Death Comes by Amphora: A Mystery Novel of Ancient Athens

by Roger Hudson

  Boiotos was maybe twelve or so years older than Lysanias, he calculated, but the extra flesh suggested he didn't attend the gymnasium as often as a good cavalryman should. The forceful family nose was bent at an angle, indicating he had seen his share of fighting too, though scars were fewer and fresher. But the attitude that seemed haughtiness in the father came across as a sneering smugness in the son.

  Gloatingly, Boiotos told how one of the radical supporters had abused an elderly aristocrat for chanting a pro-Kimon slogan and been beaten up, after the meeting, to teach him a lesson. Lysanias expressed disappointment at such violence in democratic Athens and Boiotos rounded on him.

  "What do you know about it, youngster? You're not old enough to understand politics, anyway."

  As his cousin's eyes turned on him, Lysanias felt some of the hate that lay behind them. He assumed it was hate for the radical democrats.

  Hierokles intervened tactfully. "Now then, Boiotos! Our young cousin is new to Athens, but he is one of us, not one of them."

  Lysanias thought he heard a muttered and sarcastic, "Like Klereides, I suppose!"

  "It's regrettable that he has arrived at such a sad time in the city's growth."

  "Very regrettable," muttered Boiotos, turning away moodily.

  "I fear it will be anarchy,” Hierokles continued. “How can these nothing people with no education, no breeding, govern a city?"

  The arrogance was getting on Lysanias' nerves. "Can't we educate them to make sound decisions?" he said.

  Boiotos sprang to life and yelled. "You can't educate gutter scum! This colony-boy, he's going the same way as Klereides, father!"

  Startled, Lysanias saw that the hate really was for him. For an instant, he thought he saw a similar expression on Hierokles' face, but then it was bland and haughty again, as he hustled Boiotos off to pay his respects to Makaria.

  "Young man, we must talk," his cousin said, sounding just like his father. "Please excuse my son. Disappointment, you understand." Lysanias was puzzled but couldn’t show it. Disappointment at what? At the reforms not being overturned? He nodded slightly.

  What followed was a rather boring but, thankfully, short lecture on why it was right for the well-born families and the wealthier classes to rule and why no-one else should exercise real power even in a democracy. Lysanias found it immensely sensible, but it still left so many questions unanswered.

  "Anyway, I take it we can count on your support, eh?" All Lysanias could do was nod.

  "Good," said Hierokles and actually smiled at him.

  "Cousin, what did Boiotos mean about Klereides?"

  "Ah, yes. Shouldn't have said that, should he? Don't speak ill of the dead. Never. But ... well, you'd better know. I've every respect for what Klereides achieved for his side of the family, you understand. Not something I'd want to be involved in, business. Wouldn't suit a family of our standing.” Hierokles face had reddened and a vein throbbed in his temple, which Lysanias found it difficult to take his eyes off. “However, just lately he did seem to be behaving as though what was good for business was more important than loyalty to his own class, even his own family, if you see my thinking."

  Hierokles glanced at Lysanias out of the corner of his eye, as though Lysanias was supposed to understand a whole world of meaning from this. He started pacing. "Good man, though, Curly, good man. Though why he liked to be called by that undignified childhood nickname, I can’t imagine. We'll all miss him." It sounded flat.

  He advised Lysanias to use Klereides’ money to buy land. “Give the family back its dignity, eh boy? I’d be happy to advise."

  Lysanias should have found this offensive, he knew, but his cousin’s appearance and mannerisms were so like his father’s that he found himself wanting to trust this man, to be liked by him. He started to remark on the similarity but, at mention of his father, Hierokles’ eyes flared.

  "Hah, Leokhares!" For a moment the voice was full of bitterness. "Did let the side down, I always thought ...” He tailed off as he saw the hurt on Lysanias face. "Ah, sorry to hear about his death. Mustn't speak ill of the dead, eh? But, well, you ought to know this, if you don't already. You don't mind me speaking honestly, do you?" Lysanias pursed his mouth, struggled to prevent tears coming, and shook his head.

  "Good boy! Great disappointment, your father. Fine athlete. Good soldier. Whole family shocked when he insisted on marrying that tradesman's daughter from Peiraeos. Calculating piece, she knew what she was after. Led astray, that young man, that's my view. Wouldn't listen to reason."

  Lysanias set his face solid. This was his mother Hierokles was dismissing as beneath contempt.

  "I thought the family cut off his allowance. He had no choice but to leave."

  "Cut himself off, we thought. Refused to have anything to do with us. We hardly heard anything apart from official reports on the colony until that message saying he was missing, dead. Then that big raid and you were all listed missing. Mistake that, I see. Not sure whether he intended to renounce any inheritance or not, though you say his brother kept in touch.”

  There was a note of bitterness in his voice and the vein throbbed even more but now it was clear. The family had virtually forced his father to leave Athens. If they felt like that about his mother, they must feel Lysanias was not a full aristocrat. That's why the porter had said he wouldn't be welcome, he realised.

  "Best thing he ever did, clearing off out of Athens, taking his shame with him. Ah, sorry, shouldn't have said that. You know what I mean. Best for the family honour, you understand. Now both brothers dead and here you are, Klereides' heir. "

  Something about the tone reminded Lysanias that, if he himself had died in that last Thracian attack, Hierokles would be in his place now. "Your chance to make up for your father's behaviour, restore the family honour, eh?" Was the man really that insensitive or did it show they were accepting him?

  He forced himself to mutter thanks to Hierokles for his advice, when, to his great relief, Makaria, still dressed in black and veiled, appeared with Boiotos, to show them to the guest rooms. Lysanias thought he heard them all arguing later in a distant room but he couldn't be sure.

  ***

  The piles of flowers and grave-gifts for the dead were mounting but Philia had lost interest. She had reached the point of blaming herself for her husband's death.

  Maybe, if she had been more insistent that Klereides stay in bed, he would still be alive. Who but Curly would dream of wandering round a shipyard in the dark?

  It was strange, wasn't it? He'd never gone off that early for meetings before, not that she knew of.

  Philia started involuntarily, a shock of fear running through her body, as she remembered phrases muttered in his sleep. "If they want to play it rough ... "Two can play at that game … " Then there were the occasional startled awakenings, when he would jerk upright and look around him, as though waking from a frightening nightmare.

  The way Lysanias had reacted to Klereides' injuries, though! It looked as though he thought there could have been foul play. Oh, poor Curly, what if it was!!!

  Should she tell Lysanias about the nightmares? But how could she? They couldn't talk to one another, not till after the funeral, and then they'd be supervised by that old Gorgon.

  Perhaps Nubis could take a message, but she wasn’t sure she fully trusted Nubis. Lysanias was only a man after all, and Nubis wore very skimpy clothing.

  What could she do?

  ***

  By early evening Lysanias was beginning to feel hungry from the fast and very weary. His head was buzzing from the repeated greetings and responses.

  A well-built but slightly overweight man dashed in, sweaty and agitated, in the bright colours of a Syracusan and with the dust of a journey on his cloak, face and sandals.

  "Ah, dear boy, dear boy. Just got back. Business trip. Corinth. Heard the news, terrible, terrible. So sorry. My deepest sympathies. Fine man, fine man." Hermon appeared genuinely disturbed. His hands fluttered, he wiped h
is sweaty forehead. "You're the heir, right? Must talk, eh? Not now. Wrong time. Another time, dear boy, not this sad occasion. Terrible for the business, and for the family, of course. Dreadfully sorry." If this man is guilty of murder, he's a good actor, thought Lysanias but, before he could formulate more than a routine response, the Syracusan was gone, leaving Lysanias with so many un-asked questions.

  ***

  Sindron was annoyed that Lysanias hadn't asked more questions. He himself had ventured into the city to check out more aspects of Lysanias' situation, and felt he had done well in the circumstances. At least he had confirmed that they would have to find the murderer themselves. The clerk to the magistrate in charge of the Scythian guards had been quite clear on that. The office of the preliminary magistrate had been even firmer that they would need a definite wrongdoer to accuse and hard evidence against them before an application for a trial would even be considered, unless they were sure the culprit couldn’t be found and wanted a trial against ‘person unknown’ but that meant going to the chief magistrate’s office, as would reporting it as a killing by inanimate object, which the official was sure a member of the family must have done by now. ‘Persons unknown’ would give them another option, Sindron realised, but he wasn’t sure that was what they wanted – it would make it clear they had suspicions.

  The clerk at the office of the magistrate in charge of youth military training had been more considerate. Lysanias was too late to be registered for this month's swearing-in ceremony at the Temple of Athene, so he would have to wait until the end of the next month. It gave them a little more time to find hard evidence. They had also offered that, if Lysanias was married before the swearing-in, that could be taken into account as well as his military training in Eion in considering a possible reduction in the period of training.

  Instead of thanks, all he got was a confrontation.

  "Why wasn't I told more about the family's attitude to my parent's marriage? I nearly made an idiot of myself!"

  Sindron looked confused at the sharp change of subject.

  "My talk with Hierokles." Lysanias added impatiently. "He made it clear he didn't think much of either of them, father or mother."

  Sindron realised this was a sensitive area. "You knew that they left Athens under a cloud, didn’t you? Did your parents never explain it to you?”

  Lysanias had to admit that he had a general impression but they had never gone into detail and he had no idea of the strength of feeling involved. What had stuck in his head were the romantic aspects. How his parents had met during the laughter and jollity of the wine festival to Dionysos. How they had fallen in love. How Leokhares had insisted on marrying Hermione, in the face of the coming Persian invasion, despite his parent’s opposition. How Hermione, pregnant with himself, had been evacuated to the island of Salamis with other women and children and had watched, from its heights, in fear and trembling, the fierce naval battle in the straits below, in which Leochares was fighting. How, wounded in the leg and demobilised, Leokhares had taught himself a skilled craft to support Lysanias and his mother. How they had emigrated to Eion full of hopes for the future.

  It had all sounded so romantic and idealistic.

  "Tell me what really happened, Sindron," Lysanias asked, determined to know.

  "The family was horrified by the marriage, especially Makaria and Hierokles' father. Marrying at only 21 to a lower class woman way beneath him, as they saw it. I argued for them as much as I could, beyond my position. Then Makaria threatened to sell me. Klereides seemed to be dominated by his mother at that time. In the end, they gave me to Leokhares to get rid of me. I'm sure they never forgave him." Sindron paused briefly, then added, "Your inheriting everything from Klereides must be a bitter pill for them to swallow, even more if Hierokles was expecting to be heir."

  Lysanias had listened in silence, his face grim. Then, "Good." That was all he said, but it summed up his determination to stand alone if need be.

  He thanked Sindron, then he sprang his surprise, switching his mood with the resilience of youth. He revealed that, earlier in the day, investigating behind a wall-hanging featuring Pandora ’s Box, he had discovered a cupboard set into the wall. Sindron’s eyes lit up.

  "It could be where he kept his personal documents. A will, maybe. That could confirm your position. Contracts ... "

  "Yes. Or valuables. But I can't find how to open it."

  Lysanias held back the tapestry, while Sindron tried to find a handle or handhold but, while the edges of the small oblong door were clearly apparent, he could find no way of opening it. Even prising round the edges with a knife did nothing.

  "We'll look in daylight, master, before we risk asking Otanes."

  Sindron didn't mention his embarrassing attempt to persuade the merchant to release him from his contract. "No, I'm sorry, a contract's a contract," Hipponikos had said, raising his voice unnecessarily high, then lowering it again. "I'm sure your friend Lydos will help you out, if you're short. If you prefer, I'll go to him as your guarantor before I approach your master for the remaining sum. Would that help?" In the face of this gentle blackmail, Sindron had paid over the outstanding amount. “You wouldn’t care to increase your stake a little? I still have a little availability…” Sindron had declined.

  How had he managed to get himself into this situation? How could he tell his master that he had embezzled money from him, when the one thing the family had always been sure of about Sindron was that he could be trusted?

  ***

  Makaria had insisted on herself, Hierokles and Otanes running through the arrangements and rituals for the next day with Lysanias and Philia, so that no-one disgraced the family. Philia still wore her veil and remained almost silent, though Makaria had thrown back her veil to reveal a strong, matronly face, with penetrating eyes, a firm nose and high cheekbones. It took quite a long time to rehearse to Makaria's satisfaction, before they could go to bed.

  For once, Lysanias slept soundly, exhausted. Until Sindron shook his shoulder to wake him to prepare for the funeral. It was still dark, for it is bad luck for the sun god Apollo to see the dead being buried or cremated. The sounds from outside his room told him the rest of the household was already up and about.

  CHAPTER 6

  The funeral procession set off slowly along the dark, empty and silent streets, all three qualities disappearing as the full cortege rounded each bend, bringing with it its mourners, its flute-players and its torchbearers, sending shadows bouncing along the walls ahead of them. In front went four elderly but dignified women, hired mourners skilled in the role, carrying the amphoras containing wine, milk, oil and water from which members of the family would make libations at the tomb. After them, the horse-drawn carriage on which Klereides' body was laid head first, surrounded by green myrtle and rosemary, with a seat behind the body for the widow. Philia felt shaky but exhilarated. She knew she was the centre of attention now, not Lysanias, not Makaria. They were walking behind.

  Lysanias followed with Hierokles and Boiotos, then close female relatives led by Makaria. Friends came next with General Ariston, the guest of honour, at their head, along with Phraston, who strode out well for a man of his size. After them came friends who were not citizens, such as foreign residents. Hermon took a prominent position in this group. Behind these were the hired mourners, women over sixty to keep within the law of Solon, wailing and crying, beating their breast and tearing their hair. Last came the flute-players and dirge-singers, sounding a plaintive funeral dirge that went on and on.

  Out through the mighty Thriasian Gate they went, for, in consideration of Klereides’ war service, they had decided to pass the stone statues of Athene contemplating the tombs and memorials to the fallen victors of famous battles, Marathon and Salamis, Plataea and Eurymedon in recognition of Klereides’ war record. Turning off down a side road and crossing onto the well-paved Sacred Way to Eleusis, they branched off along the Street of Tombs. Beyond the city walls was darkness, each new tomb they appr
oached seeming to spring into square white existence from nowhere as the light of the torches struck it. Philia shivered in the cool breezes before dawn.

  ***

  At the family tomb. Lysanias assisted with the lifting of Klereides' body onto the funeral pyre. The hair-entwined wreaths and floral offerings were placed around the body.

  It also fell to Lysanias to make the first libation to the gods and, after Philia and Makaria and Hierokles had followed suit, to apply the torch to the bottom of the pyre. The scents of herbs and perfumes and decaying flesh were replaced by the smells of burning wood and of roasting, then burning flesh. It was a still, windless day, the clouds had cleared and the smoke and sparks rose into a starry sky. That must be a good omen for Klereides' safe crossing to the Underworld, he thought.

  General Ariston stepped forward, his tall figure silhouetted against the flaming pyre. Solon's law forbade orations at the tomb but Ariston clearly wasn't going to let slip any opportunity to bring attention to himself. He kept it short though. "Friends. Citizens. We are gathered to wish a safe crossing to an exemplary citizen, a fine soldier and a noble gentleman. Zeus and Hermes of the Dead, grant him an easy passage." He made a final libation and threw Klereides' armour onto the pyre to burn with him. Lysanias glanced to where his grandmother stood, supporting Philia, who looked distraught, repeated sobs shaking her whole body.

  As the flames died, Lysanias had the duty of extinguishing the embers with wine and then raking out the ashes and charred bones that were all that remained of his uncle, washing the bones in wine and scooping bones and ashes into the bronze casket provided for the purpose. This he carried above his head, stooping to pass through the low doorway into the family tomb. Flickering oil lamps, reflecting off stone walls and ceiling, revealed the remains of past family members in caskets on ledges around the square earth-floored chamber. Lysanias placed his uncle's remains in the central area, where the gods would see them clearly and favour his soul.