No strangers had come asking after me. They hadn’t even heard about the riot in the agora. My fears receded as I considered how quickly Pamphilos and the other neighbours would come to the household’s aid if troublemakers turned up.
The best of the festival food had already been eaten, so I was glad Aristarchos’s slaves had fed me. Not that I said anything about visiting his house. I just hinted that nerves over tomorrow’s performance had dulled my appetite.
My mother saw my hands were bruised. There was no hiding such details from her eagle eye. I made light of it, insisting I’d just run into some drunks on the Panathenaic Way. Mother was ready to believe that. As far as she’s concerned, Athens is a city of lawless brutes, so unlike the peaceful countryside she’d known as a girl.
Mother was born out in Kolonai. Her family have lived thereabouts since the time of the Titans. There’s every chance she’d have stayed within half a day’s walk for the rest of her life, happily married to a local boy. But when the Persians invaded, everyone in their path came scurrying into Athens for safety.
Nymenios was fawning over Melina. Wine always makes him amorous. Chairephanes was happily playing with our young nephews and our little niece. I managed to turn Mother’s thoughts to the prospects of him marrying Glykera and blessing the family with more grandchildren. That put an end to any awkward questions.
I was glad of it. The less anyone hereabouts knew of my dealings with the Carians, the safer everybody would be. I didn’t want doorstep chit-chat carrying gossip to the neighbours. Rumours could float away on the breeze until word reached whoever was behind this business. I couldn’t swear the kitchen girls or the workshop slaves to secrecy. Nymenios is head of this household, not me.
I made my excuses as soon as I decently could, walking home fast through the fading daylight, eager to see Zosime. Now that Aristarchos had taken charge of the Pargasarenes, my only concern was my play. I could put everything behind me and look forward to seeing my comedy performed in the world’s greatest city’s theatre.
My good mood lasted as far as my own door. Even in the swiftly fading daylight, I could see that someone had painted a foul accusation along our outside wall in bold, black letters as big as my hand.
Philocles spreads his arse cheeks for any Persian who wants to bugger him.
Chapter Twelve
For the benefit of anyone passing who couldn’t read Greek, whoever had come all this way to insult me had also painted a crude rear view of a man leaning forward. His hands were clasping his buttocks, all the better to show the world his gaping arsehole, with cock and balls dangling below.
I stood there for a long moment, struggling to believe my own eyes. Then I managed to swallow the rage choking me long enough to hammer on the gate. Kadous opened up with a cudgel in his fist, scowling like an avenging Titan.
Lowering the weapon, the slave looked stricken. ‘Philocles—’
‘When was this done?’ I snarled.
‘The paint was nearly dry when I got back here.’ Kadous gripped his olive-wood club so hard that his knuckles showed white. ‘Zosime—’
I pushed past him. ‘Where is she?’
‘I’m all right.’ She came out of the house. ‘It was done before Dad and I got back.’
Speechless, I wrapped my arms around her. Despite her calm words, I felt her trembling. Acid fury burned my throat. ‘We’ll find the bastards who did this.’
Fine words, but if this were a comic play, some character would promptly tap on my shoulder to ask, ‘And how will you do that exactly? What will you do to him then?’
I had no idea. Real life doesn’t have helpful answers turning up just when you need them.
A voice called out in the street. ‘Hallo within!’
‘Menkaure.’ As I greeted him, my heart was sinking. We’d arranged to meet at the theatre after the choir competition, but I’d been nowhere to be found. Chairephanes had assured me he’d seen Zosime into her father’s care but, if the Egyptian didn’t think I could keep his beloved daughter safe from vile insults or worse, I hated to think what he would do. I could hardly protest if he insisted she went back to his lodgings.
As he entered the courtyard, Menkaure held up an oil jar he’d got from somewhere. I caught a powerful aroma, reminiscent of the resin that seals the insides of wine amphorae.
‘Terebinth. This’ll shift it.’
‘Thank you. Kadous! Find some scrubbing brushes!’
‘Let me.’ Zosime pulled free of my arms and headed for the storeroom.
I looked at her father, apprehensive.
He cocked his head. ‘You don’t think I believe this nonsense?’
‘What? No.’ That wasn’t bothering me. Not that he’d think I was a Persian sympathiser, or that he’d have any concerns if he thought I’d ever had a male lover. Egyptians are as sensible as Hellenes, not inclined to the peculiar outrage you hear of among northern barbarians. They know it’s no one else’s business if young men training together become lovers or those on a military campaign share some comfort beneath their blankets.
If that proves to be a man’s lifelong preference, so be it. Most will still meet their obligations to their families by taking a wife to bear children. A man’s choices to satisfy his appetites only become an issue if self-indulgence sees him neglect his duties as a citizen.
That was the point of this insult of course. Likening me to the wretched boy whores in their one-room hovels in the Kerameikos district. The wastrels
