by J M Alvey
Nymenios tried to rein in his exasperation. ‘And now there are no hides to be had anywhere. Do you know who’s outbidding us all?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ the lad said unconvincingly, before he added pointedly, ‘though a month or so ago, we were offered half the usual silver for that selfsame cartload.’
I seized on that unsubtle hint. ‘For the hides that were stolen? Who offered the god such an insult?’
‘Nikandros Kerykes,’ the young priest said with sudden venom. ‘Swanning about like he was doing us some gracious favour. Emphanes sent him off with his ears ringing.’
I had to swallow a profane exclamation. I’d hoped for answers but this was an unlooked-for blessing. When we got to the bottom of this, I’d be showing Hephaistos my gratitude with my own silver.
‘Good to know the prick doesn’t always get his own way.’ I managed a chuckle. ‘I’ve crossed paths with that arrogant bastard.’
‘He didn’t care.’ The boy’s resentment boiled over. ‘He sent some bare-knuckle fighter to tell us to take the silver and keep quiet, or we’d lose our teeth or worse. I—’ His nerve abruptly failed him and he hastily gathered his tools. ‘I must be about my duties.’
As the young priest scurried off, Nymenios looked at me, narrow-eyed. ‘What?’
‘Just a moment.’ I ushered him out of the porch and a little way around the colonnade. ‘Wait here.’
I hurried to the far end of the sanctuary where the rear wall offered an alcove for sundry dedications to Hephaistos. My memory hadn’t played me false. A handful of masks from Ephialtes’s Discus Throwers were hung there. A group of friends devoted to Hephaistos must have been in that chorus.
I walked back to my brother. ‘What does Nikandros Kerykes want with a cartload of fresh hides?’
‘How hard did they hit your head last night?’ Nymenios raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Megakles Kerykes owns three tanneries that I know of, though he only sells his leather to his well-born friends’ workshops.’
‘I wonder when Nikandros got involved in the family business.’ I could certainly see that pustulent little cock deciding to steal what he couldn’t buy. When he realised that robbery wouldn’t work, long term, I guessed he’d sent some pet henchman to do his dirty work. But suspicions wouldn’t get a Kerykes into court.
‘Megakles certainly has deep pockets,’ Nymenios mused.
‘Do you think he’s trying to corner the leather market?’ We could speculate but once again, that wasn’t proof.
Nymenios’s beard jutted belligerently. ‘Let’s go and see.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Megakles has a tannery close outside the walls, just north of the Diochares Gate. Let’s go and see if it’s busy.’
I was ready to call it a day and take this latest news to Aristarchos, to see what he might make of it, before going home and trying to make peace with Zosime. I kept my mouth shut and nodded instead. I know that set of my brother’s jaw. Nymenios had made up his mind to go, with or without me. We started walking.
The young conscripts guarding the Diochares gate barely gave us a glance. I guess they assumed we were rural visitors making our way home ahead of the crowds who would clog these routes over the next few days. There were already knots of travellers on the road outside the city walls, where the buildings and businesses were far more widely spread. I was glad to see them. The two of us on our own would have been far too conspicuous for my peace of mind.
We both turned our heads as we heard trundling wheels on the road behind us. Nymenios dragged me into the shade of an ancient, obstinate olive tree that forced the road into a bend. The wagon rumbled past and I coughed to try and get the stink out of my nose and throat. There’s no mistaking the rankness of fresh skins still smeared with blood and shit.
Other trades might be enjoying the festival, but some things couldn’t wait. With the high prices paid for these hides, whoever was running Megakles’s tannery wouldn’t risk them getting flyblown before they were dunked in the yard’s soaking pits.
‘That cart’s from the Temple of Ares. I recognise the priest who’s driving it. I also know he told Pataikos that a valued customer has paid in advance for every hide from their sacrifices until the end of the year.’ Nymenios broke into a trot, well able to keep pace with the reeking cart.
I followed, but anything beyond a fast walk left me breathless with discomfort. By the time I caught up with my brother, the cart had arrived at its destination. A short distance ahead, a walled yard was surrounded by scrub and turf roughly grazed by goats. As we loitered beside an anonymous warehouse’s door, the tannery opened its gates wide to admit the stinking load.
I’d visited Dexios’s yard often enough as a boy to know the scene within would be a pungent bustle of activity. First, the skins must be soaked for a day or so. Then slaves would scrape the water-softened hides clean of lingering flesh and fat. More experienced men, slave and free, would tend the pits of lime-wash, waiting for the moment when the skins were ready to be scoured free of hair. Then the hides would be handed over to grim-faced slaves who would trample them for half a day in troughs of stale piss and a few other choice ingredients. Finally, the yard’s master would supervise the transfer of each consignment into the tanning vats. Every tanner has his own secret brew concocted from oak bark and selected leaves.
I dragged Nymenios into hiding behind the warehouse’s convenient corner.
‘What?’
‘Hush.’ I raised a hand to silence him, before peering cautiously around the rough masonry. Hilarious moves in the right comedy, but this was no laughing matter. Satisfied, but still wary, I withdrew.
‘Did you see that man in a brown tunic? Shoulders like a wrestler?’ He’d been standing in the gateway as the wagon went in. ‘That bastard was in the thick of the fight last night.’
He’d been with the scroll seller Archilochos in the theatre yesterday, too. He’d gone with the three men I followed to that house where the fake Ionian from the riot turned up.
Now Nymenios understood my caution. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Certain,’ I said with savage satisfaction. ‘Looks like I broke the fucker’s arm.’
The wrestler’s forearm was heavily bandaged and quite possibly splinted. His injured arm lay across his belly, with that hand thrust through his belt for support.
‘Who is he?’ wondered Nymenios.
‘No idea, but I’m willing to wager he’s the one who scared the piss out of that priest. Let’s go and tell Aristarchos.’ I was getting my second wind.
Chapter Twenty-One
I spoke too soon. By the time we got back to Aristarchos’s house, I was flagging badly. Worse, he wasn’t there.
‘Can you tell us where he’s gone?’
I might as well have asked one of the mountains in Mus’s homeland. The big slave had clearly been told to keep his mouth shut and so he shook his head, impassive.
‘Shall we wait?’ Nymenios looked at me, hands spread, uncertain. Ruling the roost in his own home was one thing. Insisting on entry to a well-born man’s house was quite another. Some other time, I’d have found this highly amusing.
To my relief, Lydis appeared. ‘Ah, it’s you, and . . .?’
My brother meekly introduced himself. I would have to tell Chairephanes about that.
‘Who were you expecting?’ Not us. I could see that much from Lydis’s face.
‘The Pargasarenes,’ the slave said briefly. ‘Do you wish to come in and wait for the master? He’s gone to call on Megakles Kerykes.’
‘Yes, please, and thank you.’ I spoke quickly before Nymenios could refuse. Apart from anything else, I really needed to sit down.
Mus stood aside and as Nymenios went ahead, I caught Lydis’s elbow. ‘Tell me he hasn’t gone alone.’
‘He took Ambrakis.’ The slave smiled briefly as he saw t
he name meant nothing to me. ‘Our torch- bearer.’
‘Good.’ I was glad to think Aristarchos was escorted by that sturdy slave.
Mus was about to shut the gate when we all heard a shout outside.
‘Ho there!’ It was Sarkuk, accompanied by Azamis and, more surprisingly, by Tur.
No one would be looking at my bruises if the two of us went out and about together. The boy’s nose was horribly swollen and he still couldn’t see out of one gaudily bruised eye. The other was blackened now and his split lip looked vilely sore.
The three Carians were accompanied by a handful of Scythians, all armoured in linen and leather and ready with their bows.
Their leader bowed to Azamis. ‘We’ll bid you good day.’
I recognised Kallinos, who’d come to recover Xandyberis’s body. ‘Good to see you again. The Polemarch sent you as an escort?’
The tall Scythian nodded. ‘The Archons are gravely concerned about these recent disturbances. He didn’t want these honoured guests of our city to suffer any further insult.’
‘Good to know.’ So the city’s highest magistrates weren’t involved in these attempts to stir up ill-feeling against Ionians. ‘Have you learned anything more about Xandyberis’s killer?’
It was worth a try but Kallinos shook his head without elaborating.
‘Thank you for accompanying us.’ Azamis offered the Scythian his hand. ‘Good day to you.’
‘You must need some refreshment.’ Lydis ushered the Pargasarenes in as the armed men marched away. ‘I’ll see that wine and food is brought to you.’
His glance included Nymenios and me in this invitation, so we followed the three men and the slave to the far side of the courtyard.
As Lydis withdrew, Azamis heaved a heart-rending sigh. His wrinkled face was drawn with grief. Sarkuk cleared his throat and made a visible effort to be polite despite the burden of his own sorrows. ‘Good day to you, Philocles. Are you going to introduce your companion?’
‘Forgive me.’ I was embarrassed by my thoughtlessness. ‘This is my brother and the head of our family, Nymenios Hestaiou.’
He shook Sarkuk’s hand. ‘I wish we were meeting under better circumstances. My condolences on your loss.’
‘Thank you.’ Sarkuk grimaced. ‘We buried him this morning. It was for the best.’
He didn’t need to elaborate. We’ve all seen death. Even kept in a closed room away from birds or insects, Xandyberis’s corpse must have been turning putrid. Better by far to shroud the gruesome processes of decay under the kindly earth.
‘We will take his bones back, after we’ve returned for the Great Panathenaia,’ Azamis said, resolute.
We nodded our understanding. By the height of summer next year, the grave would hold only a skeleton. Disinterring such remains and sending them home is common enough practice when travellers from some great distance have died unexpectedly in the city.
‘Meantime, his shade can keep watch,’ Tur snarled, ‘to make sure that your Archons deal fairly with us when this cursed levy is reassessed.’
Before anyone could react to that, the young man burst into tears. As he hid his face in his hands, I winced in sympathy. Not just for his grief but at the thought of those racking sobs twisting his swollen face and setting his bruised ribs heaving.
‘My grandson . . .’ Azamis struggled with his own tears. ‘He hoped for the best for so long. When Xandyberis didn’t come back to the hostel, he convinced himself that our friend had been seduced by your city’s entertainments. After all, a man has his appetites and Xandyberis lost his wife some years ago.’
‘He was not easy to like, not until you got to know him.’ Sarkuk’s bearded chin trembled. ‘But he was always an honourable man. He was dedicated to our town’s wellbeing and to preserving the rule of law against tyranny, whether by the Persians or from among our own people.’
‘A loyal friend.’ Azamis’s shoulders sagged. ‘A faithful husband and a loving father.’
‘A eulogy any man would be proud of.’ My own throat tightened.
‘Does he leave young children?’ Nymenios’s question betrayed his own worst fears.
The old Carian shook his head. ‘His eldest son is some years older than Tur, well able to shoulder his responsibilities. The eldest girl married a good man, my own sister’s grandson. We will all support them.’
As they spoke, I heard a noise above us. Glancing up, I saw a shutter rattle and wondered if there’d been a gust of wind or if someone was listening to our conversation. If so, it could be a slave or one of Aristarchos’ family; his wife or one of their daughters. Unless it was one of his sons.
I found myself fervently hoping Hipparchos was eavesdropping. I very much wanted that arrogant shit to see the full extent of Tur’s injuries. I wanted him to hear the boy’s searing distress at Xandyberis’s murder. Let that sheltered and privileged ingrate learn about Xandyberis’s family, now left without a father. Let him consider how their little town would suffer, deprived of such a staunch guardian. These were the crimes against gods and men which his friend Nikandros had dragged him into, when he’d drunkenly agreed to have some fun brutally beating a stranger to a pulp.
‘We must decide if we send word on ahead, to break the news of his death.’ Sarkuk sighed heavily again. ‘Or if we should wait and tell his family in person once we arrive home.’
‘How long before you travel?’ Nymenios asked.
The older Pargasarenes exchanged a glance. Tur was still lost in his own distress.
‘If there’s no reassessment of the levy, we have no reason to stay.’ Sarkuk rubbed the back of his neck wearily.
Azamis looked at me. ‘Aristarchos has asked us to remain as his guests until he uncovers who is stirring up such hatred for Ionia. How long do you suppose that will take?’
‘Do you suppose he’ll be able to do it? I mean no disrespect.’ Sarkuk hastily assured Lydis as the slave returned with two girls carrying laden trays. ‘But I imagine these malefactors will have covered their tracks quite thoroughly.’
‘We have a new scent to follow,’ Nymenios began.
‘That remains to be seen.’ I cautioned him with a stern look before explaining to the Pargasarenes. ‘I don’t want to raise your hopes, not until Aristarchos hears what we have learned.’
I didn’t want to discuss what we’d learned until Aris- tarchos was here. Distressed as he was, if Tur was re- covered enough to see Xandyberis buried, he was capable of rushing out to start hammering on doors and demanding answers. I didn’t want the young hothead getting a knife in his throat like his friend.
‘Thank you.’ I took a cup from Lydis and offered Athena the first sip. Then I drank deep. Aristarchos didn’t save his fine wines for rich and powerful friends. Even this household’s day-to-day refreshments were better than the finest vintages I could afford.
The tray of food offered morsels of fresh fish and tender venison lightly seared in herbs and oil along with a choice of olives, fresh and pickled vegetables, together with fine wheat bread. Even Tur shook off his misery and ate a little food, though he glowered as he chewed. To ward off any comment about his unmanly tears, I guessed, or because some punch in the agora had loosened a few of his teeth.
Sarkuk surprised us with a sudden bark of laughter. ‘Do you remember Xandyberis and that octopus?’ he asked his father. ‘On Mykonos?’
Azamis shed decades with his grin. ‘Of course.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Tur didn’t know this story.
Nymenios and I sat and drank and ate and laughed appreciatively in the right places as the Pargasarenes reminisced about their friend. As they spoke I found myself wishing I’d had the chance to know Xandyberis. He’d assuredly deserved better from Athens than his miserable fate. This city owed his friends justice for his foul murder.
Aristarchos returned as we were p
icking at the last tidbits and I was wondering if we might summon another jug of wine. As Mus answered the gate and we heard voices, Lydis appeared from the inner courtyard.
‘No, don’t get up.’ Aristarchos strolled across and pulled up a stool. He looked thoughtful.
‘I hope we haven’t intruded.’ Nymenios looked more nervous than I had seen him for a good long while. I introduced him to Aristarchos and went on. ‘We’ve been fitting some more pieces of all this together.’
‘Have you, indeed? Thank you.’ Aristarchos waited for Lydis to set down a fresh tray of food. A serving girl brought more wine.
‘Do tell,’ he prompted, reaching for bread and salad leaves.
‘It seems that Megakles’s son, Nikandros, is securing as much leather as he can. My guess is they’re trying to profit from outfitting any phalanxes sent east to quell dissent in Ionia.’ I’d been thinking about that while I sat here, remembering Father cursing rich men who sent other men’s sons to die while they grew richer still trading in timber and metal and linen and everything else that Athens’ fleet and army needed.
I explained what we’d seen and learned today, with Nymenios chipping in as his unease faded. Finally I told Aristarchos we’d seen the man with the broken arm at Theophilos’s tannery yard.
He turned to his slave. ‘Lydis, establish just how many leather workshops and tanneries Megakles owns and whom they trade with.’ He looked at me. ‘I wonder how Nikandros is financing such extensive purchases?’
That seemed an odd question. ‘Using the Kerykes fortune, surely?’
‘That’s not as substantial as you might think,’ Aristarchos said crisply.
‘Megakles told you that?’
‘Hardly.’ Aristarchos smiled, thin-lipped. ‘But one hears things around the right dinner tables.’
‘What did he have to say? What did you tell him about last night?’ I was at a loss to imagine how Aristarchos had started such a conversation.