For Pauline Thresh and Kirsty Fenn at Leeds School Library Services, and for librarians everywhere. The world would be a much poorer place without them.
CONTENTS
The Ship With No Eyes
Master Ariston’s Play
A Ship in the Night
A Party in Aegina
The Ring of the Harpies Again
A Nasty Surprise
A New Case for the Medusa League
A Secret Meeting Place
Footprints in the Dust
The Ghost at the Shrine
The Pond
Poison
The Mysterious Cave
Toy Soldiers and Marbles
Spies in the Night
Thrax Explains It All
Melinoe
The Discus Thrower
Prisoners
Alexa
A Friend to the Rescue
The Festival of Poseidon
Escape
The Jaws of Charybdis
New Members for the Medusa League
Glossary
Greek Gods and Myths
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
The Ship With No Eyes
Late Summer, 433 BC
The warship moved swiftly through the night, a vast shadow propelled by thirty oarsmen who worked in total silence. Its wooden hull was painted jet black to match its one rectangular sail. There was no wind and the sail hung limply against the mast. It had a golden mask painted across it, glaring out over the sea with blank, hollow eyes. The rowers wore masks too, though theirs were black and had small eyeholes through which they could peep.
A small group of hoplites stood at the back of the ship, bristling with spears. The soldiers also wore masks: shiny black ones that made them look like human ants. And they had been trained to fight with the ruthlessness of ants too. Legend had a name for them: myrmidons.
The only sound on board the ship came from the piper sitting at the stern. He was not playing music to soothe the rowers or honour the gods. The short, sharp notes from his aulos helped the rowers work in perfect rhythm.
Toot… toot… toot.
A small lamp flickered at an altar beside him, throwing shadows on a small image of Poseidon, god of the sea. The rest of the ship was shrouded in darkness.
A tall man stood at the prow with his back to the rowers and the hoplites. He was dressed in a thick himation pulled over his head to conceal his face. A second, shorter figure stood next to him. This person also wore a cloak over his head. Its folds fell around his round shoulders making him look like a bloated ghost. On his feet he had expensive boot sandals, cut from the best leather. They were new and creaked as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
Earlier, the night had been clear, with bright stars strewn like gold dust across the sky. But now a thick mist rose out of the sea, wrapping the black ship in a ghostly veil that blotted out the stars and hid the coast from view. A worried murmur went through the rowers even as they struggled to keep up with the piper. This part of Hellas was infamous for its hidden reefs. Many a ship had run aground on them, sending its unlucky crew to the bottom of the sea.
A few broke the silence and called out Poseidon’s name. ‘Oh, god of the sea, protect us. We beg you.’
The tall man in the himation barked out an order. ‘Be quiet! Fools.’
He threw a glance at his shorter companion. Unlike the sailors, the tall man considered the mist a sign of good fortune. It was the breath of the dark gods and spirits that lurked under the waves. Those gods were his mentors and guardians. His inspiration. He wrapped his hands around a golden amulet hanging from a chain round his neck, an image of Melinoe, the much-feared goddess of ghosts. It always brought him good luck.
Let my plan succeed, oh sacred dark one, he murmured. Answer my prayers and I will make you the most revered goddess in the world. I shall build temples for you everywhere.
The ship’s helmsman, the man in charge of the rowers, spoke through the mist. ‘I suggest we slow down a little, sir. If memory serves me well, we must be very close to the shore. We don’t want to run aground on some hidden rocks.’
The man in the himation answered without turning. ‘The gods of the sea will not let us perish. Have faith in the dark ones. And in me. I know these waters like the back of my hand.’
He snapped his fingers at the piper, who tooted faster. The ship gathered speed, some of the rowers crying out in pain as the oars slipped out of their hands.
The tall man nudged his companion. ‘Bring a light.’
The shorter fellow carried an unlit torch to Poseidon’s altar and returned with it flaming and guttering. The man in the himation took it from him and waved it in a huge arc above his head.
A second light flashed through the mist and the tall man barked an order at the helmsman. ‘Tell the men to stop rowing.’
The piper put down his aulos and the warship juddered to a halt.
‘There is someone waiting on the shore,’ continued the tall man, looking at the hoplites. ‘You – go and fetch him. And make sure he has come alone.’
The man waiting on the shore had been there for hours, hidden behind a huge rock. Now he saw a raft approaching through the mist. It had a crew of three, two rowing, one standing to attention with a spear. A hoplite. When it came close to the rocks, the man stepped out of his hiding place.
‘Hold up your torch so we can see,’ called the hoplite. ‘Are you alone?’
The man on the shore did as he was asked, while at the same time patting a small jewelled dagger hidden under his sash. He was glad he’d brought it with him. Pirates were notorious for their quick temper. You never knew when you might need a knife to defend yourself. ‘Yes, I came alone. I was warned not to bring anyone with me.’
He was a short man, hugely fat, wrapped in thick layers of multi-coloured silk. His hair was heavily oiled and reflected the light from the torch. Gold rings sparkled on his fingers and hung from his fleshy ears. He waited till the raft touched the rocks, then stepped deftly aboard, carrying his bulk with surprising ease. The hoplite snatched the torch from him and hopped on to the shore. He peered around.
‘You will not find anyone hiding behind the rocks,’ wheezed the fat man. ‘Cyrus the treasure hunter always keeps his word, especially to esteemed pirates such as yourselves.’
The hoplite doused the torch in the sea before climbing back on the raft. He pushed away from the rocks with the back end of his spear and the other two men started rowing again. A coastal breeze had thinned the sea fret and Cyrus could see the warship’s immense hull looming above him. All seafaring vessels had eyes painted on the prow, to help them find their way and to scare away storms, but the eyes on this ship had been blacked out.
Cyrus shook his head at the folly of this. Did the captain of this vessel consider himself immune to the anger of the gods and the ocean spirits? A ship without eyes was blind and cursed. It would lead its men to certain death at the bottom of the sea.
Hands reached down from the bulwarks as the raft bumped against the hull. Cyrus let them haul him aboard, careful to avoid the oars, whose sharp blades could crack his skull open like an egg.
Clambering aboard, he thought he heard ghosts wailing deep inside the ship. He shivered and made the sign of the horn with his left hand to ward off evil. Were they the voices of dead sailors? Could this mysterious ship with its blind hull and masked rowers be haunted?
One of two men standing at the prow spoke without turning. ‘Welcome, oh finder of lost treasures.’
‘I am honoured to be on board your ship,’ replied Cyrus, lying through his teeth. Now that his feet were planted firmly on the boards, he could not hear the ghostly voices any more. Perha
ps his imagination had played a trick on him.
He turned to the crew. ‘A blessed evening to all.’ He forced himself to smile, expecting someone to return his greeting. No one spoke. The rowers and hoplites merely stared back at him, their eyes glinting through the peepholes in their masks.
Without warning, the piper started tooting on his aulos. The ship lurched, catching Cyrus off balance. He crashed to the deck, banging his head on the planks.
The ghostly voices rang through Cyrus’s head again. He shook it to clear his mind and looked around in alarm. The warship was moving swiftly, heading back out to sea.
The taller of the two men at the prow turned suddenly, revealing a golden mask on his face. Cyrus caught his breath. The man in the golden mask was the most notorious – the most feared – pirate in the Hellenic world. Cyrus gazed into his eyes as if hypnotised, like a mouse caught in a serpent’s glare.
The mask was the most exquisite thing he had ever seen. The cheekbones were high, the eyes narrow slits. There was a short curly beard carved along the chin. A crown of shimmering leaves decorated the forehead.
The second figure turned an instant later and Cyrus realised it was a boy. He too wore a mask but his was made of silver. It showed the grinning face of a young Dionysus. The cheeks were chubby, the hair fashioned into thick, unruly curls. The large mouth was open to show a permanent, leery laugh. Cyrus could see the boy’s real teeth through it. The front ones were broken.
He struggled to his feet and the pirate in the golden mask came forward.
‘Do you have it?’
‘Yes. I had to grease many palms, even slash a throat or two, but I have it for you.’
The pirate held out a hand heavy with rings. ‘I was told you are the best treasure hunter in the world. That is why I sent one of my men to task you with finding it.’
‘And I did.’ Cyrus removed a small pouch from under his sash, pulled it open and poured its contents into the pirate’s open palm.
The boy in the silver mask brought the torch closer, revealing an intricate necklace hung all over with jingling charms.
Anger flashed in the eyes of the pirate in the golden mask. ‘This is not what I wanted, you fool. You have brought the wrong treasure.’
Cyrus opened and closed his mouth like a hooked fish. ‘Cyrus the treasure hunter never makes a mistake. Your man must have given me the wrong information.’
‘Silence,’ roared the pirate in the golden mask. ‘I am not interested in how the mistake happened. This bauble is of no use to me.’ He turned suddenly and hurled the necklace over the prow.
‘This sorry business with our guest from the East is concluded,’ he barked at the boy. ‘Do with him as you please.’
Sensing these moments could be his last, Cyrus reached for his jewelled dagger. But the boy was too quick for him. He snatched the weapon from under the treasure hunter’s sash, ripping the fabric in the process.
‘I risked life and limb to keep my side of the bargain,’ protested Cyrus, grabbing at the torn sash. ‘There are some rules that must be obeyed, even by pirates. I claim the protection of Poseidon and safe passage back to land, as is my right by the laws of the seas.’
The boy roared with laughter. ‘Or what? You will report us to the nearest magistrate?’
He leaped at Cyrus again and slashed at the pockets in his robe. A leather purse fell out and moon-white pearls rolled across the deck. Cyrus went down on his hands and knees, trying to retrieve them. But the boy was all around him like a wild beast, kicking, biting, tearing the rings off the treasure hunter’s fingers and ears.
‘In the name of the gods, have mercy. I am old enough to be your grandfather. Have you no shame?’
Bellowing with laughter, the boy pulled Cyrus up and hurled him over the bulwarks like a bale of straw.
‘May Poseidon put an everlasting curse on you. May the monster Charybdis swallow you whole and spit out your bones. The both of you.’ The treasure hunter had only time to scream a few words before salt water filled his mouth and the current pulled him under.
The boy hooted with laughter and spat into the sea to reverse the curse. Then he picked up the spilled pearls and returned to the pirate in the golden mask.
The taller man put a hand gently on his shoulder. ‘You may keep the fool’s possessions. You have earned them.’
The boy thrust the pearls in a bag and slipped the rings on his fingers. He stretched out his hands to admire them. ‘Thank you, sir.’
The man in the golden mask turned away and scowled at the sea. He was furious that his plan had gone wrong. Tearing the Melinoe amulet from his neck, he hurled it into water. From now on he would pray to no more gods, not even the dark ones. He would offer no more sacrifice until he had what he wanted. The infamous pirate in the golden mask would rely solely on his own cunning and ruthless ambition.
But one thing was certain. The treasure he desired so badly would one day be his.
CHAPTER ONE
Master Ariston’s Play
My friend Thrax was holding up a polished mirror so that our master, Ariston, could admire his reflection. Master Ariston is a travelling poet and a singer. Thrax is his personal slave. He looks after our master’s daily needs, like washing his clothes, polishing his boots and making him meals when no professional cooks are available.
I work for Master Ariston too but I am a freeborn scribe. My job is to write down every song and poem that he makes up. They’re drivel most of the time but I never complain. I’m lucky to have a secure job. My parents are aging farmers on the island of Kos and they depend on me to send them money.
Master Ariston was gabbling on about the exciting evening ahead. But I could tell Thrax was only half listening. He was also thinking about something else.
Most people can only think properly when they’re alone or in a quiet place. I’m one of them. When I’m trying to figure something out, I have to cut myself off from everyone or else I get muddled. The smallest noise can disrupt my thinking. My friend Thrax is very different. He has the ability to think and figure out very complex problems while talking about something completely different.
What was on his mind now, I wondered?
‘Master,’ he said from behind the mirror. ‘It occurred to me…’
‘Not now, Thrax,’ cut in Master Ariston as he peered closer at his reflection. ‘We have to get ready for the play.’
Master Ariston has been a poet all his life but last year in Corinth we met Euripides, one of the most respected playwrights in the world. He inspired Master Ariston to try his hand at playwriting too. So in the spring we travelled to Delphi, where our master consulted the famous oracle to discover if he should ditch poetry in favour of drama and writing comedies.
The oracle always speaks in riddles but her advice this time seemed to be very clear, at least to Master Ariston.
Turning a corner in life, the poet shall come across a sea of merriment.
Master Ariston took that to mean his comedies would meet with great success, so we rented a country house in Delphi where he would have the peace and quiet to write. And now we were back in Corinth at the end of summer, about to attend a reading of Master Ariston’s first play – The Dolphins. It wasn’t going to be a public performance, just a private one for rich people who might want to sponsor the play and help it appear at the great festival in Athens next year.
I want to be a writer too, but a very different kind from Master Ariston. I want to write exciting stories that I can perform at parties, which we call symposiums. I’ve already got two finished works under my belt. They’re mystery stories based on my real-life adventures with Thrax. One is set in Corinth, where we clashed with a dangerous gang of thieves. The second takes place in Delphi. That’s where we rescued a girl from two ruthless kidnappers.
Thrax has plans for the future too. He is desperate to buy his freedom so he can return to his home in Thrace. There he hopes to be reunited with his mother, whom he last saw when he was a toddler
, before he became a slave. Buying your freedom costs a lot of money, which is why very few slaves manage to do it. Thrax is trying to earn the funds by solving mysteries for rich clients. I’m helping him.
The venue for Master Ariston’s comedy debut was a place Thrax and I knew well – the andron in a house that belonged to a wealthy merchant called Zenon the Younger. He is a close friend of Master Ariston’s father and we stayed at his house the last time we were in Corinth.
It’s where Thrax and I were given our first mystery to solve. It’s also the home of our friend Fotini – Zenon’s daughter – and her personal slave, Gaia, who helped us with the case. After that they became members of our secret society, the Medusa League, which we set up to solve mysteries for people in trouble.
‘Ha,’ roared Master Ariston, startling me out of my thoughts. ‘I am now ready to face the great and good of Corinth.’
Thrax put down the polished mirror. ‘Master, I really…’
‘Shush,’ tutted Master Ariston. ‘You go on like a pesky mosquito, young Thrax. It’s a good job I’m a kind man from Athens or I would have your tongue cut out. He patted down his newly oiled hair. ‘I must admit, barbers in Corinth are far more talented than the ones in Athens. The one I visited today is a genius with the scissors. He’s managed to make me look just like Euripides the playwright.’
‘That barber is nothing but a reckless gambler and a desperate thief,’ said Thrax. ‘He stole money from right under your nose while you were sitting in his chair.’
Master Ariston scowled. ‘A gambler and a thief ? I hardly think so. He is the most popular barber in the city. His shop was packed with illustrious clients.’
‘Why don’t you look in your purse, master?’ said Thrax.
Master Ariston did so, and his face fell when he counted out the money. ‘The scoundrel! He’s a thief all right. Look at that. He’s practically cleaned me out.’
‘And he’s a gambler as I said,’ repeated Thrax. ‘He’s been caught cheating at dice at least twice. That’s how he lost two of the fingers on his right hand.’
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