by P. K. Lentz
“Styphon,” Alkibiades said in greeting on entering the room. He wore a smile that another Athenian might have thought disarming. “It's good to see you again, my friend.” He took a cushion facing his guest, poured himself some wine from the jug his wench had left on the and took it upon himself to refill Styphon's empty cup. “What brings you to such a soft, womanly city as ours?” The delicate, lilting quality of Alkibiades' Greek, typical of Attic, did nothing to further endear him to Styphon, but at least the man was aware enough of his shortcomings to engage in some well-deserved self-mockery.
“Andrea,” Styphon answered plainly.
“Well, of course it would be.” Alkibiades drained his cup. “You've come to take her? I think she's a bit young yet for mercenary life.”
“Not to take her.”
“To see her, then. She's in the country. Shall I fetch her here?”
“No.” Styphon pulled from the fold in his chiton a purse of silver coins and tossed it on the table. “For her upkeep.”
Alkibiades smiled condescendingly. “Certainly your contribution is welcome, but it's entirely unnecessary. As you can see I'm not short of finances.”
Styphon wore his disapproval in a scowl. “I may have turned my back on my city, and she on me, but I won't have you turning my descendants into...” He struggled for a word sufficient to convey his contempt.
“Athenians?” Alkibiades suggested, absent any sign that he had taken offense.
It would do. “You will spend on her the funds I provide and not an obol more.”
Alkibiades drew himself more wine. “I assure you, Styphon,” he said, “your daughter is being raised as no Athenian girl ever has.” He smiled slyly. “Since you're a man of few words, and won't stay around in Athens a minute more than is needed, I feel I can trust you. The people of this city accuse me of many things. Some are amusing, others horrifying. Some are true, most are not. One thing of which I have been accused of late is maintaining a private brothel of underage girls made orphans by war and plague.
“The truth is that I do fund the upkeep of such girls. Ten of them, at last count. But the place in which I keep them is no brothel. It's a school where they are raised in the Spartan style. Or, to be honest, in a style of my own which combines the best of our two worlds. They are taught letters, and their minds are fed with knowledge not just of arts and poetry but of practical things as well. And their bodies...” Alkibiades' lips pursed and his eyes flicked briefly away. “We Athenians are fools to revile the female form and insist on hiding it away. You Spartans have it right. Let women shed their clothes and compete in games with one another. In fact, I would have you know that Andrea is a champion runner among her classmates.
“But the exercise is about more than keeping fit. The school was my idea, along with Socrates, but Thalassia, you must remember her, insisted to me that Andrea be trained to fight and defend herself. And even though Thalassia has not been seen in this city for almost a year now, I've honored her wishes. They're young yet, but by the time their breasts have come in I'll pity the soul that tries to accost one of my girls. He might not live to tell the tale.” Alkibiades leveled an intense gaze across the table at Styphon and smirked. “I may be creating monsters. But they'll be my monsters.”
Despite his continued efforts to hate the effeminate idiot, Styphon found himself almost won over. This was despite his better judgment, for indeed Alkibiades spoke of things which any upstanding, right-minded man would find abhorrent. Perhaps exile had made him perverse.
When Styphon adhered to the old Spartan proverb which said that if one only had only something nice to say, it was best left unsaid, Alkibiades wasted no time filling the silence.
“I know what you must think of me,” he said. And he was right. “Vain prick in his mansion overflowing with sweet wine. But I tell you, if it all were to vanish tomorrow it wouldn't trouble me. I know Spartan law and I admire it more than you realize. If called upon to do so I could live in a wooden box and drink pig's blood for dinner, and be glad for it. My will is strong. But frankly, when luxury is all around me for the taking I see no value in refusing it. I'm sure you'll disagree with me on that point, but at the end of the day, isn't the purpose of the Spartan way to breed warriors? Well, ask anyone who's stood by me in the phalanx and they'll tell you that even though my life is one indulgence after another, when I fight, I fight like a fucking hound of hell.”
Styphon frowned, looking away from the arrogant fool who had nearly had his respect and then lost it. He changed the subject. “Thalassia is missing?”
Sighing, Alkibiades leaned back in his chair. He rolled his wrist absently, causing his wine to slosh around the cup's rim and form a pink froth. “She and Demosthenes left for Italy early in the year and never returned. I sent a ship to inquire about them a while back and to find them if possible, but my men arrived at Cumae to find it had fallen to the Italics. Quite a pity. Demosthenes has a son he's never laid eyes on. And without his presence in the assembly, Kleon is unchecked in his search for any means he can find to betray the peace and make it seem like Sparta's fault. He might even succeed.” He heaved another reflective sigh and gestured emphatically with his cup. “Thalassia had it right. We should fight the barbarian, not each other.” He drank deeply and said, “Pity. I quite miss her. And her master, if you can call him that.”
“She has no master,” Styphon said flatly. “Demosthenes might be dead, but she is not. She was dead when I first saw her, and death failed to stick. Later I saw her stand in a deluge of arrows utterly unafraid. Mark my words, she lives.”
“I pray you're right, my friend,” Alkibiades said.
“You should pray I'm not. Men's fates are her playthings, and one outcome is as good to her as another. First she would see Sparta triumph, then Athens. By now she'll be mistress to the Persian king and have him conquer us both.”
Alkibiades put on a smile that was marginally less loathsome than its predecessors. “I thought I was jaded,” he said. “Of course she's dangerous. That's what makes her interesting. I've never met a dangerous woman before. I do hope I'll see her again. If it's as a prisoner in the court of Artaxerxes, my chains will feel less heavy for having been clapped on me by her.”
Styphon could think of no reply to such poetic garbage, and so he concluded that it deserved none. “I've done what I came here to do,” he said, rising.
Alkibiades followed him to his feet. “I'd say that you're welcome to spend the night and treat what's mine as yours, but I know you won't accept. So instead allow me to give you a guest-gift.” He disappeared for several moments and returned to the room with a sword which he set on the ebony table. I'm sure you've heard by now of the thing men call Athenian steel. It can't be exported and its composition is a state secret, but I give this one to you so that the father of Andrea may not lose his life before laying eyes again on his daughter.”
Instinct told Styphon to decline, for he did not desire any bond with this man. But his reservations fled before the sight of the flawless blade. He took the short sword up by its handle, which was inlaid with silver and bone, and found it well-balanced. Flinging back his shabby cloak he removed his own bronze sword from its plain scabbard, laid it on the table, and inserted the guest-gift in its place.
“Thanks,” Styphon said icily, and with that departed the house and city of Alkibiades, a vain, arrogant blowhard and the man whom Fate had made guardian of his bloodline.
III. The Flower-Seller
Gaius Papirius Crassus, midway through his forty-seventh year and nine years into his lifetime term in the Senate of Rome, mourned. His wife had been dead for two seasons, yet still twice each day on his route to and from the forum he passed the necropolis on the west-facing foot of the Esquiline hill where she lay buried, and he remembered her anew. Mostly he remembered the good things, her laughter, the softness of her hair, the warmth of her embrace. But he also remembered the evening that he had returned home to be told by a maid that Claudia had fallen
ill. He had gone straight to his wife's bed and found her there moaning, drenched in sweat, clawing pink welts into the white flesh of her arms.
Three days sweet Claudia had spent thus, no recognition ever seeping into her half-dead eyes before the gods saw fit to take her from the husband to whom she had borne eight children. Five of them still lived. Gaius had not loved Claudia when she had come to his house still a girl, but by the time of her death he had cherished her and would sooner have surrendered his right arm than his Claudia, if only fate were so kind as to leave such choices to men.
This afternoon, on his route home, Gaius approached the necropolis and the small wooden footbridge which was the only means of crossing the stream, pale brown with sewage, that followed the valley separating the Esquiline hill from the Velia. As he did almost involuntarily every time he passed the necropolis, he turned his head and sought with his eyes among the sea of monuments dotting the neatly trimmed grass the white marble marker of Claudia's grave.
Strangely, today Claudia seemed to have a visitor, and strangely it was no one Gaius recognized. The visitor was female, and she sat on her haunches in the grass facing the stone, her back to Gaius. She wore a pale yellow gown which was the uniform of sorts worn by the numerous girls who made their living selling flowers for grave offerings from carts and stalls along every necropolis road in Rome, including this one. Gaius glanced ahead and saw all the usual vendors there selling pots and carvings and amulets and all manner of offerings for the dead. Among the several stalls which sold flowers, one stood empty.
Crossing the bridge, Gaius stepped off the trail and out of the steady flow of afternoon foot traffic to gaze up the green hillside at the woman visiting Claudia's grave. He began, out of curiosity, to make his way toward her at an unhurried pace. During his approach from behind, he discovered to his surprise that the woman was singing softly. Her song was unfamiliar, but its words spoke of sorrow and the tune was a melancholy one.
Perhaps she caught a glimpse of his shadow, for she stopped singing abruptly and her head whipped round, giving Gaius his first look at her. The first thing which struck him were her eyes, ringed with kohl in the manner of Eastern women. Their irises were a cold, pale blue like December frost, and they made the cosmetic extraneous, for even left naked these eyes would have commanded attention. He next noticed the flower-seller's complexion, which was a match for her Egyptian eyes in that its tone was rich and deep and set off well the pale yellow of her gown. Her straight, dark hair was pinned up behind her head in a loose knot which was adorned with a single purple-petaled blossom, and the grass where she knelt, the grass which covered Claudia's grave, was strewn with six or seven blooms each of bright yellow lilies and white asphodel.
The foreign flower-seller looked mildly embarrassed as she rose from haunches to knees and twisted to face her sudden audience. Her eyes went from Gaius to his toga, then to the grass, and she straightened and stiffened. "I'm sorry, Senator," she said. Gaius's garment, like her own, announced his occupation. Her voice was soft and sweet and her Latin was rather more precise than her appearance and her lowly profession would have one expect.
"Do not apologize," Gaius said. "It was lovely."
The flower-seller, encouraged enough by the compliment to raise her eyes, saw his gaze go to the strewn flowers. "They are a little wilted," she said. "Your beloved deserves better, I know."
"What puzzles me is why you bring them at all."
The woman bowed her head again and explained. "I earn my living at the expense of the dead and those who mourn them. So, at day's end, to make my peace, I take whatever stems I have left and give them to some soul I never knew."
"And sing to her?"
"Or just talk." She laughed nervously. "You must think me mad."
"Hardly," Gaius said. "I doubt I have heard five things in all my life more praiseworthy." He squatted to come level with her, and when she looked up, Gaius gazed closely into her arresting, ice-blue eyes. "You must tell me your name," he said, "so that when I tell others of this encounter, I can tell it accurately."
The flower-seller's lips formed a smile, and if her eyes were winter frost then her lips were the spring thaw. She spoke her name. "Marina."
Gaius offered Marina his hand. She took it and together they rose. That touch, those words that day were their first but far from their last, for on nearly every day which followed Gaius stopped on his way past the necropolis to chat with her, buying flowers for which he had no real use and feeling self-conscious for the very first time of the streaks of grey in his close-cropped brown hair.
He learned that Marina was the freeborn daughter of manumitted slaves. Her mother had been Egyptian and her father Etruscan. She shared a rented room with a shop-girl and a streetwalker. Her favorite flower was the lotus, but it was a luxury she could ill afford since stems of lotus only came to Rome carefully packed on trading ships from her mother's homeland. Her second favorite flower was the one which she wore in her hair, one that grew locally, the crocus. Her father had once saved his master's life, and in gratitude that master had seen to it that Marina was well-tutored in Latin and poetry.
With each visit, the time they spent together grew longer and Gaius's excuses thinner and thinner until at last there was little any honest man could do but confess the truth, at least to himself, and his truth was a simple one. He had fallen in love.
Marrying one such as Marina was out of the question, of course. Though it was not strictly illegal, punishments of the social kind would befall him all the same. Other arrangements could be made, however, if Marina was willing, and one day as summer was turning to fall Gaius came to Marina's flower-stand determined to learn whether she was willing. He brought with him a fine white lotus bloom which he had gone to some trouble to acquire. On seeing it, Marina's supple lips parted in astonishment, and she tried halfheartedly to refuse, but Gaius insisted, and shortly she accepted the gift, raised it to her face and savored its scent. Then she held it gently against her yellow-draped breast and giggled effusively.
"Are you happy?" Gaius asked her.
"Of course," she answered, "I love it."
"Not with the flower. More generally. Are you happy?"
The smile melted from Marina's lips. With downcast eyes fixed on her lotus blossom she answered, "Happier than my parents were, surely, which is more than I could hope for."
Gaius's stomach churned as he pressed, "If you had no need for money, would you continue to sell blossoms and share a living space with other women?"
Marina kept her eyes averted. The lotus twirled absently in her fingers. Perhaps she knew already what he intended. She said meekly, "It would depend, I suppose, on why I no longer needed money."
Gaius had not planned his speech precisely, for he could hardly predict what Marina might say, but he did have some words in mind. Here was a chance to use them.
"Say that you met someone who came to care deeply for you, who misses your silken voice when it is not in his ear and selfishly desires to keep you by his side at all times." By the time he finished, his cheeks burned hot; he could scarcely believe such drivel had issued from his mouth. But the words could not be put back, and so he finished, "What would you say then?"
Marina's blue eyes flicked upward to meet his, just briefly. The nervous smile she flashed alarmed Gaius, making him think she must be devising some gentle way in which to reject him. He realized, and cursed himself for not having realized earlier, that even after making a fool of himself he would still be forced to cross this bridge and pass Marina's stall each and every day-that, or double the length of his commute to the forum, which perhaps was the better option.
But he was not left to languish long in such thoughts before Marina gave her answer.
"I would be lucky beyond belief to receive such an offer," she said. "But I know not whether it would suit me to be a kept woman, when I am so used to coming and going as I please."
Hope swelled to new life in Gaius's breast, for Marina's tone m
ade it clear this was no rejection but an offer to negotiate. More than willing to oblige, he abandoning the silly pretense that their discussion was hypothetical. "I would never see you caged, Marina," he said. "I offer you a home, not a prison."
"And work?" she asked.
"Only if you wish it. A tutor to my daughters, perhaps."
Suddenly Marina's Egyptian eyes were heavy, and she cast them down. "What would the woman on whose grave we met think of my living in her home and teaching her children?"
Gaius frowned. He had not wished to dwell on Claudia. He said, "The dead are not afforded the luxury of opinions. But Claudia was kind and understanding, and I know she would not wish me to wallow all my years in grief. It may even be that she had a hand in bringing us together. I choose to believe so, anyway."
Eyes on her lotus blossom, Marina hesitated for some time, leaving Gaius to stare with bated breath at the six shapely lavender petals of the crocus in her dark hair.
At last she looked up, and setting her graceful hand on his she said, "Yes." The smile on her lips melted the frost of her kohl-lined eyes, which began to glisten with tears. "Yes, Gaius," she repeated eagerly. "Yes, I accept."
* * *
From her place in Gaius's household, Thalassia keeps tabs on new Greek-speaking arrivals to the Roman slave markets on the possibility that Demosthenes might wind up there... which he does. She secures his release and arranges passage for him back to Athens, while she remains behind in Rome. On his return, Demosthenes finds that his wife has indeed died bearing him a son, who was given his name, since Demosthenes was thought dead. Aided and goaded on by Alkibiades, Demosthenes arranges to lead a small Hellenic League force in defense of the Greek colony of Cumae, which is under threat from Italic tribes. However, the force's true objective is a little-known town on the Tiber that poses no danger whatsoever to Greeks now...