[Philocles 01] - Shadows of Athens

by J M Alvey

  I assumed Mus and Lydis had sent someone equally brawny to fetch the old man. I hoped Azamis would get here soon. I wanted to get to my family’s house as quickly as possible and not just in hopes of honey cakes. It wasn’t only the cool in the shadowy courtyard raising gooseflesh on my arms.

  Xandyberis had been asking around the agora where he might find me, and Elpis had sent him to my brothers’ house. I was worried that whoever lurked behind all this would send brutes to my family home, to harass my brothers into telling them where I was. They would surely want to beat me into telling them what I’d learned from the Carians. Then they’d want to discover where these three had gone.

  Sarkuk and I stripped and dressed in fresh clothes. It was strange to see the Carian in an Athenian tunic. Between us, we managed to get Tur out of his filthy garb and into something clean.

  ‘Please offer my sincerest thanks to your master,’ Sarkuk said stiffly to Lydis.

  ‘The gods bless those who help strangers in need.’ The slave gathered up our discards.

  The motherly slave woman returned with a box of medical equipment. She clucked with disapproval when she saw what we’d done with Tur. ‘You couldn’t wait till I’d stitched him up? Oh well, just hold his hands down.’

  She tucked more clean rags into the neck of the boy’s tunic and got to work. There wasn’t much blood, and he bore the pain like a hero, though, to be fair, he was in no condition to fight back. He couldn’t have fended off a garland girl from the market.

  By the time she was done, he was shaking like a bay tree in a winter gale. There was an old hoplite cloak in the bundle of clothes and I wrapped that around his shoulders. Sarkuk poured a cup of honeyed wine from the jug on the brazier. He held it to his son’s lips, coaxing the boy to drink.

  The slave guarding the gate peered through the grille to see who was knocking. As he opened up I was relieved to see the old Carian, Azamis, flanked by two muscular escorts.

  ‘Did anyone come looking for us?’ Sarkuk demanded. ‘Has anyone sent word of the riot in the agora?’

  ‘No.’ The old man was mystified. Then he saw Tur and gasped. ‘Oh, my poor boy!’

  The young Carian’s bruises were starting to colour, and his cut and swollen face looked truly frightful. At the same time, he was unhealthily pale beneath those gruesome injuries and his uninjured eyelid was drooping ominously.

  Sarkuk ushered his father to a stool, forcing him to sit. He said something in their own tongue.

  ‘Here, drink this.’ I reached for the jug of warm wine and poured a generous cupful. We should have thought to warn the old man how shocking his grandson looked. The last thing we needed was Azamis keeling over from some spasm of the head or heart.

  Thankfully a couple of swallows brought a flush of colour to Azamis’s sunken cheeks. I took a cup of wine for myself and offered the first taste to Apollo and his healer son, Asclepios.

  The gate opened yet again and Aristarchos appeared in the archway. He took the scene that greeted him in his stride, though even he raised his eyebrows when he saw the extent of Tur’s injuries.

  ‘Good day to you all.’ He turned to his slave. ‘Lydis, send word to the Academy. I’d be grateful if Spintharos could call here as soon as he finds it convenient.’

  How nice, I reflected, to be able to summon your chosen doctor when you needed him, instead of carrying or cajoling a patient to one of Apollo’s shrines, where you could only hope that whoever you found on duty was a halfway competent physician.

  ‘If you please,’ Sarkuk said, strained, ‘we cannot afford—’

  ‘If your son has been injured in Athens, it is Athens’ duty to see him cared for.’ Aristarchos’s courteous manner nevertheless made it clear that particular discussion was closed. ‘Philocles, what do you have to tell me?’

  I’d been organising my thoughts while we waited, and gave him a succinct summary of everything that had happened in the agora. While I was speaking, two slaves appeared with refreshments, two more carrying trestles and a tabletop. They set out wine, olives and pine nuts, together with fresh sliced cheese and wheat breads.

  Aristarchos poured a polite libation to Hermes, for the sake of all messengers and travellers. ‘And your conclusions?’

  Before I could answer, Azamis raised his hand like a student at a lecture. ‘If you please, honoured sir, do not believe what that other Ionian in the agora claimed. I swear that Pargasarenes have no wish to be ruled by Artaxerxes. We know how harsh any satrap’s rule would be. The Medes still remember how Ionia rebelled against them in my grandfather’s day. They bear us a mortal grudge.’

  He shook his head, his grey beard flowing. ‘We wish to stay in the Delian League and not just for fear of the Persians. As long as we look to Athens, this city’s authority helps to uphold our own small council, our people’s assembly and our town’s law court. Cleisthenes’s reforms, which guarantee your own freedoms, are what inspired so many of our towns to throw off Darius’s rule, so we might govern ourselves in the Athenian way.’

  That wasn’t how my father told that story. According to him, Ionia’s revolt was the bright idea of a couple of Milesians who’d been Darius’s vassals to begin with and got ambitious on their own account. Athens had been dragged into Ionia’s wars for the sake of our shared Hellene blood and to uphold the rights of free men and popular rule against tyranny. What we got in return was the Persians marching into Attica to plunder and burn, and the bloodshed of Marathon and all the battles that followed.

  This was neither the time nor the place for that debate, so I held my tongue, drank my wine and ate some food. Now Azamis was saying something much more interesting.

  ‘If we break our ties with Athens, even if we stay free of the Persian yoke, there are Hellenes in Pargasa who claim ancient blood rights to rule.’ The old man’s voice grew harsh with emotion. ‘Foreign tyranny or home-grown oligarchy? What choice is that? To be devoured by Scylla or by Charybdis!’

  ‘No one on the council wants to see a favoured few putting their boot on our necks.’ Sarkuk took up the tale as Azamis reached for his cup to wash the bitterness from his mouth. ‘But those citizens who think they can seize power are always the first to complain, and the loudest, whenever the council and the assembly discuss gathering the levy payment each year. This is why Xandyberis was determined to stand before the Archons and have his say, to make our case to have this burden eased.’

  ‘Only we find that we have been lied to, and our friend has been killed.’ Azamis could barely restrain his fury. I was starting to see where Tur got his temper.

  ‘Then we must find out who has lied and why,’ Aristarchos said crisply.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’ I spoke quickly. ‘Sarkuk, did you recognise that Ionian’s—’

  ‘What?’ Tur interrupted, startling us all. ‘You think we must all know each other?’

  ‘No,’ I shot back, ‘and if you’ll keep quiet, I’ll explain why I don’t think he was an Ionian at all.’ I asked Sarkuk again. ‘Did you recognise his accent as Carian, or Lydian, Mytilenean or Hellespontine?’

  He considered this for a moment. ‘No. I’d have said he was a man who’d left his home town or island many years ago. Still Ionian in his speech, but anything distinctive to mark out his birthplace has been smoothed away by years of travelling and speaking only Greek.’

  ‘You called out to him, in the agora. What did you say?’

  ‘That he had no right to speak for the rest of us,’ Sarkuk said robustly.

  ‘I don’t think he even realised you were talking to him. I don’t think he understood a word you said.’ I turned from the Carian to Aristarchos. ‘I think he was in league with the man who was making that speech condemning the Ionians. I saw the two of them swap a glance when the rabble-rouser was so surprised to see Tur step forward. They made use of the interruption quickly enough, though.’

  Sarkuk frowned as he considered this. ‘I believe you are right.’

  ‘Someone’
s conspiring to stir up trouble, turning Athenian citizens against Ionians in the streets.’ Aristarchos looked grim.

  ‘And we were unlucky enough to walk right into it.’ All the same, I had some good news. ‘But I believe we have a scent to follow. I reckon that man who was playing the Ionian is an actor. I’d say he’s a professional who specialises in regional characters.’

  ‘I suppose that’s possible.’ Aristarchos sounded dubious.

  I pressed on. ‘I think that orator’s an actor as well. He made a joke about Greek handmaids giving Persian satraps hand-jobs.’

  Aristarchos pursed his lips with distaste. ‘Hardly high-flown rhetoric.’

  I nodded. ‘Quite so, but I’ve heard that joke before.’

  ‘Where?’ Aristarchos leaned forward. ‘When?’

  ‘When I was called to read for the Archon the year before last, in hopes of a chorus for the Lenaia. A playwright called Timodemos used that exact line for an Athenian oarsman at Salamis.’

  More fool him, thinking he could make a comedy out of that crucial battle. The Archon’s distaste had been clear before any announcements were made.

  Aristarchos took my meaning. ‘So these conspirators have most likely hired an Athenian writer as well as at least one actor.’

  ‘How will you find them?’ Sarkuk asked.

  I grinned. ‘At the theatre, where else? Keep your eyes open when you come to watch my play tomorrow.’

  Tur was still determined to be contrary even though he was swaying on his stool and every word he spoke was an effort. ‘You think you’ll recognise two men among however many thousand… ?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I retorted, ‘and regardless, you’ll all be safer there than anywhere else in the city. No one’s going to try knifing you or beating you up with an audience that size to witness it.’ I looked at Aristarchos. ‘But I think we’ll have better luck if I ask Lysicrates which actors have a particular talent for playing foreigners, and who among them might be persuaded to do something like this.’

  ‘Persuaded or merely paid. That’s a sound notion, Philocles.’ Aristarchos turned to Azamis. ‘Forgive me, but I don’t think it’s wise for you to return to your hostel. I have property nearby where you can stay as my guests and we can ensure no enemies know where to find you.’

  I could see that Azamis was reluctant, but equally he could see that Aristarchos was a man used to being obeyed. The old man exchanged a glance with his son and Sarkuk nodded.

  ‘We are honoured by your hospitality,’ he said formally.

  ‘It’s little enough restitution for all that you have suffered. Lydis, send to the hostel for their belongings and pay any outstanding bill. Meantime, I will send word to the Polemarch’s office, so you may claim your friend’s body.’

  When the Pargasarenes had finished interrupting each other, thanking him profusely, Aristarchos turned to me.

  ‘I really have to get to my brothers’ house,’ I said quickly. ‘My mother’s going to have my balls for loom weights as it is.’

  ‘Of course.’ Aristarchos set aside whatever he intended to say.

  * * *

  When I arrived at my family home, I was relieved to find that all was peaceful, or as peaceful as any festival day can be, with laughter and music and feasting all along the street. Of course, there was a harsher note here and there. With too many people sharing cramped quarters, indulging in late nights, too much wine and rich food, family rows often break out. Drama’s never limited to the theatre during the Dionysia.

  No strangers had come asking after me. They hadn’t even heard about the riot in the agora. My fears receded as I considered how quickly Pamphilos and the other neighbours would come to the household’s aid if troublemakers turned up.

  The best of the festival food had already been eaten, so I was glad Aristarchos’s slaves had fed me. Not that I said anything about visiting his house. I just hinted that nerves over tomorrow’s performance had dulled my appetite.

  My mother saw my hands were bruised. There was no hiding such details from her eagle eye. I made light of it, insisting I’d just run into some drunks on the Panathenaic Way. Mother was ready to believe that. As far as she’s concerned, Athens is a city of lawless brutes, so unlike the peaceful countryside she’d known as a girl.

  Mother was born out in Kolonai. Her family have lived thereabouts since the time of the Titans. There’s every chance she’d have stayed within half a day’s walk for the rest of her life, happily married to a local boy. But when the Persians invaded, everyone in their path came scurrying into Athens for safety.

  Nymenios was fawning over Melina. Wine always makes him amorous. Chairephanes was happily playing with our young nephews and our little niece. I managed to turn Mother’s thoughts to the prospects of him marrying Glykera and blessing the family with more grandchildren. That put an end to any awkward questions.

  I was glad of it. The less anyone hereabouts knew of my dealings with the Carians, the safer everybody would be. I didn’t want doorstep chit-chat carrying gossip to the neighbours. Rumours could float away on the breeze until word reached whoever was behind this business. I couldn’t swear the kitchen girls or the workshop slaves to secrecy. Nymenios is head of this household, not me.

  I made my excuses as soon as I decently could, walking home fast through the fading daylight, eager to see Zosime. Now that Aristarchos had taken charge of the Pargasarenes, my only concern was my play. I could put everything behind me and look forward to seeing my comedy performed in the world’s greatest city’s theatre.

  * * *

  My good mood lasted as far as my own door. Even in the swiftly fading daylight, I could see that someone had painted a foul accusation along our outside wall in bold, black letters as big as my hand.

  Philocles spreads his arse cheeks for any Persian who wants to bugger him.

  Chapter Twelve

  For the benefit of anyone passing who couldn’t read Greek, whoever had come all this way to insult me had also painted a crude rear view of a man leaning forward. His hands were clasping his buttocks, all the better to show the world his gaping arsehole, with cock and balls dangling below.

  I stood there for a long moment, struggling to believe my own eyes. Then I managed to swallow the rage choking me long enough to hammer on the gate. Kadous opened up with a cudgel in his fist, scowling like an avenging Titan.

  Lowering the weapon, the slave looked stricken. ‘Philocles—’

  ‘When was this done?’ I snarled.

  ‘The paint was nearly dry when I got back here.’ Kadous gripped his olive-wood club so hard that his knuckles showed white. ‘Zosime—’

  I pushed past him. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’m all right.’ She came out of the house. ‘It was done before Dad and I got back.’

  Speechless, I wrapped my arms around her. Despite her calm words, I felt her trembling. Acid fury burned my throat. ‘We’ll find the bastards who did this.’

  Fine words, but if this were a comic play, some character would promptly tap on my shoulder to ask, ‘And how will you do that exactly? What will you do to him then?’

  I had no idea. Real life doesn’t have helpful answers turning up just when you need them.

  A voice called out in the street. ‘Hallo within!’

  ‘Menkaure.’ As I greeted him, my heart was sinking. We’d arranged to meet at the theatre after the choir competition, but I’d been nowhere to be found. Chairephanes had assured me he’d seen Zosime into her father’s care but, if the Egyptian didn’t think I could keep his beloved daughter safe from vile insults or worse, I hated to think what he would do. I could hardly protest if he insisted she went back to his lodgings.

  As he entered the courtyard, Menkaure held up an oil jar he’d got from somewhere. I caught a powerful aroma, reminiscent of the resin that seals the insides of wine amphorae.

  ‘Terebinth. This’ll shift it.’

  ‘Thank you. Kadous! Find some scrubbing brushes!’

  ‘L
et me.’ Zosime pulled free of my arms and headed for the storeroom.

  I looked at her father, apprehensive.

  He cocked his head. ‘You don’t think I believe this nonsense?’

  ‘What? No.’ That wasn’t bothering me. Not that he’d think I was a Persian sympathiser, or that he’d have any concerns if he thought I’d ever had a male lover. Egyptians are as sensible as Hellenes, not inclined to the peculiar outrage you hear of among northern barbarians. They know it’s no one else’s business if young men training together become lovers or those on a military campaign share some comfort beneath their blankets.

  If that proves to be a man’s lifelong preference, so be it. Most will still meet their obligations to their families by taking a wife to bear children. A man’s choices to satisfy his appetites only become an issue if self-indulgence sees him neglect his duties as a citizen.

  That was the point of this insult of course. Likening me to the wretched boy whores in their one-room hovels in the Kerameikos district. The wastrels renting out their bodies after they’ve squandered their inheritance, disgraced themselves through cowardice in battle, or been thrown onto the streets by their family for some other shameful deed. How dare they, whoever had done this?

  Zosime reappeared with some old brushes and her father soaked them with the pungent liquid. Heading out into the lane, I scrubbed that obscene picture so hard that my bruised arms ached. To help me ignore the terebinth’s vicious sting on my grazed knuckles, I imagined I was scouring the flesh off the face of whoever had painted it.

  My anger faded along with the daylight and I was forced to consider who might be responsible. Someone had been stirring up Persian prejudice in the agora, after all. If they thought I was an ally of those Carians, they might well attempt to discredit me. How much further would they go?