by JM Alvey
A moment later, Lysicrates appeared at my side, disgustingly bright-eyed. ‘Enjoying the plays?’
‘Of course.’ I waved that away. ‘Well? What have you heard?’
He jerked his head sideways and we walked away from the bustle. ‘You want to find out what Leptines has been doing lately.’
I frowned. ‘Do I know him?’
‘Played a Phoenician for Phrynichos the year before last. A Spartan for Critias a couple of years ago, and a Macedonian for Oloros before that.’ Lysicrates nodded at the tragedian who was still dithering a few paces from the theatre entrance. ‘But he hasn’t been hired for a play for the last two years and he can’t even get a place in a chorus. That’s very bad news for a man with his expensive tastes.’
This sounded promising. ‘Why isn’t he being hired?’
‘He’s offended too many people, swaggering about, boasting how they couldn’t possibly win without him. He’s good, but no one’s that good.’ Lysicrates wrinkled his nose. ‘We all know what happens to tall poppies.’
‘Anything else make you think he’s our man?’
‘For a man who’s not performing at this festival, and who’s had a lean time of it lately, he’s got silver in his pockets all of a sudden. He’s also spent a lot of time with Strato.’ Lysicrates held up a cautionary hand. ‘There may be nothing in that. People have been wondering if Leptines is giving up the stage to write.’
He folded his arms. ‘The thing is, though, if that’s the case, what’s he doing with Strato? I can’t see Leptines turning to comedy after a lifetime playing tragedy. I can’t see him writing anything, to be honest. He isn’t one of those actors you always know will take up a pen. He’s good with someone else’s words, but on his own? A beardless boy could out-argue him.’
‘That sounds worth looking into,’ I agreed. ‘Thank you.’
‘Watch your step.’ Lysicrates looked at me, serious. ‘Strato came around here earlier. He was very keen to make sure everyone knew you were accused of being a Mede sympathiser in the agora a day or so ago. He knew an awful lot about what had happened for someone who wasn’t even there. I saw him here in the theatre myself, all that afternoon.’
‘I wonder if Pheidestratos is part of this conspiracy.’ This sounded even more promising. ‘Did he tell Strato to write his play around the notion of sending citizens to settle confiscated lands?’
‘Lands confiscated from Ionians as a penalty for not paying their tribute?’ Lysicrates speculated.
‘You’ve heard talk about that?’ I looked at him.
He nodded. ‘There’s all manner of wild rumour flying around. No one knows why our allies expected a reassessment this year, but now word’s spreading that it won’t happen and our honoured guests are far from happy. Some of them swear if that’s so, there won’t be a single silver owl offered up next Dionysia. Not unless they get a fair hearing, and they want that well before the scheduled reassessment at the next Great Panathenaia. Apparently some men from the Troad are planning to stay in Athens, to air their grievances as soon as the Assembly is back in session. They say they’ll make sure that everyone in Attica, from Sounion to Rhamnous to Eleusis, understands their demands for relief are just.’
‘That’s what they’re saying, specifically?’ That sounded suspiciously like professional rhetoric to me.
‘Word for word,’ Lysicrates confirmed.
So we could look forward to more fistfights in the agora.
‘Have you any idea where I could find Leptines?’ I definitely wanted to see if he had been that man playing an Ionian to whip up a hostile crowd.
‘Sorry, I’ve no clue,’ Lysicrates said regretfully. ‘But I’ll keep on asking. Someone is bound to know where he’ll be drinking tonight, especially if they think he’ll be paying.’
‘Thanks.’ I nodded. ‘I’ll find you after the satyr play.’
Once again, I had to hurry to get back to my seat before the last play started. This time, Zosime rebuked me with a frown.
Now King Theseus was a grey-bearded old man. This chorus was the men and women he’d saved from the Minotaur in Crete, grown old alongside him. He was taking a stand against Creon, Prince of Thebes, after Polyneices, son of Oedipus, failed to unseat his usurping brother, Eteocles. King Theseus and the Athenians were horrified when weeping Antigone brought the news that Creon had decreed his own nephew, his sister Jocasta’s son, must lie unburied on the plain outside the city, to be devoured by dogs and crows.
No matter what the quarrels of mortals may be, so King Theseus proclaimed, all men must do their duty to the dead and to the gods. He would not let such dishonourable conduct stand. He would march with the Argive army to bury the fallen or die in the attempt. The chorus tried to dissuade him. Surely Athens had suffered enough loss?
King Theseus would not be swayed. Whatever the cost, those who died fighting for what was right must be honoured for their valour. If he fell before the gates of Thebes, he laid the duty of avenging him on the chorus and their sons.
Fortunately for all concerned, after the chorus lamented the tribulations of war and its enduring legacy, King Theseus returned victorious. More than that, he brought blind King Oedipus back with him. Athens would always be a refuge for those who had suffered through no fault of their own, so Theseus prophesied, as long as his bones rested in this citadel.
The chorus reluctantly agreed, ending the play on a muted note as they prayed to divine Athena that the costs of upholding honourable principles wouldn’t prove too high for their descendants.
‘I wonder why he chose that ending,’ mused Menkaure.
The family behind us were far more forthright. Oloros had just lost the competition as far as they were concerned. Tomorrow’s play would surely win the prize unless the third trilogy offered something truly ground-breaking.
Zosime squeezed my hand. ‘I thought that was very good.’
‘Philocles.’ Menkaure nudged me. ‘Is he looking for you? That man you were talking to earlier.’
I saw the Egyptian meant Sarkuk. The Pargasarene was climbing the hillside with long, hasty strides. I realised he was trying to attract my attention with furtive gestures.
I made my way along the benches to meet him on the dusty path worn into the grass by countless feet. ‘What is it?’
‘Archilochos,’ he said, succinct.
‘The scroll seller? The man who convinced Xandyberis the tribute would be reassessed?’ I looked down the slope. ‘Where?’
Sarkuk nodded. ‘There, in the dark blue tunic with the green cloak.’
I studied the knot of men in the theatre’s western entrance. ‘Going bald, next to the greybeard in the brown cloak with the stick?’
‘That’s him,’ Sarkuk confirmed.
That group of men weren’t waiting for the satyr play to restore Dionysian jollity to the day. I felt sure they were about to leave. Would we ever find them again if they did?
I made a quick decision and beckoned to Menkaure. When the Egyptian reached us, I nodded to Sarkuk. ‘Introduce yourselves, then find Kadous. Send him after me. Tell Aristarchos what’s happened. Tell Zosime I love her and I’m sorry.’
The two men didn’t waste time on questions. I headed towards the theatre’s exit, my eyes fixed on the balding man in blue.
Chapter Eighteen
The group headed south-east through the city, into the Limnai district. There were four of them, all told. Archilochos was in blue, wearing a green cloak, and even at this distance, I could tell those were expensive, deep-dyed fabrics. He might be losing his hair but what he had left was as precisely trimmed as his beard, so some barber saw his coin on a regular basis. I found it hard to believe selling scrolls in Ionia was profitable enough to pay for all that.
The greybeard in brown beside him was slightly lame and leaning on his walking staff. A younger man who carried himself like a wrestler strode ahead of them. He wore a dun tunic without a cloak, all the better to display his massive shoulders. A slightly b
uilt man brought up the rear, swathed in a voluminous cloak that would have made me suspect he was a sneak thief if I’d seen him in the agora.
I hung back as far as I dared, not wanting them to see me following. I might not know who they were, but I had no idea if any of these four would recognise me. Thankfully, they were only walking as fast as the old man with the stick could limp. It didn’t seem to occur to them that they might be pursued.
Snatching glances over my shoulder whenever possible, I looked urgently for Kadous. Had Menkaure been able to find him? I hoped I hadn’t already been out of sight before the Phrygian had left the theatre. I didn’t dare delay in hopes of the slave catching up. Dawdling would guarantee I’d lose track of my quarry.
The men were following the road that would take them out of the city towards the Panathenaic Stadium. I was wondering if that was their goal, though I couldn’t imagine why. To my relief, they turned into a side street, but that meant I had a new problem. All the city’s lesser thoroughfares were much quieter than usual, thanks to the festival. If I got too close, I would be far too noticeable. On the other hand, if I hung back, I could lose them altogether.
I couldn’t risk losing them. I broke into a run to reach the Hermes pillar on the corner where they had turned. My stomach was churning with apprehension. If they went through some gate before I caught sight of them, I’d have no clue which house they were visiting.
Crouching behind the stone pillar, I offered Hermes a fervent breath of thanks. The four men were still walking down this quiet side street. I saw them turn into a narrow lane on the left.
I sprinted after them a second time. My feet were horribly noisy on the gravel between the silent walls, so I slowed to a walk just before the corner. Peering around a wall with agonised care, I was ready to duck back out of sight in an instant. My head ached as I found that my luck had run out. There was no one there.
I counted a handful of houses on either side of the beaten earth. The four men could have gone into any of them. I could hardly start knocking on doors and asking for Archilochos. Our only hope of gaining some advantage was our foes staying unaware that we were tracking them down.
Besides, I’d bet any door slave would have strict orders to deny all knowledge of him. I also reckoned there was every chance that the balding man wasn’t even called Archilochos in Athens. If I were rabble-rousing, I’d hardly use my own name.
Tense, I walked down the lane, poised to run if a gate so much as creaked. To my relief, this wasn’t a dead end. An alley ran crossways beyond the last houses, behind the blank rear walls of the buildings along the next side street. This wasn’t a district of fine, spacious homes like Aristarchos’s, nor yet of close-packed dwellings combined with workshops like my brothers’. It was more akin to the lane where I lived, though these houses were markedly bigger than my own.
I studied the ground. There were scuffs here and there and curling gouges where gates hung loose on their hinges, but I couldn’t tell how old such marks might be. Without any recent rain, there were no puddles to leave helpful trails of footprints. No voices could be heard detailing some nefarious plan for a passer-by to overhear. The conveniences a comic playwright relies on never seem to happen in real life.
Reaching the end of the lane, I looked to left and right along the alley. There were mouldering piles of rubbish dumped here and there. Clearly this wasn’t anyone’s route to anywhere else, so there wasn’t much chance of anyone reporting their neighbours for dumping refuse over their back wall instead of taking it to the official middens outside the city.
All this exertion had set my head thumping again and the stink made my unhappy stomach churn. I reminded myself that I’d fought more than once in Boeotia on little sleep, less food and a dose of the shits from bad water. Today’s hangover hardly compared.
I picked a spot away from the worst of the smell where I could look back towards the gravelled side street. I was mostly hidden by the corner of the end house’s wall and I slid down to sit on my heels, the better to stay unnoticed. As soon as I heard voices or saw a gate open, I’d duck still further back, only risking a look when I heard someone walking away. If they decided to head in this direction, I’d just have to make a run for it and find out where this alley went.
Not too much later, a couple of men appeared at the far end of the lane. They’d followed the same route as I had, coming from the main road. I had no way to know if they’d seen me lurking as I hastily withdrew around the corner. I flattened myself against the wall like a lizard, my heart pounding.
I heard a latch rattle. I snatched a glance. The men were going into the third house on the far side of the lane from the corner where I was hiding. Better yet, I got a good look at these new arrivals. I had no idea who one of them was, but I definitely recognised the other. I couldn’t say for certain if this was Leptines, but he was definitely the man who’d played the Ionian in the agora. Today he was dressed as an Athenian and either those long Persian locks had been a wig or he’d visited a barber since that performance.
I’d wager good money that’s where this so-called Archilochos was hiding and that all these men were yoked together. But I had no way of letting my own allies know without leaving this vantage point. If I did that, I’d have no way of knowing who else might join this treacherous gathering or where any of them might go when they left.
That was assuming that some or all of them were going to leave. I grimaced, and not just at the reek of the refuse. I could end up spending the rest of the evening crouched in this stinking alley while they settled down to a leisurely banquet. That wasn’t an inviting prospect when my legs were already beginning to cramp.
I decided to wait a little longer, all the same. If one or other of the men who’d come here left, I would follow. Where they went should tell me something, and then I could go home. On the other hand, if a troupe of dancing girls and flute players arrived, I’d know they were making a night of it and head for Aristarchos’s house. He could send someone to make enquiries and discover who owned this house.
* * *
The afternoon wore on. Somewhere out towards the main road I heard a swell of voices, laughter and the slap of countless feet. I realised the satyr play must be long done. The day’s trilogy had been thoroughly debated over wine and food in the city’s taverns and the theatre audience was heading home.
I found a scrap of broken pot in a nearby heap of rubbish and used a stone to scratch a crude map on it to fix this location in my mind. Once I’d done that, I studied the most obvious scrapes and dents on the gate I was watching, to be certain I could describe it so there could be no chance of mistake.
I heard voices several times, though never from the house I was watching. I crouched low, ready to pretend to be tying my sandal if someone came out to dump a bucket of slops. Then I’d stroll away, back towards the main road. I couldn’t risk the uproar of being chased away like some thief.
Thanks to Athena, no one appeared and I stayed there, safe enough. The daylight yellowed and I wondered what Zosime and Menkaure were doing. I hoped they had gone home to Alopeke. Hopefully the Pargasarenes would simply go back to the house where Aristarchos had lodged them. Sarkuk and Azamis would want to see Tur after all.
I wondered if Kadous was still hunting fruitlessly for me. I had no idea how long he’d search before he gave up. But if he went home and confessed he couldn’t find me, I had no idea what Menkaure and Zosime might do. If they went to tell Nymenios, my whole family would end up frantic.
* * *
Dusk deepened. I decided I couldn’t stay here. For one thing, it wouldn’t be long before someone could sneak out of that gate without me seeing them, hidden by the gathering darkness.
A fiery glow appeared in the house’s courtyard. A pine torch. Someone was leaving. I stood up and flexed my feet to ease my legs, stiff from waiting so long.
The gate opened and four men came out. I couldn’t tell if they were the four I’d followed here or if one or more w
ere later arrivals. Even with the torch, the night hid the colours of their clothing. Ruddy light gleamed on a balding head though. With any luck, that was Archilochos.
I watched them make for the street that led towards the main road. As they rounded the corner, I followed as quickly as I dared. All the while I watched warily in case that gate opened again. If it did, I’d have to brazen it out, looking straight ahead and walking purposefully past.
Hermes be thanked, I passed his pillar without incident. I could see the torch heading northwards. I smiled, relieved. With the night to hide me, I didn’t have to get too close. I only needed to see which direction they took when they reached the junction with the main road.
Cloth flapped, loud in the quiet night. Someone swallowed an oath. Out of the corner of one eye, I glimpsed a fluttering cloak. Men rushed at me from a lane to my left. Masked men, with eyeholes and open mouths eerie black voids against pale paint.
No chorus ever attacks a drama’s principals like this though, and I wasn’t about to play the defiant hero. Forget declaiming some defiant speech. I took to my heels, as swift as if I wore winged sandals.
Not swift enough. They were young and fit, not battered and bruised from brawling, or sluggish from a hangover. One long-legged runner drew level with me, his grasping fingers reaching for my shoulder. I flung out a fist to knock his forearm away.
Another sprinter appeared on my other side. He carried a long, solid stick. A spear shaft. He rammed its end into the back of my thigh. My knee buckled and I fell hard, landing with all the wind knocked out of me. That meant I was too slow to see the booted foot coming for my guts. At least curling up around that agony meant the next kick intended for my balls only bruised my thigh.
The spear shaft slammed into my shoulder. I yelled with pain and fury but managed not to arch my back and expose my belly again. I rolled away, onto my front. Another kick came for my head. I seized that fucking foot and twisted it hard.