by Roger Hudson
The silence lengthened. The assassin's bare foot tapped softly with impatience. Lydos appeared to carry on writing on a scroll. Then sounds came from outside. The big doors creaked, as they had when Lysanias entered. Someone was heaving themselves up the stairs, puffing and panting. The other two appeared to be expecting this. Phraston finally lurched through the doorway, none too pleased to be dragged away from enjoying himself, and made to climb steep stairs in the dark.
So it wasn't Lydos acting alone! Lysanias realised now he should never have allowed himself to believe that story. It needed something big to persuade a citizen such as Phraston to offer a bribe to a slave like Sindron.
"Sorry to keep you waiting,.. young Lysanias…" He leant against the doorframe getting his breath back. "Just wanted to make sure … you know … the excellent reasons … why you have to die so young."
Lysanias did not react. If they were hoping he would show fear, he would make sure they were disappointed. He had realised some time ago that they must intend that he shouldn't leave this place alive. His worry was that he hadn't yet come up with any scheme to make sure they were wrong.
Phraston looked only slightly disappointed at the lack of reaction, but Aristodikos seemed to want to take physical steps to evince terror in their victim, if the snarl on his face was anything to go by.
"I'm afraid it has to look like an accident, so it must be death by drowning." This did alarm Lysanias, but he did his best not to show it. He had long come to terms with the possibility of death in battle by the sword or javelin. A slower death by drowning, that had always worried him, ever since he’d heard tales of shipwrecks from seamen down by the harbour back home. "Sadly, you came here to see Lydos, you slipped on the wet steps and fell into a vat of dye. Most unfortunate. Lydos was shut in the office, heard a splash, but, when he looked out, couldn't see anything. Your body was discovered by the workmen the next day. Tragic end to a young life."
The man was actually enjoying this, but Aristodikos wasn't.
"Let me get on with it, you old fool! Then I'll take my money and go. The goddess demands action." The man of action from Tanagra was impatient. How on earth had this man ever put up with working at the boring craft of barber, even if it did give him a good disguise and easy communication with the conspirators?
Lydos tried to prevent a row and to protect his master. "Now, Aristodikos, let's not argue among ourselves ...”
Phraston had enough wine on him to react angrily. "Shut up, man! You're being paid well to do a job. You'll do it when I say! Nemesis can wait a little longer!"
Something seemed to change in the assassin. Something akin to religious dedication came into his eyes. "I am the servant of Nemesis, a fellow of the League of Nemesis. I act in accordance with the dictates of the goddess, not of man." The deep voice croaked out the oath-like incantation and Aristodikos twirled his spear in a dramatic, almost ritual gesture, swinging it around his head and his body. He and Phraston were standing either side of the approach to the still-open door. Lydos was still seated behind the table and unable to move fast. Lysanias decided this might be his last opportunity, while their attention was off him.
Lysanias let his cloak slip to the floor, leaving only his tunic, and dived under the spear, aiming for Aristodikos’ legs, to throw him off balance. If he could knock him to the ground, he might have a chance to use his dagger. The killer turned his head in surprise as Lysanias rushed at him. Then, losing his balance, he pushed out and down with the spear to try to stabilise himself. The sharp point went straight into Phraston’s huge chest and in and in and through. The big man went down with the force of the spear and ended pinned to the floorboards. He uttered hardly a sound, only a great long sigh escaping from his lungs, and then a gurgle, as the killer lost his grip and tumbled on top of him.
"What have you done, what have you done?" Lydos was up and running round from the desk, almost crying. Lysanias was up and leaping for the door, hoping they would be too distracted to follow quickly, but Aristodikos was a killer, a hunter, and his prey was escaping. He grasped for Lysanias' ankle as he flew past. He didn't succeed, but it was enough to throw Lysanias off balance. He slithered across the wet platform outside, just managing to stop himself going over the edge.
Looking back as he tried to scramble to his feet, Lysanias saw the assassin complete the spring that took him upright and through the door in one lithe movement. But the man was now weaponless, and, in his own fall, Lysanias' dagger had dropped from his tunic and clattered across the platform in the darkness. It would be settled hand to hand, and the man was a skilled wrestler, and a wrestler not bound by the rules. Equally, he had shown at the wrestling ground that he lost his temper easily and, with it, his edge. Lydos seemed totally pre-occupied with trying to find any glimmer of life in his old master, too pre-occupied to join the fight or provide Aristodikos with a weapon, Lysanias hoped.
The tension had neutralised any effects of wine in Lysanias' body. He was thinking clearly, but knew he hadn't the strength or the experience to defeat this man, if he once let him get a firm grip. How had his instructor in Eion put it? Let the force of your opponent's movements provide the impetus to throw him. It had always worked in training, but could he make it work against an experienced fighter like this?
They were both on their feet now. Aristodikos was circling, trying to spot his opponent’s weaknesses, looking for an advantage. Lysanias was trying to edge round, sensing how vulnerable he was with his back to the edge of the platform, the dye-filled vats waiting with gaping mouths below. Suddenly the man rushed, arms wide to grasp him. Lysanias jumped aside. His opponent managed to catch a handful of Lysanias' tunic, but, as his stride took him on and he swivelled to turn, the tunic tore, and Lysanias wrenched more to make sure his opponent was left with only a handful of fabric.
The assassin looked as though he was already annoyed that a mere youth should have upset his plans so much.
"Regard it as an offering to Nemesis," called out Lysanias, teasing Aristodikos to charge again, dancing first to one side then the other. He appreciated the risk of using the goddess's name in that way, but it was obviously the thing the assassin treasured most, what would anger him most speedily.
"How dare you call on the name of the goddess?" It was working but the killer still had it under control. This time he advanced slowly towards Lysanias, legs wide, arms spread, to minimise the chance that Lysanias could rush past him along the narrow platform. Lysanias realised he could back no further. Dare he risk it? It was his only option. He couldn't dive through the open door. Lydos now stood there watching, a grim smirk on his face. The slave really wanted to see revenge taken for his master but must be savouring the thought of the banking enterprise he would now inherit – provided Lysanias did not escape.
Lysanias ducked down from the waist and then launched himself between the assassin's legs. Aristodikos reacted quickly. He sat, hoping to sit down onto Lysanias back and pin him there. He was a breath too late. Lysanias was through and heard the bone-crunching thud as Aristodikos' rear end hit the hard boards. The disciplined assassin let out an involuntary howl. Then he was on his feet again and spinning round. An angry scowl on his face, a growl and then a roar on his lips. He charged.
This is it, thought Lysanias, crouching ready, feet braced. If he doesn't carry me over with him, I should be able to deflect him off the edge of the platform. Suddenly a long stick shot out from the shadows in the space at the end of the small office building, just in front of the assassin's charging feet. Aristodikos tripped, tried to right himself, fell to the side, his feet failing to find a grip on the wet boards, and he was gone, down, down, a howl of his goddess’s name curtailed by a mighty splash.
Damn that Sindron! I could have handled him! But Lysanias didn't give himself time to think. He was rushing for the stairs and down to the bottom. Don't slip now, Lysanias, he told himself. Which vat was he in? There, two bare feet sticking up, black-clothed ankles, waving and slightly rising as the
man tried to push himself up to get out. Lysanias grabbed hold of the ankles and pushed down. Not an approved wrestling hold, he thought grimly. The legs struggled, kicked, flailed, fluttered and were still, but Lysanias waited to be sure, catching his breath, before he dared let go.
"Let me go, you idiots. There's an important man needs attention here. Can't you see? I must get help!" Lydos' voice drifted down to him from above. Lysanias’ breathing was back to normal and the sweat on his body was cooling in the night air as he made his way, triumphant, up the steps. He had avenged his uncle, whose spirit could now rest in peace, whatever the authorities might say about the death of a prominent citizen like Phraston. If Aristodikos really had been an acolyte of Nemesis, the goddess must have felt that it was he, Lysanias, who had the strongest case for vengeance. She had given him the victory. His prayer had been answered.
At the top, Sindron was using his pedagogue's staff to force Lydos back into a corner of the office, while Philia had obviously found Lysanias' dagger and was holding it out awkwardly, stiff-armed in front of her. No, it wasn't his dagger! It was a kitchen knife! Whatever it was, its wavering blade was enough to put real fear into Lydos' eyes, though the fear in Philia's looked nearly as great. Brave girl, thought Lysanias, revising the opinion of her defencelessness he had formed that afternoon.
"I told you to take Philia home," Lysanias hissed at Sindron. He tried to sound angry, but the relief and gratitude were too great and he smiled his thanks.
"I did, master, but she got that knife and followed me back here. We crept up here behind Phraston." Lysanias didn't remind Sindron his orders were to take the girl home and stay there himself. Sindron didn’t point out that, by not thinking it through, Lysanias had allowed himself to be led into a trap. He had overheard enough of the riddles to deduce that Strynises could have been paid to help lead Lysanias down this path.
"Shall I kill him, master?" It was Philia. He almost laughed. The way she was holding the knife it would be difficult to kill anyone, but he was amazed she could keep up the slave-boy act after all that had happened. "No, not yet," he answered.
Philia felt a secret joy that two of the men responsible for Curly's death were now dead themselves and she had been here to see it. A third was snivelling in front of her. But she had been terrified and, even gripping her right wrist with her left hand, it was difficult to keep the knife steady. She was glad when Lysanias stepped forward and took it from her.
Lydos was wailing at Lysanias now. "Don't let them torture me, master! You won't let them torture me, will you? They torture slaves. Phraston didn't sign my freedom documents yet. I'm still a slave. He was toying with me, making me do things I didn't agree with. He was like that. He made me go to Tanagra and hire an assassin. I never wanted to have people killed." The man was quaking, grovelling.
"Sit down Lydos. Now I want the truth. That man. He's the one who killed my uncle, correct?"
"Yes, master."
"Did he also kill Ephialtes?"
"Yes, master. That’s what he was hired for. Klereides was an extra. The brute boasted he climbed over the rooftops, even while the workers were on guard outside, got in through the courtyard and killed Ephialtes while he slept. With a golden, sacrificial trident he stole from the Temple of Theseos, he said. We didn't want that! It points straight at the dining club and Kimon. Thank goodness they've hushed that up. He said he could make it look like an accident and then this! He was mad. He says Nemesis tells him what to do, whatever instructions mere mortals give him. Nobody wanted Klereides to die, just to frighten him. He says Nemesis told him to kill your uncle, and he was threatening to inform on us, if we didn't pay him more – in tribute to the goddess for her assistance he said. It's a great relief he's dead. You won't let them torture me, will you?"
Tears streamed down the man's face as he lifted his head fully and turned his mournful face and questioning eyes on Lysanias.
Sindron had stopped using his staff as a weapon, and now stood leaning on it for support. He felt suddenly old and weak. He was sick and disgusted that he had once regarded this man as his friend, and on top of that came shame that he had gone to him for advice, trusting that he would be more honest and truthful than anyone else in Athens. How could he have been such a fool? Before Lysanias came back in, Lydos had tried an appeal to their past friendship, which Sindron had dismissed with the contempt it deserved.
Now Sindron registered that he had just killed a man, something that, as a domestic slave, he had never expected to have cause to do. He was surprised how little it disturbed him, and to find that there was a calm sense of satisfaction under the shaking in his hands and limbs that he decided must be his reaction to the danger his master had been in. Somehow he found it more and more difficult to envisage life not as a slave, even when he looked down at the skewered body of the man who had offered to buy him his freedom.
As Lysanias had her knife, Philia grabbed up Sindron’s knobbly stick from the floor as a weapon, but the anti-climax, the release of tension, was too much. She slumped to a cross-legged sitting position on the floor, where she shivered, head bowed, amazed at her own bravado and wishing she was tucked up warm in her bed. Now that the tension was gone, she could feel her swollen eye throbbing, and the dull ache of other bruises. Aware of his own bruises, Lysanias felt an urge to take her in his arms and comfort her, tell her how brave she had been, but now was not the time.
One of the oil-lamps was burning out of oil and the flame was guttering, so that their shadows danced on the walls. It was suddenly cold and very, very quiet. In the distance, a cock crowed. By the gods, could it really be that late?
"Why, Lydos? Why?"
"Phraston thought the radical party would collapse if Ephialtes was dead, or there would be riots and Kimon would be forced to make himself dictator and reverse all those reforms."
"Not Ephialtes! My uncle! Why kill my uncle? Or even frighten him?"
"He was giving financial support to the radicals, and to the Fellowship of Hephaistos,” Lydos shouted back, as though it justified everything, then, realising he was in no position to be shouting, he toned down. “He gave them the land for that shrine to Hephaistos in Peiraeos, and he teamed up with a building contractor to bid for the contract to put up that Temple of Hephaistos, even though my master leaned on everyone not to, even the foreigners. Yet he was assuring the dining club he was a loyal supporter of Kimon, giving statues to the Temple of Theseos. When they found out, Phraston, Ariston, they were all furious."
"So Ariston was in on it too. And he claimed to be a loyal friend of Klereides!"
Sindron joined in. "I didn't have time to tell you, master. We discovered the chariot and horse that the assassin must have used that night to take your uncle to the shipyard. In Ariston's stables. And this worm organised it all ...”
If looks could kill, Lydos would have been dead from Sindron’s stare alone. Philia had been agitatedly trying to speak. Now she blurted out.
“He’d been having an affair with General Ariston’s wife. My Curly. Ariston’s slave told me. My Curly.” She crumpled into tears.
Lysanias managed to step over to her, where he could stroke her head in sympathy without taking his eyes off Lydos. So Ariston did have a personal motive. Lysanias was worn out by all the revelations. He wanted it all to be over, but he was sure there was more to come.
"What else haven't you told us, Lydos?"
Sindron could see his master was tiring rapidly.
"That's it, master," said Lydos. "That's why they did it, I'm sure. But they just wanted to scare him,” he insisted, despite this new evidence that made the claim seem improbable. “Aristodikos went too far. I’m just a slave, master. Doing what I’m told."
Sindron was amazed. Lydos really seemed to think he could just pass the blame onto the others and dismiss his own involvement as obedience to orders.
"He hasn't told us about the falsified accounts, master. They must have something to do with it."
"Well, Ly
dos?"
"What falsified accounts is that, master?" Great Zeus, Sindron realised the man was going to try to bluff it out. After all that had happened! He felt like hurling him off the platform himself and into the dye vats. He spoke in icy daggers.
"Lydos, I thought you said you didn't want to be tortured. You're not going about it very sensibly. Now, Klereides' main account. I saw for myself it has been re-written in one hand, one ink, so let’s not pretend any more."
Lydos' eyes flicked between the faces of the two men facing him. He gave a deep sigh. A gentle snore came from Philia’s curled up body on the floor.
"Phraston knew that Kimon's visible contributions to the city had to be hurried forward and made more obvious, if Kimon was to avoid the ostracism vote which we could all see coming. And the propaganda, Mikon’s paintings in the Temple of Theseos, in the Painted Colonnade. Except they didn't want it to look like propaganda, so they paid Mikon and others unofficially to enable them to claim to be working at their own expense. It cost a lot of money. He took some out of Kimon's profits from sales of war trophies and slaves. Kallias put up some, before he was sent as envoy to Persia. Phraston spent a lot of his own money. The others all chipped in, including Klereides, but it wasn't enough. Kimon was away. He didn't know.
"Phraston could see time was running out. Klereides was very lax about checking his accounts, lots of spare profits uninvested that he wouldn't miss. So Phraston took it and used it. He intended to replace it. If Hierokles had inherited, it would have been no problem. He knew, he approved. As long as Phraston gave the money back. After all, Kimon and Phraston had helped him pay his fine.
“Then you turned up as the heir not Hierokles. We had to do something. We had a truthful set of accounts to keep track of everything for ourselves. We had a fake set to show Otanes and Makaria showing the high gambling debts and failed investments and less than truthful returns on his main investments to cover our withdrawals – they were bound to tell you about those. But Hermon was likely to reveal the true level of his payments to Klereides and you might seek to verify the return on other investments. So Phraston told me to create a third set with truthful figures for those verifiable items and rather less false withdrawals for gambling and uncheckable investments that would give us time to pay back. He always said it was just a loan. Risky if we hadn’t been able to distract Otanes attention at the time we showed them to you but we managed that."