‘She must have a taste for fat old men.’ Pyrrias was much the same age as Mikos. He traded in spices from a warehouse down in Piraeus.
‘She has a taste for their fat purses,’ Zosime said curtly. ‘Besides, Mikos married her to get some sons with citizen rights to inherit his business. That was nearly two years ago and I imagine he ploughs her furrow often enough. If he can’t plant a seed to swell her belly, she has to find someone who can. If she’s divorced for being barren she’ll be sent back to her father’s house and stuck there for life.’
That made distasteful sense. Pyrrias has eight or ten children thanks to his exhausted wife. ‘There’ll be trouble if they’re caught.’
‘Maybe this uproar will warn Pyrrias off.’ Zosime shrugged.
I nodded. ‘Let’s hope so.’
Though who knew what tale Onesime might tell, especially if Mikos tried to beat the truth out of her. After this morning’s farce, he’d be the laughing stock of the neighbourhood unless he could salvage his pride by proving he was right.
Whatever Onesime or Alke said, I’d defend Kadous to the hilt. The distance between slave and master closes up after you’ve been in battle together. Even so, Kadous and I are closer than most. My father had bought him as a young slave when my brother Lysanias reached his eighteenth year and went off for his military training. When the phalanxes were called up for that disastrous Egyptian campaign, the Phrygian was at my brother’s side. They were both trapped on Prosopitis, that thrice-cursed isle that the Persians encircled for a year and a half. When the Mede’s army finally overran the mudbanks, Kadous saw Lysanias die.
I don’t know if the Phrygian ever told my father how he escaped the slaughter, or why he came back to Athens to tell us how Lysanias had fallen. He could so easily have vanished in such confusion. As long as he stayed clear of Attica, there’d have been little enough chance of meeting anyone who would know his face and could condemn him as a runaway slave. But he’d come back and he had seen Chairephanes and me through our own hoplite training, fetching and carrying our gear and advising us how to sleep comfortably camped out on a mountainside. He’d taught us when to move quickly and quietly to avoid a commander’s wrath. I’d never asked why he had come home. It was enough for me that Kadous could tell us Lysanias hadn’t died alone.
He came out into the porch from the storeroom to the left of the central chamber where Zosime and I sleep. The room on the right houses Zosime’s loom and wools, and a spare bed for Menkaure or my brothers on nights when they’ve stayed too late to walk back to the city after dinner.
‘There are some sardines left from last night. I bought fresh bread before I fetched Alke’s water.’
‘We’ve brought olives and cheese.’ I handed them over.
‘I’ll fetch some plates.’ Zosime headed for the storeroom.
We all ate in thoughtful silence. I took care not to drip oil onto my clean tunic. Zosime gathered up our scraps for the hens. With any luck they’d soon be laying eggs again now that they were over their autumn moults and winter sulks.
I looked at the unfinished dining room to the left-hand side of our gate, opposite Kadous’s quarters. At the moment, it housed an old, scarred table, my scrolls and papyrus scraps, pens and ink, together with a couple of stools, and my modest store of wine. When I got rich, it would have plastered and painted walls, with sumptuously cushioned couches and a mosaic floor. If I ever got rich. I couldn’t imagine wealthy men would shower me with commissions after they’d seen the shambles of my play at the festival.
I wanted to run out to prostrate myself before the ancient statue of Dionysus Eleutherios in the little shrine overshadowed by the Acropolis. It wasn’t too late to beg for his favour or, failing that, his pity. Alas, his most revered icon had been carried out of the city to the Academy’s grove. It wouldn’t be brought back to the theatre until this evening, and I had to be there to see it. There was no getting out of such duties.
I heaved a sigh. ‘I’d better get back to the rehearsal.’
Zosime leaned over to kiss me. ‘We’ll see you at the theatre later, to honour Dionysos’s return.’
Chapter Six
When I reached Aristarchos’s gate, Mus opened up. Lysicrates hurried towards me, grinning from ear to ear.
‘Your masks are here and the costumes have just arrived.’
I didn’t give Mikos or the dead Carian another thought. Better yet, the difference between the morning’s pandemonium and that afternoon’s rehearsals was like comparing a bawdy satyr play with the finest high tragedy. All three actors were perfect in word and gesture while the chorus danced and sang as though the muses performed among them. We ran through the market scene several times, and if their costume changes left Apollonides and Lysicrates breathless, that only added to the overall effect.
Menekles nodded approvingly as Hyanthidas saw the chorus off stage with a last flourish of his reed pipes. ‘Euxenos is a fool to think he’ll have the best music.’
As everyone murmured agreement, I wondered idly where my old pipe might be. As a boy I’d wanted to be a theatre player and my favourite uncle found me a battered instrument from somewhere. I’d practised and practised and practised until my brothers threatened to shove that pipe up my nose – or my arse – if I didn’t stop.
Naturally I defied them until Father made his own disapproval clear. Making a living writing was one thing. That offered opportunities for respectable fame. But scratching around for chances to play music at private parties, in temple
