity consisted of one of the big grain-jars they use on the corn-ships. A man can hide in one of those, I thought to myself, no problem at all. The family had obviously gone to the festival in the donkey-trap.

  ‘Aristophanes,’ I said, ‘I’ve had an idea. Do you think this household keeps its ox in a pen?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Do you think you could find it for me?’

  ‘All right.’

  While he was away, I pulled out the cart and tested my theory. I was right. It was a bit of a squeeze, but perfectly possible. Then Aristophanes came back, leading a large white ox by a halter. We got it into the shafts after a while, and I put the harness on it.

  ‘What’s the idea?’ said Aristophanes.

  ‘Get in there,’ I said, pointing to the jar.

  ‘No fear,’ replied Aristophanes.

  I pointed to the bad thing I had seen, which was getting closer; a cloud of dust on the road, about a mile away. ‘Do you know what that is?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Aristophanes, ‘it’s those damned cavalry.’

  ‘I should think so,’ I replied. ‘Now be a good fellow and get in the jar.’

  He got in the jar, and I closed the lid. Then I went into the house and grabbed two large pots of green olives, and dashed back out to the cart.

  ‘Aristophanes,’ I called out.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mind your head.’ I lifted the lid of the big jar and poured in the olives. ‘Sorry,’ I said. Then I dumped the olive-pots, closed the farmhouse door behind me, and climbed up on to the cart.

  The cavalry overtook me shortly after I had joined the main road. It was the patrol we had encountered the previous night; there was no mistaking them. I knew what a gamble I was taking. I had staked both our lives, and the future of Athenian Comedy, on a wash and a shave, a big leather hat, my ability to do regional accents, and eight medimni of green olives.

  ‘You,’ shouted my old friend the cavalry captain. ‘Pull over.’

  ‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Is that your place back there?’ asked the captain, pointing with his sword at the farm behind us.

  ‘No,’ I replied, ‘it’s my cousin’s place, but he’s over to the Festival in Leontini.’ I was sweating so much that I could hardly see. I had risked a Syracusan accent instead of a Corinthian one. It was my big day for taking risks.

  ‘Why aren’t you at the Festival, then?’

  ‘Not my Festival,’ I replied. ‘We had our Demeter last month in Syracuse.’

  This was a desperate effort on my part. I had seen a small terracotta Demeter inside the house, newly wreathed; and I remembered someone in the camp outside Syracuse telling me how he had watched their Demeter Festival. God knows why I took the risk; but it worked. The captain nodded, and didn’t look too closely at my face. ‘Visiting?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ I replied. ‘First chance to get out and about since the war. Taking a few olives up the coast for my cousin. They’re starting to sweat already, and he didn’t want them to stand until after the Festival. What are you boys after?’

  ‘There’s a couple of dangerous Athenians loose,’ said the captain.

  ‘Athenians,’ I replied. ‘Well, that’s a bit of news. Wouldn’t have thought there were too many of them left.’ And I sniggered.

  ‘Have you seen two men, ragged-looking, on foot?’

  ‘Tall one and a shorter one? Bald-headed, both of them?’

  ‘That’s it.

  ‘Couple of men answering to that were round our place this morning,’ I said. ‘Wanted food, offered to buy a mule. They had money, but we didn’t like the look of them. Talked funny. They went back the way they came, so far as I could make out.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Maybe an hour after sun-up, maybe later. And they were Athenians, you reckon?’

  ‘We think so, yes.’

  ‘And dangerous?’

  ‘They threatened the magistrate and injured one of my men.’

  ‘That’s bad,’ I said. ‘That’s very bad. Hope they stay clear of me, that’s all. Could you spare a couple of your boys to ride me up to the coast?’

  The captain shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But you’ve got a sword, you should be all right.’

  I felt as if someone had just pulled my heart out through my ear. I didn’t look down, but it was obvious that the captain could see that confounded Thracian sabre on its baldric round my neck. Had he recognised it? I doubted very much if such swords were common in that part of Sicily. My soul cursed me for a feckless idiot, but I managed to keep my face straight.

  ‘That’s strictly for ornament,’ I said. ‘I’m not what you’d reckon to call a fighting man myself. I leave that to you boys.’

  The captain laughed. ‘Thanks for the help,’ he said, and pulled his horse round.

  ‘You make sure you catch those Athenians,’ I replied.

  ‘I don’t feel so good now about leaving my cousin’s place unattended if there’s Athenians about. Mind,’ I added, ‘I wouldn’t much fancy being there if they took it into their heads to break in, so perhaps I’m better off where I am.’

  The cavalryman laughed again, and led his troops back the way they had come. For a moment I was afraid he would turn in to the farm — which was what I would have done in his place — but he rode straight past it and out of sight. I dropped the reins and started to shake all over. This was not my line of work, I said to my soul; and for once my soul agreed with me. But (replied my soul) you mustn’t worry about it. Nothing can happen to you, today or for ever. You have been chosen to survive. You survived the plague. You survived the war. You have survived through Sicily. The old smith who could not die died. The veteran of Himera died. The Eleusinians who did not starve died. Everyone except you and the son of Philip has died and the son of Philip is protected by the God, as the old heroes were at Troy, and so he doesn’t count. You are quite probably going to live for ever.

  I met various other travellers that day, but none of them was any bother. By now I was firmly convinced that I was a Syracusan farmer visiting my cousins near Leontini. My name was Pelopidas son of Temenus, and I had fifteen acres mixed cereal and grazing on the slopes of Epipolae, with a few vines on the other side of the mountain. My wife, Callistrata, was a big woman with a bad temper, but we had two fine sons, Leon and Gigas, and Gigas had been taken as apprentice by a well-established potter in the City. He would do well, if he worked at it. We also had a daughter, Theodora, but she died of a cold when she was ten. During the war we lived in the City, which was uncomfortable, and I had done my bit in the fighting. I missed out on the Epipolae business, but I was in at the kill at the walled orchard, when we stomped on those Athenians once and for all. I didn’t want to put in that last part, but I couldn’t help it.

  However much I sought to rewrite my life, I couldn’t leave that out.

  It was probably just as well that I wasn’t called on to play this part I had composed for myself, since it was probably riddled with inaccuracies.
But I must confess that I enjoyed being Pelopidas son of Temenus. He was on the winning side, for one thing, and this was his country, for another. He might not have the wealth and talents of a Eupolis, say, or even an Aristophanes, but nobody was after his blood and he didn’t really care all that much if he never did get to Catana. God, I envied him.

  That night, I carefully unpacked Aristophanes, who was not happy. He had a whole day’s recriminations stored up for me when I finally extracted him from the jar, and he seemed to get most of them past the gate of his teeth in the first five minutes of his liberty. I took no notice of him, however; I was bored with him now, and regarded him as nothing more than a piece of inconvenient and perishable merchandise that I had to deliver to Catana. I hid him under the cart and went to sleep, and dreamed, at first, of being Pelopidas son of Temenus. But that turned into a dream about the walled orchard, the first I had had, and I woke up drenched in sweat and shivering. This convinced me that I had the fever, and worrying about that kept me awake for the rest of the night.

  When Aristophanes woke up, we breakfasted on half a Festival loaf each, a cup of wine, a sausage and a handful of figs, which was the best meal we had had since we arrived in Sicily. It was a lovely morning, warm but not too hot, and there was a spectacular sunrise over the mountains behind us. We washed in the river, and then I told Aristophanes that it was time for him to get back into the jar. Much to my surprise he refused.

  ‘Those olives stink,’ he said. ‘If I get back in there I’ll die.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ I said. ‘Only if you don’t get back in there, I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you.’ I drew my sabre in a matter-of-fact sort of way and laid it across my knees. Aristophanes stared at me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but there it is. I can’t afford to let you go wandering off on your own. They’ll see you’re an Athenian, and then they’ll come looking for me. So I’ll have to kill you and bury you in …’ I looked round quickly ‘… under that pile of rocks there. I’ll give you a stater for the ferryman, but that’s my best offer.’