by Roger Hudson
"But Lydos is your friend, Sindron! How do you feel about suspecting your friend?" Lysanias half intended it as a tease. Sindron seemed to want to suspect half the population of Athens.
"Very disillusioned, master, very disillusioned!" Lysanias realised that Sindron certainly looked it. He must mean it.
"Great Zeus, you really do think he could be involved, don't you?"
"I'm afraid so, master. Though I hope I'm wrong."
There was a pause while they both thought over all that had been said. Finally Lysanias ventured, "I don't see either of them leaping over the shipyard fence and climbing scaffolding in the dark, do you? Especially Phraston! He'd collapse the whole thing if he tried." At least Lysanias was joking again, Sindron was glad to see, amused himself at the mental image it conjured up. "Frankly, I don't see any of them doing it, even Boiotos, though he’s violent enough to kill someone."
"No, master, but any of them could have paid someone or sent a servant. Your cousins have slaves, so does Ariston – we’ve seen one of them. He has soldiers too. Phraston has slaves. Lydos has his sons."
"Ariston wouldn't trust soldiers in the current atmosphere, would he?"
"I don't know, master. They’d be young aristocrats, so maybe."
Lysanias continued the listing. "Hermon has slaves and foreign workers. He might have someone he can trust to do any dirty job for him. That big personal slave maybe. He would know the shipyard."
"You could say much the same about the rival shipbuilders," said Sindron becoming resigned to going round in circles, not reaching a conclusion.
"We've no way at all of finding out about them. Even if I went to work in their yard, I doubt if I'd find out anything at this stage."
"I still think we should consider this Hammer of Hephaistos crowd you've been knocking around with. Amphora falls on Klereides: hammer beats out metal. The similarity is very close. From the way you say this Ephialtes harangues them, any of them could have picked up the idea and decided to apply it."
As he spoke, Sindron had drawn, in the dust at their feet with the tip of his stick, a crude sketch of a hammer descending on a ball of metal on an anvil and, next to it, a bulbous amphora descending on Klereides' round head. He had even dotted in Klereides' eyes. Seeing the look of pain on Lysanias' face as he glanced at it and realised what it represented, Sindron scrubbed it through with his sandaled foot.
"And I wouldn't put anything past those two ruffian stonemasons we met on the ship," Sindron concluded.
"They were on the ship with us at the time Klereides was killed, Sindron!"
"Yes, well, their friends, then. I'm sure they're as primitive."
"Sindron, everything I have seen about the Fellowship of Hephaistos and about the radicals is that they arm themselves only in defence. I must admit, if I was in charge, I'd be a bit more aggressive but that's the way they are!"
"Hmmm!" In the face of the lad's conviction, Sindron decided to drop that argument – for now.
"Anyway, if Hermon isn't guilty, then Philebos wasn't covering up for him. So there's no harm done in confronting Hermon with the evidence of the message-scroll and of Philebos' cover up and see what he says. I think we should do that now." Setting action to the words, Lysanias sprang up and set off back towards town and the road to Peiraeos.
"Right, master," said Sindron, taking up his stick and following, glad that some decision had been made. “We must do it forcefully, too, and get some real answers.”
***
As Makaria and Philia climbed the steps to the top of the High City, Philia glanced back and saw the market-place spread out below her, and around that the whole city of Athens. Beyond that was the road to Peiraieos and its three harbours and the sea, glinting in the morning sun.
At the top, the sound of female chatter was immediately familiar to Philia's ears, just like a sewing circle back home. And so it was, but two big circles. That circle over there, that must be the new cloak for Athene they were embroidering, the brightly-coloured cloak that would be presented to the goddess's ancient wooden statue after being paraded through the streets of the city at the next great Panathenaic Festival.
Philia laughed and clapped her hands, forgetting her mourning. This would be fun – to sit embroidering and gossip while doing it. Then her heart missed a beat. Strolling round the circle was great Athene herself. The goddess had appeared. Philia stopped in wonder, her mouth open in awe.
"Go on, girl, it's only the priestess," and Makaria pushed her forward.
Philia breathed again. The priestess was tall and stately, with helmet and breastplate and flowing gown, every inch a female warrior, so like the statues of the goddess. Yet the woman's manner, as she made suggestions on colours, patterns and stitches, was friendly and feminine.
She turned as they approached and raised her hands above her head in the salute of Athene Victorious. "Athene salutes the widow, all honour to the widow." It sounded like the ritual it was but Philia was impressed, and her knees shook slightly. The priestess knew who she was! Then she saw that Makaria had thrown back her veil, and was immediately recognisable. Philia threw back her veil as well.
"You'll be Philia, widow of Klereides, I've heard about you." Philia bowed her head, as she held out her offerings. The priestess thanked her and waved for an acolyte to take them.
She drew Philia forward, over the grass and rubble and stones of the ruined temples, towards the women seated among the jagged remnants of pillars and walls.
"You see us in a sorry state my child. Our temple still in ruins eighteen years after it was destroyed, but that is the way the men will have it."
Then Philia came in for a great harangue from the priestess. She was clearly annoyed that the women were obliged to pursue their acts of devotion in the open air, where the sun could bleach their colours and a shower could damage the fabric. Their only refuge was a wooden shack. Even the wooden statue of great Athene was housed in a temporary wooden building. All because the men had decided not to rebuild Athene’s temple.
"Mighty Athene is patron of this great city and she is angry," continued the priestess with vehemence. "Such disrespect will bring down nothing but shame on those who have displayed it. I have read the omens and they are not propitious for those who have long been our leaders."
When Philia offered the usual reason, that this was to display the sacrilege done by the Persians, the priestess cited temples built in recent years to male gods and heroes in the lower city by leaders such as Kimon.
"What other reason could they have?" Philia was genuinely puzzled.
"What reason? The only reason! Male power! Economic power!”
The decision, she explained, had allowed them to remove the bulk of the city treasury from the Temple of Athene and several banks had taken their deposits elsewhere as well. All moves that denied wealth and honour to the goddess and dignity to her priestesses.
In the face of such vehemence, Philia felt a little dazed, yet honoured to be taken into the confidence of the highest female dignitary in the city.
The priestess seated her between two wives who were possibly some eight or ten years older than herself. They gave her needles and thread and seemed to approve as her fingers rapidly stitched a design, which, while owing something to ideas in theirs, twisted them into new patterns of Philia's own devising.
From here, she could see straight across to the grey and green mountains stretching to the immaculate blue of the sky. She felt an immediate sense of freedom from all constraints and couldn’t keep her eyes from skipping round the other women. That elaborate hairstyle, with the coil to one side and flowing down on the other, looking like natural wavy hair – that was new. She’d love to try that, when her hair grew again. And that unusual way of draping her cloak that woman had on the other side of the circle, that was really nice. And that lovely lavender colour mantle, oh yes!
Philia listened to the chatter of the other women. She was amused and not a little shocked to hear the tales of how t
hey had tricked, cajoled or led their husbands into giving them what they wanted, using sex or withholding sex, how they had extended their control over the household purse-strings, often without their husbands realising it. Were they boasting, she wondered. She had never managed it with Curly. She knew she couldn’t match their stories, so was content to listen, while they seemed happy to chatter. These women could be good friends, she thought to herself, full of a new satisfaction.
The young woman on her left started pointing out some of the other women. "That weepy one, that's General Ariston's wife, Phoebe, though what she's got to cry about I don't know." Philia speculated that the woman could be quite attractive if it wasn’t for her miserable expression.
The rather older woman on her right chipped in. "You see those two expensively-dressed women near her? The plump, homely-looking one, that's General Kimon's wife Isodike, and the one who puts on the airs, that's his half-sister Elpinike. The men sing dirty songs about her, but I don't believe it. Just because she had to live with her brother when their father died and keep house for him, they said they were committing incest. Don't you think men are awful?"
She whispered some story about how, annoyed with Kimon's adulteries and with his having forced his sister into marriage with rich old Kallias, they had devised a scheme with a painter to discredit Kimon and teach him a lesson. Philia really couldn’t believe that.
Then there was the story of the wife who couldn't stand being bossed around by her husband, so she deliberately weakened the straps on his armour before he went into battle so that, under stress, they would break and he would be killed and she could be free again. And he was killed! By a spear thrust through the heart! Oh, dear sweet Athene, protect me, Philia prayed. If a wife could do that, so could a mother!
***
One thing Lysanias and Sindron were agreed on was that Hermon had to be confronted and as soon as possible. They knew they had to make sure that they place all their charges in front of him before pleasantries and the distractions of his work could interrupt. It was Sindron who suggested the method. He remembered something like it from a comedy he had seen years ago. They agreed it might work.
As luck would have it Hermon was in his office at the factory. The slave showed them in and shut the door behind them. Looking up from some accounts, Hermon started to rise, all charm, saying, "Well, gentlemen, it's very nice to see you. I wondered when you would be able to find time from mourning to come and talk again."
Mindful of the need to be forceful, Lysanias charged straight in.
"You may not have a motive, Hermon, but, if you still don't think it was murder, you explain this."
Sindron jumped in, on cue. "Why was an old frayed rope substituted for the real one that was cut through with a knife?"
Followed immediately by Lysanias. "Why was there a bare footprint in the dried blood on the planking?"
And back to Sindron, as they alternated. "Why was the workman who tied the rope sacked and the watchman sent home with some false excuse about fever in the family, leaving no-one who could be questioned?"
"Why did the watchman think he saw a dark figure bending over Klereides' body?"
"Why can't you tell us who you saw in Corinth?"
"And why does the message that summoned Klereides to the shipyard carry your seal?"
"See, here it is!" Sindron pulled the scroll out from inside his cloak as carefully as he could and unrolled it on the spot, as Lysanias accused:
"Motive or no, Hermon, can you explain all that and still claim you are innocent?"
The expressions flitting across Hermon’s face had run the gamut, as they kept up the barrage of questions leaving no gap for a response. They had ranged through surprise, anger, disbelief, cynicism, affront, worry and just plain confusion. When they finished, the silence rang, despite the hammering noises from the yard outside.
Hermon quickly regained his external composure but the broad smile was no longer there and the eyes were narrowed as they flitted between the two accusing faces.
"Well, gentlemen, you have been busy and I thought you were in mourning." Could that be intended as a joke? If so, Lysanias found it offensive.
Hermon dropped his gaze and turned away to look down at the dark red ragged shape of the scroll that Sindron had placed on his table.
"Company seal," he muttered. "You're right, it's my seal but we also use it as the company seal. Several people have access to it, use it for official documents." His tone lacked confidence, seemed apologetic.
"Who?" Lysanias spat it out, in evident disbelief.
"The overseer, my naval architect, the clerk who orders materials. It's nothing special."
This information had removed an important link in their chain of evidence, and, in the silence as they thought what this now implied, Hermon added, possibly feeling he had got himself off at least one hook, "Have you really established that the rope was cut and that someone replaced it to hide the evidence?"
Hermon seemed genuinely to want to know. He was looking straight at them, questioningly.
"Yes, we have the rope," Lysanias said, in a dispirited tone that betrayed his uncertainty about what use it now was. "It even has earthenware fragments where it was cut away from the amphora and you can see the fresh knife mark on the neck of the amphora."
"Master Lysanias confronted Philebos yesterday and he confessed to organising the cover up," added Sindron.
"'For the good of the yard,' he said." Lysanias completed the story.
Hermon looked thoughtful, then angry. "He did, did he? What right has Philebos to take it on himself to cover up a murder of my partner without the least reference to me? Yes, I was out of town, but no mention, not one mention." The businessman looked genuinely annoyed. Could he be acting this? "We must go and see him. Can't leave this hanging around to plague the business. We'll have the authorities down on us, not to mention the gods."
Lysanias pursued the new tack. "Would Klereides have responded to a message from Philebos? Did they meet regularly?"
"If they did, I’d want to know about it. Ambitious man that Philebos. Wouldn’t want him influencing the patron behind my back."
"But did they meet?"
"Not to my knowledge but it’s possible."
It was Sindron who asked, "But the other questions? What about the other questions?"
"Oh, yes. Who did I see in Corinth? I don't suppose you'll accept that I went all that way to see a prostitute, a high-grade prostitute? No, I didn't think you would. Though it is partly true. I go about once a month, when we’re not at war with them. Do a bit of business at the same time, of course, look out for any new developments in their shipbuilding techniques.” He paused, held by their demanding eyes, and lowered his voice even more. “I suppose I shall have to take you into my confidence, but I must ask you to keep this very quiet, perhaps for ever. It's very sensitive politically."
He looked straight into Lysanias' eyes, betraying in his own both a trace of real fear and an effort to project trust. He was clearly looking for an answer.
"I'm not sure I can promise that ... If it has no direct relevance to my uncle's death, I give you my word. And, of course, Sindron too."
"Of course," said Sindron, who was even more intrigued than his master.
Hermon stepped closer and lowered his voice. "You know how crucial the votes in the Assembly are for certain people these days?"
They nodded.
"How much difference it could make if Kimon's troops, all likely to vote for him, were delayed on the way back to Athens?" He didn't wait for reactions but went on, "Syracuse was originally a colony of Corinth, both are composed of Dorian Greeks, so I'm in a position to speak to their leaders, where a citizen of Ionian Greek Athens can't. One of the radical leaders here asked me to go and persuade them to find an excuse for holding up the troops for a few days. Klereides had been working to become friendly with the radicals. I thought this would help even more. They would owe us a favour then. There!" He looke
d relieved to have told someone, but the fear was still there in his eyes. No wonder! If Kimon's men knew, thought Sindron, they would slaughter him and it could mean war with Corinth. Hermon must be much braver than he looked to undertake such a dangerous mission.
"Themist...” uttered Lysanias, then stopped himself.
"You know he's in town?" Hermon hissed it out, in surprise.
Lysanias nodded. "I, uh, met him yesterday."
"Well, you do get around, young man. Very impressive!" Hermon evidently felt reassured now he could believe Lysanias was already trusted within the radical fraternity. "He used to visit Syracuse in the old days, when he was negotiating for our tyrant Gelon's support against the Persians, but then Sicily was invaded by Carthage, so Gelon couldn't help anyway. We were good friends. But no one else must know. Is that agreed?" They nodded.
"Why would the Corinthians agree to do that?" Sindron was genuinely puzzled.
"That's easy. They're the second most powerful city in the Peloponnesian League, which is dominated by Sparta, so they're quite happy to weaken her occasionally. With Kimon out of the way and democrats in control in Athens, they think that will boost Corinth's power. They've no love for Themistokles though."
Lysanias asked it. "What is it you're so afraid of, Hermon?"
"Do I look afraid? Yes, I imagine I do. It's not just fear of Kimon's men finding out about Corinth. It's this."
Hermon reached under a small pile of shield designs on a side table and brought out a panel of wood. On it, scrawled in green paint, "Be warned!" with a rough symbol of a hammer. But the colour for Hephaistos is red, thought Lysanias, though he didn’t say it.
"Philebos claims he found it under the scaffolding where Klereides died. Could have been left at the same time and slipped down. I can't help feeling it's aimed at me."
"I understand your fears," said Lysanias. He noticed that Sindron was thoughtful.
“Did Klereides ever talk of receiving threats?”
“Not that I recall. Kept a lot to himself, that man. Solid.”