Master Ariston glared at the skull in distaste. ‘It’s an invitation, master,’ said the front door slave. His name was Herakles and his job was to open the front door to visitors and deliver messages around the house. You’d imagine anyone called Herakles would be tall and impressively muscled. Not our Herakles! He was shorter than a ten-year-old child and had the kindest green eyes you could ever imagine. I liked him very much.
‘An invitation?’ said Master Ariston, sitting up on one elbow. ‘The proper way to send an invitation is by word of mouth from a trusted slave. Whoever sent this must be new money. He is ignorant of social etiquette in Athens.’
‘Perhaps he is recently arrived from Corinth, sir,’ said Herakles. ‘I hear they get up to all sort of new-fangled shenanigans there.’
‘Who is it from?’ said Master Ariston, frowning at the skull as if it were going to leap up and bite him. ‘I’m certainly not going to touch it. Nico, you have a look.’
Herakles brought the skull over to me. It sat on a silver dish and had something poking out of its left eye socket. A rolled-up piece of parchment.
‘It’s Egyptian papyrus,’ I said to Master Ariston as I unrolled it. ‘And very expensive too. Whoever sent it definitely has money.’
‘And is determined to show it off,’ sniffed Master Ariston. ‘How hideously common. My father has money but he wouldn’t dream of wasting it on skulls and silver dishes.’
I read out the invitation.
‘Menelaus the goat merchant
Requests the pleasure of Master Ariston the poet
For a symposium at his house next to the shrine of Aphrodite in Kollytos
Tonight after sundown.
There will be a discussion of the underworld
With Socrates the philosopher.
The entertainment will include dancers and jugglers in ghostly costumes
Suitable for the approaching festival of the Anthesteria.
A carriage will be sent to fetch the master and his retinue at sunset.’
Master Ariston looked at me in astonishment. ‘Did you say GOAT MERCHANT? Are goat merchants wealthy enough to have symposiums now?’
I rolled up the papyrus. ‘Menelaus must be held in great esteem, sir, if the great Socrates himself is going to be there. He is the most highly regarded philosopher in the world. The oracle at Delphi called him “the wisest man alive”.’
Master Ariston’s lips curled into a contemptuous sneer. ‘Socrates is one of those misfits who would attend the opening of a grave if it meant encountering someone to lure into one of his philosophical discussions. I heard he spends hours in the shops around the agora, talking with the young men who are not yet allowed to orate there. He’s even interested in slaves’ and shopkeepers’ views. And his clothes are so stained and bedraggled you’d think he was a penniless farmer. He goes around barefoot, like the lowest of slaves. Can you imagine?’ Master Ariston sat back on the couch with a malicious smile on his lips. ‘Socrates might be a famous philosopher, my dear, but I hear his wife beats him up almost daily.’
I found this last comment quite shocking. I too had heard rumours that Socrates and his wife often came to blows, but I wouldn’t dare make fun of them. In fact I hoped the rumours were just thoughtless gossip. I despise violence of any kind and the sight of someone being beaten leaves me reeling for days. It came to me that perhaps Master Ariston was pointing out Socrates’ difficulties because he was jealous of him. Socrates was famous the world over and I knew that what Master Ariston wanted more than anything else was to be just as honoured and respected.
‘Inform the merchant that I’ll attend his symposium,’ said Master Ariston. ‘Perhaps I should meet this man who sells goats for a living but can afford to hold grand symposiums and host the cream of Athens’ society. Nico, write a reply on the back of the papyrus. We’ll return it in the skull’s eye. The right one this time.’
CHAPTER THREE
The Great Socrates
I love Athens. It’s the most glorious city in the world. Its temples and public buildings are second to none. It even has a Mint House, where the Athenian coins are struck. I love walking between the columns of the shaded walkways in the agora, the market place, and drinking from its splashing fountains. The walkways are called stoas and provide a cool respite from the hot sun.But it’s not just the magnificent architecture that inspires. The people are pretty special too. If you have any ambition in life, if you want to be an author or an artist, a philosopher or an athlete, this is the place to be. The place to move to. You will always find someone here to help you fulfil your ambition, to make your dream come true.
General Pericles, the first citizen and leader of Athens, is a great admirer of literature and the arts. He rebuilt many of the temples and public buildings that were destroyed during the old wars. When those had been restored, he set about building enough new ones to make Athens the envy of the world. The most awe-inspiring of these stand in an ancient fort on a hilltop inside the city. We call it the Acropolis, and as Master Ariston, Thrax and I rattled past it in Menelaus’s carriage that evening we spotted its giant bronze statue of Athena looking out over the city. The setting sun caught the tip of her spear, making it flash like the evening star.
We could see workers and artists crawling all over the roof of a building rising behind the walls of the fort. They were working to finish the decorations of what many thought would be the jewel in the crown of the Acropolis. A temple dedicated to Athena! It was called the Parthenon.
We arrived at Menelaus’s house along with many other guests. As is usual with symposiums, only men are invited. They gather in a hall called the andron. Women hold their own gatherings in a part of the house reserved for them, called the gynaikon.
Master Ariston was hoping that the house would be a monument to the bad taste of the newly rich, but the floor of Menelaus’s andron was beautifully decorated with a mosaic showing Pan, the protector of shepherds and flocks, in various scenes from myths and legends. Tapestries on the walls depicted him playing hide-and-seek with nymphs.
‘I am so glad you could come,’ said Menelaus after slaves had washed Master Ariston’s feet and he was showing us to a richly decorated couch. ‘I hope you will enjoy the evening. Just let me know if something is not to your liking.’
‘The man has style, I give him that,’ muttered Master Ariston begrudgingly as Menelaus left to greet more guests and a slave brought a three-legged tabled piled high with delicious-smelling food. Thrax and I stared at it hungrily but we knew we would not be offered anything to eat. We were not here as guests but to take care of Master Ariston and make him look important. A second guest soon joined him on the couch.
‘Are we to sit together?’ he said to Master Ariston. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you. I crept out to use the facilities.’
The man was broad-shouldered, with a very thick neck and hairy arms. As he waved at someone crossing the room, I noticed he had callouses on the palms of his hands. He introduced himself as Zeno, the gym master at the agora. ‘I am told that Pericles himself might grace us with his presence,’ he said. The couch creaked under his weight as he sat down.
‘I hear that at every symposium I attend,’ sniffed Master Ariston, helping himself to some cubed cheese. ‘But he never comes. General Pericles is known to be a very shy man. He prefers to spend his free time studying literature rather than attending symposiums.’
He turned to Thrax and me, standing to attention on his side of the couch. Zeno had not brought any slaves with him. Perhaps he had no need to show off. ‘Did you know that Pericles has the biggest forehead in Athens? I’ve heard he is so embarrassed by it, he always keeps his helmet on. Even in bed!’
Thrax and I threw worried glances at each other. Surely disrespectful talk like this about Athens’ first citizen could be considered treacherous?
Zeno coughed loudly to show his own displeasure at the remark. ‘I for one think Pericles is the greatest politician in the world. And
he doesn’t work only on behalf of the nobility and the rich. He looks after the poor too. It’s because of him that many hard-working people can rise above their station.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Master Ariston, completely unaware that his previous comments had caused offence. ‘I hear he’s letting the masses have free tickets to the theatre. I wonder what the slaves and the goatherds will make of the classics. I shouldn’t wonder if they leave them scratching their heads in puzzlement. In my opinion, common people are completely unable to appreciate art.’
I could see Zeno’s face turning a bright scarlet at this slight against the poor. He was about to answer Master Ariston when a loud murmur rippled through the andron. The great Socrates had arrived.
‘He’s actually wearing sandals for once,’ gasped Master Ariston, sitting up on the couch and craning his neck to see. ‘And he’s combed his hair. Wonders will never cease.’
Menelaus himself showed the renowned philosopher to a couch right next to us. I noticed he had a big bruise on the right side of his forehead. My heart sank. Had he been in another fight with his wife? I hoped Master Ariston wouldn’t mention it and embarrass us all again. Thankfully, he merely smiled and nodded.
‘Good evening,’ said Socrates to everyone around him.
‘It’s a great honour to have you in my house, sir,’ said Menelaus, clicking his fingers at a slave who then rushed forward with a basin full of perfumed water to bathe Socrates’ feet.
‘We usually serve wine after the food but if the great Socrates would like some before, he only has to say.’
‘Wine tastes much better when you have to wait for it,’ chuckled Socrates. ‘I’ll nibble on some food like all the other guests for now, thank you.’
Menelaus bowed and left to welcome more guests. Master Ariston nodded at Socrates. ‘There are some dried figs on my table, sir. Would you like some? I hear they are your favourite.’
‘Thank you,’ said Socrates, reaching for the bowl and tucking into a handful of the fruit.
‘How is your wife, Xanthippe, sir?’ asked Master Ariston.
‘Xanthippe is very well, as always,’ replied Socrates. ‘Although I have to admit that we had another fierce row yesterday and she hurled a vase at my head. She’s very good at throwing vases, is my wife.’
‘And an accurate shot too, by the looks of it, sir,’ said Master Ariston tactlessly.
‘And your own lady?’ said Socrates. ‘Is she a good shot?’
‘My name is Ariston, sir,’ replied our master. ‘I am not yet married.’
‘Your father hasn’t found you a suitable woman yet, eh?’ chuckled Socrates. ‘Well, you should marry soon, Ariston. You are not getting any younger. I say every man should marry. A good wife will make him happy. A bad one will make him a philosopher.’
‘Do you think women are equal to men, sir?’ asked Zeno, leaning forward on the couch.
‘Society doesn’t treat them as equals,’ replied Socrates. ‘But if it did, we would soon discover that women are superior to men in most ways.’ He turned to Thrax and myself. ‘And who, might I ask, are these bright-looking young men?’
‘The muscled one is Thrax, my personal slave,’ said Master Ariston. ‘The chubby one is my scribe. He’s called Nico.’
Socrates nodded at Thrax. ‘Do you think that women are superior to men, young Thrax?’
‘I do indeed, sir,’ replied Thrax at once. ‘If you compare Hera to Zeus, you’ll find that she acts more rationally and kindly than her husband. He’s the one who’s always getting into trouble and she’s the one who always manages to get him out of it.’
‘Wise words indeed,’ declared Socrates. ‘You have a fine slave, Ariston. Treat him well.’ He bade Thrax come forward. ‘I notice you don’t seem to have a fibula, young man. Your chiton is held at the shoulder by a button.’ He removed one of many pins on his own rather threadbare clothing. ‘Take this as a gift. It will remind you of me when you get into an argument. I have had thousands of arguments in my life and I have never shied away from any of them. That is why I can live with myself.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Thrax, hooking the fibula at his shoulder.
‘Thrax is a very intelligent boy,’ boasted Master Ariston. ‘With the help of Nico, he has solved some fiendish mysteries. He discovered who smashed a precious wedding vase in Corinth and he rescued a girl who’d been kidnapped by dangerous cutthroats in Delphi. He even managed to retrieve a priceless ring stolen by a gang of hoodlums in Aegina.’
‘I did hear something about some derring-do in Delphi,’ exclaimed Socrates. ‘I believe the missing girl is now the pythia at the oracle. So that was you two, was it?’ He smiled at Thrax and patted the empty side of the couch. ‘Sit here and tell me all about your adventures.’
Master Ariston cleared his throat pompously. ‘Sir, if I may remind you, slaves are not permitted to share couches with free men.’
‘I don’t hold with any of that nonsense,’ thundered Socrates. ‘Slaves not allowed to sit with free citizens indeed! And the poor boys look hungry to me. Have something to eat, both of you. There’s enough here to feed a phalanx. Now, tell me, Thrax, how did you rescue this girl?’
While the slaves kept bringing in more food, Thrax and I took turns in recounting our adventures in Corinth, Delphi and Aegina. There was no time to go into detail but Socrates and Zeno were both clearly impressed.
‘You two rival Jason and the Argonauts,’ said Zeno.
‘Nico has written stories about our adventures,’ said Thrax. ‘He’s a very talented writer.’ His praise made me blush but Socrates looked at me again.
‘I would like to have a look at your writing. If your master will allow you the time, perhaps you could come to my house and read to me.’
‘I can certainly spare him the time,’ replied Master Ariston. ‘In fact I could bring him to your house myself. I am a writer too, a poet and a singer. I would relish the opportunity to show you some of the poems I am working on.’
‘I have great respect for people who can solve mysteries,’ said Zeno. ‘I am no good at solving anything myself. I’ve been grappling with a perplexing little mystery of my own these last few days, but I have got nowhere.’
‘Oh,’ said Socrates, ‘what mystery is that?’
‘I suspect it is too trivial to interest Thrax and Nico,’ replied Zeno. ‘It concerns my old slave and my dog.’
‘There’s no such thing as a trivial mystery, sir,’ said Thrax. ‘What often appears to be a small matter can often lead to something much bigger – and deadlier.’
‘The boy speaks like a true philosopher,’ cried Socrates. ‘Tell us about your little mystery. We’re all ears.’
Zeno was about to speak but just then Menelaus declared the banquet over. Slaves hurried into the andron and cleared away the dirty dishes while others ran in with wine cups of different shapes and sizes. A large vessel called a krater was set in the middle of the room.
‘How much wine to water, gentlemen?’ called Menelaus. ‘Do we want to drink to oblivion or just enough to enjoy the evening’s entertainments? We are fast approaching the festival of the Anthesteria and in the spirit of all that is dark and shadowy, we have storytellers to tell us tales of the restless dead, we have dancers who shall dance like shades fleeing from Hades and we have musicians who will play music to make the skin crawl and tantalise the spirit.’
‘Three parts water to one of wine,’ chorused the guests. ‘Let us enjoy the entertainments.’
‘Let it be thus,’ said Menelaus, as wine and water were poured into the krater. ‘And now I invite the great Socrates to take the floor.’
‘Come tomorrow to my house,’ said Zeno, taking a wine cup. ‘I will tell you all about my puzzling dilemma then.’
‘I shall come too if I may,’ said Socrates as he stood up. ‘I am dying to find out if Thrax’s words might come true. Will a small mystery lead to a bigger, more dangerous one?’
CHAPTER FOUR
A Very
Small Mystery
Zeno’s house was right in the middle of a narrow street the locals called the Street of the Four Winds. It ran from one end of the Kerameikos, in the north of Athens, to the other. The house looked small from the outside but once past the altar to Hermes near the front door, Thrax, Master Ariston and I found ourselves in a surprisingly large courtyard with doors all around. Pigeons cooed in a grapevine as we came in. Water gushed in front of an altar dedicated to Ares. Somewhere inside the house a child shrieked and a dog barked happily.
A rather tall slave showed us across the yard into an andron with only two couches. He was an old man, with stooped shoulders and grey bristles sprouting from his ears and nostrils. Socrates had already arrived. We found him sitting on one of the couches, talking excitedly to Zeno and quaffing wine, even at this early hour. A second bruise had joined the first one on his forehead.
‘Another flying vase, I’m afraid,’ he chuckled sadly as we came in. ‘Soon there will be no more pots left in our house and Xanthippe will have nothing to throw when we have a fight.’
‘Come in, everyone,’ said Zeno. ‘Welcome to my andron. Don’t stand on ceremony. Take a seat, boys. Hilarion will bring you some snacks and something to drink.
Zeno had obviously just returned home from the gym. He was dressed in the official uniform of the gymnasiarch – a purple cloak and gleaming white boots.
Hilarion took the cloak from him and left to fetch the food and drink. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see a rather gruesome mosaic on the floor. It showed a battle between centaurs and soldiers. The hulking centaurs wielded enormous clubs with sharp spikes and tree branches. The men looked just as deadly, the tips of their spears tearing into centaur flesh. There seemed to be blood everywhere, worked out in polished crimson tesserae. In the background, women and children dressed for a grand occasion were screaming.
‘It shows the famous battle between the Lapith people and the centaurs,’ said Socrates. ‘It took place at the wedding of the Lapith king, Pirithous, and his bride, Hippodamia. She was a famous horse-trainer who could put any horse under her spell.’
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