[Philocles 01] - Shadows of Athens

by J M Alvey

  ‘When you have holdings of your own in Ionia you’ll be well placed to profit from Persian trade,’ Glaukias observed slyly.

  ‘You’re sure the Medes aren’t really our enemy?’ Metrobios seemed to be weakening. ‘Because my sons will be called up as hoplites if you tip us into a war. We’re not all cavalrymen.’

  He looked enviously at the well-born around the room. As well as Megakles I recognised men from the Thaulonid and Eteoboutid lineages. Though if I was right, they were both public debtors, named and shamed by the People’s Assembly. They would remain stripped of citizen privileges and denied any chance of high office until they paid what they owed to the city. No wonder they were interested in this.

  ‘You need not worry about that.’

  Parmenides spoke at the same time as Glaukias.

  ‘There are always ways to make sure that the right men are excused from the muster, when any order to summon the draft goes out to the district brotherhoods.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Metrobios raised his cup to summon the slave who was circulating with a jug of wine dipped from the mixing bowl.

  It was a good thing I was effectively gagged by the pipe halter and twin reeds in my mouth. Otherwise I could have told this trio what I thought of their treachery. As it was, I swallowed my ire and retreated behind the other musicians.

  Megakles was preparing a fourth serving of wine. I consoled myself with that well-known saying about drinking at banquets. The first cupful promotes health while the second warms the flesh for pleasure, though none of these men looked interested in fondling the dancers. A third cup promises easy sleep and the wise all agree that’s as much as a man should drink.

  A fourth serving? That’s a sign of hubris, according to popular wisdom. Arrogance. Vainglorious display. Contempt for the gods and humanity alike. Yes, that’s what this was. I fervently hoped I would be a witness when Athena punished these men, as they so richly deserved. I spared a moment of silent prayer to humbly offer the goddess my own hands as her tools.

  Meantime, I wondered what inducements Aristarchos was being offered, over on the far side of the room. He was sharing a couch with a man of a similar age and confident bearing. Aristarchos already knew him, judging by their easy conversation, readily resumed after they broke off to politely applaud the dancers.

  We couldn’t talk tonight without arousing suspicion. I’d have to call on him first thing tomorrow.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The following day, I walked Zosime to the pottery workshop and cut back across the agora to Aristarchos’s house. I discovered my noble patron and Lydis were already hard at work. They sat at opposite ends of a long table set up in the inner courtyard. Papyrus covered the polished wood, in single sheets and scrolls. More scroll baskets were lined up on the paving.

  Lydis was busy writing, his fingers stained with ink. A sheaf of drying letters awaited the imprint of Aristarchos’s seal ring.

  ‘Good morning.’ Aristarchos spared me a smile, sorting through a handful of documents. ‘What did you learn last night?’

  As I related what I’d overheard, Lydis set the half-written letter aside and made notes on a fresh sheet of papyrus. Once I’d finished, I waited for Aristarchos to tell me about his evening but he looked at his slave instead. ‘Make the same enquiries about Metrobios and Thrasymachos.’

  ‘What are you asking about?’ I was curious.

  ‘This and that.’ Aristarchos’s grim expression promised no good at all to the men who’d gathered in that dining room. ‘Marshalling facts.’

  This sounded promising. ‘What can I do to help?’

  He raised a forefinger to tally his requests. ‘Call on your brothers and ask them to make enquiries of other craftsmen, to see who’s stockpiling wood or wool, linen or metals, just as Nikandros has been amassing hides and leather. Discreetly, and only approaching men whom they trust.’

  ‘Of course.’ I didn’t need that warning.

  Aristarchos raised a second finger. ‘Go to the agora. Take your usual seat in the Painted Colonnade so passers-by can offer you writing commissions. Keep an eye on Glaukias. Take note of anyone who comes to talk to him. If they’re strangers, ask around. See if you can learn their names.’

  ‘By all means.’ I’d brought my bag of writing materials with me. If Aristarchos hadn’t needed me after this conversation, I’d planned on heading for the agora to get back to work like everyone else.

  Lydis glanced up, a question in his eyes. Aristarchos acknowledged his slave with a placating gesture.

  ‘You can also save Lydis some walking. Call on your actors. We want to know who Strato and Leukippos have dealings with in the next few days. Ask Hyanthidas to find out if any of our friends from last night are hosting their own banquets, especially Thrasymachos or Metrobios.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Though that would keep me pretty busy.

  Aristarchos looked even grimmer, if such a thing were possible. ‘Think of a way to find proof that these men deliberately set out to stir up unrest in Ionia, with malicious intent. At the moment, we can only prove that they’re gluttons keen to gorge on the consequences.’

  ‘Megakles didn’t let slip anything useful?’ I was disappointed.

  ‘Megakles doesn’t know anything much at all, as far as I could tell. He was saying that he’s handed over much of the day-to-day running of his business to Nikandros.’ Aristarchos’s scorn showed what he thought of that. ‘Megakles is devoting his leisure time to the arts and to drinking.’

  ‘So Nikandros is at the centre of all this?’ I looked at Aristarchos, dubious.

  ‘Seems unlikely, doesn’t it?’ he agreed.

  I had no answer to that. In the silence, we heard the gate open and the low rumble of Mus’s voice.

  The Pargasarenes entered the courtyard, and I was relieved to see that Tur’s face was less swollen today. He could open both his eyes, though his bruises were now nauseating shades of purple.

  Sarkuk looked preoccupied. ‘Shall we call back later?’

  ‘No, no,’ Aristarchos assured him. ‘Philocles and I have discussed all we need to.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, indeed.’

  Aristarchos clapped his hands. ‘Seats, please, Mus. So, what have you learned from your fellow Ionians?’

  As I helped Mus fetch stools from the opposite side of the courtyard, I heard the Carians detailing the taverns and meeting places where they’d sought out their countrymen while I was busy with wigs and musicians yesterday.

  I should ask Menkaure and Kadous to see what they could find out as well, I decided as I waved farewell to Mus. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  * * *

  Heading for my family’s workshop, I was relieved to find Nymenios, Chairephanes and the slaves all busy cutting, decorating and sewing leather. ‘You have found some supplies.’

  ‘Not enough to keep us in business for long.’ Nymenios looked at me, anxious.

  ‘Aristarchos is doing all he can,’ I assured him. ‘And you can help.’

  As I explained, Chairephanes laid down his tools. ‘I’ll go and see Pamphilos. He and Kalliphon will know if the city’s carpenters are seeing anyone disrupting their business.’

  ‘Tell them to be discreet,’ I insisted. ‘Only talk to men they trust.’

  Chairephanes and I walked out of the gate and along the street together. When he stopped to knock on Pamphilos’s doorpost, I headed for Soterides’s tavern, down by the Itonian Gate. My luck was in. Apollonides and Lysicrates were sharing a late breakfast of cheese, olives and bread, along with a jug of well-watered amber wine.

  ‘Join us!’ Lysicrates beckoned.

  ‘Thanks.’ I took a stool at their table. The tavern keeper brought me a cup and I leaned in, elbows on the table. ‘How would you two like to do Aristarchos a valuable favour?’

  ‘Do tell,’ Apollonides invited.

  I outlined our suspicions. I emphasised Parmenides’s claims that these plotters could influence the magistrates’ decision
s over who would be awarded choruses for next year’s festivals, or who would be chosen as patrons for the plays. As I anticipated, both actors were outraged.

  ‘We want to know who Strato is friendly with,’ I explained, ‘and we’re interested in anyone sidling up to Leukippos.’

  ‘And if anyone else is sharpening words to slash at passing Ionians?’ Lysicrates’s eyes were bright.

  ‘Don’t risk getting knifed yourself.’ I showed my bandaged arm and told them what had so nearly happened to me. Their smiles faded. Satisfied, I got up from my stool. ‘Come and tell me what you hear, or leave word at Aristarchos’s house. But be careful,’ I warned a second time.

  ‘We will, we will.’ Apollonides waved me on my way.

  It wasn’t far to Hyanthidas’s lodging. He rented one room of a house shared by an ever-changing array of musicians. He came into the courtyard looking so creased I guessed he’d slept in his tunic. He yawned as he offered to tear me a lump off the barley loaf he was eating.

  ‘No, thanks. I just wanted to let you know that everything went well last night. When do you need that pipe halter back?’

  ‘No hurry.’ He shrugged. ‘What did you find out?’

  I told him and explained that Aristarchos wanted word of any symposium where the plotters might be gathering again.

  Hyanthidas nodded. ‘I’ll keep my ears open.’

  ‘I know this isn’t really any concern of Corinth’s—’ I began.

  He silenced me with an upraised hand. ‘There are greedy fools there as well. They’ll imagine they can pursue their local ambitions if Athens is distracted overseas.’

  He wasn’t wrong. I remembered the long history of Athens and Corinth competing for influence over Apollo’s sanctuary at Delphi, as well as the more recent skirmishing in Aegina and Megara. These fool plotters could start a much wider war and see bloodshed far closer to home than the safely distant killing they intended to provoke.

  ‘Thanks.’ Leaving him yawning and eating his barley bread, I headed for the agora.

  The market stalls were busy with workaday bustle instead of a festival throng. Traders offered everyday staples, not exotic dainties, and customers were haggling hard, not tempted into self-indulgence.

  Men were going in and out of the Council Chamber, most likely those taking their turn as the Council’s executive. That particular responsibility is taken in turn by each group of fifty men nominated annually as councillors by every voting tribe. That’s only one of the checks and balances that safeguard our democracy.

  I found it hard to believe these conspirators really could overcome all such measures and pitch Athens into war. These laws had been instituted precisely to make sure that our city never again fell prey to oligarchy or tyranny, subject to the greedy ambitions of a few. But the men at that banquet had seemed very sure of themselves. I glanced up at the Acropolis and silently begged gracious Athena to show me how to bring down these bastards who so blatantly scorned our democracy.

  Public slaves were taking down some of the whitewashed and red-painted boards hanging from plinths and altars. That made plenty of space for new decrees and proposals. Those measures would be put before the popular assembly as soon as the executive committee summoned the full council to approve them.

  Normally I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Today I wondered if the plotters had some allies already at work in the Council Chamber, enlisting support for some spiteful rebuke guaranteed to rouse Ionian ire.

  The hum of businesslike conversations rather than visiting philosophers’ bold declamations filled the Painted Colonnade. There were no story-telling historians here today to impress idling festival-goers and garner their appreciative coin. There would be plenty of Athenians wanting something or other written though, prompted by family news or a commercial agreement made during the Dionysia.

  I found a space at one end of the colonnade and perched on the topmost step, along with the other humble scribblers. That meant I was well able to see inside where the more exalted writers set up folding tables and stools for their clients. Glaukias was in his usual spot, secured by long custom and his exalted reputation.

  ‘Looking for anyone in particular?’ Phrynichos put his cushion down beside me.

  He often sat on the steps close to Glaukias, I recalled uneasily. That didn’t mean he was some conspirator though. All of us lesser scriveners flock to gather crumbs from more famous men’s tables, quick to offer our services when some great speech writer spurns an inadequate offer or an insufficient challenge for his finely honed skills.

  ‘Who was that man looking for you before the festival?’ Phrynichos asked as he sat. ‘That Ionian?’

  ‘He had some mad notion that the Delian League tribute was to be reassessed,’ I said casually. ‘I told him he was mistaken but he didn’t want to hear it. Do you know who recommended me? Who gave him my name?’

  Phrynichos considered this for a moment, his face open and honest as far as I could tell. ‘He’d been asking about everyone who’d been awarded a chorus. He wanted someone with a solid record of wins before the courts but when he found out how much that would cost him, he started looking for someone good but cheap. He told me your name kept coming up.’ He grinned at me.

  ‘I suppose there are worse reputations to have,’ I managed to say lightly before changing the subject. ‘Where’s the historian from Halicarnassus gone?’ That gave me an excuse for openly scanning the colonnade’s shadows.

  ‘Giving a series of lectures at the Academy.’ Phrynichos studied the crowd criss-crossing the agora, alert for any potential customer.

  ‘Who’s that with Glaukias?’ I wondered casually. ‘I’m sure I should know his name.’

  Phrynichos glanced over his shoulder, uninterested. ‘Stratonides.’

  ‘Of course.’ I waved a rueful hand at my apparent forgetfulness.

  ‘Good day.’ A weary-looking man approached us. ‘My son’s ship has been lost at sea. We need a verse for his memorial.’

  Phrynichos was on his feet first, though he waited politely to see if I wanted to compete for the commission.

  I waved him on. ‘Go ahead.’

  I was more interested in watching Glaukias and Stratonides, because they’d just been joined by Parmenides, the fake orator who’d started the riot here on the first day of the festival.

  The rest of the morning passed in similar fashion. A handful of notable men stopped to exchange a few words with Glaukias. Each time Parmenides popped up from wherever he was lurking. He escorted the men away, leaning confidentially close. I committed their names to memory with increasing misgivings. This conspiracy seemed to be growing more heads than a hydra.

  Meantime, I took on two commissions. A heartfelt eulogy for a beloved grandfather found peacefully dead in his bed. A speech for an indignant farmer from Acharnae ready to argue his case in court. He had been summoned to the city to answer an accusation that he’d fraudulently moved a boundary stone to encroach on a neighbour’s more fertile land.

  The Acharnaean was so outraged that I was pretty sure he was innocent. As a rule I don’t ask, or even try to guess. My job is shaping a client’s arguments into their most convincing form. I leave justice to Olympian Zeus.

  Around noon the Acharnaean was finally satisfied that I understood the enormity of his neighbour’s offence. I reckoned he had a strong case. He certainly had an impressive list of arguments and witnesses to put forward in his own defence.

  We agreed to meet at noon three days hence, when I would show him my draft of his speech. The man departed, hissing under his breath. I was reminded of my mother’s ferrets when something irritates them. As I gazed after the Acharnaean, I could almost imagine him lashing a fluffed-up tail, twisting this way and that as he eased his way through the crowd. Ferrets as a comedy chorus was an interesting idea. Sosimenes could make them some fabulous masks. But could I weave enough of a story around that idea to make a play?

  I stood up, ostensibly to stretch my legs aft
er sitting down for so long. Twisting, I feigned easing a stiff neck as I watched Parmenides approach Glaukias once again. The writer was turning to the slave who kept him supplied with papyrus and pens as well as fetching wine for new clients. The slave gathered everything together and folded up the table and stools. So Glaukias was leaving. If he intended to return after lunch, he’d have left his slave sitting there. I knew that was his usual custom.

  ‘Time for something to eat,’ I announced to the colonnade in general.

  Phrynichos waved a vague acknowledgement. He was deep in conversation with a man wanting a bridal hymn for his daughter’s wedding.

  I sauntered through the agora following Glaukias and Parmenides. Enough other people were going in the same direction for that to be unremarkable. This time though, I was acutely alert for any hint of someone following me. I wasn’t going to be caught out a second time.

  They went to a discreet tavern in a side street to the north of the agora. It looked like an expensive place, and one with a very select clientele. A solicitous, implacable waiter directed passers-by who showed any interest to a less exclusive drinking den on the corner.

  I strode past like a man on his way to an important meeting, his mind on other things. Turning the corner, I ducked back to lurk behind the posts of the drinking den’s vine-clad porch. Athena be thanked, I could get a clear view of the table where Glaukias and Parmenides were sitting. A deft slave was setting out a generous lunch for them to share. A few moments later, Nikandros joined them.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The drinking den’s owner plucked at my elbow.

  ‘Almost certainly,’ I assured him. ‘I’ll be back very soon.’

  Leaving the baffled man behind me, I headed for the Kerameikos district, walking as quickly as I could. I’d have preferred to run, but that risked attracting unwanted attention.

  The workshop door stood open, with all the potters back at their wheels and the painters at their benches decorating the bowls, vases and wine vessels that had been left to dry out over the festival. Kadous spared me a nod. He was helping the old Thessalian as the man prepared the kiln for the second stage of firing that ensured the vivid contrast between the red characters detailed by the painters and the glossy background that would turn black in the heat.