by J M Alvey
I nodded, my mouth dry, as we walked through the streets. Corinth’s citizens and visitors were going about their daily business in the agora. It felt as if every one of them stopped to stare as we went past.
We climbed the shallow slope to the mighty temple’s broad precinct. A great statue of Apollo seated with his lyre watched us approach, impassive. The temple slaves led us across the sacred paving and into the temple’s porch. Gleaming bronze plaques on all sides were engraved with the Council’s decrees.
In Athens, we chisel our laws and annual records into stone to ensure that the will of the people endures, unaltered. Oligarchies prefer metal that can be melted down and recast whenever some new faction emerges to overrule their predecessors.
We entered the larger of the temple’s two inner chambers. The god rose above us, beardless and beautiful in gleaming bronze, his hair a cascade of loose curls. His quiver was slung across his back, and the arm holding his bow was outstretched. Lithe and muscular, he stood as tautly poised as any archer who has just loosed an arrow. His divine gaze swept over our heads, looking out through the temple entrance as if to see where his shot might have landed.
I didn’t need reminding that Apollo is as ready to strike down the impious and dishonest with his arrows of misfortune and disease as he is to reward good men for their virtues and grant them his gifts of healing, alongside his divine son, Asklepios.
A half-circle of folding stools were set in front of the magnificent statue, with carved and polished legs and glossy leather deep-dyed with the scarlet that Corinth is justly famed for. The men who would plant their backsides on such luxury were talking in low voices, gathered in small groups. They were well nourished, expertly barbered and expensively dressed. Every one wore gold and silver rings and brooches as well as a finely woven wool cloak. All had obsequious attendants hanging on their every word.
‘This isn’t the full Council,’ Hyanthidas murmured as the temple slaves withdrew. ‘That’s good.’
I wanted to ask why, but the gathering had noticed our arrival. The hangers-on withdrew to stand silently against the temple walls while the great and the good of Corinth settled themselves on their stools. I noticed Perantas Bacchiad, but he looked at me with bland disinterest, as if we’d never met before.
A stocky individual sat in the centre of the half circle. His ample belly and broad arse spoke of a youthful wrestler’s muscles now softened for lack of exercise and too much rich food. His vanity was apparent in his carefully curled beard and the way his long grey locks were combed to compensate for his relentlessly receding hairline.
He looked at me as though I was filth to scrape off the bottom of his sandal. ‘Philocles Hestaiou of Athens.’
I’d faced a more hostile audience when my first play had failed so miserably at the Lenaia. This lot didn’t have cheese rinds to throw either.
I smiled cheerfully. ‘Good day to you, honoured sirs.’
The merest hint of a smile from Perantas answered me as the greybeard scowled.
‘You have caused considerable disturbance since your arrival.’
This time I decided to wait for a question.
‘Well?’ the greybeard barked, irritated. ‘Tell me why we shouldn’t forbid you the use of our theatre, in the interests of civic order?’
Old soldiers will tell you the best way to win a battle is not to fight in the first place.
I addressed the whole gathering rather than the greybeard alone. ‘Granting such a favour is in your gift. We would never presume otherwise.’
I wasn’t about to argue over whether or not we were responsible for the near-riot at Demeter’s shrine. Any debate would concede the possibility that we might be somehow at fault. Whatever I said could be twisted to leave some of these men suspecting there could be no smoke on the breeze without some smouldering fire.
Hyanthidas clasped humble hands, head ducked and shoulders rounded. ‘We can remove ourselves to Sikyon without delay.’
That was news to me since Sikyon’s no great friend to Athens, but I made sure my smile stayed respectful and hopeful.
The Council men stirred like billy goats catching the scent of a wolf.
‘I see no reason why that should be necessary.’ A leather-faced bald-pate glowered at the greybeard.
Our opponent wasn’t about to yield. ‘Can you give us your assurance that you will cause no further trouble?’
I shrugged my cloak back to show that my arms were as unmarked as my face. ‘As you can see, I have not raised a hand to any Corinthian, nor to any visitor to your glorious city. I have given no man any cause to strike me. Nor have any of my companions and nor will we do so, as I have sworn before Demeter’s priestess on her sacred altar. We only wish to offer your city our entertainment, and to honour the gods as we do so.’
I raised my hands in supplication to the magnificent statue. Granted, Apollo’s the god of music rather than drama, but I imagine he appreciates any good performance. Menekles would be proud of me.
I saw Perantas shift on his seat, though he wasn’t the next to speak. An old man with dewlaps like a scenting hound studied me thoughtfully.
‘I see no reason to deprive our people of this trivial amusement.’
‘I see no reason to even consider a vote,’ a square-jawed man said firmly.
More than half the Council members present at this sudden meeting voiced their agreement. I still didn’t understand why, but the mood in the lofty chamber had turned against the greybeard, as surely as a change in the wind drives off the threat of a storm.
Now Perantas spoke. ‘I believe this concludes our business.’
‘Quite so.’ The square-jawed man was already rising, gesturing to his attentive minion.
I looked sideways at Hyanthidas. ‘Are we dismissed?’ I murmured.
‘Give it a moment,’ he said quietly.
So I stood still, smiling so cheerfully that my face ached, as the Council members and their underlings went past. Most barely spared us a glance.
Once the temple slaves started folding the fancy stools, I turned to the musician. ‘What was that all about?’
Hyanthidas began walking towards the door. ‘The man who wanted to provoke you is called Philolaos Kypselid. Most of the councilmen he’d summoned here just want a quiet life, so they can concentrate on making money. If Philolaos could convince them you were a troublemaker, they’d have followed his lead and forbidden the play for the sake of civic peace.’
‘Until they thought we’d take the play to Sikyon?’
Hyanthidas grinned. ‘Sikyonians claim their city’s the equal of Corinth. The Council will always agree such ridiculous and offensive pretensions must be squashed at every opportunity. That and no one wants Sikyon looking to Athens for an alliance that doesn’t go through Corinth.’
I would be glad to get home to straightforward Athenian politics. ‘What’s this Philolaos Kypselid got against us? Do you think he’ll try to turn the Council against us again?’
‘I don’t know why you’re such a thorn in his foot, but I wouldn’t bet against him trying something else,’ the piper said frankly.
‘Should we—’ I broke off, seeing Perantas’ Nubian secretary, Wetka, walking towards us.
‘My master’s compliments,’ he said, composed. ‘Do you need any assistance with your preparations for your performance?’
‘Keep Thettalos and his fools away from us,’ I said, uncompromising.
‘My master’s apologies.’ Wetka didn’t miss a beat. ‘What else—?’
‘Nothing. Never mind. Off you go.’ I waved him away as we reached the threshold.
I’d just seen two men in urgent conversation beside one of the great temple’s outer pillars. The wiry man was talking to a fresh-faced youth who had been hanging around on the edges of Philolaos’ entourage. He probably thought his long hair made him
look like Apollo. I reckoned he looked like a yearling sheep in need of the shears.
I drew Hyanthidas into the shadows and pointed as discreetly as I could. ‘Do you know who that rat-faced bastard is?’
‘No.’ The musician looked at me, curious. ‘What’s he ever done to you?’
‘He helped to wreck our auditions.’ I swiftly explained how the man had thrown the first punch. ‘I saw him at Eumelos’ house, too, at the funeral.’
‘I wonder if Wetka knows who he is.’ Hyanthidas looked to see where the Nubian had gone.
‘No.’ That had been my first impulse but I’d thought better of it. ‘We don’t want word getting back to Thettalos. He could well decide to take matters into his own hands, and we’ve already seen he’s free with his fists. Any more brawls will only strengthen Philolaos Kypselid’s case against us.’
‘Shall we follow him, and see where he goes?’ Hyanthidas studied our quarry.
I shook my head. ‘Too risky. He saw me notice him earlier at the funeral. Let’s get back to the house. There’s something I want to check.’
As soon as Tromes opened the gate to us, I hurried up the stairs to fetch Eumelos’ crumpled list. As the slave brought wine for me and Hyanthidas, I studied the third mysterious symbol; a small rectangle with a horizontal line near the top.
‘Does that look like a box or a chest to you?’ I asked the musician.
‘Possibly,’ he said slowly.
Hyanthidas looked at me, and I could see he knew what I was thinking. He swallowed his wine and stood up. ‘I’ll ask around and see what I can find out – discreetly,’ he added, before I could warn him to be careful.
Chapter Eight
Hyanthidas appeared the next morning as we were eating breakfast. ‘Pull up a stool,’ I invited him.
‘You were right.’ He reached for the jug and poured himself a cup of fresh spring water. ‘Those men on Eumelos’ list all have ties to the Heirs of Hephaistos. The ones with that chest symbol next to their names. These days Philolaos Kypselid is their most generous supporter, according to the agora gossips.’
Athena help us, yet more foes. ‘What do they want?’
‘Corinth for the Corinthians. They hate Athens even more than the Sons of Heracles do.’
‘Would one of you care to explain? Why do they worship Hephaistos?’ Zosime dipped a spoonful of honey from the jar and drizzled it over soft cheese. ‘And what’s the significance of a chest as a symbol?’
‘The tyrant Kypselos’ mother, Labda, was lame.’ Apollonides reached for more bread. ‘Lame ancestress, so the family honour the lame god and his cult.’
Zosime nodded. ‘That makes sense.’
‘That’s why she was allowed to marry a commoner like Kypselos,’ added Menekles, ‘even though her father, Amphion, was a Bacchiad.’
‘Bacchiad? Like Perantas?’ Zosime looked at me.
‘Same family, but generation upon generation ago. The Bacchiads were the kings of Corinth back in the age of heroes, but the rest of the family wanted their share of the power and riches. The last king, Telestes, wasn’t inclined to generosity, and he ended up dead, most likely at the hands of some cousins. After that, the Bacchiads ruled through a Council and Chief Magistrate, who were always men chosen from among their own bloodline.’
‘Then came the prophecy,’ Apollonides said with relish.
‘Prophecy?’ Zosime leaned forward. Clearly she hadn’t heard this tale in Crete when she was growing up.
‘The oracle said that Labda’s son would overthrow the Bacchiads. They sent men to kill the infant, so Labda hid him in a chest and they went away empty-handed.’ Apollonides laughed. ‘When Kypselos did eventually seize power, they say he had a magnificent cedarwood chest inlaid with gold and ivory, and sent to Delphi.’
‘Corinth flourished under his rule for a generation,’ Menekles remarked, ‘and the city grew richer still under the tyranny of his son, Periander, despite how cruel and capricious they could both be. That was—’ he looked at the other actors ‘—around the time Draco was drawing up Athens’ first law code?’
Apollonides nodded. ‘Then Periander quarrelled with his sons and they left Corinth. They were convinced he’d killed their mother. When the old tyrant’s strength was failing, the younger son, Lycophron, was persuaded to come back from exile in Corcyra to take over, but only on condition that Periander left the city. But the son was killed before he could return.’
Hereditary rule never lasts. We learned that long ago in Athens and far sooner than most. Now we strive to show all other Hellenes the benefits of democracy.
‘With no one fit to inherit Periander’s power, the Corinthians opted for oligarchy again,’ I told Zosime. ‘Though this time the Bacchiads had the sense to share the Council’s seats with the other powerful families.’
Lysicrates scowled. ‘Now they keep firm hold of that power and wealth by trading on the people’s fear of some new enemy every ten years or so. The Spartans. The Megarans. Whatever strife they think will make them a profit.’
‘So much for today’s history lesson.’ I clapped my hands quickly before Hyanthidas could object to that harsh assessment. ‘Now that we know who else Eumelos would have warned us about, let’s go and recruit our chorus.’
I indicated to Tromes that he and Kadous could clear the remains of our breakfast away. Though, as everyone agreed and got up from the table, I wished I could turn my full attention to the play. There were far too many distractions. I couldn’t help wondering how Nados, Aithon and Simias were getting on with sorting out the mess of Eumelos’ affairs, with no will to settle the dead man’s property, and all his accounts and silver missing. I kept thinking how effectively Zosime had argued that Dardanis couldn’t be the killer.
Presumably Perantas and the Brotherhood of Bellerophon could help Eumelos’ lads, I told myself sternly. Assuming there were some Brothers who didn’t think all problems could be solved by breaking heads.
Menekles was the first to rejoin me in the courtyard with his cloak. ‘How are the rewrites coming?’
‘Very well.’ As Athena is my witness, that wasn’t a lie, not exactly, anyway.
When I had got back yesterday, I’d sat down with Zosime to discuss a new idea. She thought it had potential, though she wanted to talk to Telesilla about exactly how to make it work.
As well timed as any cue on stage, Tromes opened the gate to a knock and we saw Telesilla standing there, carrying a lyre.
I gave Zosime a quick kiss. ‘What have you got planned for today?’
She looked at me, determined. ‘We’re coming to the rehearsal with you.’
Telesilla nodded with equal resolve. ‘There’s much less likely to be trouble if two women are there.’
Zosime smiled sunnily. ‘We can pay our respects to Demeter and Persephone.’
Evidently this wasn’t up for debate. I looked at everyone else but nobody seemed inclined to argue. I capitulated.
‘Say a prayer for us all.’ Hopefully the divine mother and her daughter would look favourably on our endeavours.
We walked through the bustling city and took the winding road up to the Sanctuary. There were no loitering brutes braced for battle today, and our courtyard had been swept clear of any detritus left from the brawl. Apollonides set about pacing out the areas that would serve as our stage and the dancing floor. Menekles fetched stones from the hillside to mark their boundaries.
An encouraging number of the singers whom we’d already seen were waiting for us, thanks to Hyanthidas’ powers of persuasion. More turned up as Lysicrates fetched the keys from the priestess.
I addressed the hopeful newcomers first. ‘Who’s here to audition today?’
A tall Megaran stepped forward, looking at Telesilla. ‘Praxilla’s “Folly of Adonis”?’
She strummed a resounding chord. The Megaran launc
hed into the song, and several others joined in with the chorus. I exchanged a grin with Apollonides.
It proved an honest omen. We soon had a full complement of twenty-four singers, and those who weren’t chosen took their dismissal without rancour. None of those named on Eumelos’ list even turned up, and we didn’t see any hero cult insignia.
We began teaching our new singers their songs, with me taking the lead and Apollonides, Menekles and Lysicrates bolstering the rest. It had been a few years since I’d last been in a chorus, but with every word and note of my own play so familiar, I soon found my pace and my rhythm.
By the time we felt the full heat of the day approaching, we were making impressive progress. I should visit the next Isthmian Games, if these singers were any indication of the standard of Corinth’s performers.
I judged it was time for a break. ‘We’ve made an excellent start. Thank you all. Let’s start again at the eighth hour and try pacing out our first steps.’
A handful of the chorus cheered, their enthusiasm heartening.
Menekles raised a hand. ‘Who’s coming with me to fetch some water?’ Three singers dutifully obliged.
I saw Kadous appear in the alleyway leading from the road, carrying a basket of provisions. Some of the chorus members had come prepared while the others were discussing the merits of the lengthy climb to the Acrocorinth’s taverns, compared to heading down to the agora. As those seeking lunch elsewhere wandered off, Zosime began unpacking Kadous’ basket. The singers who were staying found seats in the shade.
Hyanthidas appeared at my shoulder. ‘Come with me.’
His grim face unnerved me. ‘What is it?’
He didn’t answer, taking hold of my elbow. I let him steer me to the dining room where our costumes were stored. Apollonides was sprawled on the ledge where dining couches would rest. Telesilla was frantically mopping his face with a dripping rag.
‘What’s happened?’
Telesilla stepped back. I gasped. Apollonides was flushed like a man with a fever and blisters covered his face. Some were as big as my thumbnail.