The Ghosts of Athens (Aelric)

by Richard Blake

  ‘Is this a closed threesome – or can I join the history seminar?’ I heard Priscus croak from behind me. A cane projected unsteadily from behind the curtains of his chair, and poked one of the carriers in the back. He was carried level with me and Nicephorus. There was now no room left on the road for pedestrians, and Martin fell back with the others. I heard the familiar click of a wooden lid pushed into place. Either that burst of ambiguous joy on the docks really had restored him, or Priscus had finally hit on the right combination of powders. He pushed a ravaged face though his curtains and looked at the desolation that stretched out on either side of the road. Athens was still a few miles ahead, and the mist hadn’t cleared sufficiently to allow a view even of its high places. But, as if what he could see gave him some perverse delight, he smiled and sniffed the air.

  ‘I think I can settle the whole dispute,’ he said, now in a semblance of his usual voice. ‘When I was here two years ago, there were no walls then, but I did sign an order for the erection of a line of stakes along both sides of this road. If the Lord Count ever did take note of my order, I see the stakes have now been removed as well.’ He flashed a most unpleasant look at Nicephorus, who smiled greasily back.

  ‘I regret that His Grace of Nicaea is travelling so far behind us,’ I said. ‘It would be useful to know the reason for his own visit to Athens.’

  ‘Oh, but hasn’t Your Magnificence been told?’ Nicephorus cried with an astonishment that might well have been genuine. ‘We are blessed with a closed council of the Greek and Latin Churches. In all its long history, Athens has never been so honoured.’

  I composed my face into a devout smile and waited for the dramatic pause to reach its end.

  ‘You will surely be aware,’ he continued, ‘of the anomalous position occupied by the Lord Bishop of Athens. Though he ministers to a Greek see within an Eastern province, he is subject to His Holiness the Patriarch of Rome. No one has been told the matter to be discussed, but it was thought appropriate that it should be discussed at a place where the two jurisdictions overlap.

  ‘But, really, My Lord,’ he now burst out with undeniably genuine astonishment, ‘I was told that you had been sent to reveal the matter to be discussed and to chair the council. Surely you . . .’

  So that was it! As Nicephorus prattled on, I pulled myself out of the past, and my regrets that I’d spent only one afternoon skimming the Description of Greece written in the old days by Pausanias, and then only for details that had nothing to do with town fortifications. It must be that Sergius had finally got the Emperor interested in our scheme of religious settlement. If so, it was to get Rome on side that this council had been called.

  The missing out of titles and epithets of regard still might indicate a certain lack of confidence. Simeon’s gloating mention of Ludinus couldn’t be set aside. But the vagueness of the commission now made sense. You don’t put this in writing and send it on a trip through the Aegean. Nicephorus might be piss-poor even in his lowish place in the order of things. At least he’d told me what I was supposed to be about. I now realised what Simeon and all the others were doing here, and why I’d had my own course diverted here. Though Priscus might still be in the shit – and, let’s face it, he deserved to be there – I was in the clear. Sergius had managed to see to it that I was still a trusted servant of the Emperor – or could be again. All I had to do was get Rome to say the one word perhaps, and my less than triumphant performance in Alexandria would be seen by everyone in its proper context.

  I had a sudden thought. Where were the Latin delegates? I’d seen Greeks and Syrians in Piraeus. But, if this council was what I felt increasingly sure it was, we’d need a few bishops from the West. Why hadn’t they been waiting on the docks?

  But I’d not ask more of Nicephorus. All would be made plain once we were in Athens. It was enough that I felt actually happy. For the first time in months and months, I could see my way through. It was only as it began to slide away that I realised how crushing that weight of apprehension had been: worries about the Egyptian land law, worries about being murdered, worries about that sulky but inexorable voice in the Imperial Palace.

  I pulled my curtains fully aside and jumped from the chair. I took a few steps forward. After long disrepair, the paving stones were crooked from settlement into the ground. As in Piraeus, it was a little strange to be on land that didn’t keep moving under my feet. Unlike in Piraeus, I was able to rejoice that I was once again on firm ground – and in more than one sense.

  ‘My Lords will forgive me if I hurry ahead on foot,’ I said to Priscus and Nicephorus. ‘I’m sure that you both have much to discuss after so long apart.’

  Before either could reply, I’d grabbed Martin by the arm and was hurrying him past the forward luggage bearers. If I fancied some exercise, he needed it.

  ‘Sveta and the children are in an ox cart right at the back of the procession,’ Martin explained once he’d caught his breath. ‘I did try once more to impress on her the need to look cheerful. Even so, it’s probably for the best that she doesn’t get an excuse for complaining in public. It might embarrass you.’

  I grunted. So long as she didn’t utter treason in front of everyone else, she could set about Martin to her heart’s delight once they were alone. Until then, she could fuss about the children with blankets and warmed milk. With her in charge, they’d not catch colds.

  ‘There is the tomb of Menander, the playwright, somewhere along this road,’ he said after another wheeze. He pointed at a low structure a dozen yards ahead.

  I quickened my pace and heard him stumbling along behind me. It was a tomb, though not of Menander or of anyone else famous. It wasn’t even that old, I saw from the pompous epitaph. This recorded the uneventful life of Hierocles, chief pastry cook to some Emperor whose name was obscured by a scrubby bush. Bearing in mind the tactful absence of anything religious about its decoration, the tomb probably dated from the age that lay between the establishment of the Christian Faith and its being made compulsory. I kicked a stone and watched it bounce along the road. In the bleak silence all about us, it clattered like a rock fall. I turned round to look back along the road. Martin was now beside me again. Everyone else was far back behind the curtain of mist.

  ‘There is also a cenotaph of Euripides,’ he said with an attempt at the cheerful. ‘Though he died in Macedon, the Athenians thought it only proper he should have some memorial in the city of his birth.’ It was very quiet all about. Not a bird twittered in the shedding olive trees of autumn. Martin’s face took on the strained look he normally reserved for an attack of the haemorrhoids – or of the nerves. ‘Do you suppose there might be any stray barbarians about?’ he asked, confirming an attack of the latter.

  I ignored him and bent down to pull at the bush. It moved a few inches and revealed the name of the Great Constantine. I stood upright with a satisfied grunt. I’d been right about the date of Hierocles.

  ‘Corinth is only forty miles across the bay,’ Martin added with a nervous twitch. ‘But the Count’s letter implies that the Governor has never visited Athens. Could it be that only the provincial capital is safe?’

  ‘Though doubtless past its best,’ I replied in a soothing voice that only set off another twitching fit, ‘I do believe Athens remains a place of some importance. You’d hardly expect all those priests to gather in a town without protection. As for present danger, we really should have faith in Nicephorus. He’d not risk this kind of journey if there were any chance of an attack.’

  I tried for a real change of subject. ‘I always thought I’d see Athens in better weather,’ I said brightly. ‘What I had in mind was an approach along a dusty road, the sun overhead, cicadas chirping from brown foliage all around.’ I kicked another stone. It skipped along the road before us, coming to rest in a puddle that, judging from the lush grass beside it, might have been there all month. ‘I suppose it’s all rather homely,’ I added. ‘Kent is like this in the autumn. I imagine Ireland is like it all yea
r.’ I laughed and got a grudging smile out of Martin. Even he had to admit that it was a change from the burning deadness of Egypt. And it was Athens. Yes, it was Athens. It wasn’t quite as I’d imagined the place – and I hadn’t yet seen what time and the decline of taste and riches had done to the city itself. But I was in a good mood, and was determined to keep it going for when we’d finished creeping through the mist and Athens would finally show which of its holy charms had survived.

  Yes, what had survived of Athens? Its ancient glories had been a thousand years before. At their beginning, Egypt was still under its native kings. Even at their close, Rome had been an obscure town beyond the pale of Greek settlement in Italy. Since then, Athens had fallen to Philip of Macedon, and then to the Romans. It had eventually been revived by the Greek-loving Emperor Hadrian. Though sacked a century after that by barbarians, it had then remade itself as the first university town of the whole Empire. But all the schools had, within living memory, been closed in the final suppression of the Old Faith. Since then, there had been another big raid. I’d been a year in Rome, and had seen little enough to remind me of Cicero and Caesar. Why should I expect more of Athens? Ever since I’d given up worrying about immediate arrest, I’d been telling myself over and over again that the Athens I was approaching wasn’t the Athens of my dreams. Why, it wasn’t even a provincial capital any more – Corinth had long since been given that doubtful honour. But you try telling yourself that when you are, for the first time, just a couple of miles outside the place.

  I bent down again and pulled at another bush. It might be interesting to see if Hierocles had died before or after his Imperial master. It did strike me as more interesting than the story Martin had struck up of the spot, somewhere ahead, where Saint Eunapius had failed to convert nine dozen philosophers by turning stones into bread. The panel here was broken, though, and the relevant section had fallen inward. Was it worth getting my hands dirty by pulling the section out? Probably not. On the other hand, Martin’s sudden fervour was getting on my tits. I could put up with the absurdity of stones turned into bread. That the wretched Eunapius was supposed to have done this after the philosophers had torn his head off was more than common sense could bear. I pushed my hand inside the tomb. I pulled it straight out again and, shaking, stood up. I looked at my hand. Unable to stop myself, I wiped it on my robe.

  ‘What is it?’ Martin hissed with a relapse into terror.

  I ignored him and looked at the small area of blackness where the panel had fallen in. I nerved myself and bent down again. This time, I reached carefully in and felt about. It was a hand I’d touched – the cold, stiff hand of one recently dead. It was attached to a bare arm. That was as far as I could reach. I swallowed and took hold of the hand. I pulled it through the gap and stood up. I paid no attention to Martin’s little scream and looked down at the bluish hand of what may once have been a woman or an adolescent boy.

  Chapter 12

  ‘The barbarians!’ Martin cried. ‘The barbarians!’

  ‘Shut up!’ I snapped. ‘Barbarians don’t hide their kills.’ I put a hand on his shoulder and shook him until he stopped babbling. ‘Let’s have a look round the back of this thing.’ I stepped off the road and forced my way into a mass of brambles. I barely noticed what these did to my red leggings. I did notice, though, how the bushes still hadn’t fully recovered from a recent flattening. The tomb had been built of marble only on the three sides visible from the road. Its back was of unrendered brick. At some time in the distant past, a hole about thirty inches across had been smashed into the brickwork. Its worn edges showed signs of recent disturbance. I couldn’t see anything in the blackness. But I reached in and felt about. The naked body was female. It had been doubled over as it was pushed through the small hole. I felt no congealed blood beneath the chill breasts. I ran my fingers up the body. Instead of a neck and then a face, I found myself touching a nasty and roughly crusted stump. I pulled my hand straight out and stood hurriedly back. Swallowing continually, I fought against the urge to double over and vomit.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ Priscus rasped in his most cheerful voice since, off Cyprus, we’d turned west. His chair was about a dozen yards back along the road. Emerging from the mist, the whole front half of the party had caught up and now had come to a halt. ‘I was telling Nicephorus you’d not be able to resist grubbing round all these broken stones.’ He got down from his chair and walked with an uncertain jauntiness to the edge of the road. He looked into my twitching and doubtless very pale face, and grinned. ‘So, dear boy, will you enlighten us with your discovery? Is this the tomb of Socrates himself?’ He let out a sneering laugh. Suddenly, as if reading my thoughts, he looked down at the hand that was still poking through the gap at the bottom of the tomb. He arched his eyebrows and smiled. He was getting ready for one of his more flippant comments, when Nicephorus came up beside him.

  One glance down, and the colour drained from his face. ‘My Lords,’ he stammered when he’d found his voice, ‘I do urge the unwisdom of delay on this road.’ Rich that was, from a man who’d had us take half the morning to cover three miles.

  Keeping my face expressionless, I stared back at him. ‘What, My Lord Count, is the meaning of this?’ I asked firmly. I wanted to know. I also wanted to keep Martin from looking stupid in front of everyone else with a return to wailing about the barbarians. Correction: I just wanted to know. ‘Why do you suppose there is a fresh and headless body hidden just off the road?’

  ‘Athens is safe, My Lord, only within its walls,’ was the best answer I got.

  Everyone else at the front of our long procession had now edged forward. I could see the cart where Sveta was looking after the children. As yet, she hadn’t poked her head through the leather flaps. If no one knew what, everyone else had guessed something was wrong, and there were nervous looks on all the faces of the carrying slaves. I heard Simeon’s voice raised in harsh complaint about the delay – he wanted his lunch. His earlier bounce quite gone, Nicephorus darted his tongue over dry lips and began a more insistent urging that we should get ourselves to Athens with all possible speed. The assemblymen had now crowded forward for a look at the body. They said nothing at all, but didn’t look happy.

  ‘So you are telling us this is indeed murder,’ Priscus snapped. ‘Don’t you suppose your duty involves at least checking whose body it might have been?’

  Odd that he should be telling anyone to investigate a probable killing. Then again, it gave him an excuse to be horrid to Nicephorus. Whatever the case, I nodded. With hands clenched, Nicephorus looked up at the grey sky and then down again at the hand. He was looking for something to say, but not, it was plain, with any success.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, man,’ Priscus added. He swore and wheeled round to look at the main party. He pointed at his own chair’s carrying slaves. ‘Go and do as His Magnificence directs,’ he ordered.

  Mouths open, they looked back uncomprehendingly. Priscus swore again. He stepped towards them, hand tightening on his stick. But Nicephorus now gave in to the inevitable and jabbered something at the slaves that bore a passing resemblance to Greek. They let go of their carrying handles and picked their way with slow reluctance through the brambles. I got them to pull at the loose brickwork until they’d made a hole big enough for pulling the body out. It had set in its doubled-up position, and getting it out was a right bitch. But a few kicks from me, and more jabbering from Nicephorus, and out it finally came. It lay huddled on the rocky ground beyond the brambles.

  ‘Ooh, but isn’t she lovely?’ Priscus crooned, now beside me. He bent down and ran appreciative hands over the pale corpse. Propping his stick upright within some of the bricks the slaves had raked out, he got on to his knees and reached into the tomb. He pulled his arms out and moved closer on his knees. This time, he poked his entire upper body inside. Deeper and deeper he reached. Then, with a cry of ecstasy, he was out again, holding the severed head between his hands.

  One look at
the fear-twisted face, and I had to look up at the sky. I could now smell death all about me.

  Priscus, though, was going into some ghastly imitation of Salome with the head of John the Baptist. Holding the girl’s head between outstretched hands, he stared lovingly at the face. He brought it suddenly forward to bury his face in the dark, unbound hair. ‘Perfectly lovely, don’t you think?’ he mumbled between long inward breaths. ‘Can my darling Alaric tell me more than this?’ he finally asked with a sly upward look.

  I swallowed and made my own inspection. ‘She was from the better classes,’ I said. I’d established from one touch of the hand that she hadn’t been of the free poor, or from the lower class of slave. ‘Free, or’ – I looked at the whole body: it had been finely proportioned – ‘some rich man’s concubine.’ I’d have put money on the first of these possibilities; most of the slaves I’d seen had the fairish hair of Slav prisoners, and this girl’s hair had been a dark and perhaps a glossy brown. I swallowed again and thought of the flask of perfume I had in my satchel. Without any breeze to carry it away, the smell of corruption was turning unbearable. How Priscus could have been rubbing his face in that hair without puking up would have been a mystery if I hadn’t known him better.

  I forced myself to look harder at the body. Bad weather might have kept off the flies. Nor had the rats been round to have a go at it. Even so, it might have been there four or five days. I looked at the head that Priscus was now twisting about to view from every angle. You needed some imagination to see how pretty the face had once been. It really was a ghastly thing to behold: dark where all else about the body was unnaturally pale, and damaged as if it had been dragged over the rocky ground. I looked away from the grey, sunken eyes.