Shadows of Athens

by J M Alvey

  He gestured eastwards. ‘Our so-called allies will call on your sons to fight and to die on that far-distant shore to save their own treacherous skins. The dead will include those noble heirs to heroes who’ve already shed their lifeblood to uphold Athenian honour. Those sons of fallen fathers, those brave boys whom our beloved city will arm and armour, thanks to the taxes you loyally pay. Is that right? Is that just? Is that loyalty?’

  ‘You lie, you dog!’

  Tur’s bellow caught me wholly unprepared. With Sarkuk between us, I couldn’t even grab the idiot boy’s arm as he strode forward to challenge the man by the monument.

  ‘You lie! You dog, you lie!’

  Was that all the bull-headed youth had to say? My heart sank as I realised it was. No wonder the Pargasarenes didn’t buy scrolls of famous speeches; there couldn’t be a rhetoric teacher in the place. Whereas this Athenian orator proved he’d had plenty of practice dealing with hecklers.

  ‘So you say,’ he scoffed at Tur, ‘with your Persian hair and your empty Ionian promises. So, tell us! Where have you been spending your silver? Paying for a satrap’s favours? Are you one of those cravens who’d rather kneel at the steps of Artaxerxes’s throne than stand shoulder to shoulder with free Hellenes?’

  Tur choked on his indignation. ‘Who are you to call me a coward?’

  The speaker turned to the wide-eyed crowd with a sarcastic laugh. ‘They say that Darius’s queen urged him to invade to find her some Greek handmaidens. Is his grandson now looking to Ionia to find pretty boys like this? I bet he’d give a satrap a hand-job for the sake of a quiet life.’

  Now I did grab Tur’s arm, doing my best to hold him back. I didn’t have much luck. The young fool was built like an ox. Then a voice from the crowd stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘Why shouldn’t we spend our silver how we wish? Better to guarantee our peace by feeding Persian lions than see them prowling outside our gates. That’s a better use for our coin than handing it over to you. We see how you build yourselves fine new temples and gorge unrestrained at your festivals!’

  Outrage spread across the agora like ripples from a rock dropped in a pond. Men idly standing near this new speaker recoiled. No one would risk being mistaken for his ally. Such ingratitude verged on blasphemy. Even if Zeus’s thunderbolts didn’t strike him down, such insolence was rank provocation, here in the heart of Athenian democracy.

  That meant we got a good look at him as the crowd parted. He was another Ionian, his accent unmistakeable. He wore a tunic brocaded with purple seashells and his hair trailed to his shoulders in long locks. Even his beard was curled like a Persian’s.

  Sarkuk yelled something in his native tongue. The man didn’t reply even though everyone else immediately turned towards us. The man in purple still didn’t react, staring intently at the orator standing by the heroes’ monument.

  Following his gaze, I saw that the orator seemed genuinely bemused. He glanced from the Persian-bearded Ionian to Tur and back again. In the next breath, as Athena is my witness, I saw the man in purple nod to the orator. That jerk of the Ionian’s head urged the Athenian on.

  The orator rounded on Tur and Sarkuk. ‘You dare to come here, you filthy Mede lovers, and spit your rebellion in our faces? When you should be crawling on your wretched bellies to beg our forgiveness for your dereliction? When you should be raising monuments in your own dung-strewn market places, to show your gratitude for Athenian blood spilt on your behalf for three generations!’

  I saw faces all around us turn hostile. Some shouted their own insults at the Carians, father and son. The orator had to raise his voice as he challenged me, standing beside them.

  ‘You there, Athenian! Why do you let these traitors drip their poison in your ear? Have you no shame? Have you no honour? Have you no pride? You stand there with men thrice damned for betraying their sacred oaths to Apollo, to Athena and to their allies!’

  Whatever else he said was lost as yells and scuffles broke out around the man in the seashell tunic. Violence spread through the entire crowd with frightening speed. I looked around for the clearest path out of this chaos. We needed to get away.

  ‘We have betrayed no one!’ Tur strode forward, shoving some hapless bystander aside. ‘It’s Athens who betrays us, murdering our—’

  A punch in the face cut his wrath short, from some bloke with a stonemason’s calloused hands and the muscles to match.

  Tur rocked back a step. Only a step and only for a moment. He really would make an excellent wrestler. Surging forward with a furious roar, he was ready to retaliate and not just with his fists. His right hand held a gleaming curve of steel as long as my forearm, with a wicked, needle-sharp point.

  I hadn’t realised the young fool had a blade. I couldn’t let him use it. If he skewered some citizen in this spreading mêlée, Sarkuk and Azamis would see him buried alongside Xandyberis. Every witness here would condemn him at a trial, and Tur would swiftly be delivered to the public executioner.

  I kicked the idiot boy hard in the side of one ankle. As he staggered, I punched him in the kidneys. That dropped him to his knees. I wound my hand in his hair, wrenching his head back. ‘Give me that fucking knife!’

  He tried to stab me instead. Expecting exactly that, I seized his hand, twisting so hard I felt his wrist bones grate together. He let go of the knife with a furious yell.

  I tried to put my foot on the hilt, to stop him or anyone else grabbing the blade. But the stonemason had decided that he and I were clearly allies. He aimed a punch at the side of Tur’s head as the boy knelt, still captive in my grip.

  If that blow connected, it could kill the young fool. I jerked his head out of the way before tearing my hand free along with some of his curls. As Tur scrambled to his feet, I stepped into the stonemason’s path.

  ‘Leave him to Dionysos, citizen. He’s an idiot and he’s drunk.’

  It took the man a breath to realise I wasn’t going to let him have Tur. His face twisted with contempt. ‘So you do suck Persian cock!’

  I didn’t debate the point. As the mason threw a punch, I sidestepped so quickly that his knuckles barely grazed me. As I moved, I shoved his other shoulder, hard. Hooking my heel behind his forward knee knocked him off balance completely. He landed hard on his back, left gasping, winded by the impact.

  I made sure he stayed down by stamping on his belly. Noble families’ sons learn the niceties of Olympic competition. The old wrestler who taught me and my brothers reckoned Athenian lads like us needed to know how to fight dirty.

  Where was Tur? What about Sarkuk? I looked swiftly around, all the while alert for anyone keen to take up the stonemason’s cause.

  The older Pargasarene was holding his own with no need for a knife. Sarkuk used his fists like a man who’d fought his way out of a fair share of trouble. He blocked a wild blow with his forearm and drove his other fist straight into an attacker’s eye.

  Reeling backwards, the Athenian tried to flee. He didn’t find that easy. Men were fighting on all sides now. Some had been stirred up by the orator. Others were just caught up in the fracas.

  It wouldn’t be long before the Scythians arrived and they don’t carry those bows for show. Anyone running away from a brawl in the agora risked an arrow in the leg or the shoulder. Let the Carians try denying their role in this riot after that. The best they could hope for was being thrown out of the city and then we’d never learn the truth of all this.

  I grabbed Sarkuk’s shoulder. ‘We have to get out of here!’

  He spun around, his clenched fist pulled back. Recognising me, he abandoned the blow. ‘Which way?’

  ‘Head for the Temple of Hephaistos!’ I jabbed a finger at the shining new temple half-built up on Kolonos Hill.

  That was our quickest route out of the agora to somewhere with enough people for us to lose ourselves in a crowd. Given the choice, I’d have run s
traight for Aristarchos’s house, but trying to fight all the way across the market place would be madness.

  I still had to rescue Tur. The lad wasn’t faring nearly as well as his father. He’d been surrounded before he’d recovered his balance and five men were attacking him now. Too many to fight all at once. Trying to do that was the boy’s first mistake. He was still on his feet but barely. They’d have him on the ground any minute and then he’d be kicked to death.

  I threw a punch at the closest man’s head. He must have glimpsed me in the corner of his eye and blocked my fist with an upraised elbow. So I grabbed his arm and hauled him sideways. As he staggered I drove my knuckles into his midriff. He decided that beating the shit out of some Persian sympathiser wasn’t worth any more bruises and scurried away.

  One of the others surrounding Tur tried to punch me in the side. I barely managed to twist away to save myself from broken ribs. Even so his fist landed hard enough to force me backwards. He followed up with a jab to my belly.

  I met his knuckles with my outspread palm, drawing the force from the blow. I tried for a curving punch to his ear with my other hand but he knocked my fist aside with a bruising sweep of his forearm. Doing that spun him around. As he took a step to keep his balance, his feet spread wide. I kicked him hard in the balls and he collapsed, retching.

  Now he was facing better odds, Tur was holding his own against the other three. I winced at the crack of a man’s jaw breaking. One of the others recoiled. Not fast enough. Tur dropped him with a kick in the gut. The last one seized his chance to flee.

  ‘Tur!’ I bellowed. ‘Tur!’

  He stood swaying like a pine tree in a gale. Perhaps he couldn’t hear me. The din all around us was deafening. Some men shouted insults while others protested this was none of their business. The rest just howled wordless abuse.

  No, it wasn’t the noise. The young Carian might still be on his feet, but he was barely conscious. One eye was swelling red while blood streamed from brutal cuts on both his cheekbones and across one thick eyebrow. Another blow had split the corner of his mouth and his nose was surely broken.

  ‘It’s me, Philocles!’ I hesitated before trying to grab him. He might be half stunned but I didn’t want to risk taking one of his punches.

  ‘Tur!’ Sarkuk shouted something in their mother tongue.

  The boy’s open eye focused blearily on his father. Sarkuk shouted again, pointing up at the temple.

  ‘Grab him and follow me!’ I started to force a path through the fray. That won me a whole new collection of scrapes and bruises before we reached the Council Chamber at the side of the agora. That’s what happens when you’re more concerned with getting away from a fight than defending yourself.

  Someone grabbed hold of my tunic. I tore myself free with savage threats and ripping cloth. Behind me, I heard Sarkuk cursing. As long as I could hear him, I didn’t bother looking back, shoving and shouldering my way through the crowd.

  Finally we slid into the narrow space between the Temple of the Mother of the Gods and the Council Chamber. I paused, leaning forward, hands braced on my thighs and wondering if I had a cracked rib. My side was viciously sore. It took me a few moments to catch my breath. At least that eased the pain a little.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Sarkuk demanded.

  I forced myself upright. ‘There, to begin with.’ I gestured up the slope towards the gleaming white temple.

  I wasn’t going anywhere near the prison today. Not with the three of us so obviously fleeing from this brawl. It was a fair bet the Scythians would take whoever they collared straight to the lock-up. Anyone fool enough to offer themselves up would get thrown in a cell. Most likely they’d be stuck there until the end of the Dionysia, when the magistrates reopened the courts.

  ‘Give your son your cloak,’ I told Sarkuk. ‘Keep the hood up, boy.’

  A man going hooded in such fine weather would draw curious glances but that would be better than letting people see Tur’s battered face. He looked grim enough to set dogs barking.

  Now we needed to get somewhere safe, and as quickly as possible. I gritted my teeth against the stabbing pain in my side as we scrambled up the scrub-covered slope towards Hephaistos’s new temple. It was still lacking a roof, its western pediment and most of its carved decoration, but it would be splendid when it was finished.

  Was it being paid for with Carian coin? I saw Sarkuk’s lip curl as he gazed up at the Parian marble columns. Well, we could debate that later. As we reached the temple precinct I hurried onwards. Now we could lose ourselves in this crowd of people looking down, aghast, at the chaos in the agora.

  I ushered Sarkuk and Tur through the temple and out the other side. Then I swiftly worked out a route to skirt around the agora to reach Aristarchos’s house. He’d told me to report back to him, once I’d spoken to the Carians, though I don’t suppose he imagined we’d turn up in quite such a battered state.

  Mus answered my knock on the gate. The slave stared at my bloodied companions, appalled. ‘You can’t bring them in here.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘This house is full of guests and the master’s family. The mistress won’t stand for admitting you and two strangers beaten bloody.’ Mus stood blocking our path, as immovable as Mount Olympos.

  I looked down at my torn tunic, streaked with dirt where I’d slipped and fallen on the slope leading up from the agora to the Hephaisteon. I saw gory smears from my badly grazed knuckles and probably from people I’d punched. My hands ached as villainously as all my other bruises.

  ‘Then where can we go?’ I pleaded. ‘Ask Lydis. We have to get off the streets and we need water and rags.’

  The slave was staring past me at Sarkuk and Tur, who were barely managing to hold each other up.

  ‘Mus!’ I said sharply. ‘Do you want the neighbours’ slaves gossiping about this when they’re filling tomorrow’s water jars? Leave us standing out here and it’ll be the talk of the neighbourhood fountain. Believe me, your master will want to help us. These men are Carians and loyal allies to Athens. They’ve been victims of deliberate malice and your master is trying to uncover who’s behind it.’

  That goaded the granite-faced slave into action. ‘Come inside, but don’t leave the porch.’ He summoned a passing slave with a snap of his fingers. ‘You, watch the gate.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I hurried over the threshold. Then I realised the Carians were hesitating and had to turn around and pretty much drag them inside. Sarkuk looked horribly uneasy about intruding into such a wealthy Athenian household. It was hard to see any expression on Tur’s battered face.

  Mus strode off as we sank onto the stone ledges that served as seats just inside the entrance. I heard music and laughter from the inner courtyard, and saw a bevy of slaves busy carrying food and wine to the feast within. My stomach growled as I realised I was ravenously hungry. This far into a Dionysia afternoon, I should be half-drunk and sprawled on a cushioned couch talking nonsense with my brothers, all of us stuffed like festival fowl.

  Before I could decide how I was going to explain my absence, my bruises and my wrecked tunic to my mother, we heard voices outside in the street. As Mus’s deputy opened the gate, Aristarchos’s son Hipparchos sauntered in. He looked at us, bright-eyed with curiosity.

  ‘Good day to you all. Hermes!’ He took a step backwards as Tur lowered his hood. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We were attacked by street robbers,’ I said quickly, to forestall some angry response from the young Carian. Though I couldn’t have blamed Tur. It was a bloody stupid question, when the answer was as obvious as the smashed nose on the boy’s face.

  ‘Dear me.’ Hipparchos’s sympathy was no more than conventional courtesy. He went on his way, whistling loudly to attract a slave’s attention. When no one appeared, he called out, irritated. ‘Thraitta!’

  Three girls appeared from diff
erent doorways, all dressed alike in clean white tunics.

  ‘You’ll do.’ Hipparchus pointed to one. ‘Bring me something to eat in my chamber.’ Dismissing her with a nod, he disappeared through a door on the far side of the courtyard.

  As the other slaves returned to whatever they had been doing, Sarkuk looked at me, curious. ‘There are three girls here called Thraitta? Doesn’t that cause confusion?’

  ‘That’s what he calls them all,’ I explained awkwardly. ‘It’s his mother’s family’s custom, to save time apparently. They call all the male slaves Illyrios.’

  As Sarkuk and his father exchanged a glance, I could see they found this as peculiar as I had when Mus had first explained. On subsequent visits I couldn’t help noticing that Aristarchos allowed his slaves the dignity of their own names, whatever his wife might do.

  A moment later Mus came back with Lydis. The little slave was appalled at the state of us.

  ‘There was trouble in the agora,’ I explained. ‘It was none of our making, I swear it, but we need to get cleaned up. Your master won’t want them falling foul of the Scythians on the way back to their lodging.’ I jerked my head towards the Pargasarenes.

  ‘No indeed. Follow me.’ Lydis ushered us all out onto the street. ‘This way.’

  Tur was staggering and Sarkuk looked fit to drop. I grabbed the young fool’s hand and draped his arm over my shoulder. Relieved of his burden, Sarkuk fared better and we hurried after the slave.

  A few twists and turns took us into the narrower alleys tucked behind this district’s fine houses. Lydis used a latch lifter to open the gate into a small courtyard ringed by separate rooms. A cluster of stools surrounded a central brazier. I guessed this was accommodation for Aristarchos’s most favoured slaves.

  ‘Please, tell your master I am sorry for bringing such trouble to his door,’ I said to Lydis.

  ‘We will be on our way as soon as possible,’ Sarkuk assured him, painfully anxious.