Mark of the Cyclops

by Saviour Pirotta

  I fetched a snack of walnuts and raisins to help us think while Thrax lit a lamp.

  And then we had our first ever secret meeting. How were we to go about tracking down the thief?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Our First Secret Meeting

  ‘I’ll take notes,’ I said to Thrax. ‘Writing things down always help me sort them out in my head.’

  I fished out my wax tablet, which I always keep under my bed along with a stylus. ‘Are you sure Gaia didn’t smash the vase and make up the story about the Cyclops? I have to admit, it does sound a bit fanciful.’

  ‘I am certain she’s innocent,’ replied Thrax.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She hasn’t the imagination to make up a story about a Cyclops. She’s telling the truth.’

  ‘But it couldn’t have been a real Cyclops. There’s no such thing. It must have been a man in a mask.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Thrax.

  ‘I wish we could inspect Mistress Pandora’s room. The thief might have left some clues.’

  ‘There’d be no footprints,’ Thrax assured me. ‘It hasn’t rained recently so the ground would be too dry for mud. And even if the Cyclops did leave any traces of his visit, the slaves would have cleaned them away by now. They scrub the rooms every morning.’

  ‘That leaves us very little to go on. If only the thief were a real Cyclops. It would be very easy to find a one-eyed man, even in a city as big as Corinth.’

  ‘But Gaia gave us some very strong clues,’ said Thrax. ‘Four, to be precise. They’re enough to unmask the thief and bring him to justice.’

  I thought back to our conversation with Gaia.

  ‘She said the thief smelt like a corpse,’ I said. ‘I’ll write that down. It sounds important.’

  I scratched SMELLS LIKE A CORPSE in the wax tablet.

  ‘She didn’t say “corpse”,’ Thrax corrected me. ‘She said “like an open grave”. There’s a big difference.’

  I scratched out CORPSE and wrote LIKE AN OPEN GRAVE.

  ‘What does an open grave smell like?’ said Thrax.

  ‘Damp,’ I replied. ‘Musty.’

  Thrax nodded. ‘And what kind of person would smell musty?’

  ‘Someone who works with damp earth. A brick maker who makes mud bricks, perhaps. Or a gravedigger.’

  ‘And then there are the scars,’ continued Thrax. ‘Clue number two. What kind of person would have lots of scars all over their arms?’

  ‘Someone who sharpens knives and tools for a living?’

  ‘I used to help Cook on the farm bake bread,’ said Thrax. ‘Often, when she reached into the hot oven for a loaf, she’d accidentally brush her arm against the edge of the oven door. The hot clay left burn marks on her forearm that turned into scars. Her right arm was laddered with them.’

  ‘So are we looking for a baker?’ I wondered.

  ‘Bakers smell of baked bread or fermenting yeast,’ said Thrax. ‘This one reeks of damp earth. I reckon it’s clay – that smells musty. The thief must handle clay so much it leaves a smell on his skin and clothes. And he works with an oven. An oven that has clay objects in it – a potter’s kiln!’

  I’d never thought of jugs and vases going into an oven, but in fact they’re baked, or ‘fired’ to harden the clay.

  ‘So are we looking for a potter?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re looking for a potter’s assistant,’ said Thrax. ‘Most likely a slave. It’s the assistant’s job to put the pots in the kiln and pull them out again when they’re fired.’

  ‘But if the thief works for a potter, why did he break into a house to steal a wedding vase? Why not just steal one from his own place of work? Wouldn’t that be easier?’

  ‘Stealing from his own place of work would be too risky. He’d be the first suspect,’ said Thrax.

  ‘I wonder how the thief knew there would be a wedding vase in Master Zenon’s house?’ I said.

  ‘Peleas the merchant must have a local agent. The agent takes orders from rich clients in Corinth, and Peleas supplies the vases from Athens. The thief might work with the agent and have heard about the wedding vase. He might even have planned the theft before the vase reached Corinth.’

  I wrote the rest of the clues in my tablet before showing it to Thrax. ‘So we are looking for a thief who 1) is a potter’s assistant, 2) is tall and hulking, 3) smells of wet clay and 4) has distinctive scars all over his arm, most likely the right one. Those are the four clues Gaia gave us. But how do we go about finding a potter’s assistant in one of the biggest cities in the world? It’s like looking for a drop in the ocean.’

  ‘The man probably works for Peleas’s agent,’ Thrax reminded me. ‘The first thing to do is find out who that is...’

  Suddenly he stopped talking and looked around the room. ‘Shh...’ he whispered, putting a finger to his lips. He tiptoed to the door and yanked it open. But there was no one outside, and after peering out into the yard, he closed it again.

  ‘I thought I heard someone outside the room. We’re going to have to be very careful when we discuss the case. There’s also the possibility that someone in this house might be in league with the thief.’

  Just then we heard banging at the front door. The other slaves had come back from their night out. I slipped the wax tablet under my bed. Our first secret meeting was over.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Enquiries at the Market

  Two whole frustrating days went by before Thrax and I could start trying to find Peleas’s agent. The great wedding was now almost upon us and Master Ariston kept us both busy, me copying down new songs and Thrax cleaning his clothes and making snacks to help with the inspiration.

  Zenon’s house was frantic with activity. Cook baked almond cakes all day long, singing at the top of her lungs as she stirred the batter or threw logs into the oven. Ahmose organised the slaves into a cleaning party. The male slaves were set repainting the yard, scrubbing the altar and hanging a huge awning to cast shade across the yard. Every wooden chest and piece of furniture in the house was oiled until it shone like a mirror. Even the farm and the stables got a tidy-up.

  The women swept every room and washed the linen curtains in vinegar to whiten them. Master Ariston found it very difficult to work with all the noise and mess. ‘I can’t hear myself think,’ he complained after two days of whirling dust and clanging bronze buckets. ‘I need to compose a celebration piece in honour of the groom’s father. I’ve been told he breeds dogs. How can I write about dogs when all I seem to hear is pigeons cooing?’

  ‘Ahmose is repainting the dovecote, sir,’ I said. ‘The pigeons have fled to the windowsills in the courtyard.’

  ‘I don’t blame them,’ said Master Ariston. ‘The smell of that paint is strong enough to kill a sacred bull. I’m sure it’s affecting my throat.’ He called for Thrax. ‘Get Cook to make me a soothing tonic with hot water and honey.’

  ‘You should gargle with some tea made with herbs of Cilicia too, master,’ said Thrax, winking at me. ‘It works wonders on a sore throat. I can get you some from the market right now.’

  ‘Now that’s a good idea,’ said Master Ariston. ‘You do look after me well, Thrax.’

  ‘I’ll go with him, sir,’ I cut in. ‘We’re running low on papyrus and you need spare strings for your lyre.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Master Ariston, tossing a clinking purse at me. ‘I’m going to work in the temple of Aphrodite. Hopefully it’ll be nice and quiet at the sacred spring. I’ll take a wax tablet and write down the lyrics myself. You don’t need to hurry back. I’ll be busy all day.’

  Thrax fetched him the tonic and we left him sipping it noisily. It was still mid-morning. The city was buzzing with activity and I was thrilled we were starting our investigations at last.

  ‘Your little trick to get us out of the house worked perfectly,’ I said to Thrax as we made our way down the hill. ‘We might even get lucky and spot the thief himself. We’re looking for a tall, hulking man with scar
s all over his right arm. It shouldn’t be too difficult to spot him if he’s there.’

  ‘He’ll be a dangerous fellow,’ said Thrax, ‘so if we do see him, we’ll have to be careful he doesn’t see us.’

  I walked quickly to keep up with my friend who always had a steady pace. ‘Perhaps it’s safer to find out if he works with Peleas’s agent. But even if we find him, how are we going to prove he smashed Mistress Pandora’s vase? Remember, he left no clues in the room.’

  Thrax didn’t answer. I was beginning to realise that he never revealed his thoughts until they were perfectly clear in his mind.

  We found the agora teeming with people, like an anthill at the height of summer. There were stalls laden with fish, still gasping from being pulled out of the sea. Others boasted ripe vegetables and fruit, or cloth in every colour of the rainbow. Hawkers thrust pots of perfume at us, waving them under our noses. ‘Best balm of Egypt! Bark essence to soothe an itchy skin!’

  Children shouted out the prices of puppies and goslings.

  We spied cheap jewellery and statues of gods, and blue amulets shaped like eyes to ward off sickness and bad luck. I found the stall selling papyrus and stopped to admire it. It had lots of other wonderful things for sale too. Reed pens and styluses, and inkwells in various shapes and sizes, some of them with cork stoppers to stop the ink drying up.

  ‘Look at these little knives,’ said Thrax. ‘They have beautiful bone handles.’

  ‘They’re sharpening knives. Scribes use them on their kalamos.’

  While I haggled with the stallholder over the price of the papyrus, Thrax went off in search of the herbs of Cilicia. When he returned, his eyes were bright with excitement.

  ‘I’ve found the pottery section,’ he said. ‘It’s right at the end of the market behind the fountains. Let’s see if anyone there can tell us who Peleas’s agent in Corinth is.’

  We approached the stalls, which were laden with pots of all shapes and sizes. ‘There’s something here for every occasion,’ said Thrax, stopping at one of them.

  ‘What can I get you, boys?’ asked a stallholder, a very thin man with unusually blue eyes. ‘A nice alabastron for your girlfriends, perhaps?’ He looked at my ink-stained fingers. ‘Or how about a nice inkwell for the discerning scribe? Lots of them going cheap today.’

  He nodded at some wicker baskets placed in front of the stall to tempt buyers.

  ‘We’re not shopping today,’ replied Thrax. ‘My friend the scribe here is writing a song about a wedding vase and we wondered what a really expensive one would look like.’

  ‘You won’t find any wedding vases worth writing about in the agora,’ laughed the stallholder. ‘Most traders here only stock pots for working people.’

  ‘We were hoping to see a vase as grand as one you might buy from Peleas of Athens,’ said Thrax.

  ‘You’d have to visit Peleas’ agent to see one of those.’ The stallholder started pulling down the shutters. ‘That’s Alcandros the Elder. Peleas stays with him when he’s in Corinth but someone told me they saw them leaving the city three days ago.’

  ‘Then how will we be able to see one of Peleas’s grand vases?’ said Thrax.

  The stallholder laughed. ‘I’m sure whoever Alcandros left in charge of his warehouse would show you one if you asked politely.’

  ‘But where would we find Alcandros’s warehouse?’ I asked.

  The stallholder slammed down the last shutter and took a rusty key from a chain hanging at his belt. ‘In the potters’ district, where else?’

  ‘We’re new to Corinth,’ said Thrax. ‘Can you tell us how to get there?’

  ‘Go out of the agora by the western gate,’ replied the stallholder, ‘then follow the main street till you come to a small ruined temple. Turn left at the temple and you’ll see the pottery workshops and warehouses tucked under the city walls. Anyone there will show you which one belongs to Alcandros, although I should imagine it’ll be closed for the afternoon.’

  We thanked the stallholder and made our way out of the agora. With a few hours to kill before Alcandros’s warehouse opened again, I reckoned we had time for lunch and bought some fried parrotfish in bread. We ate it sitting in the shade of an olive tree. There seemed to be no one about except us.

  ‘Peleas must have gone to Athens to get a new loutrophoros for Mistress Pandora,’ I said as I gobbled up the last piece of fish. ‘And Alcandros went with him for protection now that his slave Tanoutamon is dead.’

  Thrax finished his lunch too. ‘Perhaps! Although Alcandros might just have gone to see what new styles are coming out of Athenian potteries.’

  After our meal we stretched out on the grass and had a long nap. When we woke up again, the city was coming back to life. We washed our faces at a spring and followed the stallholder’s directions to the potters’ district.

  CHAPTER TEN

  An Ode to a Vase

  The ruined temple soon loomed up before us. Turning left as we’d been told, we saw the potters’ district right ahead. It was a jumble of busy workshops and warehouses, all painted a bright terracotta colour. The narrow streets were packed with people carrying enormous pots on their backs or loading carts with vases and storage jars.

  Potters sat at their wheels outside every workshop, their hands magically turning lumps of wet clay into smooth round bowls or jugs. The doors to the shops were wide open and we caught tantalising glimpses of beautiful pots inside.

  A small girl tugged at my tunic and held out a handful of clay amulets on strings. They were little round medallions with badly carved Medusas on them.

  ‘Very pretty,’ she said in a voice so soft I could hardly hear her. ‘Medusa keeps away bad luck. We have a special offer today. Four lucky charms for the price of one.’

  She looked so hopeful, I couldn’t help fishing a coin out of my bag. The girl smiled and handed me four amulets. She giggled shyly when Thrax went down on one knee so she could slip the medallion over his head.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We are looking for Alcandros the potter. Can you tell us where his warehouse is?’

  The girl nodded and led us to a large doorway further down the street. It had a clean white linen curtain across it and a large plaque showing Athena with an owl on her shoulder. Thrax parted the curtain and we stepped into cool shade. A dog immediately leaped up behind a wooden counter and started howling ferociously.

  ‘Be quiet, Cerberus,’ hissed a voice further inside the shop. We heard light footsteps and a man appeared from behind a shelf full of vases. He had even bigger muscles than Thrax, and his head was shaved too. ‘Don’t be scared of Cerberus,’ he said, patting the dog gently. ‘His bark is worse than his bite. What can I do for you, boys?’

  ‘We’d like to see an Athenian vase,’ said Thrax. ‘My friend here is a writer, trying to compose an ode to a vase. We were told at the agora that Alcandros might let us have a look at some of his fine pots.’

  ‘Master Alcandros is away on urgent business,’ said the man behind the counter. ‘He won’t be back for a few days but I’m sure he won’t mind me showing you some of our best vases. I’m Donos and I’m in charge when the boss is away.’ He shook our hands and I noticed right away that his arms were covered in scars. He was too short to be our thief though, and he smelt of perfumed oil, not damp clay. ‘Let me fetch a piece I think might inspire you.’

  The moment he disappeared among the shelves, Thrax and I started to take a good look around us. There were stacks of expensive pottery all over the place but no sign of a second assistant. Nor could we hear the sound of anyone working a potter’s wheel out the back. The only noise was Cerberus growling softly behind the counter.

  ‘Does Master Alcandros make his own vases here?’ asked Thrax when Donos returned with a stamnos and placed it on the counter.

  ‘He does,’ said Donos. ‘But he also imports vases from all over the world; Athens, Thrace, Illyria, Egypt, even from Samos. And I throw pots too. I even paint them myself.’ He indica
ted the stamnos. ‘This is my latest piece.’

  We stared at the beautiful work of art in front of us. It showed a picture of Zeus sharing a cup of wine with Dionysus. Behind them was a temple with Corinthian columns, full of cats and foxes with bushy tails, both animals said to be dear to the wine god. Above the temple, rain clouds were gathering. They were painted to suggest luxurious curtains, like you might find at the door of a palace.

  ‘I’m amazed you find the time to create such detailed pieces,’ said Thrax. ‘You must be run off your feet looking after this place. Do you not have any help?’

  ‘I’m the only one here besides Master Alcandros,’ replied Donos. ‘I have to light up the kiln, fire the pottery and look after customers too.’

  ‘Your vases are stunning,’ I said. ‘You must charge a fortune for them.’

  The pride on Donos’s face was replaced by a sad look. ‘Master Alcandros does ask a lot for my work,’ he said, ‘but he only pays me an obol for every piece.’

  ‘You’d be lucky to get a loaf of bread for that,’ said Thrax. ‘The gods are harsh.’

  The sad look in Donos’s eyes changed into one of defiance and his hands gripped the vase. ‘But I will be a free man one day. Then I’ll set up my own workshop in Athens and make pots fit for kings.’

  Cerberus reared up behind the counter and started barking madly. The angry look on Donos’s face was immediately replaced with a professional smile. ‘Well, I think there are some customers coming. It’s been nice talking to you, boys. Do come and see me again.’

  He shook my hand. ‘Good luck with your poem. I hope my work has inspired you. Come and show it to me when it’s finished.’

  We left the shop as an old man and his slave, both richly dressed, came in through the linen curtain. The little girl with the lucky charms waved to us from across the street.

  ‘Donos works on his own,’ I said to Thrax as we walked back towards the ruined temple.