by J M Alvey
‘Not on your own,’ Menekles said firmly.
Lysicrates nodded. ‘We stick together.’
So we all followed Hyanthidas through side streets and back alleys, on a route that would have shaken off any pursuit.
As we reached the quiet street where the tall musician lived, I saw the gate was firmly closed, with no light burning to welcome him home. Hyanthidas lengthened his stride. I had to scurry to keep up. His urgent knock echoed my heart pounding against my ribs.
Arion opened up, looking understandably sleepy. Zosime and Telesilla were sitting beside the brazier where the charcoal had burned down to glimmers of red amid dark, feathery ash. A jug and cups stood on a low table beside an oil lamp whose feeble flame was ready to give up.
I managed a smile. ‘Have you had a good evening?’
‘Very pleasant.’ Zosime stood up. ‘And you?’
‘Everything’s in hand.’ I wasn’t going to say any more. Hyanthidas had been adamant that his slave know as little as possible of our plans.
‘We’ve had no visitors at all,’ Telesilla assured the piper as the slave went to fetch Zosime’s shawl.
I smiled at Telesilla. ‘We appreciate your hospitality.’
Telesilla chuckled as she and Zosime shared a conspiratorial glance. ‘Oh, you will, I can assure you of that.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hyanthidas looked apprehensive.
‘Never mind.’ I grinned, realising the women had been discussing the rewrites for the play.
Telesilla stood up to kiss Zosime farewell and then slid under the musician’s arm. ‘Come to bed. It’s late.’
‘Good night.’ I offered my own beloved my arm and Arion barred the gate behind us.
Menekles headed for the agora, since none of us had a hope of following Hyanthidas’ route back to the Lechaion road.
Zosime squeezed my arm. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Well enough, I think.’ I related everything that had happened since we had parted.
‘I hope they get him safely away.’ She sighed. ‘But we’re still no closer to learning who killed Eumelos.’
‘Unfortunately not.’ I glanced up at the Temple of Apollo as we passed by, and silently asked the god for his help once again. I couldn’t help feeling a little exasperated at his lack of assistance thus far.
We walked the rest of the way in silence. All I wanted to do was fall into bed, and judging by her yawns, Zosime felt the same.
No such luck. We got back to find upheaval. Before we reached the closed gate we heard the sharp crack of furniture knocked over on the paving within. Whimpering voices rose to terrified squeals as deeper shouts berated them. An attempt to answer was cut short with a ringing slap that provoked a chorus of wails.
Two burly men guarded the entrance. One was holding a blazing pine torch that struck a golden glow from a bronze Pegasus medallion he wore. The other was a man well built for throwing javelins or discus.
‘What’s going on here?’ Apollonides fell into a loose-limbed stroll, his expression veering from amiable good cheer to vague concern.
Lysicrates drew himself up straight with a little too much determination, and was rather too careful to speak clearly. ‘How can we help?’
The man with the torch glowered at us. ‘Where have you been?’
Apollonides shrugged. ‘Eating dinner.’
‘Corinthian wine is very good,’ Lysicrates confided with the wag of an upraised finger.
Since those two had the comedy well in hand, Menekles opted for the role of irritated elder. ‘May we pass? You know who we are, and we have every right to be here. It’s late and we have all had a long and tiring day.’
‘It’s hot work, rehearsing a play,’ Lysicrates solemnly informed the Brothers.
‘Thirsty work as well.’ Apollonides beamed sunnily.
Menekles shot him an exasperated look. ‘As I say, it’s late, and we would like to go to bed. We all need a good night’s sleep. Some of us more than others.’
Lysicrates looked indignant. ‘We were only being sociable.’
I stepped forward before this improvised performance aroused suspicion. These Brothers might not be the sharpest spears in the phalanx but they couldn’t be outright fools. They also made no move to step aside.
‘If we’re not allowed in here, where are we supposed to go?’ I kept my tone reasonable. ‘What are Perantas’ instructions?’
A hint of anger sharpened Menekles’ voice. ‘I grant this house and household belong to Perantas, but I expect our personal property to be respected. Who is in charge?’
‘Wait there.’ The torch-bearer hammered on the gate with his free hand.
‘All of you wait.’ The discus thrower stepped forward, his gaze focused on Zosime in a way I really didn’t like.
The gate behind the torch-bearer opened. I expected to see Thettalos. Instead the Nubian Wetka appeared. He nodded with satisfaction and I wondered uneasily what he had to be pleased about.
‘Please, come in.’
I didn’t move. If Perantas’ man didn’t like our answers, I didn’t like the idea of being trapped in that courtyard with Zeus only knew how many Brothers of Bellerophon.
‘Thank you,’ Menekles said tersely as he walked forward.
Apollonides and Lysicrates followed, yawning extravagantly, and I had no choice but to do the same, though without the pretence of sleepiness. Zosime pressed close to my side.
A couple of lamps flickered fitfully in the courtyard, where the scene wasn’t nearly as dramatic as I’d feared. The table had been dragged to one side and the fallen stools kicked underneath it, but nothing seemed to be broken. Amphorae and baskets of provisions had been dragged out of the storerooms, but they were carefully stacked rather than tossed aside. Everything here belonged to Perantas Bacchiad after all, just like the slaves.
They were huddled into a corner like sheep who’d caught the scent of a wolf. The girls were sniffing, damp-eyed with distress, but I couldn’t see obvious signs that they’d been physically mistreated. One of the youths who had fetched and carried for Tromes was pressing a hand to a bloodied lip. From the defiance in his eyes as he stared at the closest Brother, I guessed he’d earned that slap, and didn’t regret it.
The discus thrower and his mate with the torch went back to standing guard in the street, closing the gate behind them. A handful or more of the Brotherhood were still searching the stores and the slave accommodation. Their meagre possessions were trampled and torn by hobnailed sandals. A couple of blankets got stained as cosmetic jars were thrown out of a door to land hard enough to lose their stoppers. Several pallets spilled straw stuffing where a dagger had gutted them, and I guessed any carefully hoarded obols were now in some Brother’s possession.
Menekles and Lysicrates pulled stools out from under the table. Apollonides set one on its feet, sat down and folded his arms on the table to make a pillow for his head.
I turned to Wetka. ‘I didn’t imagine you’d find Tromes here. I did tell Perantas I have no idea where he is.’ The Nubian hadn’t been at the temple on the Sikyon road.
He nodded. ‘So the master said, but there is always the chance that the traitor left some clue as to where he might flee.’
They’d had plenty of time to discuss that. Perantas and his entourage would have got back to Corinth well before we reached Lechaion. I nodded and hoped this search would turn up some false scent to lead the hunters down any track but the road north to the port.
Menekles was still on his feet, indignant. He gestured up the steps to our accommodation. ‘Can we go to bed?’
‘Once we search those rooms. We have been waiting for you to return.’ Wetka’s smile was a meaningless courtesy.
I looked at Menekles and shrugged. ‘I don’t want to find a runaway under my bed in the middle of the night.’
; The actor sighed. ‘Very well, but be quick about it.’
Wetka snapped his fingers and two Brothers fetched lamps from the table. They went up the stairs, one on each side of the courtyard. Menekles strode after the first. I ushered Zosime to a stool between Lysicrates and Apollonides, before hurrying after the one heading for the rooms we shared with Kadous.
‘Excuse me.’ I pushed past him in the doorway and hurried through to the inner chamber. The last thing I needed was this clod spilling ink all over my half-finished rewrites. I gathered up the sheets of papyrus and made sure my pens and the ink pot were safely stowed in their box.
Hearing the scrape of furniture in the outer room, I returned to see the Brother holding the bag of Kadous’ personal possessions. He had his dagger ready to cut the drawstring.
‘You won’t find Tromes inside that,’ I said sharply.
He answered me with a faint sneer but dropped the bag on the bed.
‘He’s not through here either.’ I waved a hand at the bed I shared with Zosime, at the table, the stools and our travelling chests. ‘See for yourself.’
The man made a perfunctory search, and I followed him back down to the courtyard. Menekles was escorting the other Brother downstairs while Apollonides sat with an arm around Zosime’s shoulders. Lysicrates looked to be genuinely asleep.
The courtyard gates opened and Thettalos strode in. Seeing Kadous standing by the storeroom door, the bull-necked man headed straight for the Phrygian.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘You don’t talk to my slave like that!’ My loud rebuke echoed around the stone walls.
Hearing their leader’s voice, the Brothers searching the lower rooms appeared in the doorways. All told, there were nine of them, as well as Wetka. Add the two on the gate and we’d be badly outnumbered if this situation turned ugly.
Lysicrates was sitting upright at the table now, and Menekles stood behind Zosime and Apollonides. Kadous was as still as a statue, his face a well-practised blank.
Thettalos turned on me as I crossed the courtyard. ‘Where’s he been? He wasn’t with you on the Sikyon road.’
‘He’s been serving my companion today. What’s it to you?’ I matched his belligerence. That was taking a risk but I hoped Wetka could wield Perantas’ authority over the Brotherhood.
‘He’s been in and out of the slave quarters here, ever since you arrived.’ Thettalos’ suspicious gaze searched my face. I could smell the stale garlic on his breath. ‘If Tromes let anything slip, he heard it.’
I took a swift sidestep around the bull-necked man to stand between him and Kadous. ‘You may speak freely,’ I prompted.
The Phrygian clasped his hands behind his back, looking straight at me. ‘I never heard Tromes say anything that hinted at betrayal. I have no idea where he might go.’ His voice was strained but that was surely understandable in a slave facing such interrogation.
I turned to face Thettalos. ‘You have your answer.’
‘If I don’t believe it?’ His lip curled. ‘I will find him, as Bellerophon is my witness.’
Wetka saved me from having to find a reply. ‘What’s the news from the city gates, Thettalos?’
At first I thought the bull-necked man wasn’t going to answer the Nubian, but after a lingering stare at Kadous, he did so. ‘None of our people saw him on the roads today.’
‘And the Acrocorinth?’ Wetka persisted.
Thettalos shook his head. ‘No one’s seen him.’
‘Keep asking,’ the Nubian ordered. ‘There are a hundred places where he could be hiding but he will have to break cover eventually.’
I’d be very happy if their search stayed within the city walls, but I wasn’t about to breathe easy just yet. It would only take a Bacchiad underling to find someone who’d seen Nados and the others hustling Tromes out of the city to bring disaster down on our heads. I wondered about putting Kadous on the next ship sailing from Kenchreai for Athens, for safety’s sake, but doing that would arouse more suspicion.
‘Excuse me.’ Now Menekles was playing a reasonable man, polite despite severe provocation. ‘If you are satisfied that this treacherous slave isn’t here, perhaps you could depart? We would like to go to bed!’ He let slip a calculated flash of anger.
Wetka bowed low. ‘Please accept my sincere apologies.’
He even sounded as though he meant it. Perhaps he should take to the stage. Thettalos was unrepentant. He stood staring at us each in turn as Wetka told the Brotherhood that their work was done.
The Corinthians departed, taking their bright pine torches to leave the courtyard inadequately lit by its lamps. The slaves stayed cowering in the shadows.
‘Should we make sure all’s well at Eumelos’ house?’ Apollonides asked quietly. He and Lysicrates had abandoned their pretence of being overwhelmed by wine.
I looked at the huddled slaves and wondered who would report whatever we said to Wetka tomorrow in hopes of winning some favour, or from fear of retribution.
‘Kadous!’ I waved a hand at the stacked baskets and amphorae. ‘Get them tidying up!’
The Phrygian immediately took charge. Now whatever we said should go unheard amid the bustle and whispered indignation as the slaves seized this chance to vent their feelings.
‘Well?’ Lysicrates prompted.
‘I think we should leave well alone.’ I’d been thinking about this. ‘The last thing we want is to send the Brotherhood that way.’
Menekles nodded. ‘Eumelos was Perantas’ man and surely Thettalos will assume they’re as loyal.’
I wasn’t about to assume any such thing, given the suspicion I’d seen in Thettalos’ eyes. Besides, Perantas had hardly rewarded Eumelos’ allegiance. He hadn’t attended his funeral, or made any effort to pursue his killer.
Before I could answer, there was an urgent knock at the gate. ‘What have they forgotten?’ I snarled.
But Kadous opened up to reveal someone I didn’t recognise.
‘Good evening,’ the messenger said, composed. ‘Chresimos sends his compliments, as well as his apologies given the lateness, but he has a patient you need to see.’
These past few days had been so hectic, it took me a moment to recall the amiable Cycladean doctor’s name.
‘Urgently?’ The question was out before I could help it.
The man nodded. ‘A man has been poisoned. Chresimos cannot say if he will live through the night.’
Apollonides, Menekles and Lysicrates got to their feet. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Not you.’ I pointed at Apollonides. ‘Someone needs to stay with Zosime, and you need to suck on your pot of herbs.’
‘I’ll make sure he does.’ Zosime kissed my cheek. ‘Then I’m going to bed.’
‘Sleep well.’ I wished I could join her, but that didn’t look like it was going to be an option tonight.
Chapter Eighteen
We made our way swiftly to the Asklepion. Our escort led us to the lower courtyard where the colonnade was as dark and still as it had been when Eumelos died. A single light shone to guide us to Chresimos and his patient.
A young man lay on a thin mattress, stripped of his tunic and draped with a rough blanket. His eyes were open but his expression was vacant as his head lolled from side to side. He didn’t seem overly distressed, mumbling and giggling softly.
The Cycladean doctor stood by the bed, unfurling a scroll by the light of a lamp on a shelf. A young acolyte looked over his shoulder at the text.
‘You were wise to look for a snake bite. However, since there’s no sign of one, see here? All our observations agree with this account. When he arrived, he was able to talk but he could barely stand. He was convinced that the ground was shifting under him like a ship’s deck in a storm. Then he began to complain of burning in his fingers and feet, but soon, he could feel nothing at
all. His speech became slurred, and he collapsed.’
It sounded terrifying. I looked at the patient but I didn’t recognise him.
‘Good evening,’ I said cautiously. ‘Who’s this?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me.’ Chresimos was clearly disappointed. ‘This is the third poisoning I’ve seen inside eight days. Your enemies seem to have a particular fondness for such malice.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ At first glance I’d have said the boy was merely drunk, but the doctor clearly knew better.
‘This particular affliction is known as “sweet madness”, according to this physician’s memoir.’ Chresimos rolled up his papyrus with a brisk crackle and handed it to his apprentice. ‘Please take that back to the library.’
As the acolyte left, the Cycladean continued as if we were all his pupils. ‘You can smell a distinctive sickliness mingled with the wine on his breath. Please, go ahead.’
I was prepared to take his word for that. ‘A poison caused this?’
‘But not the same thing that killed Eumelos,’ Menekles observed.
The doctor nodded. ‘There’s a particular honey found in Colchis, where the bees feed on rhododendron flowers growing up in the mountains. The locals take it in milk, in measured doses, as a restorative after illness, and apparently a spoonful adds quite a kick to a jug of wine. It’s a hazardous pleasure though, as the potency of the honey can vary significantly. If it’s too strong, such wine will induce euphoria that can slip into mania. Incautious indulgence can be very easily lethal.’
He gestured at the patient who was now muttering with more urgency, his arms and legs restless. ‘This young fool has probably swallowed enough to lay him low for at least a day and a night. That’s assuming it doesn’t kill him outright. If he sleeps, he may yet recover. If he starts vomiting and purging, I’m far from hopeful.’
I still didn’t understand what this had to do with us. Then the doctor reached under the mattress to pull out a bronze arm ring stamped with a familiar ragged club.
‘He’s a Son of Heracles. We treated enough of his friends after they tried to turn your chorus auditions into a riot, but we don’t ask questions and they weren’t inclined to identify themselves. Take another look. Are you sure you don’t recognise him?’