Death Comes by Amphora: A Mystery Novel of Ancient Athens

by Roger Hudson

  "It only remains for me to thank you all for your support and to assure you that I will return to serve our great city."

  No trace of the bitterness the great general must be feeling at this rejection by the city he had served so well for so long. Lysanias was amazed at his resilience. Was it sensible to have ambition in Athens if this was the reward one could end up with? However, he knew that he, too, was keen to serve this great city and to try to emulate this great man, whatever the consequences.

  "Hermon, pull yourself together," Lysanias said quietly, applauding like the others. It seemed as though the businessman was grieving for his looted goods and wanted to drown his sorrows.

  ***

  A horse whinnied as Philia entered the stables. She had taken a small shell lamp and Sindron’s directions were clear but that didn’t make it less scary, with no telling what might be in the darkness beyond the lamp’s small circle of light.

  If she lifted back these cloths, she should be able to see if it was a racing chariot painted to look like an ordinary chariot. It was definitely painted. A green colour, she thought, and feeling with her hand revealed mouldings one wouldn't expect on an ordinary chariot. Bending down she could see where the dark paint was flaking off, gilding showed through. Sindron had said look for bloodstains on the floor of the chariot, but, as she bent in, holding the lamp before her...

  "Now that's a nice little arse!"

  The voice was close, but not loud. Philia froze. "How about a quick one, boy? They won't miss us for a while." She felt her heart pounding. In a way, it was a relief that whoever it was didn't seem to suspect she was doing anything she shouldn't.

  Philia straightened up slowly as he spoke, and turned. Horrified, she saw it was Ariston’s pretty personal slave who stood, blocking the way she would have to take to run out. She was sure to be discovered now.

  Philiako. I'm Philiako. I'm a boy. A tough boy. A fighter. She clenched her free fist, raised the lamp to show the mangled side of her face and growled as deeply as she could. The lustful expression on his soft, smooth face, changed dramatically. Without another word, he turned and went.

  Her hands were shaking but she knew she had to hurry back now. No chance that Ariston had sent his slave to topple the amphora on top of Klereides – he’d never have had the nerve for it, she thought, pleased with her own courage.

  ***

  "I'll take that grin off your big fat face, you conniving ...” Hermon had started aggressively towards Phraston’s couch. No help for it, thought Lysanias, and tripped him with his foot. The drunken businessman fell with a great thud.

  Lysanias leant down to help him up. "This isn't the way, Hermon. Everyone can hear." "Whatya do that for?" slurred Hermon, shaking his head to try to clear it. "I'll deal with it, Hermon. Now why don't I get your slave to take you home?" "Don't wanna go. Job to do." Lysanias managed to steer him back to their couch. He felt that all eyes were on his back, that he and Hermon must now be inextricably linked as enemies of the group, but, when he looked round, everyone was looking at Strynises.

  So that was why Strynises was here – to entertain. Amazing after all the things the man had uttered about Kimon and Elpinike, and here they were sitting smiling in front of him. This time his satire was at the expense of the radicals. How crafty Themistokles, the grey fox with the mantle of Persian gold, had tricked timid Ephialtes into acting against the Areopagos by pretending they were coming to arrest him. He knew how to pander to his audience this man.

  ***

  When Philiako got back the last boy was just going into the entertaining room. What were they taking? Fresh garlands. She grabbed one from a table by the door. As she put it on Lysanias head, she tried to tell him about the chariot but he was pre-occupied and didn’t hear her.

  ***

  Lysanias was worried. The poem had hinted at a shipbuilder helping the radicals. One or two members had glanced at him at that point, so he guessed they were thinking it was his uncle. Then mention had been made of whores in Corinth. Hermon seemed too drunk to notice and laughed when everyone else did, but the man could be in danger if he stayed. And here he had been thinking that Strynises wanted to help him but the man seemed to enjoy causing trouble and upsetting people whichever side they might be on. Thank the gods, here was Philiako, carrying a fresh garland. He, no she, could fetch Hermon’s personal slave to take him home and to safety.

  ***

  Philiako tore the old garlands up, as the other boys did, and strewed the petals on the floor. Then she went for Hermon’s slave. In the process, she found Sindron and told him what she had discovered, but, busy ensuring that Hermon got away safely in his chariot, he had no chance to inform Lysanias either. Now it was Philiako's turn to refill the wine cups. Everything was happening so fast but it was exciting.

  ***

  The members had been playing the riddle game. Someone had started it off with an old favourite,

  "I am the dark offspring of a light mother;

  Though without wings, I soar to the heavens;

  As soon as I am born, I disappear into the air;

  Who am I?"

  and, of course, the answer is smoke. Now Strynises, looking mischievous, aimed one directly at Lysanias.

  "Who wields a hammer in the morning, consorts with craftsmen in the afternoon, and beds Aphrodite in the evening?"

  Lysanias was startled. How did Strynises know he had been with Aspasia. Did everybody know? At the name Aphrodite, he couldn't help glancing across at Aspasia. She looked totally unconcerned, wasn't even looking at him, but her hands were together in a way like the salute for ... Oh, Yes.

  "Hephaistos," burst triumphantly from Lysanias' mouth. What a relief the answer wasn’t him.

  Instead of applause, the name of the worker’s god, the god called on so recently by Kimon’s opponents at the ostracism meeting, had produced a shocked silence. Before another riddle could be asked, Ariston demanded in a loud voice. "Tell us, young man. What do you know about Hephaistos?" Now he was aware that all eyes were on him and that an air of hostility had developed. Had that been some sort of trap? Strynises had really landed him in it. Even Kimon looked intrigued. How did he get out of this?

  "Just that he freed Athene from the head of Zeus with his hammer." That clearly hadn't been the right way to put it. It sounded too much like a political slogan of the radicals. He put on an innocent air. "That's what the poet Hesiod says, isn't it?"

  "Not like that, no."

  "Nothing more?" That was Phraston, smoothly, sneakily. This was like an interrogation, hounding him to confess to something. How much could they know? Had Strynises given him away? No, they’d have challenged him directly, if he had. He felt very isolated. Try to appear naive, casual, Lysanias told himself.

  "You're building a new temple to him by the market place."

  "I'm not building a temple," blustered Ariston. "Radicals got the Assembly to vote for it. Disgraceful!”

  "Enough of this depressing talk," roared Kimon. "As king of the feast I demand more laughter. A toast to our friends on the road from Corinth!" He raised his wine cup and drank, though the bleakness now in his eyes did not echo the joviality of his manner. The frosty atmosphere eased a little. Lysanias was pleased that Kimon seemed not to share the suspicion that had focussed on himself and even seemed irritated at grown men picking on a youngster, for he smiled encouragingly across at him.

  The tension prompted Strynises to divert attention or try to ingratiate himself, or both, for his next riddle, though amusingly phrased, ended up comparing Kimon to the sun god Apollo, who was banished from the home of the gods on Mount Olympos and returned in triumph. Or was he just mocking the great man?

  At least one member decided to retaliate. Calm, detached Phraston of all people.

  "I am a weasel who snuffles and digs,

  To find stories and gossip to sell for cheap laughs,

  To pour scorn on great heroes

  And belittle their lives

  M
ake fun of their lovers and even their wives."

  Kimon guffawed at that, as did most of the other members, but Strynises cut short any escalation of abuse by acknowledging that he was the answer, even giving a victor's salute. Phraston seemed pleased to have defended his colleagues but Strynises had been challenged.

  He started another verse. There was a glint in his eyes, an excitement perhaps at having found a worthy opponent, as they swept round the gathering, pausing briefly at Amynias and Inaros then turning to face Phraston.

  "When mighty Zeus, in human form,

  A shipbuilder espies,

  Carousing round the forge,

  Deserting kin and friends alike,

  While following Midas' urge,

  A monstrous thunderbolt he takes

  And, under blackest night,

  A lure he sets

  And down it hurls

  To squash the scoundrel quite."

  Lysanias sat up straight, astonished, like many of the other diners, some of whom glanced across at him surreptitiously. Nothing there that wasn’t public knowledge, except maybe the fact that the victim had been lured, but why at Phraston? Was Strynises trying to tell him something?

  Coldly, and confidently, instead of naming Klereides, Phraston answered with a verse. This wasn't a game any more. Phraston clearly regarded it as a challenge and was making his response.

  "When the slave of finance

  Is in the house of colours

  Who can tell when orders may change?

  From scare to maim, from maim to kill."

  That was it! He was denying the accusation. It was Lydos, 'the slave of finance', who had changed the instructions to whoever killed his uncle. And that was where he was now. The emphasis Phraston had put on those words, the look straight at Lysanias confirmed it. 'House of colours' could only be the dye works Sindron had told him the slave had bought. Lysanias had to confront the man, and now! All he needed was an excuse to leave.

  Strynises had, surprisingly, conceded defeat on that one. “Hardly fair,” he had said, “to use one’s own property as answer, when everyone might not know their name.” His eyes met Lysanias’ knowingly and he nodded as though in confirmation of Lysanias’ own conclusions. Other people looked confused or tense and seemed pleased to move on to other subjects. Kimon was looking irritated at the obscurity and lack of laughter in the game and seemed about to intervene again. Then Strynises was back in full flow, apparently determined to demonstrate his claim to satirise all parties without fear or favour. Standing in the centre of the room, he spun on his heels with arm outstretched, leaving everyone wondering if they could be the next target. He drew in his arm but, when the verse ended, he halted looking straight at Kimon. There was a blank, innocent expression on his face but his eyes said he was enjoying this chance to humiliate the great man.

  "A present from a sister,

  A present from a wife,

  A present from the Thasian,

  That's my portrait on a madman.

  Who am I?"

  Everyone seemed to hold their breath. Kimon wasn't slow, even when he'd been drinking. In Elpinike's eyes, a hint of fear had taken the place of the bored expression. Aspasia's face held cynical amusement, but she looked away from the great general. Kimon's face turned purple, his eyes blazed fire. "You scoundrel. How dare you malign my wife and my sister? Ariston, our gratitude for your hospitality, but we're off to somewhere where we won't be insulted. Come, ladies!"

  Ariston looked appalled. The entertainment triumph of capturing Strynises had backfired. He had offended the leader whose patronage Ariston still needed to take over the party. He rushed to try to placate Kimon but without success. Strynises had backed to where his companion was now standing beside the couch, in case anyone decided to resort to the violence the angry faces implied. He clearly was used to taking risks with his revelations but this was pushing to the extreme the license that satirists seemed to be allowed in Athens and the respect due an invited guest.

  Lysanias realised he was missing his opportunity – Kimon and the two women had reached the door. He slipped to his feet and paced rapidly across the floor, nodding a quick farewell to Ariston as he passed him. He must act while the fury was on him. Lysanias located Sindron and Philiako, and rushed them out into the street. Sindron insisted on going back to retrieve his knobbly stick and claim two shell lamps to light their way home. Voices in angry argument followed him as he came out again.

  A quick question established what Sindron knew of the name and street of the dye works. It should be adequate for Lysanias to find it.

  "Take Philia home, Sindron. See she stays there."

  "But why, master? Are you sure...?" said Sindron.

  "But, master, uh, Lysanias..." said Philia.

  "Don't worry about me. I can handle this on my own." Lysanias knew that, if he let them speak, they would tell him he shouldn't go on his own, that it was too dangerous. He already knew that, but he couldn't put Philia at risk again, and she would need Sindron with her to get home safely. "Don't argue. I'm in a hurry."

  "Master." Sindron held out his stick and one of the lamps. Lysanias took them gratefully. He turned and left quickly to avoid seeing the concern in their eyes.

  CHAPTER 16

  Lysanias had no trouble finding the dye-works. Once in the right area, he just followed the powerful and repugnant smell. He had avoided the one joint patrol he saw. They might think it odd for a gentleman to be out alone without a slave to light his way. Now he pushed gently the big doors that allowed mule-loads of fabric to come and go, and they yielded. They were not locked or barred. The thought crossed his mind that this might be a trap, that Phraston had misled him, that Lydos wouldn’t be here at all so late at night but he felt he had no choice, he had to know. Family honour, his own honour, was at stake here, but his anger was under control. He was calm, calculating, thinking clearly, pleased he had managed to control his wine intake earlier, ears straining to catch any sound, eyes used to the dark now and staring. Even if his sense of smell was flooded by the foul odours, they had helped to clear his head.

  Lysanias blew out his lamp and placed it by the wall. He slipped through the opening between the doors, but failed to stop them creaking as they swung to again. He stood still, trying to get a picture of the layout of the place. A long flight of steps to his left led up to a high platform, where lamplight from an un-shuttered window and an open door, in what must be an office, threw enough light for Lysanias to make out a large number of tall vats and tubs, presumably each containing a different colour dye. The light glinted on the puddles of wet on the stone-paved courtyard. A stream babbled somewhere, which must supply the water constantly needed.

  If Lydos was here, he must be where that light came from. Lysanias trod carefully. The steps were as wet and slippery as the courtyard below. Wouldn't want to slip into one of those vats and swallow that foul-smelling liquid! He was glad of Sindron’s knobbly stick to steady himself.

  As Lysanias looked down, he could see the circles and squares of the tops of the vats with the dye liquid glinting dully within them, and the black spaces yawning in between. For a moment, Lysanias wondered why he had come here alone, why he hadn't laid charges and had the Scythian guard arrest Lydos. Because the physical evidence still isn't adequate for the courts, he answered himself. Because this is a personal matter now. A matter of vengeance. Lysanias had heard that, in the province of Rhamnous, they worshipped the goddess of vengeance, Nemesis, alongside Themis, the goddess of justice. May Nemesis walk with me tonight, he prayed, as he stepped upwards silently, carefully.

  As his head rose higher above the top step, he could see more and more through the window and partly-open door. A man. At a table. It was Lydos. Head bowed over scrolls. He appeared to be alone. Good. Despite himself, Lysanias felt his heart beat faster, his anger start to rise again. He stopped and calmed himself. Nemesis must strike calmly in the cause of Justice. He re-assured himself that the dagger was still resting th
ere within his tunic in a position where he could grasp it easily. His left hand clutched Sindron’s knobbly stick more tightly.

  The door was open. Lydos may be expecting someone. Strike while he is alone. Lysanias took a long step forward, pushed the door fully open, and stepped inside. "Lydos, I have come to settle accounts." As he said it, he realised what an awful pun it was, given the man's occupation, but it was said with the due degree of menace, he hoped.

  "Ah, young Lysanias. Come in, we've been expecting you."

  We? So Lydos wasn't alone. Lysanias turned rapidly as he heard the door swing closed behind him and saw a slim, lithe figure, tightly swathed in black with bare feet. That face! The barber! And the ruthless wrestler at the training ground! This must be the man who had been paid to kill his uncle! At last! Lysanias instinctively raised Sindron’s stick as a club.

  "I don't think there will be any need for violence, Lysanias. Not yet anyway. Relieve him of his weapon, would you, Aristodikos?"

  The black figure's right hand held a military thrusting spear. Strange weapon for close combat, thought Lysanias, but now he saw its purpose as the man turned it, placed the point firmly to Lysanias' chest and backed him the few steps to the nearby wall.

  Lysanias was powerless.

  "Drop the club!" The order was grunted in a deep, surly voice. It was a purely functional room, not large, with no furniture other than the table and chair, nothing for Lysanias to duck behind in an attempt to escape from the killer holding the spear. Lysanias had no choice. He dropped Sindron’s stick. Just as long as they didn't find the knife, he might still have a chance.

  "That's better," said Lydos, with a friendly smile. "Now we'll just wait a while. May I introduce Aristodikos of Tanagra in Boeotia. An acolyte and expert of the goddess Nemesis." Lysanias knew what that must mean. And the very goddess he had been praying to!