[Philocles 01] - Shadows of Athens

by J M Alvey

  ‘I can imagine.’ I winced with genuine sympathy. I once broke a bone in my foot and that had been agony until it healed.

  Azamis was looking a lot brighter today. ‘Let us join our fellow delegates.’ The old man nodded towards the seats reserved for Athens’ allies.

  Those distant towns’ and islands’ representatives were settling down for the day’s entertainment. I noticed a good few clusters of three or four sitting with their heads close in conversation. I recalled the way these visitors had been looking around before yesterday’s comedy competition. They’d been gazing out across the theatre, admiring the city, or twisting in their seats and craning their necks to look up at the Acropolis behind them. They’d been eager to take in all the sights of our grey-eyed goddess’s city. Today though, whatever they were discussing was evidently more important.

  Sarkuk glanced at his father. ‘Let’s see what someone may let slip about whoever’s urging us to defy the levy.’

  ‘We’ll see what they say when they learn that someone thinks that we’re just foolish monkeys to be led into trouble so that foxes can profit.’ The shrewd glint in Azamis’s eye suggested that the people of Pargasa had good reason to keep him on their council.

  I pulled Zosime’s portrait of Xandyberis from my belt. ‘See if anyone remembers seeing your friend on the day he died. Show them this. If we can learn where he went, and when, that might help us find his killers.’

  ‘Is this your delightful companion’s work?’ Aristarchos pursed his lips, admiring. ‘She is very talented.’

  Sarkuk’s hand shook as he took it, making the papyrus rattle. ‘It’s him, to the life.’

  ‘Let’s meet at the end of the day and share what we’ve learned,’ Aristarchos suggested.

  ‘Are you sure you want to be seen in public with the three of us?’ I asked him bluntly.

  This conversation might still be taken for a passing encounter. Whoever was behind the riot in the agora already knew that I was linked to the Carians but perhaps they still thought that Aristarchos was no more than my play’s patron. Seeing us meet up again risked confirming that we had ongoing common interests.

  ‘Oh, I think so.’ He smiled without humour. ‘Let’s see what these rabble-rousers make of our alliance. What they do next may give us a hint as to who they are.’

  ‘If you think that’s best.’ I glanced towards the actors’ entrance onto the stage. People were already milling about in costume, though not yet masked. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and see if I can find Lysicrates before the plays get underway.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Aristarchos nodded.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I got a few odd looks as I arrived at the rehearsal ground. Today’s chorus men remembered seeing me in all the bustle of parading their masks and costumes on the festival’s first day. They knew I’d written a comedy. I had no business here now that tragedy had taken over the theatre. No playwright ever composes both.

  As it happens, I’d have liked to try my hand at tragedy, but committing to writing three full dramas and the satyr play that follows would have taken more time than I could ever spare from keeping my household fed with my other commissions.

  Add to that, Thalia, muse of comedy, has claimed me for her own while Melpomene has resolutely withheld her gift of tragedy. No matter how serious my theme, whenever I try my hand at penning solemn drama, jokes always edge their way in.

  I smiled at the curious chorus men and went on my way. Thankfully I couldn’t see any sign of Oloros, whose Theseid was to be performed today. The few times we had spoken, he’d struck me as a remarkably humourless man. Taut with festival nerves, he’d be perfectly capable of telling the nearest stagehand to throw me out.

  Inside the actors’ enclosure, there was plenty of elbow room without five comedy choruses and their leading characters all crammed in together. As was customary, actors who weren’t involved in this year’s competition had come to hang around with their fellow professionals, as had the comic actors whose work was now done.

  I spotted Apollonides. He laughed as I approached.

  ‘You’ve recovered from last night? Did you wake up with your head in a bucket?’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ I said ruefully. ‘Have you seen Lysicrates?’

  Apollonides thought for a moment. ‘I saw him by the Shrine of Dionysos a little while ago.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I waved farewell and hurried away.

  I didn’t have long, and I really didn’t want to be one of those people irritating the rest of the audience by sneaking back to their seats after the first play has begun. I especially didn’t want to disappoint Zosime after I’d got her here in time for us to watch today’s tragedies.

  To my relief, Apollonides was right. As I skirted the back of the stage building, I saw Lysicrates chatting with a group of friends, all sat on the front steps of the ancient temple. When I beckoned, he obligingly came to meet me. Better yet, he came alone.

  ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘Better than my stomach. Listen, I have a favour to ask.’ I drew him close with an arm around his shoulder. Quickly and quietly, I explained why I wanted to know of any actors who were particularly adept at foreign accents.

  ‘You’ll have to give me some time to think about that.’ He looked at me, wide-eyed with shock. ‘Should I ask around?’

  ‘If you must,’ I said uneasily. ‘But don’t let slip why you’re asking and don’t mention my name. These folk are always one step ahead of us. We need to find some way to outflank them.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Make sure you are. They’ve already murdered one man and they started a riot in the agora the day before yesterday. Anyone could have been hurt or even killed in that uproar. They didn’t care.’ I didn’t want his blood on my hands.

  The sound of the theatre crane got our attention. The stagehands were making their final preparations for the first play’s opening scene.

  ‘I’ll see you later.’ I hurried back to my seat.

  * * *

  I wasn’t the last one to arrive, but I cut it painfully close. Zosime’s expression was studiously neutral as she and Menkaure made room for me on the bench. I sat quietly, swallowing lingering queasiness and wishing the crowd wasn’t so loud.

  The family behind us were discussing what they knew of the tragedies in this year’s competition.

  ‘Oloros will need something special to beat Myron,’ the mother prophesied.

  Menkaure leaned forward to talk to me past Zosime. ‘Tomorrow’s trilogy will be about Tantalus and the curse he bequeathed to Pelops and then to Atreus.’

  I’m sure it would be very fine, cannibalism and incest notwithstanding. That’s another reason why I’ve made my peace with being a comic playwright. I’d rather spend months polishing jokes about big red cocks and donkey dung than wading through grim tales of tainted blood.

  The noisy conversations all around me hushed as the first actor walked out onto the stage. Theseus in his youth had arrived from Troezen with the sandals and sword he’d found hidden under a rock. These tokens were to prove he was King Aegeus’s son, heir to Athens’ throne.

  Even burdened as I was with wine-sickness and other distractions, Dionysos worked his magic on me. Thanks to the actor’s mask and costume, no one saw an ordinary Athenian, a man we might pass in the street or the agora. Great Theseus stood before us, his passion ringing around the theatre in the very shadow of the mighty rock where he had built his citadel.

  A chorus of citizens appeared to interrogate him. Who was he? What manner of man? Could they accept him as his father’s heir? The audience shuddered as the hero regaled these noble Athenians with tales of the monsters he’d defeated as he fought his way to their city. Each challenge revealed a different facet of his merits.

  A shiver ran down my back when Medea appeared on King Aegeus’s arm. The chorus recalled how she had claimed sanctuary here. They confided their fears to the audience. It looked
as if she was intent on claiming a good deal more.

  Maybe so. To me, the witch looked extremely Persian in her dress and mannerisms. Her accent, too. Though I strained my ears for the voice underlying every word, I was forced to conclude whoever wore that mask wasn’t the actor we were looking for. This wasn’t the fake Ionian from the agora.

  Had this trilogy’s patron insisted that Oloros put those particular words in Medea’s mouth? Who was responsible for the choice of costume and mask? Was it someone keen to stir up more fear and mistrust of anyone from the east? How far did this conspiracy reach?

  Or was I getting paranoid? Medea is always an ominous figure and Oloros had hardly invented her origins in distant Colchis, in the furthest eastern reaches of the Black Sea. That has been part of her story since Jason first returned with the Argonauts.

  Her attempts to kill Theseus are equally well known, relived here as she connived to send him off to fight the bull of Marathon. His victorious return was loudly cheered by everyone whose fathers and grandfathers had fought the Persians on that same plain.

  But Medea wasn’t done. We sat tense as she tried to poison Theseus. We breathed sighs of relief when her scheming was uncovered. Defeated, she fled before Aegeus could call her to account. Her parting shot was a warning that she would watch and wait and take her first chance of revenge. Was that merely Oloros reminding us all of the gruesome fate that would befall Jason’s children – or some more pointed hint that the Persians still menaced Athens?

  My suspicions notwithstanding, it was a very good play. The audience cheered and stamped their feet enthusiastically as the chorus made their exit. Though the family behind us still reckoned tomorrow’s trilogy would be better.

  Zosime caught my eye and grinned. I could see she was eager for that treat. As I returned her smile, I vowed I’d make sure she saw it.

  * * *

  It seemed the gods were determined to hold me to account today. Nymenios tapped me on the shoulder as I queued for three cups of wine in the interval before the next play. ‘Where are you sitting?’

  I pointed. ‘With Zosime and Menkaure. I’m sorry, we didn’t see you when we arrived. Where are you all?’

  ‘Up there.’ As he jerked his head, I saw Chairephanes waving, sat with the others. They had a good enough spot, but we had better.

  Nymenios had other things on his mind. ‘Come on, I’ve just seen Dexios.’

  I stared at him blankly. ‘What?’

  Then I remembered Epikrates on my doorstep with his tale of woe and undelivered leather. That seemed like half a year ago.

  Nymenios had already turned away, expecting me to follow him to wherever he’d seen the tanner. I wanted to argue, but today just the thought of trying to dissuade my brother made my headache three times worse. I sighed and trailed after him.

  Dexios was deep in conversation with someone I didn’t recognise, both of them sipping wine. As Nymenios strode towards him, he greeted us both with an ingratiating smile.

  ‘Good day to you. Such a pleasure—’

  ‘Where’s our leather?’ Nymenios demanded.

  ‘Forgive me, I am so embarrassed.’ The tanner spread apologetic hands, though his dark eyes were as hard as agate. ‘My stock’s run low, a temporary situation, I assure you.’

  Nymenios was having none of it. ‘I want the hides we’ve paid for or I want our silver back. Otherwise we’ll see you in court.’

  He included me in that threat with a gesture. I did my best to look like a man who could write a thundering denunciation instead of someone quite likely to be sick on his shoes.

  ‘No, wait, you have to listen!’ Dexios abandoned his attempts at charm, fat jowls wobbling like a cock’s wattles.

  ‘We have to do nothing of the kind,’ snapped Nymenios.

  I laid a hand on his forearm and glared at Dexios. ‘Make it quick. How have you fallen foul of the temples?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing!’ Dexios protested. ‘Ten days ago I paid up for my usual consignment from the Temple of Hephaistos. We shook hands on the deal but the skins never arrived. When I went to ask where they were, they said a cart from my yard had already collected them.’

  ‘Really? Did you send word to the Archons? I will check,’ Nymenios warned.

  ‘That very same day!’ Dexios’s grievance was loud enough to turn heads. ‘The temple slaves swear they acted in good faith and the chief priest backs them up. He says they can’t be held responsible if I’ve been robbed by such deception. The magistrates say there’s nothing they can do until I find out who collected the hides from the temple.’

  The tanner clenched his fists and turned to me. ‘Will you help me, when I drag these bastards into court? Write me a speech that’ll scald the jury’s ears? I’ll pay whatever you ask.’

  That convinced me he was telling the truth. Dexios always haggles Nymenios down to the last sixteenth of an obol. Now he was inviting me to help myself to his silver. ‘Have you any idea who did it?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He scowled at the avid onlookers as if he suspected them all. ‘Not the priest at least. He was appalled to realise how easily he’d been duped.’

  Nymenios surprised me by giving Dexios a curt nod. ‘You can have until the end of the month. Supply the leather you promised us or return our silver.’ He scanned the avid onlookers’ faces and snapped his fingers as he saw someone he recognised. ‘Kephalos, will you stand witness for me?’

  The man nodded, along with several others who looked familiar from local brotherhood meetings, or the Alopeke district council, or somewhere I’d probably remember if I’d drunk less wine the night before.

  ‘The yard will be back in business within days regardless.’ Now Dexios was smiling, visibly relieved. ‘With all these sacrifices for the Dionysia, we’ll have as many hides as we can handle.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Nymenios turned to stride away before the tanner could say anything else.

  I hurried after my brother. ‘At least that’s settled. If Dexios can get us the skins, all well and good. If he can’t, we’ll just do business with Pataikos.’

  Nymenios shook his head, looking grim. ‘I saw him earlier. He says everyone’s bidding against him for those hides from the temple at Acharnai. He says every temple he deals with in the city has had someone pay coin, up front, for all this festival’s hides. If Dexios wasn’t so busy guzzling free wine, he’d know that for himself.’

  I stared at him, astonished. ‘Who has that much silver?’

  ‘Nobody knows. The temples aren’t telling, presumably to keep the coin coming.’ My brother’s face hardened. ‘As soon as the festival’s over, we need to talk to everyone in the leather trades, and the other tanners. We need to find out what’s going on before we’re all beggared.’

  ‘Then why did you give Dexios until the end of the month?’ Now that really confused me, with or without my headache.

  ‘To give him every incentive to find out what the fuck’s going on.’ Nymenios let slip a hint of desperation. Then he turned on me. Ever since we were kids, if something’s bothering him, he finds a way to give someone else grief. ‘When are you coming to see Mother? She wants to talk about your play.’

  She wasn’t at the theatre today. She’d lost her taste for tragedies after burying her husband and losing one of her daughters with a stillborn grandchild, all the while mourning her lost son.

  ‘Soon.’ I hesitated. ‘I hope so, anyway. You’re not the only ones with troubles. Someone’s spreading lies about me.’

  I explained, swift and succinct, about the paint on my wall. I didn’t particularly want to tell my brother, or have to listen to his advice, but Nymenios was the head of the family. I decided I wanted him forewarned before someone stirring up shit brought home a rumour that I was a Persian sympathiser.

  ‘I’m trying to get to the bottom of it, but that could take me the rest of the festival.’

  Nymenios nodded with reluctant understanding. ‘So we’ll see you if we see you.’


  ‘Say sorry to Mother for me.’ Someone else I owed amends.

  I barely reached my seat with the cups of wine that I’d promised Zosime and Menkaure before the second play started.

  Wracking my brains over who could be wrecking my brothers’ business, as well as wondering why someone was stirring up trouble among Athens’ allies, was an unwelcome distraction as the drama got underway. Theseus was on board ship, sailing for Crete with a chorus of youths and maidens, all to be sacrificed to the Minotaur. In a nice touch, these were the sons and daughters of the citizens’ chorus from the previous play.

  Poseidon offered to save him, in return for Theseus installing him as patron god of Athens. To no avail. Theseus stayed loyal to Athena. Poseidon revealed himself as the hero’s true father but, once again, Theseus wouldn’t be swayed from his duty to King Aegeus and the city.

  Duty was the thread running through this play. When Theseus returned in triumph, to relieve the fears the chorus had been sharing with the audience, he brought Ariadne with him. He explained how her help and her ball of yarn meant he’d been able to slay the Minotaur and escape the Labyrinth. But he still left her on the island of Naxos, as the chorus performed a very fine rendition of the Crane Dance. As Theseus heroically explained, yielding to his love for her would fatally split his loyalties. Athens had his allegiance, first and always.

  I was out of my seat as soon as the chorus left the dancing floor. I’d caught a glimpse of Lysicrates over by the rehearsal ground.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ I promised Zosime.

  ‘Make sure you’re not or all the cheese will be eaten.’ Menkaure was unpacking a lunch basket.

  I had to go the long way round, circling the back of the stage building. When I arrived, I searched in vain for Lysicrates. I did see Oloros and he glowered at me. Was he anxious about the tragedy competition or was he part of this conspiracy to turn Athenian hostility eastwards? If he was working with the city’s enemies, why would he do such a thing? My head ached. All these questions could drive a man mad.