For Lauren Paton and Daniel Thomas Paton
CONTENTS
Someone at the Gate
A Spooky Festival
A Tasteless Invitation
The Great Socrates
A Very Small Mystery
Argos
A Meeting
The Golden Helmet
A Marble Sarcophagus
Notes in the Night
Trailing Suspects
A Game of Petteia
Roasted Octopus and Fish Sauce
For Your Eyes Only
A Spot of Tell-Tale Pollen
In the Graveyard
Centaur Alpha
A Cunning Plan
Masks for the Festival
A Note from Socrates
The Way in to the Acropolis
Face to Face with General Pericles
Traitors and Heroes
The Chase, the Capture
Thrax Explains It All
The Good Ship Calliope
Bonus Bits!
Glossary
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
Someone at the Gate
Late Winter/Early Spring, 432 BC
It was bitterly cold and the young guard shivered in his flimsy hand-me-down uniform. He was standing at a tower that guarded one of Athens’ many city gates. The Acharnian Gate. It looked north over a sprawling suburb crammed with square houses and the rolling countryside of Attica beyond. In the clear moonlight, the young guard could see a road, thin as Ariadne’s silken thread, wending its way between orchards and fields. It widened as it approached the city to stop outside the gate.
He stamped his feet on the ground to get some warmth into them. He thought of his younger brother and sister asleep in their straw-lined cots and wished he were at home too, ready to comfort them should they wake up from a distressing nightmare. There’d been a lot of talk in Athens these last few months about a war with Sparta, and his little brother especially had often gone to bed anxious and fearful. Despite his brother’s fears, the guard half hoped the rumours were true. Like all men under nineteen, he was not allowed to join in active service. He could only be a guard in Athens, or in one of the many forts guarding the city and the roads leading to it. But if war with Sparta were to be declared, a high-ranking officer somewhere might turn a blind eye to his age and let him join a proper phalanx. All he’d need would be a panoply, the bronze armour that all hoplites wore. If only he could afford one…
‘Theodorus!’ a gruff voice called from below. ‘Would you like some wine to warm your bones?’
‘I would, thanks.’ The young guard threw one last glance at the empty road and then hurried down a steep flight of stairs. The stairs led to the bottom of the tower, where an older guard sat hunched close to a fire in a brazier. A patched and frequently darned chlamys was pulled tightly around his sagging shoulders. His thick beard was flecked with white, showing he was too old for military duty outside Athens. He nodded at a wine jug on the ground.
‘Help yourself.’
‘Thank you, Simos. May the gods reward your generosity.’ Theodorus picked up the jug and swallowed the wine in large, noisy gulps.
‘I’m getting too long in the tooth to be sitting out here in the cold,’ grumbled Simos, rubbing his hands together.
‘You’re retiring soon, aren’t you?’ said Theodorus.
Simos nodded. ‘The wife’s family have land close to Mount Parnes. They grow olives and grapes. We’ll be joining them in a few months.’ He yawned loudly and scratched his armpits.
‘You try and get some sleep,’ said Theodorus. ‘We’ve been on duty since sunrise. I’ll wake you up if we have visitors. Not that it’s likely. No one in their right mind will be wandering about in this weather.’
The older man pulled one end of his chlamys over his head and leaned against the brick wall. In no time he was snoring loudly. Theodorus checked that the large wooden beam on the gate was secure. Then he spread his own chlamys close to the fire, placed his spear next to it and removed his helmet. He was tired too…
A loud banging noise made Theodorus wake up with a start.
‘Open up, guards!’
‘Wait a moment.’ Theodorus scrambled to his feet, reaching for his helmet and spear at the same time. He shook Simos awake.
‘Are you asleep in there?’ demanded the voice outside.
Theodorus ran back up the steps. A large donkey cart had stopped outside the gate. Two figures sat in it, both of them swathed up to the eyes in dark himations. One of them held a bundle on its lap.
‘Move away from the gate so I can see you properly,’ ordered Theodorus.
The cart trundled back an arm’s length.
‘State your business,’ he said.
‘We are delivering cabbages to the priestesses at the temple of Demeter,’ replied the cart driver. ‘For a dawn sacrifice.’
‘No one’s allowed into the city at night,’ said Theodorus. ‘You should know that. You’ll have to wait till sunrise.’
‘We were held up on the road by a faulty wheel or we would have got here before sunset,’ protested the driver.
The other figure held up the bundle, which was now squirming and mewling like a lost kitten. ‘For the love of Hera, the mother goddess, our child is sick. We’re hoping the priestess will offer a small sacrifice on her behalf when we deliver the cabbages. This cold is doing her no good at all.’
Theodorus turned to Simos, who had come up the steps behind him. ‘What are we to do? On the one hand, we’re under orders not to let anyone into the city at night. On the other, there’s an ailing child.’
The older guard was about to speak when something came flying over the parapet and landed with a clink at his feet. Theodorus looked down to see a bulging purse on the ground. He picked it up and pulled on the drawstrings. ‘There’s silver in here, Simos. A bribe. Well, that’s made up my mind. Bribes don’t work on me.’
‘You are not yet a father,’ replied Simos. ‘Who would blame a man if he is desperate to have his sick child blessed by the goddess?’ He chuckled deep in his throat. ‘There’s enough silver in here for me to buy a few goats and for you to buy a panoply. They’ll never make you a fighting hoplite without the proper uniform.’
‘Very well,’ murmured Theodorus as Simos divided the silver between them. ‘But I’m going to check that cart carefully. Just because I’ve accepted a bribe doesn’t mean I’m not going to do my duty.’
He slipped the coins into a pouch tied to his belt, then ran down the steps and removed the wooden beam from the gate. Simos, who had followed him, rushed forward to open it.
The farmer’s cart trundled through and the young guard waved it to a halt. The baby whimpered loudly.
‘We need to inspect the contents of your cart, sir,’ said Theodorus. ‘Just a routine check. Nothing to worry about.’
He nodded at Simos, who lit a torch from the brazier and brought it over. The torchlight illuminated four large wicker baskets piled high with cabbages. Theodorus climbed up and rattled them one by one. There seemed nothing suspicious about them. Still, he thought about sticking a spear through one, just to show the farmer who was in charge, but at that moment the sick baby starting wailing and sneezed.
Theodorus jumped back down from the cart. ‘Everything’s fine, sir,’ he called. ‘You may be on your way.’ The driver flicked the reins and thecart resumed its journey. It disappeared round the corner.
‘I hope we’ve done the right thing, Simos,’ said Theodorus as he helped his friend secure the Acharnian Gate again. ‘That man said he was a farmer but he sounded more like a politician at the agora to me. And if he was on his way to the temple of Demeter, he should have turned left at th
e corner, not right…’
* * *
The farmer’s cart trundled up the street till it came to a small shrine dedicated to Hera, where it stopped. The driver climbed down to take a pee behind it. He was a very tall man with weak, narrow shoulders. His belt was tight around an enormous paunch. The other figure on the cart noticed how huge and rough his hands were as he got into the cart and picked up the reins again. They could break your neck in an instant.
‘You have done well,’ the driver said as the cart started moving again. ‘I am most impressed by your skills. My friend was right to recommend you when I said I needed an assistant. You could have fooled me with your act. I’d never have suspected that bundle of rags was not a real baby.’
His companion smiled. ‘Thank you, sir. There’s nothing to throw a burly guard into a panic like the sound of a sick child. It’s called voice-throwing. It’s a talent I inherited from my father, who got it from his own father, my late and much-missed grandpa. Everyone in my family is a travelling performer of one kind or another, sir.’
‘Do you throw anything else besides your voice?’ asked the driver.
‘I throw spears, sir, and flaming swords. With deadly accuracy, if I might be permitted to boast a little. Oh, and I throw shadows too.’
‘Shadows?’ said the driver.
‘I make shapes with my hands and I project them on to a wall. It’s an art my ancestors learned in India, sir. Believe me, it has saved my life on more than one occasion.’
‘I may have use of that particular skill soon,’ said the driver.
‘Tonight, sir?’
‘No, tonight I just needed your help with getting into the city. I will stop the cart on the edge of the Kerameikos, the potter’s district. I want you to wait there for me while I retrieve a lost object from a nearby building. But there’s another matter.’
The driver’s face darkened as he pulled up under an ancient oak tree, and his companion noticed he had only one good eye. The other was made of marble. It glowed in the shadows like a miniature full moon. ‘Those guards at the gate certainly fell for your baby trick but I’m not sure I did so well. I let my accent slip for a few moments and I think they suspect I am not the farmer I claim to be. They need to be silenced. Can you help me with that?’
‘An arrow through the heart, sir? Perhaps with a fiery head for added effect?’
‘Just honest day-to-day kidnap, I think,’ laughed the cart driver. ‘We don’t want to draw attention to our crime. See to it as soon as you can. Those guards will fetch a good price at a slave market in Sparta.’
His companion watched as the driver climbed down from the cart and disappeared into the shadows.
CHAPTER ONE
A Spooky Festival
A few days later
Master Ariston sighed wearily and flopped back on to his couch. ‘Those heartless muses refuse to answer my prayers. I can’t write any more. Perhaps I should tempt them with an offering of sweet-smelling violets. It is said that the muses can’t resist a sacrifice of violets. They love them as much as the people of Athens do. Where in the name of Apollo is Thrax? I need him to fetch me a big bunch of violets right away.’
‘You sent him to the market already, sir,’ I answered. ‘We ran out of dried figs and raisins, remember? You can’t write a word without your favourite treats.’
Master Ariston is a travelling poet. He travels all around the Hellenic world performing at weddings, funerals and special parties called symposiums. He is not a very good poet. In fact he’s terrible. He only gets hired because his father, Master Lykos, is a retired sea captain with many useful connections in Athenian society.
Thrax is Master Ariston’s personal slave. His duties include keeping the master’s clothes clean, his footwear polished and his beard trimmed and styled in the latest fashion. He also has to deliver messages, carry Master Ariston’s belongings when we are travelling and fetch things from the market. It’s lucky that Thrax is very fit or he’d collapse with exhaustion by the end of each day.
I work for Master Ariston too but I am not a slave. I am a free man, a scribe, though if I’m honest, my wages are barely enough to keep me in clean chitons and help out my parents on the island of Kos. My job is to write down all the poems that Master Ariston makes up.
I don’t intend to remain a lowly scribe all my life. I have plans to become a famous writer like my hero, Herodotus. He has managed to make dull history read like an adventure story. People will come and listen to me performing my work at grand symposiums. I’ve written three stories already, based on my adventures with Thrax.
Thrax has his own ambitions, which are bolder and nobler than mine. Like all slaves, he dreams of buying his freedom. Then he’ll set off to distant Thrace, where he means to search for his long-lost mother.
Most slaves never get to buy their freedom because it costs more money than they can ever hope to have, but I believe Thrax will soon achieve his ambition. He is my best friend and together we solve mysteries for people who pay us handsomely in return. I always refuse to take my share of the payment, insisting that Thrax needs it more than I do. The stories I get are payment enough for me.
‘Nico,’ barked Master Ariston, cutting through my thoughts. ‘Have you fallen asleep? You haven’t written down a word I’ve said.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ I said as I picked up my stylus. ‘I didn’t realise you’d found your inspiration again so suddenly.’
Master Ariston sniffed grandly. ‘My dear, if I had to wait for those tight-handed muses to grace me with their presence every time I wanted to write a poem, you’d be out of a job. And I’d be destitute and living on the streets.’
This last claim was a gross lie. Master Ariston doesn’t really need to earn money. His family is extremely wealthy. We live with his parents in a beautiful house in Melite, a prosperous deme in the western part of Athens.
I tried not to sigh loudly as we resumed our work.
‘Like a rat with a singed tail
The god of war stomps down Mount Olympus
Watch out
His eyes burn like fire.
They will scorch you.’
What utter dross! How I wished Thrax and I had another thrilling mystery to solve. Then I could be figuring out clues and motives in the back of my mind while scratching away on my tablet. It had been just over three months since our return to Athens from the island of Aegina, where we’d had our most exciting and dangerous adventure yet. I’d hoped Athens would soon provide us with another mystery to grapple with. The city was, after all, home to some of the richest and most influential people in the world. And if there’s one thing my adventures have taught me it’s that wherever there is money and power, there are always criminals plotting some dastardly crime…
‘Nico,’ chided Master Ariston. ‘Your mind is wandering again. Please pay attention.’
I pushed the thought of adventure firmly from my mind. Despite my fervent hopes, it seemed there was not even a sniff of a mystery here, just work. Still, there was something to look forward to. It was going to be the Anthesteria in ten days’ time.
The Anthesteria is one of four major festivals in Athens. It is so important it has a month named after it, Anthesterion. The festival is dedicated to Dionysus, the god of the grape harvest, wine, theatre and ritual madness. Ritual madness happens when people work themselves up into a frenzy while dancing and feasting at the temple, or during a festival, especially one dedicated to Dionysus. It doesn’t last long but people like to boast about how hard the madness gripped them.
I’m not one given to enjoying ritual madness or dancing. Indeed I can barely move without tripping over my own clumsy feet. But I have to admit, I do enjoy a bit of feasting, as can be seen by how tightly my chiton fits around my tummy. I hardly ever drink wine, though, not even at festivals. I prefer to keep my mind clear on grand occasions, so I can observe people whom I might use as characters in my stories.
And there is always a lot to observe during t
he Anthesteria. For three whole days, the people in Athens celebrate like there’s no tomorrow. They hold lavish feasts where the slaves and the domestic staff are invited to sit alongside their masters. The wine from last year’s harvest is tasted for the first time and the drinking cups and dishes are bedecked with fresh flowers. There are street parties and competitions that last all night. Relatives visit each other with gifts of food and wine.
But there is a deliciously spooky side to the festival too. It is said that the dead rise from their graves outside the city and float into Athens to celebrate the Anthesteria with their living relatives. People brush tar on their front doors to keep the walking dead out of their houses. They chew on the bitter leaves of the hawthorn so that their foul-smelling breath will stop the ghosts from trying to kiss them and perhaps suck out their souls. The festival ends with a special sacrifice of cooked lentils. It is offered to Hermes, who orders the dead to eat it and then leave the city. No living person touches the cooked lentils, for fear that they will turn into ghosts themselves.
As a budding writer, it was this gruesome side of the Anthesteria that excited me the most. I was looking forward to sharing it with Thrax for the first time. It was the sort of thing he would enjoy.
‘Nico,’ growled Master Ariston from across the room. ‘You are DEFINITELY asleep on the job. Go and splash cold water on your face. I’ve just had a brilliant idea for a new song and I want you to write it down before I forget it…
‘In fair Athens
My fair Athens
There lived a pretty maid
She was tall
And she was fair…’
Master Ariston never finished the song because just then something happened that was to pitch Thrax and me into the most important adventure of our lives, and the most dangerous Anthesteria ever.
There was a soft knock at the door and the front door slave brought in… a skull.
CHAPTER TWO
A Tasteless Invitation
Shadow of the Centaurs Page 1