by J M Alvey
‘I wished to share my concerns that our two young sons had fallen in with bad company,’ Aristarchos said gravely. ‘It seems they were involved in some brawl, though I informed Megakles that Hipparchos won’t tell me the details. I suspect an intrigue over a woman so perhaps I would rather not know.’
As he shook his head with fatherly dismay, Aristarchos’s act was so convincing that Apollonides and Menekles would have applauded.
There was an appreciative gleam in Sarkuk’s eye. ‘What did he say to that?’
‘Oh, he was very grateful that I’d come to him.’ Aristarchos’s sarcasm was as acid as the vinegar on pickled beets. ‘Apparently Nikandros admitted to getting into a fight but it seems that he and his friends were provoked by unruly Lydians insulting Apollo Delios and Athena Polias. Can you believe that these villains were swearing they no longer owed the gods their allegiance? More than that, they swore not a bent scrap of silver would be coming from Ionia next year. Naturally these well-born youths took up arms, or at least used their fists, to defend our city’s honour.’
‘We already know they are telling lies.’ Azamis was unsure where this tale was heading.
Aristarchos grinned. ‘Megakles doesn’t know that I know these stories are bilge water. All he knows is I support the proposition that Athens should look westwards as we seek to profit from Callias’s peace. I’m in favour of expanding our colonies in Etruria and other untroubled, uncontested lands. So he was eager to persuade me that Athens must first put down these troubling hints of rebellion in the east, and do so hard and fast, by force of arms if necessary.’
‘Did he say that?’ I looked at Aristarchos.
He shook his head. ‘Not in so many words. Though he has invited me to be his guest at a private banquet tomorrow, to meet those of his friends who have convinced him that looking eastwards promises far better returns than westward ventures for wealthy men with money to invest.’
‘Are you going?’ I asked, apprehensive.
‘It’s surely our best chance to see how far this rot has spread among the great and the good,’ Aristarchos pointed out.
‘I wonder if we can find out who first spread these rumours, and when.’ I’d been thinking about that. ‘Nikandros wanted to start stockpiling leather before these slanders against the Ionians began circulating.’
‘Suggesting Megakles knew someone would create a demand for military equipment which the Kerykes tanneries and workshops could then satisfy?’ Aristarchos looked at me, his reservations plain. ‘We’ll need solid evidence, not merely suspicion, if we want to accuse him in court.’
I nodded, exasperated. ‘And whatever might be said at this banquet, it will be your word against theirs without at least one other Athenian citizen witness with no stain on his character.’
Aristarchos set his wine cup on the table and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘So how do we get you in, so you can testify in court?’
I sucked my teeth. ‘If we don’t know who’s going to be there, we don’t know who might remember me from the theatre.’
Aristarchos leaned back. ‘Would you,’ he asked cautiously, ‘consider shaving off your beard? No one would recognise you then.’
That was undoubtedly true. Like everyone else here, I hadn’t gone clean-shaven since I could first boast whiskers. Seeing Aristarchos arrive for an evening of fine dining and wine with a beardless companion, one with his curls dressed with perfumed oil just for good measure, Megakles and his friends would doubtless dismiss me without closer inspection. A rich man’s couch companion is often an idler who uses a razor to signify his lack of interest in taking on a citizen’s duties, preferring a life of indulgence in the pleasures of the flesh.
It would be Aristarchos they’d be looking at more closely, surprised that he indulged in such dalliance. There’s no law against it, but he’d never had a reputation for dissipation. A model Athenian, he was well known for his long and respectable marriage.
I frowned. ‘What happens afterwards, once these people know you’re their enemy, if they start spreading word that you’ve taken a younger lover to a dinner? You don’t think they’ll twist the tale to hint that you’re one of those unsavoury types who like to prowl a gymnasium and grope little boys without any hair on their balls? They’ve already painted me as a Persian’s cock warmer,’ I reminded him.
I also didn’t relish the prospect of staying indoors until my beard grew back to a respectable length, to avoid the startled glances and indelicate curiosity of family, friends and neighbours if I ventured out.
Aristarchos’s grimace told us he took my point. ‘That is a risk I’m prepared to take. My reputation should be sound enough to withstand it.’
‘But if someone does recognise him?’ Nymenios demanded. ‘They’ve already tried to kill him once!’
Sarkuk was frowning. ‘We know they’re watching Philocles. If someone sees him without a beard the very day after this banquet, they’ll guess he was Aristarchos’s companion. They’ll surely try to silence him then, to make certain he can’t speak up in court.’
‘Could he go pretending to be Aristarchos’s slave?’ wondered Tur.
‘A slave won’t be admitted to the drinking and entertainments after the food.’ Aristarchos spoke half a breath before I slapped the boy down for his ignorance. ‘That’ll be when anything incriminating is discussed. Otherwise I could just take Lydis.’
‘A slave could still bear witness to who came and went,’ the young Carian said stubbornly.
‘Enough!’ Sarkuk silenced his son. ‘Surely admitting he’d been willing to pretend to be a slave would discredit Philocles in the eyes of most jurors?’
‘It would,’ I confirmed. In fact, it was worse than that. An Athenian seen behaving like a slave, with no regard for his obligations, is swiftly stripped of the citizen privileges he has so clearly shown he disdains.
‘Does anyone have any ideas?’ Aristarchos asked, exasperated. ‘He can hardly go wearing a chorus mask.’
‘No,’ I said slowly, ‘but I don’t suppose they’ll give the musicians a second glance. I can play the double pipes—’
‘Aristarchos can’t turn up with his own piper,’ Nymenios objected. ‘That’s not like bringing an amphora of wine as a gift for your host.’
‘You would need to arrive with the musicians they’ve hired,’ Aristarchos looked at me with tentative hope.
‘If we can find out who they are,’ I said slowly. ‘I’ll bet Hyanthidas would know.’
Aristarchos’s grin answered my own. ‘Lydis, go and offer my compliments to the Corinthian, and ask him to call here as soon as convenient.’
We had the beginnings of a plan. Hopefully, whatever we found out would shed some light on recent events.
If not, well, at least I’d have an idea for a hero’s masquerade to work into a new comedy plot. Though I reminded myself how often such schemes go awry on the stage. It would be no laughing matter for us if this all went wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hyanthidas proved invaluable. He soon discovered that Megakles had hired Potainos, an Aitolian with a reputation for providing tastefully erotic entertainments. Potainos was perfectly happy to add another pipe player to his ensemble in exchange for a fat purse of silver. That was merely to stop the rest of the troupe asking awkward questions, he assured us. Aristarchos obliged without comment. Potainos wasn’t asking any questions and that was well worth paying for.
Though the Aitolian did insist on hearing me play. Then he made me promise I would only wave my double pipes around and mime. His musicians had their good names to consider.
I didn’t waste my time feeling insulted. It would be much easier to hear the dinner guests’ chatter without my own tootling in my ears. Add to that, even after another night’s rest and an undemanding day watching Zoilos’s superb final trilogy of tragedies, I was still i
n no fit state to be taking deep breaths without sharp pains in my ribs. Most importantly, I needed to get in and out of the banquet without anyone recognising me. I hardly wanted to attract undue attention by blowing sour notes.
As the evening arrived, I left Menkaure to escort Zosime home from the theatre. Following Hyanthidas’ directions, I found Potainos’ courtyard where his troupe of entertainers gathered before setting out for the symposium. Most were women, and I found that frankly disconcerting.
There were eight girls, all told. They stripped off their everyday dresses and painted their faces before draping themselves in indecently flimsy fabrics pinned with gaudy brooches. None of them showed the least concern that I was seeing them naked. As they chattered and laughed I heard accents from every part of Hellas and cities far beyond. That was no surprise. No citizen woman would make her living like this, unless she was left utterly friendless and destitute.
A generously breasted Arkadian reached into her bag for a sponge and a small oil flask shaped like an erect phallus. ‘Potainos! Will we be fucking tonight?’
She was so matter-of-fact she could have been asking what was on the menu. Well, in a way, she was.
Potainos was equally business-like. ‘Just a bit of cock-teasing and maybe a sticky handful.’
I watched the girl put her sponge and flask back in her bag. I supposed that design of flask was one good way to make certain that particular oil didn’t end up in someone’s kitchen.
‘Just as long as the guests know that,’ one of the musicians said dourly. He was a lyre player from Crete. There were two other pipe players and one with a hand drum. They were far more interested in checking their instruments than ogling these undressed beauties.
The lyre player caught my eye. ‘We’re not there just to play. If anyone gets rough with the girls, you get rough with them. Understand?’
‘Understood.’ I fervently hoped that Megakles’s guests would behave.
Potainos brought me a long grey tunic brocaded with startling red flowers. ‘If any of the dinner guests slips you some silver when a girl puts a smile on their face, you give it to me.’ He narrowed his eyes at me. ‘Are you expecting the usual share?’
‘No, thanks all the same. I’m not here to cheat anyone.’ Pretending to be a musician was one thing. I drew the line at playing whoremaster.
Potainos clicked his tongue, seeing how I was struggling to secure the pipe halter around my head. ‘Let me help you with that.’
Hyanthidas had found me a halter with wider leather bands than usual, to obscure my face all the more. There was an extra strap over the top of the head as well. That helped secure the wig I’d begged from Sosimenes, while we were waiting to hear back from the Corinthian.
I’d trusted the mask maker with the barest essentials of our plan, though not with everything that had led to it. Sosimenes had been happy to help and waved away any thought of payment. He’d said often enough how glad he was that Callias’s peace would save his sons from fighting in battles like the bloody clashes of his own nightmares.
Potainos didn’t blink when he discovered the false curls hanging down over my eyes. Enough of his girls were enhancing their own tresses with flowing locks shorn from some pauper or slave, or possibly an unwary horse’s tail.
The pipe players watched the two of us, amused. Neither of them wore a halter. Only a feeble musician would need such a thing for playing indoors. But, true to Potainos’s word, no one asked me any awkward questions.
Once we were done, the Aitolian clapped his hands. ‘Right, let’s be off!’
The girls hid their tantalising dresses under dowdy cloaks and we headed for Megakles’s impressive residence in the Diomea district.
This evening the city had a very different feel. The Dionysia was over, now that Oloros’s Theseid had won the tragedy competition, though personally I think Zoilos was robbed. The festival’s closing rites were concluded and everyone would be up at first light tomorrow, getting back to work.
As we threaded our way through the busy streets, we passed those who hired out their skills or labour heading home for a good night’s sleep. Merchants who’d be trading day-long in the agora were intent on the prospect of supper, barely sparing a glance for any passers-by. The wealthy had resumed their own entertainments. We saw another troupe of musicians heading for a private banquet, and Potainos and their leader exchanged a brief wave of acknowledgement.
Once we arrived, we humble hirelings weren’t invited into Megakles’s private dining room. We weren’t wanted until his honoured guests had eaten their fill of exotic delicacies. So we sat in the Kerykes courtyard and watched the rich man’s slaves carry out successive tables laden with plundered dishes, empty seashells and well-gnawed bones.
Over in the opposite portico, I saw Ambrakis, Aristarchos’s torch-bearer, sitting with a handful of other tall, muscular men. These slaves were waiting to escort their masters home, so woe betide anyone prowling these streets after dark looking for well-dressed victims too drunk to fight back.
Ambrakis was chatting with the other bodyguards and I hoped he might glean some useful information before the night was out. I avoided meeting his gaze though. We didn’t want anyone to think we knew each other.
We were offered barley porridge. It was inadequately spiced, according to the lyre player’s whispered complaints. I hoped my refusal didn’t make me conspicuous, but I didn’t want to remove the pipe halter. Thankfully the food wasn’t nearly tempting enough to make me regret that. I barely sipped the thin, tasteless wine through the hole in my mouth strap. If I hadn’t already had good reason to dislike Megakles, such miserliness would have been enough.
The girls didn’t care. The food and drink was free and that made up for any lack of flavour. As they ate, they speculated about the guests in the dining room. Evidently these well-born citizens would pay Potainos generously for the right to fondle and kiss the sort of women they’d sneer at in the streets.
The dessert table was finally removed, bowls smeared with the remains of fruit in honey and dried grapes revived with aromatic wine. The girls gathered up their instruments; single pipes and light lyres. Two produced juggling balls from somewhere and the Arkadian girl fetched a set of pan pipes from beneath her stool. Standing up, they tugged open the unsewn sides of their dresses to reveal alluring skin from thigh to breast in every shade from barbarian ivory to Nubian ebony.
A slave appeared and handed us all garlands of ivy and laurel. I reached for the bushiest one on offer and dragged it down to my ears. The more thoroughly I was disguised the better. Another slave carried more expensive garlands fragrant with myrtle and herbs on ahead of us to the dining room. A boy followed with perfumed oils and linen napkins so the honoured guests could clean their hands before the entertainment began.
‘Good,’ one of the girls remarked. ‘No chance of peppered tuna sauce getting where it’s not wanted.’
As her colleagues giggled, I hoped the pipe halter hid my blushes. The district brotherhood dinners I’m used to are clearly more sedate than these upper-class banquets.
As we were ushered in, the diners were ready to make the first libation of the evening; taking their first and only sip of unmixed wine from the symposium cup that marked the end of the eating and the start of serious drinking.
As Megakles piously entreated the Spirit of Holy Goodness and the cup began to circulate, Potainos gave his musicians the nod. They struck up a hymn of praise and I mimed as the girls sang. They were as good as Hyanthidas had said and I couldn’t blame Potainos for warning off an amateur like me.
As we concluded the hymn, I studied Megakles. A man so well-fleshed could never have gone hungry. His beard barely concealed the slack flab beneath his chin, and his loose, expensively brocaded tunic didn’t do as much as he hoped to conceal the rolls of fat cascading from his chest to his belly.
As host, he stood by his cou
ch behind an enormous wine-mixing vessel. It was one of the fanciest styles, with high decorative handles featuring bunches of grapes. A picture of Dionysos lolling on a boat decorated the curved side. The god was eating grapes from the vines that were coiling up through the rigging while hapless sailors leapt into the sea, to be transformed into dolphins.
It stood twice as tall as my forearm is long, but it would have to be that big to keep every cup filled. This was quite a gathering. Not that this was a problem. Megakles’s opulent dining room was easily big enough to accommodate all his guests as well as this troupe of entertainers.
‘Shall we mix the wine with four measures of water or three?’ Megakles asked no one in particular. Slaves stood patiently waiting, one with the amphora of wine and one with the heavy jug of spring water. Several guests offered opinions, all men used to getting their own way.
I reckoned that helped me identify those who wanted to get down to business before everyone got too drunk. One measure of wine to three of water would be too strong, they insisted. One to four was too weak, protested the others. I guessed they were here to be beguiled like Aristarchos.
Megakles raised a commanding hand. ‘We will mix five of water with two of wine. No!’ He halted the slave about to slosh water into the mixing vessel. ‘How cold is that?’
As he held up a cup for a splash of water in order to check its temperature, two of the men who’d differed on mixing the wine united in their objections to pouring the water first and then adding the wine. Others were equally vociferous, insisting it should be done the other way. Blessed Dionysos save us all from such fussiness.
Megakles acknowledged his guests’ differing opinions with a courteous nod. ‘We will pour the wine first next time and see who can tell the difference. Now,’ he continued, finally allowing the studiously blank-faced slaves to tilt the heavy jug and the amphora, ‘who will give us the first song?’