Demeter's Gold

by Meghan Ray

  Demeter’s Gold

  A Novel of the Ancient World

  By Meghan Ray

  Omnia Press

  2015

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Copyright© 2015 by Meghan Ray.

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  -1-

  The sunlight streaming through the small room gave the boxes of coins a mellow glow. It also caught the lazy progress of the flies and dust as they swirled through the beams. At the edge of the light, a sandaled foot was resting on the edge of a large table. The foot was attached to a man leaning precariously far back on two legs of a wooden stool. Through the door, the market was quiet and the sun outside burned the Piraeus’ streets, sending any potential customers back to the cool shade of their houses. Most of the day’s business had been done hours ago.

  Philippus was about to start locking his boxes of coins and putting them into a large iron bound chest. A shadow blocked the light from the door and he looked up to see a well-dressed man moving cautiously toward the center of the room, peering as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. He started to speak, stopped to clear his throat, started again, “Hmm, I am looking for Philippus, son of Myrsus, the banker?”

  Phil, leaning even farther back on his chair, closed first one eye and then the other, a lazy smile on his face. His visitor was an older man, iron gray hair and beard neatly trimmed; wearing an expensive tunic bordered with purple and wrapped in a very respectable cloak. He was clearly a man of substance and standing. His accent said Athens. It was also pretty clear that he was uneasy. He stood stuck in the center of the room, uncertain how to proceed and resenting it. If he was as well born as he looked, it was likely that he had never been to a bank before. He probably wasn’t very impressed. Phil didn’t blame him; there wasn’t much to see. The room was large and the peeling walls were losing their plaster. They might have been a color once and then again, they might not. What light there was came in from door and it didn’t do much for the décor.

  The main piece of furniture was a large counting table placed squarely in the center of the room. It was this table or trapeza that gave the banking profession its name. All the bankers used tables like these to count out coins and weigh them and after a while the bankers got to be called the Trapezites because of their tables and the name stuck. Phil’s was covered with scales and weights and the crusty remains of a meal. Other than the table, there were only some large boxes against the wall each containing smaller boxes. These weren’t a very impressive sight either until you considered that inside every box was wealth in coins from every city from Athens to Babylon.

  Clearly the idea of all that money wasn’t going to help Phil’s visitor get comfortable. Most wealthy Athenians avoided dealing directly with coins and bankers. They considered them barbaric and definitely beneath notice, at least until they needed something. With sudden energy, Phil swung his feet around and leaned forward, resting his arms on the edge of the table. “Yep, that would be me.”

  As Phil looked more carefully at his caller, he made a gesture both encouraging and impatient for the man to go ahead. The gentleman still waited in the middle of the room, unsure how to begin.

  “Yes?” Phil was getting bored. His face was neutral and his voice polite but nothing more. As a metic trader in Athens, he had been ignored by this kind of gentleman all his life so he wasn’t in a hurry to make him feel at home. But he also didn’t want to hang around all day waiting for this guy to get over whatever it was that was eating him.

  Phil was a metic. They were legal aliens, a kind of non-citizen allowed to live in Athens but with plenty of conditions. Some were foreigners, born abroad but living and working in Athens. Some, like Phil, were Athenian-born but one or both of their parents were of foreign descent. Phil’s father Myrsus was born in Athens, but his family had come to Greece from Lydia across the Aegean Sea. When the time came to marry, Myrsus had made the trip to Lydia to find himself a traditional Lydian wife. That decision permanently disqualified Phil from Athenian citizenship. The rules hadn’t been as strict in the old days, but after Pericles instituted his citizenship laws, the requirements became so tough that Phil would have to be both extremely rich and extremely generous to be an exception.

  He wasn’t really complaining; he knew he had it good. He had done pretty well himself and even though metics were foreigners, they had their place in city life. They were allowed to do business in Athens, for a price anyway. Their tax, the metoikion was high enough to earn them the privilege of doing jobs that, while lucrative, were beneath most Athenian citizens. In fact they did a good deal of the business that got done, importing, trading and banking. They were even allowed to serve in the military – a dubious privilege in Phil’s opinion- but without military service you had no connections, none of the network you would need to live and work in the city.

  Still, Athens was a place where citizenship counted for a lot and it could be tough on the outside. Metics couldn’t vote or hold office or own land, and this gentleman here was the type who had never let Phil forget it. Phil never let this stuff hurt his feelings but he didn’t bother going out of his way either. So he went back to his routine, more or less ignoring the obviously uncomfortable aristocrat still stuck in the middle of the room. The man cleared his throat again, “I have a rare coin to dispose of, for a friend, and, um, once a price is established, I want to sell it to you.”

  Phil looked back up and considered his visitor more carefully, “I see. Do you have any proof that this ‘owner’ has the right to sell the coin, you know, the provenance, past owners and all that?”

  The man drew himself up, eyes large and mouth open and started to interrupt but Phil raised his hand, “I’m sorry but I have to be very careful about these things, you know. I have a legitimate business here and I don’t receive stolen goods, for that you should try the thieves’ market.” Phil watched as his guest’s face turned redder, knew he was going too far but this was just too easy. He worked to keep a straight face.

  The funny thing was that while there were times when he was pretty close to being a broker of stolen goods, the idea of this man trying to sell them well…whatever the case, it was clear that his visitor was about to walk out, so Phil shut up and looked at the man expectantly. “I am sure the owner can produce whatever proofs are necessary,” he controlled himself with effort, still standing stiffly in the middle of the room.

  Phil doubted it, but he just shrugged and put out his hand. “So let’s see what you’ve got,” Phil reached out as his visitor moved forward and took the coin the man handed him. “Beautiful,” he whistled and meant it. He recognized the general style. It was similar to the coins from Olbia on the coast of the Black Sea. This kind of coin was usually cast of bronze and due to its large size (it was almost three inches in diameter) it was a bit of a joke in the trade, like Black Sea economics in general.

  Phil looked back at his visitor “Okay, this coin is cast of electrum. It’s about 25 percent silver to 75 gold, on the obverse side, that’s the front to you, is the goddess Demeter, full face. On the reverse, a flying eagle but instead of the usual dolphin in its talons, it is holding a torch. This often symbolizes Demeter’s search for her daughter Persephone while she was being held in the underworld and that makes sense with the oth
er side. I would say it is probably about a hundred years old, maybe more. It’s an unusual piece. I haven’t seen anything like it before and that doesn’t happen very often. I really don’t know what it would be worth.”

  The grey man sniffed his disinterest, “You may keep it until you find out what its worth. I will be back at the end of the week. We can discuss further arrangements at that time.” He turned to go, obviously in a hurry to get out of the room and away from the whole distasteful business.

  Now it was Phil’s turn to clear his throat and the man reluctantly looked back, “Excuse me, but it’s pretty clear that you don’t do this kind of thing often. In the first place, I need to know your name. I’m not going to be left with this thing and a man comes around and he says it’s stolen and the next thing I know I’m in court and what do I have to say for myself? Phil looked expectantly at the grey man but he remained stony faced and silent. “I say ‘No, it couldn’t possibly be stolen. I know because I got it from a man, No sir, I didn’t get his name, No, I don’t know how to get in touch with him.’ Sorry but that kind of thing isn’t for me, thanks anyway.”

  “In the second place, and this concerns you, you’re leaving a valuable coin with me and you haven’t even asked for a receipt, a chit, a scribbled note. Suppose you come back and I say ‘Nope, never saw him before.’ What then?”

  His visitor drew himself upright, “I don’t really think that would be a problem. I checked your reputation before I came here today and I was told by reliable sources that you are honest and discreet. Otherwise, I would not be here. And, should something untoward occur, I have other”, here the man actually smirked, “shall we say, resources to call upon in order to recover what belongs to me or to my friends.”

  The grey man looked very satisfied with himself after delivering this little speech, rehearsed, Phil had no doubt, on his way here. It made Phil feel like grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and tossing him out the front door. He would have enjoyed that. But, instead, he made himself answer the man evenly. “That may be, but I do things the way I do them and I’m going to need, at least, your name, since you seem reluctant to name the owner of the coin. And, I need a way to get in touch with you in case something comes up.”

  “That will not be necessary.”

  “Not necessary to you but…” Phil put the coin down on the table in front of his visitor.

  The man looked at the coin, hesitated, and then said, “Fine. My name is Critias and, if it is absolutely necessary and, I want to stress, only if absolutely necessary, you can leave a message for me at the Festiva Taverna. Do you know it?” Phil nodded and the grey man nodded too. “That will be enough for now.”

  Phil shrugged, “Irregular, but I suppose, in the circumstances, it’ll do. I have to go to Athens tomorrow anyway. I’ll find out what I can and we can move on from there.” Critias, with an apparently habitual air of condescension, nodded curtly in Phil’s general direction and walked out of the shop into the glare of the Piraeus afternoon.

  Looking out at Critias’ pompous back, Phil wanted to laugh but he was uneasy. He didn’t like the set-up. It gave him a bad feeling. Not that it was so unusual for a customer to engage an agent to transact this kind of business, but it was highly unusual for someone to send a respectable citizen like Critias as a go-between. Most people would choose some trusted merchant or a household slave. There was something shady about it. Phil could feel it. Well, he signed and pushed the feeling aside. It was a beautiful coin, worth finding out about even if nothing else came of it.

  Phil finished closing the shop and left his guard posted inside. He always hired watchmen to guard the stores, here and at the family’s warehouse on the waterfront, even though the men often slept through their shift. It made sense to be extra careful when most of your assets were in a couple dozen more or less portable chests. It was common knowledge that the stores were always guarded and so casual thefts were avoided. More determined robberies were avoided in other ways, mostly through expensive bribery and protection money. The system might not be perfect but had worked so far.

  Phil went out onto the dusty street. The sun was still high and the air still, scented with the refuse, which the local strays were now fighting over. He walked over to his local taverna and stepped into its dark interior. It was cool inside and comparatively quiet. Later it would be filled with the boisterous shouts of men busy gambling and whoring. He walked over to an uneven wooden table, its top pitted and scarred, with an equally battered bench alongside. He pulled out the bench, sat down and called into the gloom of the back room. “Hiero, bring me some of that slop you’re calling fish stew … with some cheese and olives and that foul wine of yours, with plenty of water.”

  A disembodied voice called back, “I thought you promised not to come in here anymore.” A large man looked out from the back room. He was the kind of man who boomed instead of spoke. “You, constantly complaining and scaring away my legitimate customers,” this said while gesturing at the sorry lot of drinkers sitting around the room, slumped on stools or leaning against the wall on benches.

  Hiero was tall, as tall as Phil but thick with broad shoulders and a big belly. He looked tough and he was tougher than he looked. He needed to be to keep the chaos of a busy tavern at a manageable level.

  Despite his grumbling, he was smiling as he brought some platters and an amphora of wine out from his back room. Phil looked pointedly around the dark room, “This lot? Anyone with sense found some reputable tavern to eat and drink in a long time ago, these are just the leftovers.” The drinkers didn’t even bother to acknowledge the insult. And Phil and Hiero were old acquaintances and were well used to each other’s abuse.

  Phil had been coming to eat at Hiero’s since his father first opened the bank in the Piraeus many years ago. It had been an innovation for his father to keep a walled-in bank, since most of the other bankers just set up a stall in the Agora either down in the Piraeus or up in Athens. But his father had liked the permanence and security that the four walls offered. It had turned out to be a smart decision, customers liked the place too and the family had done well. The Piraeus was their base of operations and where they spent most of their time. When he was not at school in Athens, Phil had come down to stay with his parents. He grew up roaming the Piraeus’ streets and frequenting the tavernas.

  This one was had become his default stopping place for food, wine, gossip. The food was no more than okay, but the room was clean-ish and Hiero would do a favor or keep his ears open if you asked him the right way. They talked about local goings on while Phil set to eating the food. Hiero asked, “Coming back later? That girl sent someone around asking for you.”

  He winked at Phil who shook his head, “Nope, not tonight. I have some business in Athens and I’m going up first thing in the morning.”

  Hiero winked again and made his way into the back room. After a few conversational gambits with the barely conscious clientele, he settled down to eat and drink in silence. He was glad he wouldn’t have to see his latest interest. She was starting to become demanding. As usual, it was all fun in the beginning. She was attractive, intelligent, and amusing. But not amusing enough for him to spend the outrageous sums that she was starting to insist on. It might be time for them both to move on. He was pretty sure he would get over it. And he didn’t think she would mind either. The lady could easily find richer friends than him. He was really more a good-looking charity case for her, or so she was always telling him.

  Phil knew that it was true in a way. She could find someone richer. He was popular with women and they liked to spend time with him, sometimes even missing out on fancier presents from richer men to be with him. The women didn’t take these affairs seriously and neither did he. He was enjoying himself at the moment but he knew better than to count on his looks getting him anywhere in the long run; he knew that they were no guarantee of anything.

  When he was a child his mother liked to tell him stories (she thought they were good for h
im and would insist he pay attention, whacking him with her spindle if she thought he wasn’t listening). She seemed to have an endless supply but there were some she would tell over and over, like the myths of Narcissus and of Adonis. Both men had been handsome, but neither one had been able to profit from it.

  With Narcissus the problem was easy to see. It was a simple lesson; if you love yourself too much, you lose your common sense. Narcissus died because he couldn’t bear to be parted from his own reflection. In a way, he had it coming.

  But with Adonis, it was different. Here’s guy who was good-looking but not self-involved, he was the goddess Aphrodite’s lover, and he’s a brave hunter into the bargain. He should have had the world at his feet but none of those things kept him from his destiny. He was out hunting like any other day when he was killed by a boar. It was the kind of thing that could happen to anyone, but when it happened to someone who was literally loved by the gods, it made you realize just how thin that thread is, the one that holds your fate.

  Thinking about those stories reminded Phil of his mother, her perfume and her dark hair falling forward, half hiding her face, as she would finish by telling him how nothing, not the love of others or of yourself could save you from an evil fate, if one was due you.

  And he had seen many young men make the mistake of thinking that, because they were admired, they could write their own ticket. He had seen what happened to those handsome boys after a few years, once the bloat of fast living set in. They were left with nothing but their memories and the persistent belief that somehow, in some way that they couldn’t quite put their finger on, they had been cheated. Well, he thought, looking at the bright side and raking fingers through his mop of hair, at least vanity wasn’t his problem. He drank the rest of his wine and called goodbye to Hiero as he walked out onto the street.