by J M Alvey
Shadows of Athens
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Map – Philocles’ Athens
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Acknowledgements
Philocles
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
With gratitude
Maureen Hall
Doreen Innes
Barbara Levick
Kathy Wilkes
Chapter One
No one wants to find a corpse on the doorstep. Not on a fine spring evening after walking home with the woman you love. Not when your thoughts are wholly taken up with the unparalleled honour and bowel-knotting terror of seeing the play that you’ve written performed at the greatest drama festival in the civilised world. Not when you know that everyone who’s anyone of influence in Athens will see if the jokes you’ve spent days and months crafting will make fourteen thousand people laugh.
Everyone else in the city was cheerfully preparing for five days freed from work, ready to enjoy the spectacles of the Dionysia processions and the drama competitions at the theatre. There’d be feasting with family and friends who’d travelled into Athens for the holiday, catching up with all the news and gossip from every one-donkey village in Attica. The streets were full of people hurrying to and fro, with doors and gates opening and closing.
Today’s rehearsal had gone well enough, thanks be to Apollo. As we walked through the city’s central marketplace and took the road leading southwards, I drew Zosime close within the shelter of my cloak, my arm around her shoulders. Spring’s equinox means the days will soon be getting longer, but the evenings can still turn chilly.
Every household’s high outer windows were bright with lamps. Excited voices floated through open shutters along with savoury scents that made my stomach rumble. I could picture the scenes within. Children would be scampering about and wheedling to stay up just a little longer, to greet Grandma and Grandpa from Prasiai or wherever. Slaves would be setting up bed frames and mattresses while wives put the final touches to some tempting meal. Newly arrived travellers would be eager to wash off their journey’s dust, easing weary feet and backs. Here and there, torches on doorposts defied the twilight to welcome overdue guests.
Reaching the city walls, we waited our turn to leave through the Itonian Gate and take the road to Alopeke. Zosime and I walked more quickly now, both of us alert. It wouldn’t just be honoured visitors from allied cities and country bumpkins from Attica’s farms coming into the city for the festival. Cutpurses, cloak-snatchers and housebreakers would be idling in every alley and street corner within sight of the Acropolis for the next five or six days.
Hopefully that’s where they would stay. Still, there was always the chance of one such scoundrel roaming further afield to prey on incautious citizens who thought these outlying districts on the edge of the countryside would be safe enough. More fool them. Three hundred Spartans may have held Thermopylae against the Persians but the best the Archons’ three hundred Scythian slaves can hope for is keeping some measure of order within the city walls. Outside, we’re on our own.
The further we got from the city proper, the more deserted the road became. It was full dark now. A few lamps glowed but it seemed that pretty much everyone had gone to bed early.
We reached the turn from the main road into our side street without incident. I breathed a prayer of thanks as we passed the pillar sacred to Hermes on the corner. Brushing a hand over his carved head, I felt the familiar stone worn smooth by years of others doing the same.
We passed our neighbours’ homes, each one safe behind a high wall and the sturdy gate that protected the house and yard within. Some were two-storey dwellings though most were not in this district of modest households.
The lane was dark and silent but I wasn’t overly concerned. The pattern of ruts and hollows was so familiar we barely had to think where to set our feet.
That made the shock of stumbling over a body a hundred times worse. A man was slumped against our gate, where the timber post met the solid brick wall. I fell headlong across his outstretched legs, sprawling on the trodden earth. Zosime yelped as I dragged her down with me.
‘Shit!’ I swore as she landed on top of me, her elbow digging deep into my gut.
‘What—?’ She scrambled to her feet.
I would have done the same but my shoes were tangled in cloth. Kicking out, my foot hit solid, senseless flesh. I was outraged. How dare some drunk sleep off his skinful here? But as I kicked again, whoever it was didn’t stir. There was no wine-sodden grunt of protest.
‘Get Kadous, and a lamp.’ On hands and knees, I groped through the darkness. I touched an ominously cool, clammy hand. Hoping against hope, I squeezed limp fingers, brutally hard. There was no response. As I was forced to admit that this man truly was dead, the body slid away from me, slumping to lie awkwardly twisted, face down on the ground.
Zosime was knocking on our gate, more puzzled than concerned, and keeping her voice low out of consideration for the neighbours. ‘Kadous? Hurry up! There’s someone hurt—’
‘Bring a light out here now!’ I yelled.
‘What’s going on?’ Kadous hauled the gate open as I got to my feet. The lamp my slave held cast a flickering golden glow. He didn’t bother asking if the man was dead. Anyone who’s been on a battlefield recognises that awful stillness when life has fled.
‘Oh!’ Zosime clapped a hand to her mouth, horrified.
Kadous took a step closer. The lamplight fell on the dead man’s feet. He wore Persian shoes, so new that the nails in the soles were hardly scuffed, and with no more than a day’s dust dulling expensive red leather.
‘Who is he?’ Kadous raised the lamp higher to reveal the rest of the corpse. ‘How did he die?’
‘Let’s see his face,’ I ordered.
Kadous stooped and pulled the man’s shoulder, rolling him onto his back.
‘Hades!’ We both recoiled.
The dead man’s throat was cut from ear to ear. A blade had ripped through his neck so deeply that pale bone glinted in the ferocious wound. His tunic was sodden with blood as far down as his belt. I forced myself to look at his face instead. No, I didn’t know him. That wasn’t much of a relief.
I looked up at Kadous. ‘Did anyone come knocking earlier?’
‘I didn’t hear a thing.’ The Phrygian shook his head, baffled. ‘I’ve been reading in my room. But I wouldn’t have opened up to a stranger, not after dark.’
I stared at the corpse. ‘We must notify the Polemarch.’ He was the magistrate responsible for visitors to the city.
‘At this hour?’ Kadous wasn’t challenging me but he wanted to be sure that he understood my instruction. I took his point. We wouldn’t find anyone manning the magistrate’s office this late in the day.
�
��We can’t leave the poor man in the lane like some stray dog crushed by a cart!’ Zosime’s shock veered into anger.
‘I’m not bringing him inside our yard.’ I was just as adamant. I wasn’t having our little household tainted by this poor bastard’s death, whoever he might be.
I looked at the corpse again. If the Fates insisted on cutting his life short, why couldn’t some punch in a tavern brawl have killed him? I cleared my throat and forced myself to speak more calmly. ‘Someone at the city prison will know what to do.’
That’s where the Scythians would be taking anyone they arrested during the festival, and I’d wager they would already be busy tonight.
Kadous handed the lamp to Zosime. ‘I’ll get my cloak and boots.’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘It’ll be better for everyone if a citizen reports this.’ Unexpected corpses prompt serious questions. ‘Go inside. Bolt the gate.’
Zosime looked at me, shaken. ‘And make believe nothing has happened?’
Careful of the lamp she was holding, I drew her close and gave her a quick kiss. ‘This has nothing to do with us.’
I looked up and down the lane again. I couldn’t be certain that all our neighbours were home. If Sosistratos from four doors down stumbled across a dead man on his way back from his favourite drinking den, no one would have to notify the Polemarch. Citizens on the far side of the Acropolis would hear the uproar.
‘Kadous, you keep watch out here until I bring the Scythians. We don’t want anyone else tripping over him.’
The Phrygian nodded and I offered him a reassuring smile as Zosime closed the gate behind her. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
Heading back to the city, I did my best not to curse the murdered man. He hardly deserved any more misfortune, but why did he have to die on my doorstep, tonight of all nights? I shivered in the night breeze and wrapped my cloak more tightly around myself. Had I offended some god or goddess? I honestly couldn’t imagine how or who.
Perhaps these villains, whoever they were, had come creeping down the lane intending to attack someone else. Only they had unexpectedly encountered this stranger in the darkness and all but cut off his head in their panic. Then the killers had fled into the night.
But who might have such murderous enemies? Mikos who lives opposite is a bore and a bully, beating his wife and her slave girl both, but bead selling’s hardly a cut-throat business. Sosistratos and his sons can be noisy neighbours, but only at festival time and no one’s going to spill blood over that. Besides, none of that would explain who the stranger was and what he was doing so far off the beaten track.
As I was waved back through the Itonian Gate, I got a grip on myself. It had been a long day with too little food and my imagination was running riot. I forbade myself any more pointless speculation and made my way as quickly as possible to the heart of the city.
There were still a fair few people in the agora, mostly gathered around the altar of the twelve gods. Honouring the deities with sloshed libations, they passed around quart jugs of wine and drank deep. I cut across the southern edge of the marketplace before turning down the road leading to the city’s prison. To my inexpressible relief, a lamp burned beside the door. As I rapped my knuckles on the bronze-studded wood, a wave of exhaustion swept over me. I leaned my forehead against the cold stone wall and closed my eyes.
The door opened a crack. ‘Yes?’ a voice prompted.
I forced myself upright. ‘I’ve come to report a dead body outside my house.’
‘Do you know who it is?’ The door opened a little more to show me a sharp-faced Hellene with an Athenian accent.
‘No idea.’
‘Is he really dead?’ The public slave cocked his head, impatient. ‘Or just dead drunk?’
‘He really is dead,’ I said curtly. ‘His throat’s been slashed open. Someone needs to come and take him away. I don’t want to spend the festival stepping over a corpse to get in and out of my house. You’ll need to notify the Polemarch in the morning.’
‘All right,’ the sharp-faced man said mildly. ‘Kallinos!’
As he turned to call out to a colleague, I got a clearer view inside. Lamps in high niches lit an anteroom where a handful of men in plain, undyed tunics were playing dice around a table. Scythians in linen and leather body armour lounged on benches that lined the corridor flanked by the prison’s cells. There were nowhere near three hundred of them, but still more than enough to give anyone fighting in the streets pause for thought.
Four were rising to their feet and reaching for their bows. They already had short swords sheathed at their sides. A fifth man was stretched out on the floor, his head pillowed on a rolled-up cloak, snoring softly. I didn’t hold that against him. I’d learned to snatch sleep whenever I could during my own military training.
The tallest Scythian rolled his head from side to side to ease some stiffness in his neck. He kicked the sleeper’s booted foot. ‘Come on, Dados. Let’s see what’s what.’
‘He must be a visitor to the city, the dead man,’ I explained as the sleeping Scythian got up and joined the rest of us at the door. He was still yawning and knuckling his eyes as one of his colleagues passed him a freshly lit torch.
‘Never mind that now.’ The tall man was already scanning the agora for potential trouble as the prison door closed behind us. At his shoulder, the man who’d been sleeping was more alert than I’d have expected. The other three were equally vigilant. I knew the Scythians weren’t overly popular. I only hoped that no one tried settling some grudge tonight.
Kallinos, the tall one in command, shot me a sideways look. ‘Where to?’
‘Alopeke.’ I could play laconic just as well as he could.
He nodded and lengthened his stride. Dados fell into step a few paces behind, carrying the torch. The others followed, matching their leader’s rhythm. Out of habit, I did the same. Once trained to defend the city, an Athenian’s a hoplite for life. And that was the sum total of our conversation until we turned in to the lane where I lived.
‘Your house?’ Kallinos gestured to the gateway where Kadous stood vigil with his lamp.
‘That’s it,’ I confirmed.
‘Your household?’
‘Myself, my companion and one slave.’ I hurried past the Scythians. ‘Any trouble while I’ve been gone?’
Kadous shook his head. The Scythian gave my slave a searching look.
‘You’re sure this isn’t your handiwork?’
‘On my oath to any god you want.’ Kadous spread his hands, raising the lamp. We could all see there wasn’t a drop of blood on him.
‘Step back and let’s see what we’ve got then.’ Kallinos squatted down next to the body as Kadous retreated. Dados and another Scythian held their torches high to offer as much light as possible.
Kallinos said something to his men in their own tongue before looking at me with callous good humour. ‘You’re right. This unlucky fucker really is dead. Now, are you absolutely sure you don’t know him?’
I studied the stranger’s face once again. I guessed he was at least a handful of years older than my eldest brother though not as old as my father would have been had he lived, for all the silver frosting his beard. Whoever he was, he was used to hard work. His face was tanned dark from years in the fields and even in the slackness of death a lifetime of squinting in bright sun had scored deep lines between his bushy brows, and between his beak of a nose and his mouth.
‘Quite certain.’ I shook my head slowly. ‘He must be a visitor—’
Kallinos silenced me with an upraised hand. ‘Save it for the Polemarch, citizen. He’ll send word when he wants to speak to you. After the festival, I’d say. Meantime, don’t worry too much. This was a robbery, most likely.’
The Scythians like quick and easy answers.
‘Then why didn’t they steal his shoes? Persian shoes, and expensive ones at that.’ I’d got a better look at his footwear in the bright torchlight. That was some truly fancy workmanship; d
eep-dyed red leather laced high up his shins and tooled in swirling patterns.
‘See his tunic?’ Zosime stepped out from the shadows, opening our gate just wide enough to slip through. ‘That brocaded panel down the front?’
We all looked at the stylised pattern of leaves below the disfiguring bloodstain.
‘That’s an Ionian style,’ Zosime said firmly.
Her Cretan accent presumably convinced Kallinos that she would know, as well as explaining her readiness to speak to a stranger, unlike an Athenian girl.
He nodded. ‘So he’s a visitor who won’t be going home.’
He said something else in Scythian to the others who’d still not spoken a word. One handed Kallinos his torch. He stooped and slid his hands beneath the dead man’s shoulders to get a firm hold. Another took his feet.
As they lifted him up, the dead man’s head lolled forward, hiding the ghastly wound. He might have been asleep, or senseless through drink. Those dark stains on his festival clothing could be spilled wine instead of blood.
‘Do you collect so many dead bodies that this is all in a night’s work?’ I asked Kallinos bleakly.
‘They’re not so common, thank Hades.’ He spared me an unreadable glance. ‘Answers are rarer. Leave this sorry bastard to the gods of the dead, and thank Zeus that you and yours are all safe.’
He nodded to Dados and the sad little procession went on its way. I stood watching until the torches rounded the Hermes pillar and they disappeared into the night. Darkness rushed back with a vengeance, scarcely held at bay by the little lamp Kadous had left by the gatepost. I hadn’t even noticed the Phrygian withdraw.
‘Are you hungry?’ Zosime bent down to retrieve the lamp. ‘Kadous is cooking supper.’
In one breath I realised I was famished, and in the next that my throat was drier than a sun-baked hillside. Then I smelled herbs hitting hot oil and saliva flooded my mouth. I followed Zosime inside and bolted the gate. I wanted to shut everyone and everything out of our small courtyard tonight.
Kadous was frying sardines in a skillet over the cooking brazier, in the light of a lamp on the high windowsill behind him. ‘Nearly ready.’