by J M Alvey
Kallinos stepped into the courtyard. He was grinning. ‘I know this one. Public slaves can testify in Athenian courts without being put to torture.’
Nikandros recognised the Scythian’s uniform of linen and leather. He collapsed, sliding down the wall as his knees gave way. Burying his face in his arms, as though that could make all this horror disappear, he wailed like the spoiled child he was.
Iktinos had more backbone, and he knew it was time to flee. Kadous stood between him and the gate. He sprang at the Phrygian, slashing low and wide, seeking to spill my slave’s guts on the ground.
Kadous had been in enough knife fights to avoid that fate. He might even have got the knife off the wrestler if he’d been given the chance. I’d seen him do that in the past. Mus and Ambrakis hurried out of the dining room. We’d agreed not to take any chances when it came to bringing Iktinos down.
Only Tur decided to help, and it seems that Caria needs wrestling trainers as much as it lacks teachers of rhetoric. The idiot Pargasarene threw himself onto Iktinos’s back, crushing the wrestler’s arms to his sides in a ferocious bear hug.
In fairness, if Iktinos hadn’t been so experienced in competition as well as brawling, Tur might have succeeded. The Carian was big and strong. But Iktinos simply bent his knees and dropped his shoulder in one swift, smooth move. That lifted Tur clean off his feet and hurled him over Iktinos’s head to slam into Kadous.
The two men collapsed, entangled. Blood splashed over them both. Tur was screaming like a sheep savaged by a wolf. I saw Iktinos had thrust his knife right through the boy’s forearm, in between the bones. The bastard hadn’t just stabbed him. He’d twisted the knife as hard as he could.
Sarkuk ran to his son’s aid, ripping off his tunic to staunch the fearsome wound. With all these men in the way, none of us could reach Iktinos. No one could stop the murderer as he dragged the gate open and fled down the lane.
Kallinos considered the carnage unmoved. ‘Dados?’
The sleepy-eyed Scythian emerged from the dining room’s shadows. He already had an arrow ready. I followed him to the gate, skirting Sarkuk and Tur as Kadous ran for bandages from Zosime’s stores.
Ambrakis and Mus pursued the killer but neither man was a sprinter. Iktinos had a good start on them and showed an unexpected turn of speed. He was running for the main road. If he reached the corner, I knew we would lose him. He’d keep on running all the way to Piraeus. He’d be on board the next ship sailing anywhere before anyone could find him.
Dados contemplated the fleeing man for a long moment. Then he drew his bow and loosed his shaft in a single fluid motion.
The arrow took Iktinos in the back, to the left of his spine and just below his shoulder blade. He collapsed by the Hermes pillar, screaming as he writhed in agony. By the time we reached him, his cries were fading and bright red blood frothed on his pallid lips.
‘I’d have brought more men if I’d known we’d be carrying another corpse all the way back to the city,’ Kallinos remarked.
‘I’m sorry to make so much work for you.’ I watched Iktinos’s struggles for life and breath fade until his eyes glazed in death.
I was content to see the bastard pay the ultimate penalty for his crimes. He would have died sooner or later. He’d been marked for the Furies’ vengeance, ever since the Scythians heard his confession. It wasn’t as though Megakles would have paid for his defence if Iktinos had been brought to trial before a citizen jury. He wouldn’t have let the murderer implicate his son Nikandros. The best the wrestler could have hoped for was an anonymous gift of hemlock to cheat the public executioner, as payment for his silence.
On the other side of that coin, I would much rather he had died later than sooner. Now we had no chance of getting vital answers out of him in return for that cup of hemlock. More than that, without him in the Scythians’ custody, there was no case to take to court, to make the conspiracy the talk of the agora. Kallinos had heard Iktinos confess to murdering Xandyberis, but Nikandros had denied it. Now that the wrestler was dead, he could shoulder all the blame. The plotters would retreat into the shadows and bide their time before another attempt to profit by dragging Athens into war.
‘He’s going to drip blood all down my back,’ complained Dados. He hauled the dead wrestler up all the same, hoisting him over one shoulder.
I watched them walk away and returned to my house. As I reached the gateway, Kadous was binding up Tur’s wounded arm and reassuring Sarkuk.
‘It looks worse than it is. He can still use all his fingers. See? Show us, lad.’
Frozen-faced with shock, Tur nevertheless managed to oblige. I winced.
Still huddled in a heap, Nikandros was wading incoherent entreaties.
‘Get up!’ Suddenly furious, Azamis seized his black curls. He dragged the boy towards the gate. Enraged, the old man was stronger than he looked. ‘Get out!’
Seeing me on the threshold, Nikandros stretched out beseeching hands. ‘Please, please, I beg you. Let me make this right. Five minas? For the dead man’s family?’
Azamis let him go. Nikandros staggered to his feet. He straightened his tunic, relieved, until he saw the force of the old Carian’s loathing.
‘You think you can buy your way out of everything?’ spat Azamis. ‘You think any silver can outweigh your sins?’
Nikandros didn’t see the blow coming. I doubt he’d ever been slapped by a parent or a tutor. The old man’s fist took him in the side of the jaw. I don’t know if it was the punch that knocked him out or smacking his head on the gatepost, but he fell to the ground, utterly senseless.
‘Is he dead?’ Azamis rubbed his bruised knuckles as I stooped over the sprawled youth.
‘No.’ Though he had a nasty gash in his scalp where he’d struck the corner of the solid wood. When he woke up, he’d have a vicious bruise. If he woke up, if his skull was still whole.
I heaved a sigh and called out to Kadous. ‘Find our guests some good wine while I fetch Zosime.’ She’d gone home with Menkaure to his rented rooms when they’d finished work at the pottery. From the moment we’d hatched this plot, I’d been intent on keeping her as far away as possible from Iktinos and Nikandros.
‘Mus, Ambrakis.’ I beckoned to the slaves. ‘We’d better take this garbage back to the city.’ The walk should give me time to compose some convincing explanation for the guards on duty at the Itonian Gate.
I hated to think what Aristarchos would say when he learned how badly our plans had gone awry. Given the choice, I’d dump Nikandros in a ditch. Let any god or goddess who cared look after him, if they felt the fool boy deserved mercy. But I didn’t have a choice. Justice might have been done for Xandyberis, but more innocents would die if the plotters still got their war.
Mus and Ambrakis grabbed Nikandros’s wrists and ankles and carried him, limp and with his head lolling, all the way to Athens.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I arrived at Aristarchos’s house at noon the following day as requested. Mus opened the gate and Lydis led me through to the inner courtyard. Azamis, Sarkuk and Tur were already sitting there, silently waiting. We’d tried to persuade the boy to stay in bed, but he insisted on being here, his eyes bright with fever as he cradled his bandaged arm.
I didn’t speak. We’d all been warned not to make our presence known. We satisfied ourselves with silent nods and brief, grim smiles.
Lydis joined us as one of the household girls brought refreshments. None of us could eat, though the wine was welcome. As we all wordlessly offered a libation, I wondered who the Carians prayed to. I sought Athena’s blessing, to help us foil her city’s enemies once and for all.
Everyone tensed when we heard the gate open. Mus’s voice echoed around the outer courtyard as he announced the visitor to his master.
‘Megakles Kerykes.’
‘Good day and thank you for coming.’
Aristarchos was sitting in a tall, cushioned chair carefully placed by the archway to make sure we could hear t
his conversation. The long table, the stools and all the scrolls and letters had been cleared away. The stage was set for a dramatic confrontation.
‘Mus, a seat for my guest.’
We heard the sharp clatter of a stool being set down. I strained my ears for any hint that Megakles had brought a slave as an escort or bodyguard. No, there was no business of handing over a cloak, no instructions for some underling to sit out of earshot. Good. Aristarchos had been right. Megakles felt safe enough walking these wealthy streets at midday. Besides, the fat fool was coming here confident that Aristarchos was ready to join him in concealing his son’s treason. The fewer witnesses to such duplicity, the better, even slaves.
‘I was relieved to get your letter this morning,’ Megakles said stiffly. ‘To know that you understand how closely our interests align.’
‘Forgive me.’ Aristarchos didn’t sound the least remorseful. ‘When I said I wished to discuss resolving the consequences of your son’s activities, I should have made myself clear. I wish to see him suitably punished.’
‘What?’ Megakles was audibly stunned.
‘I also wish to explain my contempt for the proposals put to me at your symposium. I remain convinced that Athens should look to the west, to Italy and to Sicily,’ Aristarchos continued calmly. ‘To build new cities on fresh ground rather than stealing land which our allies have ploughed for generations. I will never help foment mistrust between this city and the Delian League. I will never be part of conniving to wave a false threat of some Persian menace over everyone’s heads. I will never ally with men stirring up strife in Athens in order to fill their own strongboxes.’
‘I played no part in that.’ The stool’s feet screeched on the paving as Megakles lurched to his feet.
‘No,’ Aristarchos agreed, ‘but only because you were wilfully deaf while treason was discussed around your dinner table. Just as you were wilfully blind to whatever your son was doing, and with whom. An honest citizen, any responsible father, would have acted long since to curb his arrogance and greed.’
To give Megakles his due, he rallied quickly. ‘I would warn you against rash accusations. You forget I have many friends in this city. Powerful friends.’
Aristarchos was unmoved. ‘You may wish to consider how they will react, when they hear what I have to say. The Archons. The Polemarch. The Tribute Commissioners. The Board of Auditors who will assess your fitness if you’re ever selected for high office. The men who will ratify your accounts if, by some miracle, you’re approved to serve a magistrate’s term. The senior men of your own noble lineage when they hear just how your son’s treason threatens them all with utmost disgrace.’
‘It will just be your word against mine,’ Megakles snarled.
‘No, it will not,’ Aristarchos assured him. ‘I can call a witness to the plotting you allowed to flourish under your very own roof.’
That was my cue. I walked through the archway to the outer courtyard. Lydis followed, carrying my stool and retreating as soon as he’d set it down. I took my seat.
Still standing, Megakles stared at me, dumbfounded. He didn’t have the faintest idea who I was.
‘This is Philocles,’ Aristarchos said helpfully. ‘He was with the musicians you hired for that symposium you invited me to. He heard everything that was said.’
‘One of those Aitolians?’ scoffed Megakles. ‘His word is no good in Athens. You might just as well put forward the slave who carried your torch.’
‘Hardly. I value my slaves. In any case, you are mistaken. Philocles is an Athenian citizen who can call any number of men from his district to vouch for him and his family. Though I’m surprised you don’t recognise him,’ Aristarchos remarked. ‘He wrote the comedy I sponsored for the festival.’
I was pleased to see a flicker of uncertainty on Megakles’s face. Nevertheless, he half turned and took a pace as though he was about to leave.
‘And of course, your son tried to have him killed,’ Aristarchos continued in that same measured tone. ‘To add to the first murder we can lay at his door.’
‘What?’ Megakles turned back. Apprehension coloured his protest. ‘Nikandros would do no such thing.’
‘You don’t know your son very well.’ Aristarchos was politely contemptuous. ‘Do you know how he was financing his attempt to beggar the city’s leather workers so that your tanneries and workshops would profit?’
I followed his prompt. ‘He told me he had raised loans against the produce and the property of the farms and the vineyards you own.’
‘He did what?’ Megakles was aghast.
‘Without your knowledge or consent?’ Aristarchos pursed his lips. ‘That disgraces you both. Or it would, if it were true. In fact, Nikandros was conspiring with a wrestler who claimed the protection of your patronage. We have yet to establish where they got the silver that funded their treason.’
I made sure my face was as calm and assured as my patron’s. In fact, we had yet to establish if Nikandros had raised loans using Kerykes land. It would take twenty or thirty days for Aristarchos’s men to ride out into Attica and return with any proof either way. But when I’d said I didn’t believe it and cited Iktinos’s threats to Nikandros, Aristarchos had been convinced.
He was still speaking. ‘Philocles was attacked outside the house which you own in Limnai, where Gorgias has been living whenever he returns to Athens. That’s where he takes a break from his travels masquerading as a scroll seller called Archilochos. He has gone the length and breadth of Ionia assiduously stirring up resentment and doubt as to the Athenian people’s good faith. Do you seriously expect the city’s great and good to believe that your son did all this without your knowledge?’
Looking at Megakles’s slack jaw and hollow eyes, I was convinced he hadn’t known a thing about it, but that wasn’t the point.
Voice shaking, he still tried to strike back. ‘Accuse my son and you accuse your own, and others besides. You’ll make more enemies than me if you drag any of this into court.’
‘You think his friends’ fathers will rally to you?’ Aristarchos raised his voice. ‘Lydis!’
The slave reappeared with two letters. He handed them to Megakles. I never did discover what they said, but Megakles paled as he read them.
‘It’s Nikandros who has made powerful enemies for your family,’ Aristarchos said softly. ‘Seeking to take advantage of foolish boys easily led.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Megakles turned the papyrus sideways as though he was going to tear both sheets in two.
Lydis was too quick, plucking the letters from his hands.
‘You honestly think that I’d hand you the originals?’ mocked Aristarchos. ‘Even if I were so foolish, a letter can always be rewritten.’
Megakles threw up his hands in extravagant fury. ‘I cannot believe that you’d condemn your own son. Such cruelty to your family! Such disloyalty to your bloodline!’
‘I have three sons still living.’ Aristarchos looked at him, as cold and unyielding as marble. ‘You have only one.’
I found myself wishing I wrote tragedy. The theatre sees so many Cleons and Agamemnons condemning their nieces and nephews and sons and daughters with foot-stamping denunciations. If I could pen such a brutal judgement delivered with composure as ominous as this, I’d have an entire audience holding their breath.
Megakles looked at the paving, histrionics abandoned. Aristarchos continued serenely.
‘Not that I intend to bring such treason to court. I have more than enough evidence to accuse Nikandros of corrupting temple officials, and extorting compliance from others with threats of violence. That’s how he secured all the hides from this year Dionysia’s sacrifices.’
Lydis had been busy while I’d been trying to trap Iktinos. Aristarchos had always intended to secure a fallback position.
‘Tell me,’ he invited, ‘is he looking to put every other tannery and leather worker out of business or merely to make sure they’re obligated to your family? Though
I don’t suppose it matters. Any jury of honest tradesmen and craftsmen will see a rich man greedy for still more coin, who is willing to ruin men like themselves by destroying their humble livelihoods.’
‘There are no laws against securing commercial advantage,’ blustered Megakles.
‘There are laws against bribery,’ Aristarchos pointed out.
‘Go ahead then,’ Megakles spat. ‘Call us before the courts and we’ll see who wins. I’ll have Glaukias compose my son’s defence. Who will you have at your side? This—’ he gestured at me, struggling to find some insult bad enough ‘—comedian?’
Aristarchos’s grin reminded me of the crocodile Zosime had drawn for me once. Those lethal creatures were one of the few things she remembered from her childhood in Egypt.
‘Strato and Pheidestratos were stupid enough to underestimate Philocles, and they lost.’ He waved that away. ‘There’s no need for you to spend your money on Glaukias. I have no need to prove anything before a court of law.’
‘What?’ Now Megakles was thoroughly confused.
Aristarchos raised his voice in a shout. ‘Mus!’
The massive slave reappeared. He was carrying a basket so big and so heavy that it was a burden even for him. He tipped the contents onto the paving in the middle of the courtyard. Broken pottery cascaded in all directions. Red dust rose from the slithering, cracking commotion and black chips skittered away from the growing heap.
Mus stooped to pick up one of the shards and handed it to the gaping man. Nikandros’s name was scratched through the black glaze, leaving the letters as vividly red as the pottery beneath. All the other pieces said the same.
Megakles looked at Aristarchos, appalled. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Oh, I would,’ he promised with absolute certainty.
Megakles hurled the potsherd onto the heap. ‘It’ll be months before someone can call for an ostracism. Not until next year. It’ll be two months after that before there can be a vote to nominate anyone.’
