The Walled Orchard

by Tom Holt

  Aristophanes opened his mouth but no words came out; and I suddenly realised what I had said. I hadn’t been joking; I would have done it. That was a horrible feeling.

  I stood up, and Aristophanes cowered visibly. ‘So are you going to get into the jar?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said the son of Philip. ‘Right away.’

  ‘Good man,’ I said. ‘We’d better tip the olives out first. Give me a hand with the jar, will you?’

  We tipped the olives out and put the jar back in its mounting, then Aristophanes climbed in and I put the olives back on top of him. ‘Can you breathe?’ I asked. He assured me that he could.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘Right, time to go.’ I put the lid back on and backed the ox into the shafts. He was a good ox, docile and well behaved. I liked him. Then I took up the reins and we were off again.

  We reached the sea just before evening, and the sight of it made me feel like a small child once more. It was huge and beautiful and friendly, and on the other side of it was Athens in Attica, and Pallene, and my house there, and my steward and his wife, and my grey horse with the black tail, and my house in the City, and my wife. I hadn’t so much as thought about Phaedra since I set foot in Sicily; and now that I had remembered that she existed I couldn’t for the life of me remember what she looked like. I dismissed the thought from my mind, and went back to being Pelopidas. Only a day away from Catana. Would the olives keep fresh that far?

  I had stopped for the night and was just about to let Aristophanes out when a party of men leading donkeys came up the road behind me. There were about ten of them, and I saw they were farmers taking their produce to the city. That city could only be Catana.

  ‘Evening, friend,’ said one of them, a tall man with a lot of fine grey hair. ‘Going to market?’

  His voice was warm and friendly, and I smiled as I replied, ‘Sure. I’ve got olives in the jar here.’

  The man wasn’t so friendly now, and I realised that I was still being Pelopidas, purely from instinct. My Syracusan accent had become so good that he recognised it instantly. The trouble was, of course, that the Catanians hate the Syracusans like poison. I would have laughed if I wasn’t suddenly so frightened.

  That’s the way it goes with fool’s luck, said my soul inside me, and I could hear a horrible sort of smugness in its voice, as if it had known it would all end in tears. You muddle your way right across Sicily and manage to get out of the most horrific scrapes without really trying; then, as soon as you’ve got your act together enough to pass for a Syracusan, you run in with a bunch of Catanians who’ll tear you limb from limb for not being an Athenian. That’ll teach you to be so damned lucky.

  ‘Just where exactly did you say you were from, boy?’ said the grey-haired man. ‘Maybe I didn’t catch it the first time.’

  ‘I’m from Pallene,’ I replied in my normal voice — only it didn’t come out normal. ‘Pallene in Attica. I’m an Athenian.’

  The grey-haired man scowled and said, ‘Don’t you try being funny with me, stranger. Are you going to tell me the truth, or do I have to beat it out of you?’

  I tried to dig down into my mind for some way out of this mess; but there was nothing left. ‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ I said, ‘I’m an Athenian, can’t you see that? I’m one of Demosthenes’ men. I was in the battle at the walled orchard, but I got away. I stole this cart outside Leontini because there were cavalrymen after me and I needed to fool them. I pretended to be a Syracusan just now because I didn’t know I was in your country.’

  The men muttered darkly to each other; they weren’t convinced. I didn’t know what to do.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said the grey-haired man. ‘I reckon you’re a Syracusan spy, and I’m going to take you in. Get him, boys.’

  ‘Hold it, hold it,’ I shrieked. ‘You’re making a really silly mistake here. Look, I’ve got another Athenian in this jar-contraption here. He’s my friend, we escaped together.’

  The grey-haired man stared at me. ‘In the jar?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I shouted, ‘in the bloody jar. Get him out if you don’t believe me.’

  They cut the jar loose and tipped it on to the ground. There was a minor cascade of olives, and out came the son of Philip, looking extremely put out. He tried to draw his sword, but they took it away from him and tied his hands together.

  ‘Athenians my arse,’ said one of the men. ‘He tried to kill me.’

  ‘He couldn’t hear you, he was in the jar,’ I said. ‘He thought you were the enemy.’

  The grey-haired man didn’t like that. ‘Do we look like the Syracusans?’ he said angrily.

  ‘He couldn’t see you either,’ I replied frantically, ‘because he was in the sodding jar. Don’t you ever think?’

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that,’ said the grey-haired man. ‘You’re lucky we don’t string you up right now.’

  ‘Oh, do what you like,’ I said miserably.

  ‘I might just do that,’ said the grey-haired man. His companions seemed to agree with this, and one of them uncoiled some rope from his donkey. Just then, I remembered something. I remembered the fat dry-fish merchant who had sat next to me during the performance of The General. I remembered that his name was Pericleidas son of Bellerophon and that he said he was from Catana. I could have wept with pleasure.

  ‘Will you listen to me, just for a moment?’ I said. ‘I have a friend in Catana who’ll vouch for me. Pericleidas son of Bellerophon, the dry-fish man. Do any of you know him?’

  ‘Sure I know him,’ said one of the men, ‘I sell him tuna in the season. You know him?’

  ‘I met him in Athens.’

  ‘If you know him,’ said the grey-haired man, ‘where does he live?’

  I was about to explain that I had only met him in Athens and couldn’t be expected to know where he lived when suddenly I remembered that I knew exactly where he lived. The God had told me, in the walled orchard.

  ‘Next to the shrine of Dionysus,’ I replied, ‘by the little gate.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said the man who knew Pericleidas, ‘that’s just where he lives.’

  ‘Proving nothing,’ said the grey-haired man. ‘Everyone knows that.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said one of his companions. But the grey-haired man ignored him.

  ‘Take me to him,’ I said. ‘He’ll know me.’

  The grey-haired man thought for a moment. ‘Who’s that?’ he said, pointing at Aristophanes.

  ‘He’s my friend,’ I replied. ‘Like I told you.’

  ‘Does he know Pericleidas?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘But not many people in Athens do. Look, can we get on, please?’

  The grey-haired man thought again, then nodded. ‘You’d better hope Pericleidas recognises you,’ he said, ‘or so help me I’ll string you up myself.’

  They bundled me and Aristophanes on to the cart, and we spent the rest of that day bouncing along the road to Catana. It was not the way I had intended to arrive there, and somehow it didn’t feel right. My main nightmare was that Pericleidas was out, or abroad peddling his misbegotten fish. That would be just my fool’s luck, and then they would string us up and make us into sausages.

  A crowd gathered round us as soon as we entered the city, and we soon attracted the attention of a magistrate and some soldiers. When asked what he had got in his wagon, the grey-haired man said he didn’t know; they said they were Athenians and that Pericleidas could vouch for them; but if he couldn’t, they were Syracusan spies and should be hung. The magistrate thought this was eminently reasonable, and walked in front of us through the streets. As we passed, some people cheered and others threw stones; this is what is known as hedging your bets.

  The cart jolted to a halt and we were hauled out. It was quite dark by now, but there were plenty of torches round us, and the whole proceeding looked like a cross between a wedding and a sacrifice. The magistrate came over and addressed us both.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘this is Pericl
eidas’ house. We’ll see what he has to say.’

  He knocked loudly on the door and called out Pericleidas’ name. As I waited for what seemed like for ever while the slave came down and opened the door, I reflected bitterly on my fate, which now rested on an idiot of a dry-fish merchant I had met once in the Theatre. This could only happen to a Comic poet, I said to myself, and considered, not for the first time in my life, whether I had chosen the right profession.

  ‘What is it?’ said the slave. He was startled by the sight of so many people. ‘My master is having dinner.’

  ‘He’s needed to vouch for these men,’ said the magistrate. ‘They say they’re Athenians.’

  ‘I’ll fetch him,’ said the slave. He disappeared into the house, and there was another eternity of a wait, with the good people of Catana whispering inaudibly around me. Then Pericleidas the dry-fish man appeared, exactly as I remembered him, except that he was a trifle fatter, and his hair was quite grey. But what if he didn’t remember me?

  ‘Are you Pericleidas son of Bellerophon?’ asked the magistrate.

  ‘Sure I am,’ said Pericleidas, clearly bemused. ‘You know perfectly well who I am, Cleander, you had dinner here last night. Why did you bother to ask?’

  This got a good laugh from the audience, and the magistrate frowned.

  ‘Pericleidas,’ he said, ‘I have to ask you if you recognise these men. They say they know you.’

  Pericleidas shrugged. ‘What have they done?’ he said.

  ‘Never mind that now,’ said the magistrate, ‘just see if you can identify them for me. Can you do that?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, and turned to Aristophanes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, after an agonising moment, ‘I’ve never seen this man before in my life.’

  There was a gasp from the crowd, and muffled cheering. Then he turned to me. He looked at me, blinked, and looked again.

  ‘Well?’ said the magistrate, ‘do you know this one or don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Pericleidas. ‘Hell, Cleander, you know I’ve got a rotten memory for faces.’

  That was enough for me. ‘Pericleidas,’ I said, before anyone could stop me, ‘do you remember going to Athens and seeing a play called The General?’

  Pericleidas blinked. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I remember it well. But surely — aren’t you the young fellow who was sitting next to me? Yes, I’ll swear you are. You’re the young fellow who wrote the play.’

  ‘Is my name Eupolis?’ I said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Pericleidas, relieved. ‘You’re Eupolis, the playwright. I’m terrible at faces, but I never forget a name. Yes, this is Eupolis, I can vouch for that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said the magistrate. ‘You said yourself—’

  ‘No, it’s him all right,’ said Pericleidas. ‘If I’m right, he’s missing a bit of one finger.’

  Now my hands were tied behind my back and he couldn’t have seen them. The magistrate ordered his men to untie me. I didn’t dare look down, in case my missing finger had suddenly grown back, just to spite me. ‘All right,’ said the magistrate, ‘I guess you’re who you say you are. But who’s this?’ He pointed to Aristophanes, and the crowd, who had been bitterly disappointed, started to hope once again. ‘You don’t know him, do you?’

  ‘We never claimed he did,’ I said quickly. ‘But I can vouch that this is Aristophanes son of Philip, an Athenian citizen.

  ‘Not the Aristophanes!’ exclaimed Pericleidas. ‘Why, sir, are you Aristophanes who wrote The Acharnians and The Two Jugs?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Aristophanes. For once, there was no smugness in his voice, only relief.

  ‘Then I can vouch for him too,’ said Pericleidas.

  ‘No, he can’t,’ said the grey-haired man, ‘he’s just said he couldn’t.’

  The magistrate made an angry gesture. ‘The hell with it,’ he said. ‘Look, Pericleidas, will you be responsible for these two?’

  ‘It would be an honour,’ said Pericleidas, gazing at Aristophanes as if he had just seen a vision of a god. Not at me, you understand. Just Aristophanes.

  ‘That’s good enough for me, then,’ said the magistrate. ‘All right, folks, the party’s over. Go home quietly, it’s after dark.’

  The crowd drifted away, and Pericleidas hustled us both inside.

  ‘Stratylla,’ he shouted, ‘come here quick, and we’ll need hot water and towels. We’ve got company.’

  I honestly can’t remember any more about that night. I think I must have fallen asleep on my feet, or something of the sort, because the next thing I remember was waking up in a bed, with light coming in through the window. For a moment I was confused; then I remembered what had happened, and that I was in Catana, safe, in a friendly house. In the bed next to me was Aristophanes son of Philip, snoring. I looked at him and realised, with a great surge of joy that nearly took off the top of my head, that I was no longer responsible for him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Don’t you hate it when you’re listening to a story or a poem; and the hero has just got himself out of a scrape by the tips of his fingers in Argos, say, or Crete, and then the scene suddenly changes to Tempe or Phocis, and there’s our hero, sitting in a nice clean tunic with his hair newly curled and his beard trimmed, having a bite to eat with the King and planning his next adventure? I do. I feel cheated. I want to hear how he got all the way from Argos to Phocis, which is probably more difficult in practical terms than duping the three-headed giant or escaping from the man-eating bull. Particularly since the three-headed ogre turned out to be incredibly gullible, or the hero was so laden down with magical hardware, pressed into his hand by some helpful god or other, that the whole Spartan army wouldn’t have stood a chance against him. No, what I want to hear is how he managed to hitch a lift on a ship without any money, and what he did for food and water as he crossed the mountains, and how he got past the King’s doorkeeper without a sealed pass and three chamberlains to vouch for him.

  I am no Milesian cheapskate; I will not fob you off with an implied challenge to your imaginative powers. Before we return to violet-crowned Athens, I will give you a short account of our stay in Catana and the trip home.

  At first, Pericleidas was thrilled to have the celebrated Aristophanes under his roof, and for three days we were treated like princes. Everything that twenty years’ accumulated proceeds of the dry-fish business could provide for our comfort and delight was showered upon us, and the only thing demanded of us in return was theatre talk. But neither of us could find very much to say to gratify our host’s modest, if eccentric, requirement. It was as if we had forgotten what it was like to be Athenian literary lions. Even Aristophanes could find very little to say about his own prodigious talents and triumphs, and I was quite useless. All I seemed able to remember was the Athenian expedition to Syracuse; it was as if I had been born the day I landed in Sicily, and the things I had done before that were heroic tales of the old days, when the world was young and the Gods still appeared openly to men. Although I pretended to, I couldn’t bring myself to believe in this mythical place called Athens in Attica, where they did nothing all day but grow food, write plays and talk to their friends about the weather and politics, and nobody died. The real world, I knew in my heart, was not like that at all. In the real world, terrified men marched down unknown roads and were trapped in orchards, or slept in ditches while the cavalry searched for them; and sooner or later this holiday would be over and I would have to put on my muddy old boots and cloak and go back to work.

  In this mood, I freely admit, I wasn’t fit company for a stage-struck tuna baron. The only thing I wanted to talk about was the War — God, how I wanted to talk about that to someone; even Aristophanes. I tried once or twice but he put his hands over his ears and yelled until I went away. Most of the time, in fact, he spent drinking himself into a coma, which seemed to work well enough for him. But when I tried it, I fell asleep and dreamed about the War, and that was no good at all. And then
Pericleidas would come bounding up, certain in his mind that at last we were ready to talk about cosy chats behind the scenes at the first rehearsal of The Wasps, and what Agathon said to Euripides about Sophocles.

  I asked everyone I could about what had happened to the Athenians, and tried to find any other survivors who had made it to Catana. I found them, quite a few in fact; most of them hospitably locked up by the Catanian authorities, who regarded them as a public nuisance and were trying to negotiate a cheap price with a Phoenician slaver for the hire of a ship to send them back to Athens. But I heard that Nicias and Demosthenes were dead, and that most of the men who had been captured by the Syracusans had died of cold and starvation in the stone quarries. By all accounts, seven thousand men had survived the two massacres, in the orchard and the river bed, out of forty thousand who had left the camp. Of these, about four thousand lived long enough to be sold off, mostly to Phoenicians. Very few of those, I was told, were Athenians. A Corcyrean I met who had been in the quarries and had escaped said that the Athenians there had given up quite early and refused to eat, or had caught the fever and died. They had no will to live, he said, since they believed that their City was already dead. I also found out that the man who owned the farm with the walled orchard in it was called Polyzelus. He was a decent enough man, by all accounts, and when he came home and found his home knee-deep in bodies he was profoundly shocked and had to be taken away and looked after by some relatives. When he had recovered, he had to find some way of disposing of fourteen thousand dead Athenians, and for a long time he didn’t know what to do. All this time the Athenians were not smelling any more wholesome, and his neighbours were starting to complain. In the end, he hired every slave and casual worker in the district and got them to dig an enormous hole in a marshy part of his property where nothing would grow anyway, and shovelled the dead bodies into it until it was full. Then he raised a big cairn of stones over it, and set about recovering the quite phenomenal cost of this operation from the Syracusan government. By all accounts, the legal complications beggared all description, and he or his heirs are probably at it to this day.