by Roger Hudson
Strynises balanced it by an equally scatological tale about the radical leaders Ephialtes and Perikles, managing to offend the other half of the crowd, despite the laughs from the well-dressed.
The news-teller was going on with news of other cities, but Sindron was giving Lysanias directions to reach the baths and the barber's afterwards, where Sindron promised to find him.
***
The baths were great. The cool water poured over Lysanias by the bathman was really refreshing. A rub down with powdered wood-ash and clay to remove sweat and grime. Another rinse down. Then the scented oil smoothed and soothed him all over, before the gentle scrape-down with the curved bronze strigil.
The bathman was chatty. "Terrible tragedy that this morning, wasn't it? Who'd have thought a well-born like that could end up crushed to death in his own shipyard? No telling is there? Who knows when the gods'll call us?"
Lysanias kept quiet. It had been a shock to find his uncle the subject of gossip, but he might learn something here, even if the man's grammar was appalling. Sure enough, the bathman went on.
"I'm thinking the workers might have had something to do with it, eh? Wasn't a popular man with his workers, so I'm told. But then, mustn't speak ill of the dead, must we, eh? I'm sure he did his best. Don't we all. Us bathmen, now, we’ve no Fellowship of Hephaistos like those craftsmen down Peiraeos way. Don't need it neither, to my thinking. Customers are generous."
It was all Lysanias could do to stop from bursting out in anger at this stranger talking about his uncle like that. Despite the hint, he didn't tip the bathman. He hadn't any Athenian money yet anyway, and he'd paid the doorkeeper with the piece of silver Sindron had given him.
Lysanias found that Sindron had unpacked his best tunic and cloak, made by his mother from her finest bleached homespun. Lysanias put them on, and his smartest sandals, but he was aware they didn’t match up to some of the immaculate clothes he had seen in the square.
***
Lydos' table was no different from the others. The seated banker behind, the seated client in front. A discreetly waiting client or two. The bulky bodyguard standing by, and the slave-boy ever ready to run messages or errands. The scribe at a smaller table behind with his chest of parchment scrolls recording the state of individual depositors' accounts and loans.
Lydos looked up as the last client departed. Lydos looked puzzled for a moment, then his eyes locked with Sindron’s and they both smiled in recognition and friendship.
He beckoned Sindron over and said, "I never expected to see you again, old friend. When did you get back? Some colony in the back of beyond, wasn't it?" The voice had become much more cultured than Sindron remembered and the manner more sophisticated. Lydos had clearly done very well for his master and for himself. He'd also looked after himself. Some years younger than Sindron, the banker's arms were muscular, his figure trim for his age.
Sindron recalled getting to know Lydos as they had sought a good vantage point for seeing or at least hearing the music and drama contests from outside the performance area when escorting their owners’ families to the events. The sharing of views on things slaves weren’t expected to have opinions about had been a rare pleasure. But no time for reminiscences now.
He explained that he needed to exchange some money but would also welcome his friend’s advice.
"Well, I'll change your money," replied Lydos, "but we normally only deal in big sums these days. Since Athens gained control of the seas and put down the pirates, trade and money-lending for trade has gone crazy."
"You mean Kimon."
Lydos started. "What?"
"You mean Kimon gained control of the seas and put down the pirates."
"Yes, for Athens." He dropped his voice. "Look, things are a bit tricky at the moment, so not too loud. Never know which faction may be listening."
"Is it that bad?"
Lydos didn’t answer but suggested Sindron sit beside him to avoid the impression he might be a client. His eyes betrayed an element of doubt about being seen with Sindron and he glanced around. There seemed not a little snobbery in the way he eyed Sindron’s plain homespun cloak. Perhaps he should tell Lydos his good fortune now thought Sindron, but a different impulse took him.
"You're still a slave then?" Sindron sensed his friend bristle.
"Yes, but I live out now, no restrictions," Lydos retorted. "My own house and a family, two sons learning the business." Lydos glowed with pride now and gestured, indicating that the young scribe was one of his sons. Sindron congratulated Lydos and felt a tinge of envy, though he had always regarded marriage between slaves as a dubious business, with any children liable to be sold off, as he himself had been. “He gives me full responsibility and takes my advice on major decisions.”
Lydos leant closer and whispered. "Phraston has no heirs. His son was killed at the Battle of Eurymedon when his trireme went down. Only ship we lost too. Tragic." But somehow the tone suggested the man felt no real sympathy. That surprised Sindron.
"So Phraston has promised to free me and leave me the bank on his death." Clearly, the man could hardly contain his excitement. "Depositors and investors prefer banks to be in the hands of citizens, so there's a good chance I'll be given citizenship as well." Though his face retained the dignity of his job, the tone of his words was that of a little boy who has won his first running race at the gymnasium.
"The old man's having the freedom papers prepared now. Just hope these reforms don't rock the boat," Lydos added. A note of genuine worry crept into the bland tone in the immaculate accent.
Sindron explained his new situation – personal adviser to the heir to a business fortune – briefly, and, he hoped, without arrogance.
Lydos' attitude did seem to change subtly. "Well, that is good news! But, if you don't mind a word of advice, old friend, you should be better dressed than this, you know. The slave has to reflect his master's glory in Athens."
Sindron felt obliged to excuse his dress by explaining they had just arrived. He outlined the problem with his master's age, the need to get him registered as a citizen and his uncertainty about the effect of the new reforms. He remembered that Lydos had always prided himself on his knowledge of the way Athens worked.
Sindron soon discovered that the reforms hadn't changed the old citizenship arrangements. It sounded as though it should be straightforward enough. Lydos explained where the relevant offices were but, before Sindron could ask about the political situation, the banker's attention was diverted by a customer with a complex enquiry. Lydos asked Sindron to wait in the Painted Colonnade, where he joined the small group of onlookers watching an artist at work.
Sindron stared at the paintings of great battles on wooden panels on the inside walls of the colonnade, clearly intended to celebrate Athenian military prowess. Painters were still working on the different panels, as though in a competition, and he was fascinated to see that styles seemed to be changing.
"That's Mikon. He's famous, you know." Lydos said as he came up behind Sindron. He explained quietly that there was a propaganda element here, not just because it showed Kimon’s father, Miltiades, winning the Battle of Marathon, but also Theseos, legendary founder of Athens and father of democracy, represented as lending his support to the Athenians, had been made to look similar to Kimon. “Aimed to present Kimon as the best man to lead the city, I believe. Clever, isn't it? Unfortunately, he needs more than that at the moment!" Away from his banking table, Lydos didn't seem so concerned about using Kimon's name, Sindron observed.
The next panel, with a somewhat older artist tackling the detail of a face, was much more exciting. The burning buildings seemed to recede into the background, the heroic figures to thrust forward. He had never seen anything as dramatic as the figures in what he decided must be the sack of Troy, for there were the flames rising behind the ruined city in deep red and ochre, with the Greek heroes and their captives in front. The fear in the eyes of the captives and the triumph worth fearing in those of th
e victors was disturbing, haunting. Sindron was impressed.
"Polygnotos, from Thasos," explained Lydos. "Trojan War. The word around is, that's the face of Kimon's sister Elpinike that he's put on Laodike, the most beautiful of King Priam’s daughters. Of course, that's started everyone saying the artist is having an affair with her, and her husband away on a peace mission in Persia too! That’s not so helpful to Kimon."
“Strange subject, isn’t it, the trial of the hero Ajax for raping Cassandra?” Sindron had worked out what it must be, for there was Ajax, who Athene had made mad to prevent him killing the other Greek leaders and, once again, this hero was looking surprisingly like Kimon. That couldn’t be the sort of image the aristocrats would want to present. Could it be taken to imply that the painter thought Kimon was mad enough to try to kill other Athenian leaders?
“Yes, bit of a rebel, Polygnotos. Claims to be painting it at his own expense as a contribution to Athens. So does Mikon publicly but Polygnotos means it, so we couldn’t buy him. Phraston’s not too happy with it. Neither will Kimon be when he finds out. If we get the Areopagos restored, they’ll take action.”
This way of impressing people was new to Sindron and clearly it could work both ways. He wondered how this artist, being from Thasos, which Athens, led by Kimon, had treated very badly only a few years ago for trying to leave the Confederacy, how could he bear to live here on familiar terms with its leaders? But, then, maybe this painting said something about his real feelings. Sindron didn’t express the thought, as it wasn’t at the centre of what he needed to know.
Lydos suddenly smiled and winked at him, referring to the old days. “The plays are better too,” he said. “That Aeschylos, what a writer! Even if I don’t always agree with his viewpoint.”
“You still get to see the contests then.”
“Of course, but I see them in comfort now. Phraston takes me as part of his group.”
“Don’t think I’d be up to all that climbing and scrambling these days,” Sindron smiled back and, for a few seconds, a grin of complicity rekindled memories of their old friendship.
As they started walking, Sindron asked the question he had to ask, “But what about the revolution?”
"Don't use that word!" Lydos looked around to make sure no-one was in earshot, lowered his voice. "It's touch and go. I don't think many citizens realised what a big difference the reforms could make when they voted them through. Now the big man's back, there could be trouble."
"So all these people are waiting for something to happen?"
"Yes. Apparently, he’s trying to have a special meeting of the Assembly called, so he can attempt to repeal the reforms.”
Sindron still couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. "Why? What's so terrible about a bit more democracy?”
"Aah, I forgot how long you've been away. Things have changed a lot.”
Lydos explained that, with so many citizens away fighting during the war, there hadn’t been enough voters for worthwhile Assembly meetings, so lawmaking and other powers had fallen to the Areopagos, the council of elders, composed of ex-magistrates, the well-born and wealthy.
Kimon dominated the Board of Generals and his faction dominated the Areopagos. When Kimon was away at the war, Kallias, probably the city’s richest and most powerful man, had held everything together, giving a strong line on policy. With little opposition, it worked fine, though the Areopagos had offended the rising young intellectuals by clamping down on morals and any kind of artistic experiment, even nosing into individual citizens’ personal affairs. The supporters of Themistokles, never as coherent as a faction as the aristocrats who supported Kimon, fell apart when Themistokles was exiled, condemned to death and fled to Persia. Ephialtes, who emerged as the leader of those wanting peace and reform, was ineffective and didn’t dare speak out against the war until, with successive victories, the troops started returning.
As Lydos now halted, Sindron realised they had entered an area behind the Painted Colonnade and that this was where financial traders pursued their business.
"Hipponikos. This is a friend of mine. I wondered if you had something tasty for him to dabble in. "
Lydos was introducing him to a swarthy-skinned merchant in a rather flashy robe, with hair and beard neatly curled, standing next to a large white board scrawled with words and figures in charcoal. Sindron looked enquiringly at Lydos.
"A way of increasing your nest egg, old friend, those savings you’ve been putting away to buy your freedom. Hipponikos deals in cargo loans."
Hipponikos explained how high the interest rates were on short-term loans to finance merchants to hire ships and purchase cargo for trading overseas and how rapidly an investor could double his money. He outlined a specific voyage with Athenian manufactured goods outwards for sale to the Thracians and carrying shipbuilding timber on the return journey. Sindron could see the trap that his friend was innocently getting him into but he could see no way of backing out.
"How much shall I put you down for? A hundred drachmas, eh? Dip your toe in the water? "
Hipponikos chuckled re-assuringly and Lydos assured him that he had invested in cargoes very profitably himself.
It sounded very tempting and how could Sindron explain that he didn’t have such a nest egg, that his meagre savings had been contributed to help the family in hard times. Maybe it had prevented him being sold, but he realised how ridiculous that sort of generosity might appear.
He realised also that Lydos knew he had money on him. All his attempts at evasion were brushed aside. Risk? Very slight. Only if the ship sank could he lose his money and that was unlikely in the safe sailing season and with pirates eliminated. Yes, of course, a slave could invest. Not enough money with him?
"Not a problem, " Hipponikos dismissed that too. "If Lydos introduces you, you’re a good risk. Twenty five drachmas down as deposit, the rest within two days. I’ll lend you the rest till then at no interest. How’s that? "
"Regard it as testing it out for your master, old friend, " added Lydos. "A good slave always anticipates his master’s wishes, they say. "
With Lydos encouraging him, Sindron had no choice. If he declined, he would appear a coward, who would remain a slave forever. If he did go for it, he’d be risking his master’s modest supply of personal money and perhaps drawings on the inheritance as well. It would be leaving him with less cash than he would have liked for whatever they might still need to spend but it should enough. Sindron decided to accept and come back later, explain his situation and somehow persuade the merchant to cancel the deal, which they swore by placing hands, one over the other, on the curly carved hair of one of the Herms, for Hermes is also the god of merchants – and of good luck, he thought hopefully. He didn’t feel comfortable about it and he recalled wryly his warning to Lysanias earlier.
How had he allowed himself to be tricked like that? Was he really that unused to dealing with other people, with situations where he was a player himself? Or was he really worried about his own future? Or, deep inside, was he a risk-taker, a gambler? Or was Athens corrupting him, making him more worried about saving face than about right and wrong? If he could be tricked that easily at his age, how would Lysanias fare?
Though deeply unhappy at his own misuse of his master’s money, Sindron was still determined to find out more about the political situation. All Lydos had given him so far was a bit of historical background. He interrupted his friend’s boastings about how much he had managed to save and invest, even acquiring control of a dye-works, which he wanted to show off to Sindron sometime.
"You were telling me that things changed when the troops came home,” he prompted as they strolled back.
Lydos explained that the rowers in particular, drawn from the lower classes, felt the war couldn’t have been won but for them. They wanted their reward but what they found was overcrowded housing, what was left of it, and their jobs taken by foreign immigrants and trained slaves. They became disgruntled. The new Cult of He
phaistos, the workers’ god, gave them a spiritual champion and Ephialtes, fed radical new ideas by Perikles and other young intellectuals, became their spokesperson. He had proved quite an effective demagogue too.
Sindron’s mind raced ahead. "So the radical democrats became a sort of people’s party and came up with proposals to reward the veterans, and naturally they jumped at the offer?"
"That's part of it."
Lydos' admirable objectivity became tinged with a note of bitterness as he described how Ephialtes seemed to become cleverer as he changed his tactics. By suing some of the most active members of the Areopagos for corruption and maladministration, he whittled down its strength and weakened public respect for it. By somehow manipulating that Kallias lead the team sent to Persia to negotiate a peace treaty, he got the main financier and thinker behind Kimon and the aristocrats out of the way. By making sure that Kimon personally commanded the four thousand troops sent to help Sparta, all of them from the wealthy classes and Kimon supporters, and himself recruiting supporters from the lower classes by backing the cult of Hephaistos, he built a majority in the Assembly for the radicals and was able to strip the Areopagos of its powers and reduce it to a law court for murder trials.
"Very cunning, " remarked Sindron.
"Cunning is the word. If I didn't know that rascal Themistokles was in Persia cosying up to the Great King, " said Lydos, "I would have thought he must be back here, thinking up all these tricks."
Sindron remembered how grateful the citizens had been for Themistokles’ trickery when it had saved them from conquest by the Persians by fooling the Great King Xerxes into sending his ships into battle at Salamis, where they could be easily defeated. They’d been pleased too when, by trickery, he had delayed the Spartans long enough to rebuild the city’s defensive walls before the rival city could take action. Sindron found it impossible to condemn the exiled statesman who had once been so revered.