by Roger Hudson
They waited in the porter's room, a bare cell of a place that the slave had tried to make homely with a few things that reminded him of his homeland. The porter's latest dog growled at them from his corner, muzzled to prevent him barking and disturbing the mourning. Across the entranceway in the stables, a horse snorted but clearly extra straw had been put down to minimise any noise from the animals.
"Master," Sindron whispered, though Lysanias couldn't think why. With the noise of the wailing, he could have spoken loudly and not been overheard. "Master, dark clothes! You must change into dark clothes for mourning."
"Master." Another voice, softer, sibilant, a distinct foreign accent. He whirled as the steward appeared and introduced himself, giving the ingratiating smile and subservient bow of a slave. Old Manes must be dead, thought Sindron.
"Master." The steward seemed nervous, startled, shifty. "We weren't expecting you. You are welcome but... We... The mistress... Your grandmother thought Eion had been overrun and you were all dead. We heard stories. We thought they were reliable."
He eyed Lysanias’ worker’s tunic with disdain and Sindron’s unkempt beard but, on the word of the porter, accepted that they were who they said they were.
"But uncle wrote for me to come. Didn't he tell you, tell grandmother?"
"No, master. And now he's dead. Accident. Terrible. Unexpected."
Sindron interrupted the flow of unconnected words. "My master has no mourning raiment with him. Can you ...?"
"Of course, of course, please come this way. I'll have something brought. Come this way."
He seemed to eye Sindron suspiciously, as he ushered them into a chamber on the other side of the entrance lobby where Lysanias changed clothes. Uncle dead! What would he do now? Why hadn't his uncle told anyone he was coming and why did the steward keep calling him 'master' in that obsequious way? Lysanias wasn't his master. And what was that rumour about everyone in Eion being dead? They must be confusing Eion with somewhere else.
***
Philia had become hysterical when they'd shown her the body of her dead husband. She screamed and cried, until they threw cold water over her and she calmed down.
Then there was all the rushing to help clean and lay out the body, the funeral cloths and clothing to be taken from the cypress chest, tables with burial goods to be prepared, the household shrine to be draped, and her own mourning clothes to put on.
She didn't like it when they cut off the long dark hair that she was so proud of. That was a shock but it would grow again and she did look distinctive in the mirror, she thought, with her black robes and short, ragged black hair and dark eyes. She really felt important as she crouched by the funeral couch. No, mustn't think that! Poor Klereides! What a way to die!
She let out a wail. She was getting good at this. After being told so many times to "be quiet, Makaria is resting", it was a great way of relieving her feelings. No, mustn't think that way ... Goddess forgive me, she thought.
***
"Go on, pay your respects to the dead,” Sindron urged. “Remember when Eion's chief magistrate died in office? It’s just like that," Sindron urged. Lysanias shuffled forward. The glance and the gesture to the family shrine, where the ancestors were honoured; that was first. Then the turn and the gesture to the female figures crouched wailing at either end of the funeral couch, who would be close family. One seemed large and the other tiny, but to Lysanias they were just dark shapes. The paid mourners, further back, continued wailing, beating their breasts, tearing their clothes, in ways family women were forbidden to do.
Beyond them were the tables with the grave-goods that would be buried with his uncle – elegant silver, pewter and ceramic platters, bowls, vases and amphorae to serve him in the afterlife. Beside them, his hoplite armour and weapons, polished and gleaming. The honey-cake was for Kerberos, the three-headed watchdog who guards the gates of Hades, to calm him while Klereides' soul slipped in. In his uncle's mouth would be a silver coin to pay Charon for rowing him across the river Styx. The odours of marjoram and rosemary came up to him from herbs scattered on the bier to disguise the smell of decaying flesh.
By then he was close to the body and it was time to look down and moan, eyes closed, with arms held wide in a gesture of openness in the face of death that comes to all. Then he opened his eyes – and stared. The body wore a mask. But masks were for covering the ravages of extreme old age or the most disfiguring of diseases or ugly facial wounds. And the wreath of flowers round the head, that was more profuse than normal, he was sure. And the shape of Klereides' chest under the embroidered white covering, that didn't seem quite right.
He had to know. On impulse and without thought to the offence he might cause, Lysanias pulled back the cover with one hand and whipped off the mask with the other. There was a startled gasp, as the wailing momentarily stopped, before resuming more loudly.
Lysanias felt sick. What had happened to his uncle? The right side of his chest was completely crushed and the right side of his skull. His arm lay as though broken. The women had done their best to clean up the wounds and build up the chest to make the body look normal, but the damage was too severe.
Lysanias gently replaced mask and cloth. The shock grew into anger. If this was a violent death, if his uncle had been killed in a fight, then it stood to Lysanias to avenge him.
It was difficult to follow through with the ritual gestures, having seen what he had seen. He did his best, then backed away, the picture of his uncle's poor crushed face and crumpled body stuck in his head. Sindron hissed at him and he remembered to gesture again to the black shapes crouched wailing at either end of the bier. The moan he gave now had genuine feeling, as the breath he had been holding escaped and real tears fell.
Then he turned and went back to Sindron and the steward. "Whatever happened?" asked Lysanias, angry, hurt, worried. "Is this a feud? Does uncle have to be avenged?"
"Please calm down, young master. It was an accident. At the shipyard. It seems something heavy fell on him. There was nothing the doctor could do. He lost too much blood."
"This is terrible. Who will look after things now that Uncle has gone? He was going to bring me into the business." Selfish thought! Shouldn't have said that, he realised, and blushed, embarrassed.
The steward glanced across at old Sindron. "Shall I tell him?"
"Perhaps I should." Sindron coughed, and pulled up his shoulders, straightening his cloak. "Master, it seems you are the closest male relative."
"Yes," interrupted the steward, "your father was his only brother."
"And your father is presumed dead after he chased that Scythian and disappeared," added Sindron.
"Yes, but we don't know he's dead for sure," Lysanias responded automatically, still not wanting to believe it. Then, starting to register the broader implications, he felt suddenly cold though his hands were sweaty. He restrained the urge to wipe them in his cloak. "What do you mean?"
"You inherit all this, master." Sindron’s lips quivered as he struggled to keep his expression straight, fighting the excitement bubbling inside him. This could solve all the worries of the boy's family in Eion and it totally altered his view of his own future prospects. If only he could improve his relationship with the boy.
"I'm too young. I can't run houses and businesses and ...
Old Sindron was looking sternly at him. Lysanias knew that look. Unmanly! He stopped, took a deep breath.
"I have to learn, right?"
Sindron nodded in assent, his expression still stern and set. This was a solemn time, it said. But he winked. Sindron actually winked at him! Allies, he read it, a truce. They must put on a united front. He calmed down, his heart slowed.
The steward stepped forward obsequiously, bowing yet again. Lysanias looked him over more carefully, suddenly feeling more confident, assured. This slave was well-fed; the spread of his flesh gave testimony to his easy life, as did the round chubby cheeks, the soft, well cared-for hands. The hazel eyes and long, dark brown
, braided hair suggested a softness that was deceptive. This man knew how to command, Lysanias decided, and how to deceive. Dark skin colour, be-ringed hands, earrings, Persian name, or was it Phrygian? He'd introduced himself as Otanes. He spoke excellent Greek but with a distinct foreign accent. He must be a Persian! A wave of cold fear swept through him momentarily at being so close to the hated enemy race. But the man was a captive, a slave, nothing to be feared.
Then Lysanias wondered how someone from the hated enemy could function as a slave to any patriotic Athenian but there wasn’t time to puzzle over it.
"Master,” Otanes began tentatively. "Master, there's no need for that. The old master never bothered much with all that. His mother, your grandmother, looks after household matters ... and the household slaves ... with my help. Hermon, his partner, runs the business side. Your uncle used to get me to visit the offices sometimes to go over the accounts but he rarely went to the offices or the shipyard himself, to my knowledge. There's no need for you to do anything."
"What about the funeral arrangements, and the feast afterwards?" Lysanias realised he should show he was aware of what had to be done. Sindron decided to leave him to it but there was something about this Otanes that made him uneasy, quite apart from the fact he was Persian.
"Oh, we've got all that organised."
Otanes had seen the look of surprise on Lysanias' face at the phrase 'No need to do anything.' He rushed on. "After the mourning period is over, I can show you, and introduce you. Just leave it to us, master!" Was that a plea or an instruction?
Otanes bowed again and backed away.
"You'll be able to show my master full accounts, of course." Sindron’s voice stabbed from the background.
Otanes froze, his head jerked round and he eyed Sindron suspiciously. Sindron realised that perhaps the man saw him as a rival for his position as steward. Maybe he had shown his hand too soon. Then the steward was all smoothness and composure again.
"Of course, after the mourning period. As soon as things are back to normal. Now, can I offer master any refreshment? Well-wishers will arrive soon and you will have to receive them."
"Thank you, Otanes." Lysanias felt a load lifting from his mind, as the thought of all that responsibility receded a little. Something was bothering him, though.
"Doesn't Klereides' wife run the household?" Lysanias suddenly asked.
"No, master, the old mistress feels the young mistress is still too young at fifteen."
"My master would like a short rest now. And we need to cut his hair for mourning. Could you show us where his room will be?" Sindron took over for him, as he didn't continue.
"Yes, that will do fine," Lysanias took his cue. He had forgotten he would have to lose his hair. It would be bound into the funeral wreath to go to the grave with his uncle, he remembered. "We'll talk again later. I must commiserate with grandmother."
Suddenly it flashed into his head and he snapped out. "But, if Uncle rarely went near the shipyard, why was he there this morning when the accident happened?"
"He went to bed, after the dinner party. Then, in the night, it seems there was an urgent message. To meet someone there. I didn't see it. The porter took it in." The steward seemed somewhat embarrassed at the question, though he had his answer ready.
They called in the porter who confirmed it. "Aye, before dawn, master. A long, thin chariot-driver, not a personal slave. Hands me a scroll. The master takes one look, dresses himself and off he goes in the chariot."
The steward interrupted, hurriedly, as though forestalling a question. "He usually takes me on any business visits, master. The boy as well, to run messages. He didn’t rouse me, must have been very urgent. At dawn, I went to market to hire a cook for the banquet he was due to give next week."
The steward seemed keen to establish where he was at the time. Perhaps he felt he had neglected his duty in not being with his master.
"Who would have sent such a message?" Lysanias demanded. He had to follow this through, as the new master, and because he owed it to his uncle.
"He had many business acquaintances, master." As a slave, he was clearly not going to be drawn into expressing an opinion about citizens.
"Do they know about the accident?"
"Yes, master. Messengers have gone to all his principal associates, General Ariston, Resident Hermon and others. I understand, though, that Resident Hermon, his business partner, is out of town at the moment. His slaves will surely tell him as soon as he gets back."
The most likely person Klereides would have gone to meet and also out of the way. That seemed a little odd.
"What else has been done?" He could still feel the anger bubbling inside him.
"It happened shortly before sun-up, master, and it was some while before we knew. When they brought the body."
Lysanias realised he was bullying. No way to get co-operation, his father had always said. Unmanly. He allowed Sindron to step in to help him out.
"Presumably you have reported the accident to the authorities," Sindron asked, firmly but in a gentler tone.
"Yes, I sent my assistant to hire the official mourners and report to the authorities – the shipyard will have reported it as well. I've sent messengers off to the family in the country and to his top associates."
A loud and peremptory knock on the front door interrupted their talk. Who would use the knocker at a house in mourning? Only a very impatient man, not used to waiting.
It seemed familiar to Otanes, who excused himself and went to welcome the visitor, though the proper thing was to allow the porter to deal with whoever it was. Lysanias and Sindron dropped into silence, as they waited. From the lobby they could hear a gruff voice, a voice accustomed to command, "Look after our horses, my man, and see that they and my slave receive some refreshment." Then a brief inaudible exchange between Otanes and the visitor.
"General Ariston desires to pay his respects to the dead and place an offering at the family shrine," announced the porter.
There was a pause that lengthened as the wailing in the background reached a new crescendo and then, with a start, Lysanias realised they were all waiting for him to respond. He was the new master here. Could he really receive this high dignitary?
"General Ariston is welcome," his dry throat just about managed.
The General was above average height, muscular, with gleaming leather armour and bronze buckles, spurs clinking as he strode forward. His face was firm and unlined and his hair and beard full and dark, though he must be in his early to mid-forties, Lysanias guessed. He stood with all the confidence that wealth and power can bring. He was the cavalry officer who had met General Kimon at the harbour, Lysanias was sure. Settled now into the fixed serious expression of bereavement, Lysanias' face gave no sign that he recognised his visitor.
"General Ariston is welcome in our hour of sorrow," Lysanias repeated, memory of another place coming to his assistance.
"In the hour of sorrow, a friend of the deceased is surely a friend of the successor," came the expected reply.
Lysanias and the General faced one another. A straight look into the eyes and the slightest of inclinations of the head – an Athenian citizen would never deign to anything resembling a bow, the gesture of subservience. Lysanias became aware that, behind those penetrating grey eyes, the General was assessing him, the new master of the household, with a great deal of curiosity and maybe a touch of surprise. Could it be because, with the property and interests he was inheriting, he might be a new element in Athenian politics?
Lysanias' heart beat hard. That was an insight that surprised him. Was that really where he was now? Holy Zeus!
Or maybe there was something else? The General clearly hadn’t expected to see him here – no-one would – but who had he expected to greet him?
The General dropped his gaze first. He turned away and advanced in military style to the bier. He performed the ritual and Lysanias was relieved to observe that it was not a great deal different from the way
he had done it himself.
Sindron indicated that Lysanias should retire to the men's entertaining room. Moving silently into that area, Lysanias discovered that olives and honey cakes, water and wine had been arrayed as a fast offering for well-wishers and realised that he was supposed to take the couch at the head of the room.
Lysanias was slightly surprised to see that the General's slave was already here, seated on a stool, delicately helping himself to morsels - a very attractive fair-haired youth, younger than Lysanias, with tanned, well-muscled, well-oiled limbs gleaming in the lamplight, his tunic belted in the military way but revealing of flesh and muscle. The General joined them.
"Ah, young man. I take it you are the heir. Yes, so I see. But new to Athens? Yes, thought I hadn't seen you at the gymnasium. Well, this is a surprise. Thought I knew all Klereides' menfolk. Have you done your military service yet, young man?"
Lysanias was thrown. "I trained for the defence corps in Eion," he stumbled, before he could stop himself.
"Eion, eh. Certainly roasted those Persians there, didn't we?" He chuckled with delight at the thought of the enemy burning alive in the town they themselves had set fire to, but Lysanias, too, felt that no retribution was too harsh for an empire that had desecrated the temples of Athens and violated the gods. "Before your time, though, I imagine. Plenty of fighting there since, I hear. Great respect for those Thracian horsemen. Still you survived, obviously."
"I didn't see real action yet, sir. Only defensive, as a supply runner when the town was attacked," Lysanias felt obliged to murmur, not quite truthfully. The chaos and panic, shouting and screams, during a major attack, of running backwards and forwards with other boys, slaves and even girls, to keep the defending soldiers on the town's fortress walls supplied with throwing spears and arrows, and stones for slings and catapults, preparing boiling oil and water to be thrown down on the attackers - wasn't that 'real action'?
Strangely, instead of memories of the last fierce attack, which had destroyed much of the town, even their own house narrowly escaping, it was an image of the last time he had seen his father riding away on horseback that flashed into his head, and himself stabbing and stabbing, the reality that fed his nightmares.