There was no sign of Tur. I was relieved to think the young fool wouldn’t be here causing trouble with his volatile temper, or prompting gossip as people saw his cut and bruised face. On the other hand, I’d be relieved to know he’d made it through the night after taking such a vicious beating. I’d seen more than one man go to sleep after a thrashing, never to wake again.
Now that they’d completed their circuit, the Ionian delegates were leaving by the theatre’s western entrance. I was on the eastern side. So near and yet so far. I was itching with frustration. I could hardly run down there and chase the procession to ask them my questions and share my news about the rumours Kadous and Menkaure had heard. I’d have to find them later, or maybe try and catch Lydis, to give him a message for Aristarchos. For the moment, I could only watch as Azamis and Sarkuk walked away, and the Ionians were replaced by nervously smiling delegates from the Chersonese and the countless islands strewn across the Aegean.
At last, when the procession was over, the allied delegates were escorted to seats reserved for them. Shading my eyes with one hand, I was able to pick out where the Pargasarenes were sitting. No one with evil intent would be able to reach them there.
Now the penetrating clamour of brass trumpets announced the arrival of young men who’d just completed their military training. These weren’t all of their year’s contingent though; only the ones whose fathers had died in battle fighting for Athens.
Some of their fathers had been men in my phalanx who’d perished, I shouldn’t wonder. I owed so much to those older soldiers who’d offered their help and advice on the punishing march to Boeotia. They had bolstered us when we were as green and untested as these young men on the dancing floor, when we stood shoulder to shoulder and defied our city’s screaming foes.
Under the solemn gaze of the city’s generals, Pericles prominent among them, these young warriors were presented with their hoplite armour by a grateful city. There were a lot of such deserving young men this year. More than could be rewarded with the sets of warrior’s gear donated by Athens’ allies at the last Panathenaia. That extra equipment would have been paid for from the public treasury. Families who’ve lost so much will never face the humiliation of seeing a hero’s son demoted to the ranks of the rowers because they cannot meet the costs of equipping him.
That’s another reason why I’ve no wish to father citizen sons. It’s why I set some of my earnings aside for the day when I can repay Nymenios for my share of the family business’s profits. I’ll honour my father’s memory by helping to educate and equip young Hestaios and little Kalliphon, along with any other boys born to Melina, and to Glykera and Chairephanes if that match gets made.
Public money might maintain the gymnasiums’ wrestling grounds, running tracks and the teachers holding classes among the Lyceum’s groves or the Academy’s colonnades, but there will be further fees to pay if my nephews are to benefit from the best trainers and tutors. Lectures by visiting philosophers, sharing their latest thoughts on history, mathematics or whatever else the boys show a talent for will cost still more silver.
Sombrely watching this parade of those bereaved by war, I remembered my father relating his struggles to see all four of us properly trained and equipped. Though every sacrifice was worth it, he swore after a few cups of Chian, sloshing his wine for emphasis. No son of his would sweat at a trireme’s oar with some lentil-muncher on the benches above him farting in his face.
I never asked if he felt the same after Lysanias died in Egypt. Glancing at the seats of honour, I saw Aristarchos sitting with his hands knotted in his lap. I couldn’t see his expression at this distance. Was he remembering his own slain son, who was now wandering the shadowy asphodel fields in the realm of the dead?
As I commended Lysanias to the care of the gods below, I wondered if it would have been better or worse if my lost brother had left a son to be honoured at a Dionysia. Would that have tempered my father’s heartbreak, or leavened my mother’s grief? I’ve never been able to decide.
There was a pause as the generals left the stage and Athens’ newest soldiers marched off in well-drilled formation. Slaves were ready and waiting to receive their gleaming armour so they could come back to enjoy the comedies. I hoped a few of my jokes would ease the ache of their loss. That, and a few swallows of the wine provided at Aristarchos’s expense.
A cohort of slaves began carrying amphorae and cups up and down the theatre’s aisles. It was good-quality wine, Lydis had assured me. As people took this opportunity to stretch their legs or have a word with friends and family, I noticed Aristarchos summon his secretary with a snap of his fingers. As I made my own way towards them, Lydis came quickly around the edge of the dancing floor, beckoning to me. We met halfway.
‘The master begs the favour of a quick word.’
‘Of course.’ I hurried down the slope with the slave. ‘The boy, Tur, how is he? Has a doctor seen him?’
Lydis nodded. ‘Spintharos advises that he rests completely, for several days. He is concerned about the blows he took to the head.’
‘Understandable.’ I only hoped the young idiot would take the doctor’s advice, or his father and grandfather could convince him. Either that or tie him to his bed.
We reached the marble seats ringing the dancing floor and Aristarchos turned to greet us.
I wasted no time. ‘I’ve been hearing more strange rumours.
