by J M Alvey
‘Want to make something of it?’ As lean and vicious as a shark, a lanky youth at Ameinocles’ shoulder grinned at the bull-necked man.
‘I made your sister beg for more, the last time I fucked her.’ Thettalos smacked his lips. ‘Maybe I’ll try your mother next time I don’t have the coin for a whore. I hear she’ll spread her knees for free.’
‘Cocksucker!’ spat the youth.
‘Your sister could suck the resin out of a pine knot,’ Thettalos assured him. ‘But I’m guessing you already know.’
The youth had no answer, woefully outmatched in this battle of insults.
Everyone’s attention except mine was fixed on the pair, agog to see who’d attack first. I was scanning the crowd, trying to work out who was here to fight and who’d be leaving as quickly as possible.
That’s why I saw the wiry man who’d been so quick to accuse the dancer of treading on his feet punch the singer standing in front of him. It was an expert, single blow, hitting the hapless man’s kidney. As the singer yelped, his knees buckling, the wiry man staggered backwards, hands clasped to his face and protesting. ‘What the fuck did I do?’
As if that was some signal, the witless youth sprang forward, intent on Thettalos. The bull-necked man swiftly sidestepped to let one of his lackeys jab the youth in the guts with his staff. As the youth doubled over, retching, the lackey used the stick on the backs of his knees. The youth sprawled forward, landing hard. The lackey kicked him in the face.
Thettalos had no time to gloat. Ameinocles was coming for him, that flute in his fist. He lunged and the bone pipe swept across Thettalos’ face, before coming back, fast as thought, to stab at the bull-necked man’s eyes.
Thettalos threw up his hands, instinctively protecting his face. That was exactly what Ameinocles wanted. Dropping into a low crouch, he stabbed his weapon into Thettalos’ side. Something cracked; the bone flute or Thettalos’ ribs, I couldn’t tell.
Ameinocles followed up his advantage as the bull-necked man reeled away. He walked straight into the bronze buckle of another man’s belt. Thettalos’ Brother had launched it at Ameinocles’ face with a vicious snap of leather. The metal cut so deep into his forehead that the edge of the buckle must have been sharpened.
Blood gushed down Ameinocles’ face to soak into his beard. He surged forward with a roar and wrestled the Brother to the ground. Getting one strangling arm around his foe’s neck, his other fist pummelled the man’s face unmercifully. Soon both were unrecognisable beneath masks of blood.
What had started as a couple of fights was becoming a pitched battle. These men looked intent on killing each other. One spun around to smash his opponent’s face into a wall. Another had a knife and slashed an enemy’s forearm open to the bone. One animal was using his teeth, jaws clamped onto the side of a screaming foe’s hand. Someone else was locked in a wrestler’s clinch with Thettalos now. Hobnails in the soles of both men’s sandals were ripping bloody gouges in their shins and calf muscles.
Hyanthidas had one hand on the dining room door, ready to slam it in the face of anyone attacking the pair of us. The only weapon I had to hand was a pen but I was ready to use that if I had to.
My fellow Athenians had all withdrawn to the second doorway. Lysicrates had used the table to make a rampart in front of them. Apollonides was armed with a stool and Menekles held a broken wine jug, ready to ram the sharp pottery into any assailant’s face. Most of the singers who’d come to audition had fled. I only hoped no one had been badly hurt.
‘What the fuck happens now?’ I asked Hyanthidas. I wondered if Eumelos would have warned us to expect this sort of trouble.
‘Temple slaves.’ Hyanthidas was hoarse with relief.
A handful of well-muscled men in plain tunics appeared. My heart sank. There weren’t nearly enough of them to break up this mayhem. But as soon as the first Brother shouted a warning, allies and enemies alike scattered like quail hearing an eagle’s cry.
Most ran for the open hillside, some pausing to gather up their blood-spattered comrades. The rest fled down the alley, towards the temple steps and the road.
The slaves made no effort to stop them. Inside a few moments, the courtyard was empty, littered with lost sandals, several belts and bloody clumps of hair. The oldest temple slave stepped forward to address me. His hair and beard were grizzled and his calm, hooded eyes told me he’d seen worse than this more than once.
‘The priestess would like a word.’
‘I’m sure she would,’ I said heavily.
Chapter Six
By the time the priestess finished with me, I had taken a different sort of beating. It might not have left any marks but I felt as thoroughly bruised as that witless lad must be.
I found Hyanthidas and the actors waiting down by the road. Lysicrates and Apollonides both carried small bundles but before I could ask what those might be, the actors had urgent questions.
‘I take it she wasn’t pleased?’ Menekles said with misgiving.
‘Has she thrown us out?’ Lysicrates clearly expected bad news.
‘No.’ I didn’t hide my surprise. ‘She says we’re not to blame for the fighting. It happens quite often in Corinth, when rival hero cultists clash.’
‘Really?’ Apollonides was astonished.
‘So maybe the fight today had nothing to do with our play?’ Menekles was relieved.
I nodded. ‘Though the priestess doesn’t want to see the Brotherhood back. She says her temple slaves can keep order for us.’
As we set off downhill, Menekles was still puzzled by the priestess of Demeter’s response. ‘That’s all she said?’
‘Pretty much.’
Actually, she’d had considerably more to say but I didn’t particularly want to relive the experience. It had been a blend of a scolding from my mother and a tongue-lashing from an exasperated teacher, back when I’d been learning my letters and mathematics in the Lyceum’s colonnades. I’d half expected her to whip out a fennel stalk to smack my legs, and I’d probably have let her, out of sheer confusion. I’ve never faced such stinging reproach from a woman who’s not a blood relation.
We walked silently back to our lodging, all of us preoccupied with our own thoughts. When Tromes opened the gate, Apollonides strode forward to unfold the bundle he carried on the table in the courtyard. Wrapped up in the torn cloak, I saw several shoulder brooches, a bronze arm ring, two mismatched sandals and a belt.
‘The spoils of battle,’ he said sarcastically.
Lysicrates had a similar haul of lost and abandoned possessions. ‘Nothing that any of us want to tread on when we’re rehearsing.’
Hyanthidas reached for a tarnished bronze brooch, scowling. ‘This is the Kin of Agamemnon’s insignia.’
Twin lions, lean and muscular, faced each other, standing proud on either side of a pillar with their forepaws up on its pedestal.
‘What about this?’ Lysicrates had found a belt with a ram’s head stamped into the leather.
‘Hermes’ Herdsmen,’ the piper said curtly.
Menekles held up a dolphin brooch. ‘And this?’
‘Melikertes’ Men.’
‘How many of these hero cults are there?’ Apollonides sorted through the debris.
‘How often do they beat the shit out of each other?’ Lysicrates asked acidly.
‘Does it matter?’ Hyanthidas demanded.
His mood was easy to read. I knew how proud he was of his city. He’d said often enough how Corinth was thrice blessed by the gods, with its fine harbours to east and west of the Isthmus. Goods from furthest west and the most distant cities eastward are bought and sold here, carried across that short stretch of land to save sailors from all the hazards of the lengthy voyage around the whole Peloponnese.
He’d regaled us with tales of the elegant shrines and fountains, of great temples dedicate
d to Apollo and Aphrodite, and the mighty Acrocorinth that defended his home’s peace and prosperity. He’d assured us of a warm welcome and the applause we would win with our play.
Now he was embarrassed. The brawl made his home look as inviting as a midden thronged with snarling vermin. He was furious with the men who’d disgraced Corinth so thoroughly. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t bite someone’s head off, if any of us thought we could criticize our hosts.
Apollonides was still sorting through the rubbish. ‘Does this mean anything?’ He held up a belt buckle ripped loose from its strap with a thick club of knotted wood embossed on the bronze. That was instantly recognisable from countless vases and statues.
‘The Sons of Heracles.’ Hyanthidas glowered.
I noted more than a few of the trinkets bore that insignia. ‘What do they want for Corinth?’
The piper sighed. ‘They insist that Heracles is the ancestor of all our cities’ ancient kings. They think that all the states of the Peloponnese should be united in the League, following Sparta’s lead. But they were always more interested in talking bullshit and drinking wine,’ he protested. ‘They never used to get involved in street brawls.’
‘Things have obviously changed while you were away,’ I said lightly. ‘There’s no way you could have known.’
From Hyanthidas’ expression, that wasn’t much consolation.
‘I take it the Brotherhood of Bellerophon don’t agree?’ Menekles set down a brooch engraved with the familiar winged horse.
‘Not at all,’ Hyanthidas said, emphatic.
‘And the Sons of Heracles will dislike Corinth’s new friendship with Athens.’ Menekles sighed.
‘Wait a moment.’ I pulled Eumelos’ list out of my belt. Don’t ask me why, but I had managed to keep hold of it, though the papyrus was badly crumpled. I laid it on the table, careful as the layers of thin-sliced stems flaked apart.
‘Does that look like a knotted club to any of you?’ I tapped the looping notification scrawled beside the first name. Then I reached for the brooch with the two lions, and pointed to another recurrent drawing. That one was two rough triangles side by side. ‘What about that? Could it be this Kin of Agamemnon’s insignia?’
It wasn’t immediately obvious. Whatever his other talents, Eumelos was no artist.
‘What are they all about?’ Apollonides wanted to know about this cult.
‘They want to strengthen Corinth’s ties with Argos,’ Hyanthidas said reluctantly.
‘That means they’re no friends to Athens either,’ Lysicrates pointed out.
I tapped the crumpled list. ‘So Eumelos knew of at least two hero cults who would like to see our play fail. He knew they could do a lot of damage by sneaking into our chorus, so he made a note of the ones he knew were good singers, like Ameinocles of Vayia.’
‘So let’s see who we don’t want.’ Apollonides startled me by producing our list of chorus hopefuls. I’d thought that had been lost in the chaos.
‘Tromes.’ I looked across the courtyard. ‘Pen and ink.’
The slave quickly obliged. He was always close by and ready to serve. In unguarded moments, I’d seen him looking apprehensive, even anxious, as he watched us and waited for some instruction. I could well imagine that Perantas Bacchiad was a demanding and unforgiving owner.
I drew a black line through the names that appeared on both lists before writing out a clean copy and handing it to Hyanthidas. ‘Can you let these men know we’d like to enlist them in our chorus?’
He looked dubious. ‘Some of them might not be so keen now.’
‘Do what you can to reassure them.’ There was nothing else I could say.
‘When can we hold more auditions?’ Apollonides looked around the table. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘The day after.’ I raised a hand to quell Menekles’ protest. ‘We have Eumelos’ funeral to go to.’
Lysicrates had other concerns. He tapped a third distinct squiggle on the list of hero cult affiliations. ‘What does this mean?’
‘Does it matter?’ Apollonides looked at him. ‘We’re not taking anyone Eumelos was going to warn us about.’
‘If there’s another hero cult out to make trouble for us, they don’t need to be in the chorus to do that,’ I pointed out.
‘I’ll ask around.’ Hyanthidas studied the mysterious scrawl as he rolled up the papyrus I’d given him. ‘I’ll see you at the funeral.’ He looked around the table, and then headed for the gate.
‘Let’s take a trip to Corinth.’ Menekles sucked his teeth. ‘It seemed like such a good idea.’
‘Do you want to head home?’ Apollonides began sweeping the detritus off the table and into a rubbish bucket. ‘With our tails between our legs like whipped dogs? We’d never hear the last of it.’
‘I never wanted to come in the first place.’ Lysicrates headed for his room.
Apollonides and Menekles watched him go up the stairs and slam the door behind him.
Menekles tossed the bronze arm ring into the bucket. ‘So what shall we do with the rest of our day, if we’re not rehearsing?’
‘Take a walk and see the sights?’ Apollonides suggested.
Menekles looked at me. ‘You can finish those rewrites.’
‘I can indeed.’ I stood up quickly before they could ask awkward questions about how I was getting on.
The knock that rattled the gate was as well timed as any distraction in a play. Tromes opened up and Kadous entered as Menekles and Apollonides went out.
I beckoned the Phrygian over and pushed the bucket of rubbish towards him. ‘See if Nados recognises any of these hero cult insignia and what he knows about them. Then ask him where to get rid of it all.’ I had no idea if Corinth had regulations like Athens to prevent randomly tossed garbage.
A new thought occurred to me. ‘If you can sell any of it, use that silver to buy some goodwill with Perantas’ slaves. See what they have to say about Eumelos. I take it there’s still no word of Dardanis?’
Kadous shook his head. ‘None.’
I supposed that was too much to hope for. I gestured up at our room. ‘Tell Zosime I’ll be working here for the rest of the day.’
Ordinarily I’d have enjoyed the fresh air in the courtyard as I wrote but I didn’t want anyone looking over my shoulder to see how little progress I’d made. So I went up the stairs and opened the shutters, dragging a table and stool to the window to get the best of the light.
I spent the rest of the day scribbling fruitless notes and crossing most of them out. When Kadous brought me some food he cleared away the crumpled papyrus that littered the floorboards without a word.
Daylight was fading when I heard Zosime’s voice. I set down my pen and capped the inkwell. At least I had the first stirrings of an idea now for rewriting that wretched scene.
Going down to the courtyard, I looked at my beloved and realised this wasn’t the time to ask her about jokes to suit Corinthians. I opened my arms wide and she stepped into my embrace. Not weeping but not far from it. I gestured to Kadous, miming drinking from a cup with my free hand. Nodding, he went to fetch wine.
‘It’s so sad.’ Her voice was muffled, her face buried in my shoulder. ‘Eumelos had so many friends. They’ve been coming to pay their respects all day.’
‘Not the Brotherhood of Bellerophon?’ I asked uneasily.
‘What do you mean?’ Zosime took a step back to look at me.
‘I’ll tell you later.’ I waved that away as Kadous brought us ochre-glazed cups and a jug of black wine watered down to ruby red.
Zosime sat on the bench by the table. ‘We lost count of how many people came to make their farewells. From Corinth, Lechaion, Kenchreai and any number of villages out in the Corinthia.’
‘Word’s spread fast.’ I wondered if winged Rumour might bring back some answers to solve the puzzle of his
death.
‘No one had a bad word to say about him.’ Zosime sipped her wine. ‘Oh, he was known to drive a hard bargain, but everyone agreed he was always fair.’
‘What was his business, exactly?’
‘Mostly, he traded in salted and pickled fish from Gades. He bought it from the Phoenicians who sail into Lechaion in the spring and sold some locally, as well as sending the rest to Kenchreai. He’d sell that to merchants trading as far as the Euxine Sea.’
‘Did he have many rivals?’ Though I found it hard to believe anyone would commit murder over salted fish.
Zosime shook her head. ‘Everyone wanted to be his friend. He was always hearing useful things about what could be profitably traded where, and he would broker deals for other merchants, when those Phoenicians were filling their holds with luxuries before heading home before the autumn storms.’
‘Maybe one of those merchants had debts he couldn’t settle?’ I speculated.
Maybe Eumelos had learned something perilous that convinced someone to shut his mouth. Every new thing I learned seemed to take me further from any hope of an answer. If Eumelos’ business affairs had prompted his death, his killer could have come from anywhere. The murderer could already be sailing to some distant port, or beyond to barbarian lands.
Zosime thought otherwise. ‘How would a business rival persuade Eumelos to put an aphrodisiac in his wine? Would you take an unknown potion from someone who owed you money?’
‘It makes no sense, does it?’ I admitted.
‘Nor does suicide.’ Zosime reached for my hand. ‘He’s been encouraging young Nados to start buying and selling on his own account, lending him the silver he needs. Abrosyne says he’s done the same for Aithon in Kenchreai and Simias in Lechaion. He did the same for two young men who worked for him before, teaching them a merchant’s tricks and tips, and backing them when they set up in business for themselves.’
‘Yet he had no sons of his own. No children at all, nor a wife.’ That still puzzled me.