by Roger Hudson
"Yes, indeed, great loss to the city, what? Must talk to old ... uh ... "
"You see, no time for me these days. Used to be very different before that Hermon set up here."
"You must admit their workmanship’s good."
"Nonsense, we all hire the same craftsmen, buy the same materials. Grease the right palms, I tell you. Ah, steward, a few glazed figs would be appreciated." And Sindron signalled a slave-boy to do his bidding.
As Otanes passed him, Sindron took the opportunity to congratulate him quietly on the way he had handled the problem. Otanes inclined his head in acknowledgement and was moving on, when Ariston tapped his shoulder.
"Steward! Both of you! Why was that man invited?"
Sindron was pleased to see that Otanes was not prepared to be intimidated by a guest of the house. "My deep regrets for the disturbance, General. Sculptor Zelias' name was on the old master's list of sponsored artists and athletes. I had no way of knowing that a mere artwork could offend so many sensibilities." Sindron liked that. Just a hint that the general and other citizens were being childish in their reactions.
"Humph," the General grunted. "Perhaps Klereides was misled. Odd tastes."
"I believe there is to be a companion panel," Otanes slipped in smoothly, "which features the godly blacksmith." He bent at the waist in a slight bow.
That covered the charge of sacrilege, Sindron realised, but served merely to rub salt in the General's wound.
"Cursed unfortunate. Bad omen. Corrupting influence in our midst. Noble traditions defiled." And still mouthing platitudes, the General moved away amongst the other guests.
***
His hunger well assuaged, Lysanias looked around at the gathering through somewhat more cynical eyes.
He had registered that Hermon had kept to the place allocated to him at the end of the table, chatting amiably to the man next to him, but now he seemed to be edging towards the door before Lysanias had had a chance to make arrangements to meet him. Lysanias tried to catch his attention as Hermon made small thank you gestures in the direction of the family and to Otanes. He caught the man’s eye but Hermon merely gestured that he would leave a message with the porter. Tomorrow, Lysanias told himself. I must corner him for a serious talk tomorrow. I can’t let him go on evading me.
The wine was having an effect. Lysanias had rarely been allowed to drink in Eion and never wine of such good quality. He thought he had been careful to make sure it was well-watered too. As his head started to swim just a little, he was surprised to see a new face rising above the mass of the guests. That strange-shaped cranium, he recognised that. It couldn't be Perikles himself, could it? Then the figure was lost in the throng and Makaria made a polite enquiry about his mother. Now that was a breakthrough!
A little later, he felt a hand on his shoulder and a face beside his. Lysanias rose and stood back from the table to talk, using the wall to steady himself as Perikles whispered, "My apologies for not making it to the funeral. I had great respect for your uncle. Astute man and a real loss to Athens. I have to go now, but I felt I should say this. I do hope you will feel able to take over as patron of the shipbuilding business from your uncle. The city will need capable shipbuilders in the future. The party has great plans for the city and I do hope you will take a prominent part in them, despite your young age. I wasn't much older when I first started to make an impact, so don't be put off by these old men who try to hold you back. It's young men like you who are the city's future."
***
A surly Boiotos had ordered Sindron to organise more wine for him. He stared round blearily. "Where's that stupid colonial cousin of mine gone to?" He was evidently even more drunk than he looked. He was standing swaying now. "Where is he? I want to tell him how silly he looked today, pretending to be a gentleman. What, father?"
Hierokles was trying to calm Boiotos down. "No, father, I won't be quiet. He's stolen our inheritance, hasn't he? Silly colonial! Oh, there he is. Who's that he's talking to? It's that hellhound Perikles! What imperti ... impertinence to come to this house. Let me get at him!"
Lysanias had heard the shouting and turned to see what was happening. It looked as though Hierokles had his son under control and was leading him away. Lysanias turned back to apologise to Perikles, but the politician had gone, slipping away in the confusion. However, Boiotos had pulled away from his father and was now confronting Philia.
"And this woman, this woman, she should have been mine as well. Come here and give us a cuddle, honeycomb! You must have been through all the positions there are with that dirty old man!" Philia sat petrified with horror.
"Anyway, beautiful, if this oaf turns you down or your old father sees sense, I'll be waiting." He turned to Lysanias, who had come round the table to confront him, and put his wine-reddened face up close to Lysanias' equally red visage. "How about that, colony boy? Eh? How about that?" Furious, Lysanias pushed Boiotos back and hit him square on the jaw. He had expected a fight but the man had drunk so much that, as he staggered to right himself and swung his whole body in a wrestling charge, he lost his balance and fell with a heavy thump to the floor. He struggled to rise, still cursing as Lysanias stood over him, dropping into a none-too-steady wrestling stance himself. But Hierokles dragged his son to his feet and pulled both his arms tight behind his back.
"My apologies, he doesn't usually get like this, apologies to the young widow. We'll leave now to avoid further embarrassment. Quite uncalled for."
He marched Boiotos off through the crowd, which stood watching in amazement, but images were blurring before Lysanias' eyes and he couldn't be sure it had really happened except for his stinging knuckles. He made efforts to get back to his seat. Then Ariston cornered him, holding him firmly up against the wall as he swayed. At this range, Lysanias could see two of the General's face.
"What did that fellow want?" the General demanded.
Who did he mean? Boiotos? No, must be Perikles. Lysanias was finding it difficult to think clearly. "Just giving his condolences, Gen’l, jus' givin' his condolencenses," Lysanias slurred out, too drunk to be really concerned.
The General grabbed him roughly by the shoulders. "Has he spoken to you before?" Lysanias shook his head, dazedly. "Keep away from that man! He's dangerous!" Ariston gave up and relinquished Lysanias to Sindron, who had edged his way round to try to prevent further trouble. "And destroy that accursed sacrilegious panel!" the General hurled as an afterthought.
"Mus' respec' Uncle's intenshuns," slurred Lysanias, but the General had gone. Sindron eased Lysanias back into his seat and, then, a little later, as the guests started to leave, saw him safely to his room.
* * *
Philia cried in bed again that night. That was disgraceful! How could they ruin Curly's funeral feast? All men are pigs, even the young handsome ones. At least Lysanias did defend me. He must be stronger than he looks. He'll look after me. Calmer, she slipped into sleep.
CHAPTER 7
Hermon had left a message suggesting Lysanias break his fast with him at his house in Peiraeos shortly after dawn, but the surfeit of wine at the funeral feast meant Lysanias was not easily roused. Hermon was just leaving, accompanied by his large and muscular personal slave or bodyguard, as they reached his house.
The jolting ride to Peiraeos hadn't helped Lysanias’ stomach any. In fact, he felt sick again, though the fresh air had cleared his head a little and he tried to convince himself he was up to questioning the businessman. He knew he had let himself down and vowed not to make that mistake again if he could avoid it.
"Well, my boy, you're a fine addition to the family. I was very upset to hear about your uncle. A tragedy, a real tragedy. So much to live for too, just when the business was expanding."
Hermon appeared genuinely sorrowful and sympathetic, though the quality of his cloak and its fine embroidery suggested his mind must be on an important business meeting later that day. Lysanias had opted for a cloak that was simple but elegant. Sindron found himself tr
ying to conceal the small wine-stain on his own cloak, where a guest had spilled some, which he had only just noticed.
"But life goes on. I'm on my way to the shipyard; would you like to come along? I take it you'll be inheriting your uncle's share of the business. He was my patron, you know. Don't know if you'd feel up to taking on that role as well? I imagine you're not very familiar with Athens' personalities and politics, or its law courts. Important factor, so we’ll have to talk it through."
Despite a slight ringing in his head, Lysanias knew he had to break into this chatter with the question he had formulated with Sindron. "Sir, I'm worried about the way uncle died. Could I see the place where it happened?"
"Of course, my boy. I’ll arrange it. And, please, don’t call me 'sir'. We're partners now, you know." He clapped him on the shoulder in a way Lysanias found really too demonstrative. "Call me ‘Hermon’. Everyone knows me as 'Hermon from Syracuse'. Fine city, Syracuse, you should visit it sometime.”
While he talked, Lysanias struggled to keep pace with Hermon’s businesslike step. Sindron had no trouble, and he was getting to like the new stick he had bought the previous day, shorter than the staff but thick and knobbly at one end, enough to make it an effective club-like weapon if needed. In the light of the fighting in the market square, Sindron felt that was an important consideration.
Businessmen seemed to have built their homes near where they had set up their factories, foundries and workshops, so they arrived at the shipyard from Hermon’s house quite quickly. Many of the workplaces and habitations seemed makeshift and temporary, though others, like the shipyard, looked as though they had survived the Persian invasion or been built or re-built since then. Walls they passed carried the angry tokens of the political turmoil, symbols and slogans, the trident of Kimon’s faction and the hammer and anvil of the radicals. Sindron even made out a very faded 'Themistokles is a traitor'. Now that must be a few years old, considering how long ago Themistokles was exiled!
Inside the big gates were workshops, preparation areas and stores where craftsman of various skills could be seen at work, and beyond them towards the harbour the shapes of vessels nearing completion. The sight was putting flesh on Sindron’s idea of the size of his master’s inheritance. It made Sindron’s own worries over one hundred drachmas look insignificant, but it didn't make the worries go away. It also made clear how important it was that his young master step into Klereides’ shoes here, even though his age could well be a problem, which Hermon had only hinted at, he noticed. But if Hermon was the murderer, then all this politeness was a farce. Would a murderer behave like this?
"Not bad, eh, for six years’ work?" Hermon boasted. He seemed very proud of his achievement, the scale of the business, the large number of workers employed. “I use slaves for the less skilled work, locals and immigrant workers for the more skilled activities." As they passed, different workers would glance across and nod respectfully to Hermon, or call a greeting. No sign here of the bad relationships the bathman had implied, thought Lysanias.
He explained that he had tried hard to take on a reasonable proportion of Athenian citizens as more craftsmen returned from the wars, though he complained at having to allow them so much time off to attend Assembly meetings.
"And I pay the rates the Fellowship asks. Don't want them fighting us, eh?" So much for bad labour relations as the cause of Klereides' death, thought Lysanias.
"Very lucrative business, with the war going on so long.” There was a liveliness, a sparkle in his eye as he talked about his obsession, his business, that attracted Lysanias. The sheer enthusiasm was difficult to resist but Lysanias knew he had to. He couldn't allow himself to trust this man who could very well be responsible for the death of his uncle.
Hermon ushered them into what was clearly a working office but also somewhere one could bring important customers. Rugs on the floor, two couches, chairs, a large table laden with papers and scrolls. His tummy still a little queasy, Lysanias was grateful for the cup of very good wine with water that Hermon offered him. It seemed to help pull him together. Insisting that Sindron remain outside and carefully closing the door, Hermon launched in.
"Now, to business. No time to waste." He left no pause for Lysanias to respond. "I'm sorry I couldn't get to you before. We might have been able to prevent more of the harm done to the company by all this." He blamed his delay in getting back on the difficulty of negotiations in Corinth, where the wealthy were scared the revolution in Athens might spread to them, while other citizens hoped it would. "Same in other cities, I gather."
Lysanias got the sense that the transfer of power to the Assembly and the radicals didn't bother Hermon, as it clearly did many other wealthy people in Athens. Why would that be? Lysanias realised he had to ask the crucial question now or the opportunity would be gone, the man was talking so fast.
"Can you tell me who you were seeing?" He thought it was straightforward enough. But the answer came back, sharply, dismissively.
"No, afraid not, not at this stage. Delicate negotiations." And he went on without a pause, leaving Lysanias stunned by the audacity of it. The man wasn't even attempting to verify his alibi!
"Now, our company, our shipyard is working on an order from the state for two war galleys and a troop carrier. Officially it's a merchantman that could be used as a supply ship but it's being outfitted to carry troops. So you'll have guessed we're talking long distance warfare here, Kimon's territory. Ambitious stuff."
The problem was that the company had a tender bid in for two more such ships and success with that depended on the current vessels passing inspection by the state examiners.
"Now that inspection was due to happen the day Klereides had his accident. He really messed that one up."
Hermon seemed to realise immediately how insensitive that statement was. "Apologies, apologies. I owe Klereides a lot. Down to him we got the order in the first place. He was well in with Kimon's crowd."
Lysanias couldn't help seeing the flaw in this argument. "Surely, if Kimon is out of favour, the democrats will cancel any plans he had."
Hermon looked pleased and impressed. "Knew you were a smart lad. Klereides also managed to keep friendly with the radicals. His report was that they promised not to cancel shipbuilding orders.
"Anyway, a death in a shipyard no-one takes lightly. Fortunately, Philebos my overseer took action immediately. Efficient young man, anticipates my wishes, we’re lucky to have him. Ambitious too. He’ll have learnt all I know soon and be competing with me from his own shipyard, the gods willing. " He grinned, amused at the irony of the prospect.
Lysanias had to pin this down. "What sort of action?"
“He had everything cleaned up, called in priests to do what they have to do to propitiate the gods and cleanse the yard of pollution, and sent full details to the officials. Klereides would have been up to their offices straight away, smoothing things over, but he was gone, so we had no-one. However, thank the gods, they accepted Philebos' word and agreed to do the inspection today."
Hermon paused, as though for approval. But Lysanias' mind was stuck on an earlier phrase 'everything was cleaned up'. If there was evidence of foul play, it would all be gone! "You mean you've thrown everything away that might tell us how my uncle was killed?"
"No, no! Philebos is a tidy man. He'll have kept everything neatly in a corner somewhere. Has to anyway, pending a court ruling on whether the object that killed Klereides should be removed from the state. It’s just that the vessels have to pass the test today. A stage payment depends on it." Hermon clearly wanted to move on, but Lysanias couldn't let him.
"What's 'everything'?"
"Well, you know what happened. A rope frayed and broke and a big water storage amphora fell on your uncle. You know all that. An accident." It all sounded so simple, so slight, could happen to anyone. Hermon went on. "So, somewhere in the yard, we'll have all the things that had to be cleared away to make everything look normal and placate superstitious min
ds. We expected trouble from the craftsmen, but the Fellowship of Hephaistos seemed to take it in their stride."
"So when can I see it?" Lysanias asked.
"Well, that's what I'm saying, I'd rather you left it till after the inspectors have been."
"No, I'm sorry, Hermon!" Lysanias was insistent, though he felt like crying. "We have to see it as soon as possible!" He thumped his cup down on the table. "I'm not convinced it was an accident and I want to make sure as quickly as possible."
Hermon swung round. "It was an accident, Lysanias!" Hermon was trying to be persuasive and dismissive at once. It didn't work. "If it was anything else, the company could be in real trouble. Who is going to give orders to a shipyard with an angry lost soul on the loose and the Furies out hunting the culprit? Please don't say these things! I've got enough to worry about."
Lysanias decided on tact rather than confrontation. "But I must see it soon. Maybe it was an accident, I just need to be sure."
"Very well, very well. Just stay out of the way of the inspectors, eh. I should be going over to meet them anyway, see that they’re happy."
"Can we go, then?" Lysanias started to rise.
"Yes. No! I haven't finished what I wanted to say. Despite all this argument, we have to keep the politicians sweet. I don't know how Klereides did it but he did it. You're young and inexperienced, but you've inherited a lot of status in this city, so the politicians will be sniffing round soon. They'll make it look like offering their condolences but they'll really be trying to get you on their side. Please, please, at least don't upset them, or any of the important officials."
"I'm not stupid, Hermon."
"No, son, I'm sure you're not."
"Uh, Hermon?"
"Yes, son."
"They've been round already, some of them. I was polite. To everyone. Though I can't say I like them all, and I don't think I'd trust them."
"That's what I like to hear. Good man! That's just what Klereides used to say, 'Don't trust them but don't let them know you don't trust them'. He was a crafty one, that uncle of yours."