by J M Alvey
I kicked the idiot boy hard in the side of one ankle. As he staggered, I punched him in the kidneys. That dropped him to his knees. I wound my hand in his hair, wrenching his head back. ‘Give me that fucking knife!’
He tried to stab me instead. Expecting exactly that, I seized his hand, twisting so hard I felt his wrist bones grate together. He let go of the knife with a furious yell.
I tried to put my foot on the hilt, to stop him or anyone else grabbing the blade. But the stonemason had decided that he and I were clearly allies. He aimed a punch at the side of Tur’s head as the boy knelt, still captive in my grip.
If that blow connected, it could kill the young fool. I jerked his head out of the way before tearing my hand free along with some of his curls. As Tur scrambled to his feet, I stepped into the stonemason’s path.
‘Leave him to Dionysos, citizen. He’s an idiot and he’s drunk.’
It took the man a breath to realise I wasn’t going to let him have Tur. His face twisted with contempt. ‘So you do suck Persian cock!’
I didn’t debate the point. As the mason threw a punch, I sidestepped so quickly that his knuckles barely grazed me. As I moved, I shoved his other shoulder, hard. Hooking my heel behind his forward knee knocked him off balance completely. He landed hard on his back, left gasping, winded by the impact.
I made sure he stayed down by stamping on his belly. Noble families’ sons learn the niceties of Olympic competition. The old wrestler who taught me and my brothers reckoned Athenian lads like us needed to know how to fight dirty.
Where was Tur? What about Sarkuk? I looked swiftly around, all the while alert for anyone keen to take up the stonemason’s cause.
The older Pargasarene was holding his own with no need for a knife. Sarkuk used his fists like a man who’d fought his way out of a fair share of trouble. He blocked a wild blow with his forearm and drove his other fist straight into an attacker’s eye.
Reeling backwards, the Athenian tried to flee. He didn’t find that easy. Men were fighting on all sides now. Some had been stirred up by the orator. Others were just caught up in the fracas.
It wouldn’t be long before the Scythians arrived and they don’t carry those bows for show. Anyone running away from a brawl in the agora risked an arrow in the leg or the shoulder. Let the Carians try denying their role in this riot after that. The best they could hope for was being thrown out of the city and then we’d never learn the truth of all this.
I grabbed Sarkuk’s shoulder. ‘We have to get out of here!’
He spun around, his clenched fist pulled back. Recognising me, he abandoned the blow. ‘Which way?’
‘Head for the Temple of Hephaistos!’ I jabbed a finger at the shining new temple half-built up on Kolonos Hill.
That was our quickest route out of the agora to somewhere with enough people for us to lose ourselves in a crowd. Given the choice, I’d have run straight for Aristarchos’s house, but trying to fight all the way across the marketplace would be madness.
I still had to rescue Tur. The lad wasn’t faring nearly as well as his father. He’d been surrounded before he’d recovered his balance and five men were attacking him now. Too many to fight all at once. Trying to do that was the boy’s first mistake. He was still on his feet but barely. They’d have him on the ground any minute and then he’d be kicked to death.
I threw a punch at the closest man’s head. He must have glimpsed me in the corner of his eye and blocked my fist with an upraised elbow. So I grabbed his arm and hauled him sideways. As he staggered I drove my knuckles into his midriff. He decided that beating the shit out of some Persian sympathiser wasn’t worth any more bruises and scurried away.
One of the others surrounding Tur tried to punch me in the side. I barely managed to twist away to save myself from broken ribs. Even so, his fist landed hard enough to force me backwards. He followed up with a jab to my belly.
I met his knuckles with my outspread palm, drawing the force from the blow. I tried for a curving punch to his ear with my other hand but he knocked my fist aside with a bruising sweep of his forearm. Doing that spun him around. As he took a step to keep his balance, his feet spread wide. I kicked him hard in the balls and he collapsed, retching.
Now he was facing better odds, Tur was holding his own against the other three. I winced at the crack of a man’s jaw breaking. One of the others recoiled. Not fast enough. Tur dropped him with a kick in the gut. The last one seized his chance to flee.
‘Tur!’ I bellowed. ‘Tur!’
He stood swaying like a pine tree in a gale. Perhaps he couldn’t hear me. The din all around us was deafening. Some men shouted insults while others protested this was none of their business. The rest just howled wordless abuse.
No, it wasn’t the noise. The young Carian might still be on his feet, but he was barely conscious. One eye was swelling red while blood streamed from brutal cuts on both his cheekbones and across one thick eyebrow. Another blow had split the corner of his mouth and his nose was surely broken.
‘It’s me, Philocles!’ I hesitated before trying to grab him. He might be half stunned but I didn’t want to risk taking one of his punches.
‘Tur!’ Sarkuk shouted something in their mother tongue.
The boy’s open eye focused blearily on his father. Sarkuk shouted again, pointing up at the temple.
‘Grab him and follow me!’ I started to force a path through the fray. That won me a whole new collection of scrapes and bruises before we reached the Council Chamber at the side of the agora. That’s what happens when you’re more concerned with getting away from a fight than defending yourself.
Someone grabbed hold of my tunic. I tore myself free with savage threats and ripping cloth. Behind me, I heard Sarkuk cursing. As long as I could hear him, I didn’t bother looking back, shoving and shouldering my way through the crowd.
Finally we slid into the narrow space between the Temple of the Mother of the Gods and the Council Chamber. I paused, leaning forward, hands braced on my thighs and wondering if I had a cracked rib. My side was viciously sore. It took me a few moments to catch my breath. At least that eased the pain a little.
‘Where are we going?’ Sarkuk demanded.
I forced myself upright. ‘There, to begin with.’ I gestured up the slope towards the gleaming white temple.
I wasn’t going anywhere near the prison today. Not with the three of us so obviously fleeing from this brawl. It was a fair bet the Scythians would take whoever they collared straight to the lock-up. Anyone fool enough to offer themselves up would get thrown in a cell. Most likely they’d be stuck there until the end of the Dionysia, when the magistrates reopened the courts.
‘Give your son your cloak,’ I told Sarkuk. ‘Keep the hood up, boy.’
A man going hooded in such fine weather would draw curious glances but that would be better than letting people see Tur’s battered face. He looked grim enough to set dogs barking.
Now we needed to get somewhere safe, and as quickly as possible. I gritted my teeth against the stabbing pain in my side as we scrambled up the scrub-covered slope towards Hephaistos’s new temple. It was still lacking a roof, its western pediment and most of its carved decoration, but it would be splendid when it was finished.
Was it being paid for with Carian coin? I saw Sarkuk’s lip curl as he gazed up at the Parian marble columns. Well, we could debate that later. As we reached the temple precinct I hurried onwards. Now we could lose ourselves in this crowd of people looking down, aghast, at the chaos in the agora.
I ushered Sarkuk and Tur through the temple and out the other side. Then I swiftly worked out a route to skirt around the agora to reach Aristarchos’s house. He’d told me to report back to him, once I’d spoken to the Carians, though I don’t suppose he imagined we’d turn up in quite such a battered state.
* * *
Mus answered my knock on the gate. The slave stared at my bloodied companions, appalled. ‘You can’t bring them in here.’
‘This house is full of guests and the master’s family. The mistress won’t stand for admitting you and two strangers beaten bloody.’ Mus stood blocking our path, as immovable as Mount Olympos.
I looked down at my torn tunic, streaked with dirt where I’d slipped and fallen on the slope leading up from the agora to the Hephaisteon. I saw gory smears from my badly grazed knuckles and probably from people I’d punched. My hands ached as villainously as all my other bruises.
‘Then where can we go?’ I pleaded. ‘Ask Lydis. We have to get off the streets and we need water and rags.’
The slave was staring past me at Sarkuk and Tur, who were barely managing to hold each other up.
‘Mus!’ I said sharply. ‘Do you want the neighbours’ slaves gossiping about this when they’re filling tomorrow’s water jars? Leave us standing out here and it’ll be the talk of the neighbourhood fountain. Believe me, your master will want to help us. These men are Carians and loyal allies to Athens. They’ve been victims of deliberate malice and your master is trying to uncover who’s behind it.’
That goaded the granite-faced slave into action. ‘Come inside, but don’t leave the porch.’ He summoned a passing slave with a snap of his fingers. ‘You, watch the gate.’
‘Thank you.’ I hurried over the threshold. Then I realised the Carians were hesitating and had to turn around and pretty much drag them inside. Sarkuk looked horribly uneasy about intruding into such a wealthy Athenian household. It was hard to see any expression on Tur’s battered face.
Mus strode off as we sank onto the stone ledges that served as seats just inside the entrance. I heard music and laughter from the inner courtyard, and saw a bevy of slaves busy carrying food and wine to the feast within. My stomach growled as I realised I was ravenously hungry. This far into a Dionysia afternoon, I should be half-drunk and sprawled on a cushioned couch talking nonsense with my brothers, all of us stuffed like festival fowl.
Before I could decide how I was going to explain my absence, my bruises and my wrecked tunic to my mother, we heard voices outside in the street. As Mus’s deputy opened the gate, Aristarchos’s son Hipparchos sauntered in. He looked at us, bright-eyed with curiosity.
‘Good day to you all. Hermes!’ He took a step backwards as Tur lowered his hood. ‘What’s happened?’
‘We were attacked by street robbers,’ I said quickly, to forestall some angry response from the young Carian. Though I couldn’t have blamed Tur. It was a bloody stupid question, when the answer was as obvious as the smashed nose on the boy’s face.
‘Dear me.’ Hipparchos’s sympathy was no more than conventional courtesy. He went on his way, whistling loudly to attract a slave’s attention. When no one appeared, he called out, irritated. ‘Thraitta!’
Three girls appeared from different doorways, all dressed alike in clean white tunics.
‘You’ll do.’ Hipparchos pointed to one. ‘Bring me something to eat in my chamber.’ Dismissing her with a nod, he disappeared through a door on the far side of the courtyard.
As the other slaves returned to whatever they had been doing, Sarkuk looked at me, curious. ‘There are three girls here called Thraitta? Doesn’t that cause confusion?’
‘That’s what he calls them all,’ I explained awkwardly. ‘It’s his mother’s family’s custom, to save time apparently. They call all the male slaves Illyrios.’
As Sarkuk and his son exchanged a glance, I could see they found this as peculiar as I had when Mus had first explained. On subsequent visits I couldn’t help noticing that Aristarchos allowed his slaves the dignity of their own names, whatever his wife might do.
A moment later, Mus came back with Lydis. The little slave was appalled at the state of us.
‘There was trouble in the agora,’ I explained. ‘It was none of our making, I swear it, but we need to get cleaned up. Your master won’t want them falling foul of the Scythians on the way back to their lodging.’ I jerked my head towards the Pargasarenes.
‘No indeed. Follow me.’ Lydis ushered us all out onto the street. ‘This way.’
Tur was staggering and Sarkuk looked fit to drop. I grabbed the young fool’s hand and draped his arm over my shoulder. Relieved of his burden, Sarkuk fared better and we hurried after the slave.
A few twists and turns took us into the narrower alleys tucked behind this district’s fine houses. Lydis used a latch lifter to open the gate into a small courtyard ringed by separate rooms. A cluster of stools surrounded a central brazier. I guessed this was accommodation for Aristarchos’s most favoured slaves.
‘Please, tell your master I am sorry for bringing such trouble to his door,’ I said to Lydis.
‘We will be on our way as soon as possible,’ Sarkuk assured him, painfully anxious.
The gate opened behind us. I was halfway to my feet before I realised the newcomers were a handful of slaves looking to Lydis for instructions. One girl carried a heavy jug and another had a bundle of well-worn linen rags. Two men had brought kindling and charcoal, along with some embers in a hollow fennel stalk. They quickly lit a fire in the brazier and one of the girls set a pot on the flames to heat up some water.
The last slave was an older woman with a basket of small pots and vials. As she opened one, I caught the aroma of familiar herbs. It smelled like my mother’s salve for everyday cuts and scratches, made with the leaves she harvests on her forays outside the city walls, and pounded into the lanolin from her brothers’ sheep. The scent was unexpectedly comforting.
Lydis was giving further instructions to the men who’d brought the firewood. ‘Keep a lookout for strangers. Tell the maids to keep their ears open for anyone asking nosy questions. Watch for some stranger hanging around with no real reason to be in this neighbourhood.’ He turned to one of the girls, gesturing at my ripped, filthy tunic. ‘Find them some clean clothes.’
Sarkuk stood up, tense. ‘I must get back to my father, at our lodging. He will be wondering what has become of us.’
‘Aristarchos will make certain he’s safe.’ I looked expectantly at Lydis. ‘Your master will want to hear what he has to say, I am sure of it.’
‘I will see that he’s brought here.’ The slave nodded as he ushered the other slaves out and left us in the courtyard with one remaining girl and the older woman.
‘Clean yourself up before your father arrives.’ I dampened a clean scrap of soft linen and handed it to Sarkuk. ‘The more normal you look, the less distressed he will be.’
Scrubbing the blood and dirt from my hands stung ferociously, but the slave woman’s salve worked wonders. There wasn’t anything to be done for my bruises, but a clean tunic would cover the worst. I drew a cautious breath and was relieved to feel only a dull ache in my side, not the stabbing pain of a broken rib.
Sarkuk hissed with pain as he cleaned a deep gash between his knuckles. His hands had suffered badly. Thankfully his face was unmarked. Hide those swollen, bruised fists inside a cloak and no one outside on the street should look at him twice.
Tur was another matter entirely. He sat dumbly on a stool as the slave woman tended his hurts, with the younger girl standing ready to swap soiled rags for clean ones. She threw the gory scraps onto the brazier, where they hissed on the coals.
Blood matted the young Carian’s hair and beard, and his broken nose was as bad as any injury I’d seen among wrestlers at the gymnasium. Both of his eyes were closed tight. One was so nastily swollen that I feared for his sight, though I didn’t ask the nurse what she thought. There would be time enough for such worries later.
Sarkuk murmured something fond and reassuring in their Carian tongue. Tur managed a nod, clenching his jaw against the pain. I saw his lips were quivering like Nymenios’s little son Hestaios after he’s taken a bruising tumble. The nurse stroked the young man’s dirty hair and he leaned his forehead against her comforting belly, broad shoulders shaking.
Sarkuk heaved a sigh. ‘Whose house is this? What are we doing her
e?’
‘This property, these people, they belong to Aristarchos Phytalid.’
Sarkuk’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are Pargasa’s affairs this rich man’s concern?’
‘He was concerned when I told him you expected your tribute to be reassessed at this festival. He knows that you have been lied to. If someone’s out to make trouble by convincing our allies they’ll see some relief when, truly, there’s no chance of that happening this year, it concerns all honest Athenians. Aristarchos Phytalid is a man with the authority to convince the magistrates that you have been duped by this Archilochos. The city’s authorities will definitely want to know what he has to say for himself.’
Tur managed to squint at me now that the nurse had wiped away the blood sticking his less-injured eye shut. ‘Will we see justice for Xandyberis?’ he mumbled indistinctly.
‘Let’s all ask the gods for that,’ I said grimly.
Judging by the boy’s grunt, he’d prefer more direct action to prayer.
‘I’ve brought some honeyed wine.’ Lydis returned with a jug, which he set on the brazier as a young boy followed with a bundle of clothing.
The older slave woman was examining the gash in Tur’s eyebrow. ‘This needs to be closed with a stitch,’ she said briskly. ‘Wait here while I fetch—’
‘We must get back to Grandfather.’ Tur stood up and swayed.
‘Sit down.’ The slave woman was easily able to force him back onto his stool before she bustled off through the gate where a thick-necked man stood watch. I recognised him as Aristarchos’s personal bodyguard.
‘Tur?’ I looked at the lad, wondering uneasily just how hard he’d been hit on the head. ‘Your grandfather’s coming here. Don’t you remember us saying that?’
He stared at me, bleary-eyed. ‘What?’
‘Tunics and a cloak with a hood for the boy.’ Lydis gestured at the bundle the lad had put down on an empty stool. He bowed politely to Sarkuk. ‘Once you’ve had something to eat and drink, and your father has arrived, my master has a house nearby where you can stay. He will escort you.’ He nodded to the burly slave by the gate.
