Death Comes by Amphora: A Mystery Novel of Ancient Athens

by Roger Hudson

  In general, Lysanias was amazed at the way Klereides seemed to have thrown his money around, even if such sponsorship did bring honour and prestige.

  Later in the morning came a few politicians and businessmen and they were more difficult to fathom. It was unclear which political parties and factions Klereides had supported financially or with his vote in the Assembly. They all seemed to think he was one of theirs, and that included the representative from the radical democrats, who apologised that neither Ephialtes nor one of the other leaders could come in person, due to the Assembly meeting later that day.

  One of the aristocratic party, Kimon's party, who did come spoke with a pronounced stammer and Lysanias was sure it was the man he had overheard in the barber's. The brown hair plaited neatly around the head rang a bell as well. Fortunately, there was no indication that he recognised Lysanias. Lysanias thought of them as the aristocrats, the well-born, and they clearly thought of themselves as the 'best', better than the other citizens. 'The party of the best'. The names of individuals ran together and jumbled in his head.

  As someone who had learned his trade as a carpenter, Lysanias felt his anger rising at the assumption of superiority of these idlers, yet he knew that his father's family were among the well-born of Attica. His father hadn't made a lot of it, but Sindron had mentioned it whenever he wanted to persuade Lysanias to control his behaviour.

  Sindron had given him lectures on the ship to prepare him. Yes, he knew there were four classes of citizen on a basis of wealth. The wealthiest, the big land-owners, formed the cavalry regiments in wartime. The next class, the smaller landowners, they constituted the heavy-armed infantry. So he was from one of the top classes of citizens, the only ones who could serve as generals or magistrates or commanders of war galleys and who fought as cavalry or heavy-armed infantry in wartime. Yet all male citizens, whether shopkeepers or craftsmen or labourers, had a vote in the Assembly and all had to fight in some capacity.

  Since then, Sindron had outlined Lydos' interpretation of recent events, though exactly why different classes should be fighting one another for political power rather than co-operating for the common good, he found difficult to understand. The colonists in Eion had seemed able to get on with one another.

  In all this, how did one tell where everyone stood? The politicians tended to declare themselves but the well-wishers seemed to relate to Klereides in so many different ways. There were representatives of deme and phratry and tribe, of regiment and dining club, from business and politics. And no way of telling which were friends and which regarded themselves as rivals, whether they were here out of politeness or curiosity, and which had a merely formal relationship with his uncle.

  The effusiveness of sympathies and praise of Klereides offered no guide at all. Whether any of these could be actual enemies capable of murder, as Sindron had suggested, was impossible to assess, even if it was plausible that a murderer would come here and risk giving himself away.

  And still no sign of Hermon! The man closest to his uncle, the man he most needed to talk to, if he was to get to the bottom of this mystery, and he was still out of Athens – or so the messengers said who had been sent to enquire.

  ***

  Lysanias’ instructions to Otanes didn’t produce the results intended. The steward showed Sindron around the house. The layout hadn't changed much from the old days, apart from an upstairs floor with extra rooms for slaves that had been added beyond the courtyard.

  As Otanes had warned, the house-slaves were very busy and gave Sindron the briefest of answers or none at all. As far as he could gather, they had all either been in bed or starting on their household duties at the time of their late master's death. Only Otanes had been out of the house, on a legitimate errand he insisted, and Makaria backed him up. The previous day and evening, the slaves had all been involved with the dinner party, which no-one remarked on especially.

  The funeral would be before daybreak the next morning and the funeral feast would follow it. The preparations were enormous for one household. Otanes had hired in a chef but he had insisted on all available slaves assisting with fetching and preparing food.

  Today, baking the sweetmeats had top priority. Then the fish would be prepared and marinated for baking in herbs and spices. Meat would come from the lambs and goats to be sacrificed before the funeral. It all meant that, in the chaos of the modest-sized kitchen with everyone rushing backwards and forwards, detailed questioning was impossible.

  Sindron decided on a more subtle approach. Once he had met everyone, he said to Otanes. "Don't mind the young master. He gets over-enthusiastic, you understand. I'm not really one for questioning people. Perhaps, if you've a few minutes, we could share a flask of wine and discuss how you would like me to help tomorrow."

  The florid red tinge to the steward's rather fleshy nose hadn't escaped Sindron’s attention, and he was right. It was an offer Otanes wasn't going to refuse. It was an excellent wine, too, though Sindron made sure his was well-watered. Following Lydos’ comments, Sindron had trimmed his hair and beard before his master rose and put on a clean, pressed cloak. He found it did help his self-assurance in speaking to Otanes on equal terms.

  Sindron was surprised how much effort it took to be natural with the man. After all, the Persians weren’t his enemy. But he had been through the Persian invasion, had felt as vulnerable as the Athenians, felt joy with them at all the Greek victories, all of Kimon’s victories. And this man Otanes had been a soldier, a commander of killers.

  How could one trust a Persian, the hated enemy? The man’s very smoothness, his hissing, sibilant speech became unsettling. Otanes had adopted an Athenian style of hair and beard and dress but there was a sleekness, an odour that seemed to express his foreignness if not his Persianness. Sindron felt hints of fear and hatred creeping into his words and tone on occasion but hoped this wasn’t too apparent. How could Sindron behave as though theirs was an ordinary domestic relationship? But he had to.

  On top of that, as personal slave to a wealthy Athenian, he had to behave as though he was Otanes’ equal, though when he was last in this household, his status had been well below that.

  Otanes showed no awareness. Perhaps he was more concerned that his senior status might now be in jeopardy, even that he was at risk of being sold.

  The steward's room, he noticed, was decidedly comfortable, with a small shrine to Kybele, the Persian moon-goddess.

  The atmosphere relaxed. Efforts on both sides to pump more information out of the other were gentle and gentlemanly, interrupted only by occasional calls by household slaves for decisions by the steward. Otanes is certainly efficient, thought Sindron.

  Equally businesslike, Otanes dealt with the matter of spending money. "Your master will be needing cash for small purchases, I'm sure. Can I entrust this to you for him? It's the amount Klereides used to keep handy." The steward handed Sindron a leather wallet of coins. Sindron had meant to ask for a specific sum to be sure he could cover the loan, if necessary. Now he just had to accept it. The thought he was deceiving his master still nagged at him.

  "After the funeral,” Otanes went on, “We'll have to see about the master's right to draw on the main account."

  Sindron started trying to persuade Otanes to talk more freely. While emphasising that Lysanias was strong willed and decisive, Sindron indicated that the new master wouldn't be able to manage the household without Otanes' experienced guiding hand. He slipped in the inference that Lysanias wasn't very observant, not too fussy over details, willing to leave it to the slaves. He wanted Otanes to relax and hopefully lower his guard a little.

  Sindron marvelled, flatteringly but not entirely falsely, at the complexity and bookkeeping involved in running dinner parties on the scale of the funeral feast. Yes, Otanes made sure he handled the accounts himself, couldn't trust a junior slave these days. The hint that it might be appropriate to show Sindron the accounts was ignored.

  "How often did Master Klereides check the accoun
ts?"

  "Oh, very rarely, he left that to Makaria mostly."

  "Ah, so she's familiar with everything. Lysanias doesn't really need to bother his young head?"

  "No, he can leave it to Makaria and myself."

  That had proved a dead end, but it left one opening.

  "You seem very familiar with the mistress's name. Did you call master Klereides by his name too?"

  Otanes seemed to realise he had backed himself into a trap, but he quickly escaped it.

  "Ah, yes, a steward is a very trusted member of the household. In private, you understand, personal names were ah accepted."

  "Yes, just like the family in Eion."

  Sindron knew it wasn't just like that. This was a very conventional family in respectable Athens not a family of social rebels in the birth struggles of a colony. Something wasn't quite right here, though Otanes took the opportunity to confide that Klereides had promised to give him his freedom at some point, though he didn’t seem to welcome the prospect of being a free Persian in Athens without a wealthy owner to protect him.

  It might be undermining but Sindron had to ask the question that was bothering him.

  “How did the Athenians react to a Persian ex-warrior wandering freely around their city?”

  Otanes seemed a little taken aback, as though he had forgotten how bad it had been. “Ah, it was, uh, awkward at first. I dressed in the local clothes Klereides provided, you understand, and had to adopt a slave’s hair and beard styling. Hurtful but slavery brings such humiliations, as I’m sure you well know. And I accompanied Klereides mainly. He liked to show me off to other citizens as his triumph.” The man’s eyes reflected the remembered humiliation.

  “Yes, but..,” started Sindron, but Otanes continued, needing to express it, knowing that a fellow slave would understand.

  “There are still jeers, if you really want to know, especially from the lower classes when my people have suffered a major defeat. Sometimes a shopkeeper will refuse to serve me or insist on taunting. My skin colour and accent give me away. Easier now there are so many new slaves, war captives…”

  He tailed off receding into himself at thought of his situation. Then pulled himself together. “Klereides treated me well for all that.” Was it true? Or had Klereides enjoyed humiliating the man? Did Otanes have reason to hate his master? Sindron found he couldn’t feel sorry for him.

  He pulled himself back to the task in hand, though he wasn’t sure what he was looking for in his questioning. Just anything out of the ordinary that might suggest why anyone would want Klereides out of the way, but that was difficult when one didn’t know what was normal in this household. A Persian slave, now, and one holding the important post of steward, that couldn’t be very common.

  Sindron had observed a large medal of some sort, round and lovingly polished, holding pride of place beside the shrine. On its face was an eagle with wings spread wide. Now, if that was the imperial eagle of Xerxes, then Otanes must have been a Persian officer. He enquired about the medallion.

  "Yes, everyone here knows. Junior command, but important, imperial elite. That's the shoulder clasp." The pride in the achievement was still there, Sindron could see, though Otanes frowned slightly. "You're wondering why I wasn't ransomed. Everyone does." His expression implied boredom with the whole matter, a past life gone by. "I disobeyed an order. To prevent the men being slaughtered, you understand, fine squad of brave warriors. Then I surrendered. To Klereides. It would have been suicide to return home after that. I persuaded Klereides to turn down ransom offers and became his steward." The fleshy face was expressionless.

  It all sounded very plausible but, surely, a Persian of the ruling classes would have preferred death to slavery? And was it likely that someone as fond of money as Klereides could be persuaded to turn down lucrative ransom offers, if there were any? Otanes must be a very persuasive man, Sindron thought.

  Otanes was no less inquisitive and, feeling he should reciprocate, Sindron briefly told Otanes how, when he was a young child, he and his parents had been kidnapped from their home in Etruria by pirates, sold into slavery and separated. However, it was long ago and he preferred not to think about it, so he decided it was time to return to the attack.

  "The income side. Did you keep a record of that for the old master as well as expenditure?"

  "No, only the housekeeping monies, expenditure. He would make over a lump sum for the year and expenditure would have to stay within that."

  "Really, even with all those dinner parties?"

  "Well, I could go to him and ask for more for a special occasion."

  "And the sponsorship?"

  'Oh yes, there was a separate budget for that, but he set a sum for the year."

  "And formal documents. Where do you keep official documents? Contracts, that sort of thing?" Sindron finally reached what he realised could prove to be a crucial question.

  "Oh, contracts for sponsorship, with artists and sportsmen? I've got them here in this chest, where I keep the accounts scrolls, and ready cash."

  Was the man being deliberately naive? These were perfectly straightforward questions yet the answers seemed to be evasive. Was it just reluctance to confide in another slave or had this man something to hide?

  "I was thinking more of business contracts, investments, loans, that sort of thing."

  Otanes looked genuinely puzzled that he should be asked the question. "Can't help you there. Kept all that stuff to himself. Deposited them with the bank, I imagine."

  "No-one has checked with the bank yet, then?"

  "No. Respect for the dead. Leave that till after the funeral, you know."

  However, he made it clear that the bank had been among those informed of the death.

  "And, ah, which bank would that be?" It was difficult to make that sound casual, but clearly it was no secret, for Otanes came straight back with, "Oh, Phraston and Partners. They handle all the family's affairs."

  Sindron did his best to hide his surprise. Why hadn't Lydos told him this? Then he recalled that he himself had only revealed his connection with Klereides at the end of their conversation and they hadn't spoken much after that, though it made his friend’s reaction even more puzzling.

  Otanes did, then, feel obliged to let Sindron have a glance at the household account scrolls. It was enough to show that they were well and neatly kept but, just at that moment, the housekeeper and the chef appeared with problems that needed Otanes' attention urgently.

  The steward excused himself, the scrolls went back into the heavy wooden chest in the corner of his room and Sindron found himself ushered out. A lock but no key on the chest, he noticed, which either meant nothing to hide, or someone wanted to give the appearance of nothing to hide. He had the awkward feeling that perhaps the interruption wasn't accidental.

  ***

  Late in the afternoon, Lysanias' cousins arrived. Hierokles, the son of Klereides’ father’s brother so Lysanias' second cousin, and his son Boiotos. Lysanias knew of them, of course, the landowning side of the family with a large estate in rural Dekelia, though his father had not often spoken of them.

  Otanes had reported that they had called to pay their respects the previous afternoon but, on hearing that Lysanias was resting, had merely done their duty by the deceased and left. So Lysanias had been expecting them.

  It appeared they had been at the special Assembly meeting, for, as soon as they were away from the mourning area, they had exploded.

  "That turncoat Perikles,” roared Boiotos. "How dare he! From a noble family and he backs an ostracism motion against another of the best people! "

  Lysanias found the force of the anger disconcerting at close quarters and couldn’t help feeling he had heard that angry voice before. Hierokles' ire was more controlled but obviously deep-felt. His was aimed at Ephialtes, convinced that, now he had power, the demagogue would soon use it to make himself rich despite his ‘poor and honest’ reputation.

  They had entered as though they o
wned the place, speaking at Lysanias rather than to him. Now Boiotos headed straight for the foodstuffs, although relatives were supposed to fast at such times. His father obviously had more respect for tradition and he had clearly taken the trouble to obtain a dispensation to attend the Assembly meeting for there was the saffron ribbon on his arm. Could Hierokles have been the man Ariston would have expected to greet him yesterday afternoon?

  It appeared that Kimon's supporters had been outnumbered by his opponents and his motion to repeal the reforms had been defeated. To make matters worse the leaders of the radicals had put forward Kimon's name for ostracism at the ostracism Assembly meeting that was due in a few days time. Kimon's side had naturally countered by nominating Ephialtes for ostracism instead. Their fear was that, if the radicals succeeded, their leader would be lost to them. In exile, Kimon would be outside Athenian politics for ten years.

  The greying hair and beard put Hierokles over sixty but maybe not much over and he appeared still fit and upright, clearly a military man. The strong nose, dark receding hair, deep-set eyes, and haughty manner suggested someone who had held command but preferred to stay aloof from mundane matters. The creased brow implied he had his share of worry. There were war scars, too, on face, shoulders and arms. Lysanias could see a family resemblance to his own father.

  “By the way, as close kin, I reported the killing by inanimate objects to the chief magistrate’s office,” Hierokles said.

  “You’re certain it was an accident,” Lysanias replied carefully, realising he didn’t want to alert a possible culprit to his suspicions by challenging this directly.

  “Of course. Shipyard says so. No reason to doubt them.”