The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae Read online

  “Come on, you can’t afford to cut yourself off from the few remaining friends you have. I’ve come to offer you a temporary home. It’s close by, which from the look of you must be its main attraction.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer: just bent down, picked up my gear and walked off. I hesitated a moment then hobbled after him. He was right, it wasn’t far, but far enough because by the time he walked into his brother’s bar my ribs were agony.

  “I’ve moved in here, hadn’t the heart to stay on the family farm so I help out here when the muse deserts me. It’s changed a bit since you last saw it. Look.”

  He pointed to a staircase of unseasoned mountain pine with sap oozing from its crevices.

  “Once it dries out and twists into position it should last forever.”

  I followed him gingerly up the steps to a newly built first floor with a balcony looking down over the harbour. It smelt of the sea, I liked that and the view over the waters. This was my first room in Piraeus and it’s only a stone’s throw from where I’m sitting now as I write this.

  He pointed to the bare ceiling, chanting,

  “Come! Let someone work out in the ceiling a lesbian moulding in triangular rhythms.”

  “And what’s that from?”

  He’d drawn me back into life, almost made me smile.

  “Just a fragment from an idea I’m thinking over about the chamber where the Danaids killed their husbands, long way from being worked out but seemed appropriate.”

  He pointed to a chair and I sat while he poured two beakers of wine from a jug on the table. He sat on the cot, which was the only other piece of furniture. Sparse but the largest and best lit room I’d ever had. We sat in silence drinking and after a while I asked,

  “What’s Themistocles up to down there?”

  “He’s waiting for Xanthippus.”

  “Why?”

  “To demand that the Archon insists that he answer to certain charges levelled against him by true citizens of the Polis.”

  “What charges?”

  “Charges that he led an expedition to an enemy Polis in order to betray the interests of the city of the Goddess.”

  “Fuck off Aeschylus: everyone knows the expedition was Themistocles’s idea. What do you think the Athene Nike was doing there?”

  “I think it was there because Themistocles sent it to keep an eye on the men who would betray the Demos and the Polis.”

  “Don’t be stupid: Lysias and I were there. We know what went on.”

  “And that’s why you will both end up testifying before the Areopagus that it was only Themistocles’s prescience in rooting out the treachery that prevented the city of the Goddess from being sold to the enemy. I’m sure you will both remember having seen agents of the Great King on Aegina.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to counter this. He was of course right: the whole thing was a set up. But I wasn’t prepared for what he said next.

  “I suppose you’re unaware that while the Athene Nike was away, we declared war on Aegina.”

  This was too much. I opened up my lungs to shout at him but with the first sound doubled up in pain. The pain intensified and I tried to sit back up and find a position where the agony was less acute; as the tortured gasps wheezed out of my chest and tears of pain streaked down my cheeks, Aeschylus started to laugh.

  “Gods, I’d forgotten how much I missed you, Mandrocles; it’s like having my own personal chorus of rustic idiots in the Satyr plays. Without you and Cynegeiros life was even bleaker than the Gods intend for us. Here get your breath drink this.”

  I did what he said. The truth was I’d missed him too, in spite of what had been done to my master. We finished the jug then he helped me onto the cot and left me alone. I fell asleep to the murmur of voices but whether they were from the harbour or the bar downstairs I couldn’t tell.

  I woke next morning to a room full of light and life felt a little better, but I still hadn’t much idea what I was meant to do. I sat up and slowly got out of bed as painlessly as possible and was searching for the pot to piss in when Aeschylus breezed into the room. Framed in the bright sunlight streaming in through the window, I could see that the recent years hadn’t been kind to him either. His face bore not only the scars from Marathon but also a series of lines grooving their way down from the sides of his nose towards the edges of his mouth. The jet back hair now held streaks of grey and showed signs of receding. I’ve noticed that men with hair of that particular blackness seem to lose it early. I could see then the first sign of the man that you will recognise from the cheap busts of him for sale in every market place, fashioned during the fame of his later years.

  “You look even worse in daylight, Mandrocles, and you stink. Make yourself look as good as you can and have a wash. We’re going out.”

  He must have seen the look on my face because he added,

  “Don’t worry, you won’t have to walk. I’ve hired a cart.”

  “Where, where are we going?”

  “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told. Get yourself ready then meet me outside.”

  I did what I could then staggered down the stairs. Outside there was a small trap attached to something that looked like the cross between an ass and a giant Molassian hunting dog. Aeschylus helped me into it then handed me a cup of warm spiced wine and a honey cake. I was touched that he’d remembered my love of those.

  “These should help to take your mind from the jolting of the cart.”

  “Tell me, where are we going?”

  “No, but you don’t need to worry, it’s not to see Themistocles.”

  As we drew closer to Athens I realised we were heading for the Hangman’s Gate into the Ceramicus where Themistocles chose to live close to the heart of the Demos. We passed through the gate and didn’t stop at the great man’s house. By now I knew where we must be going and my heart was pounding. I hadn’t said goodbye and now I was back: disfigured and smelling rank. Aeschylus helped me down from the cart and hammered at the studded door. A panel opened, revealing the boxer’s face of Demetrius. Time hadn’t improved him: since I’d last seen him he’d acquired a new scar across his mouth and lost a couple of teeth. Seeing me seemed to cheer him up though.

  “Well, what’s happened to you? Not such a pretty boy now are you?”

  I knew it was only rough banter and not ill-meant but it hurt. My confidence was already shot through, would she still want me? I didn’t have long to wonder: Aeschylus slipped him a coin, the gate opened and we walked through. It was just as it always was, a neatly swept courtyard with a line of doors like stables at the far end where sitting on a shaded veranda a group of girls were playing dice.

  “Go on, Mandrocles; she’s not going to bite.”

  I wasn’t so sure and was about to ask him to wait with the cart when I saw him walking back out through the door which Demetrius slammed shut behind him. Lyra left the dice players and floated off the veranda towards me, her smile made me want to break down and blurt out all the things that had torn me apart since I last saw her. I reminded myself that she was a flute girl and the smile went with the trade.

  She kissed me gently on the lips then took my hand and wordlessly led me through the door and into her quarters. Pushing the door closed with a practised back flick of her heel the noise from the dice players receded and we were on our own. It was then that I discovered the real reason for my visit. She pointed to a small table by the window.

  “There, recognise that?”

  I did: it was the drinking cup that Metiochus had given me back in the Chersonese before we had to make a run for Athens. The one he had given me in his attempt at seduction. Fitting that it had turned up again after he’d tried and failed a second time, this time to kill me.

  “Where did you get that?”

  For a moment I hoped that Elpinice had sent it and that she and Cimon were somewhere I could join them.

  “It was sent by a great man.”

  She was being playful, seei
ng this as a joke.

  “Who? Which great man?”

  “You should have asked your friend before he left; he delivered it a couple of days ago.”

  Then I understood what all this was about, all this pretence at friendship, it was to show me who owned me: whose man I was whether I liked it or not. Themistocles was reminding me through the people I loved that I was his dog. Aeschylus was a false friend, a panderer and she – well, she was the whore the world took her for.

  I told her that and a lot more, struggling to get the words out through the pain in my ribs and anger in my heart. I looked round at the room: the whore’s workplace. Saw she’d had a bath filled with scented and oiled water, saw the jug of wine with the two lovers’ cups by the bed. The Gods do this to drive us from our wits. Offer you something you crave then turn it to shit before your eyes. That’s how they make us mad.

  Everything that I could see in that room I wanted so much, yet all of it was false and tainted. I don’t know how long I raged at her. Let her have all the spleen and hatred I felt for the world. It wasn’t all aimed at her, but she was there and they weren’t so she got it. Stood and took it, said nothing. Said nothing, stood there arms by her sides, tears slipping down her cheeks. Stood there with a look of surprise on her face. Not anger, just surprise, hurt surprise.

  For a moment I thought maybe I’d got it wrong. I wanted to have got it wrong but I’d gone too far: poured it all out, said things that couldn’t be unsaid. Hurt surprise: but then whores are the best actresses there are: every minute of their lives is an act. So I carried on – couldn’t stop – and she stood and listened, arms by her sides. Stood and listened with the hair that she’d let down as we entered that room falling almost to her waist. Stood and said nothing with tears on her cheeks. Hurt surprise.

  “You pornoi bitch.”

  I stumbled out of the room across the yard to the gate. The dice players had been listening; they backed off as I came out. Demetrius opened the gate; there was no jibe or leer this time. Just a look of surprise and something that resembled pity. The door slammed behind me and I knew I’d cut myself off from everyone who mattered to me. It had all happened so quickly – I’d gone from Mandrocles the Beautiful, hero of Marathon to Mandrocles the disfigured friendless nobody. Worse, I was Xenos, a foreigner in a town where foreigners without friends or a particular skill weren’t welcome. I wanted to go back: try and start over again, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

  I shambled around the Ceramicus for a time; even the pornoi avoided me. I was tired, heartsick and sore so lurched into the dingiest, empty bar I could see. I found a shelf sticking out from the wall in the corner, pulled up a rough stool and ordered wine. Wine uncut: the madman’s ostraka and the quickest route to oblivion. The wine was vinegar, the place stank and my arm stuck to the filthy shelf but I was beyond caring. I poured the wine down as fast as I could; I think I hoped it might send me into a sleep from which I’d never wake.

  But even here I was out of luck. As I was vomiting back up the first foul jugfull, a gang of men, sailors and drunk by the sound of them, staggered in. Not only drunk but angry, sounding like they were after someone’s blood. I slunk back as far as I could into the shadows of my corner: I’d recognised one of them. Eubulus: Megacles’s man. Didn’t take me long to work out who his companions were. Their anger gave them away. They were from Xanthippus’s trireme fresh back from Aegina and their grievance was legitimate.

  They’d been detained in Piraeus whilst Themistocles had arraigned Xanthippus for crimes against the Polis. But it wasn’t Themistocles who was top of their list for vengeance. As I listened, I realised what danger I was in. Their speech may have been slurred but the meaning was crystal clear.

  “You fucking expect it from politicians but not from men who sail with you. Fucking Athene Nike, never trusted those bastards.”

  I couldn’t recognise who was speaking but no one disagreed and he ploughed on.

  “Look at who’s commanded her first Mil-fucking-tiades, the pirate and now Themistocles, that slippery bastard who would rather walk fifteen miles to tell a lie than speak one word of truth to the man sitting next to him.”

  He paused to empty his cup, which he then slammed down onto the table. It smashed; all his mates laughed and he shouted at the misshapen lump tending the bar before getting to the point of his peroration.

  “So go on then, tell, tell me what type of man chooses to sail under shits like them? Yeah, you know don’t yer mates, you know. Cos there’s no one who could get a berth on a decent barky who’d sail with them; am I right?”

  From the noise that followed it was pretty clear that he was right.

  “Men who’d betray anyone, men who betrayed us on Aegina then slunk away early to get back with the dirty news to their new master, who’s the same bastard as stitched up their old master.”

  He paused to shout again at the barkeep.

  “Hurry up with that cup or we’ll drown you in a jar of the filthy piss you sell as wine.”

  His mates liked this and urged him on.

  “We’ve all seen ’em swaggering round with their noses in the air like they’re better than the rest of us. Like they’re the only real seamen. They fought in the revolt, they were in the front line of Marathon. If I hear that liar Themistocles talking about Marathon any more I’ll stop believing it happened even though I was there meself.”

  This got the best laugh of the night.

  “So it’s time we settled with them boys, time we brought them down. Time we got revenge for our mate Eubulus. Start with that swaggering bully Theodorus, see how a smashed jaw and broken nose look on him when they find his body in the Eridanos one morning.”

  He turned to shout at the barkeep but he was already on his way. This is when my day got even worse. On his way with the new cup he stopped off at my corner to collect the empty jug. The seamen watching became aware of my presence and their spokesman said in a friendly tone,

  “Let’s ask our mate over there if he agrees with us. Hey mate what’d you …”

  He never got any further: I heard Eubulus say,

  “Hang on mates: you know who that is, don’t you?”

  Chapter Seven

  The game was up, I’d cast the last die and landed the dead man’s throw. The room went silent: I saw the greasy innkeeper slink out of his filthy booth. The orator was the first to reach me; I sat cowering, which it seemed was now my only role in life’s tragedy.

  “Well, well, look who we’ve got here mates; the bum boy Xanthippus took along as bait. Looks like life’s not turning out too well for you, Mandrocles the fucked up.”

  He laughed so hard at this he almost choked. Now they were all crowding round hemming me into the dirty corner. I hadn’t the room to stand up even if I’d wanted to. In my state I couldn’t resist. Scared as I was, a part of me was saying, “Why not let them: get it over quickly, then at least the peace of oblivion.” Wasn’t only me thinking that; someone said,

  “No need to wait for Theodorus, let’s start with him. Won’t take us long, then dump his body in the great sewer.”

  I didn’t even bother to object, I was finished whatever happened so just prayed they’d be quick.

  “Don’t let the wine run off with your wits, mates.”

  The speaker was Eubulus. Why was I always running into him? It took him some time to divert their attention from killing me but he got there eventually, otherwise this tale would have ended in the filthy squalor of that bar. The world wouldn’t have been changed much but you’d have been deprived of my story, reader, and without it you’d have never heard the truth about what really happened back then. The true story of how the Athens you’re so proud of came to be built.

  “I don’t think we’ll get much thanks for killing him before our masters have a chance to question him. A chance to find out what went on with Themistocles before we landed.”

  Even I could see the sense in this once he’d spelt it out, and so could they. It was a
tight run thing though. Pulling drunken men back from the verge of killing is no easy task and I’ve seen it fail too many times. They pushed a none-too-clean hood down over my head and marched me out of the bar. I don’t know how long we walked; it felt like hours and with every step the pain in my ribs got worse. They didn’t handle me gently.

  Eventually, after an eternity of stumbling, I felt a better constructed path under my feet as we struck upwards on a steep gradient. If you’ve ever had your ribs cracked badly enough you’ll know what it’s like having to walk up a steep path at an uncomfortably quick pace, even without a greasy hood pulled down over your face. Then we stopped.

  I heard someone hammering at a door, and from somewhere inside a voice demanded to know who we were. I heard it swing back on creaking hinges and we moved forwards. I lost track of time then, we were left to wait, in a courtyard I think from the smell of blossom. The sailors weren’t so confident now; the walk had sweated some of the drink out of them. I think they were beginning to wonder if what had seemed a good idea in the tavern had really been such a smart move.

  Then everything changed. I could tell that they were in the presence of someone they feared. As soon as he spoke I knew where we were.

  “Let the eagle see the rabbit.”

  There was no response to this.

  “Take his hood off, idiots.”

  It was twilight but it still took some time for my eyes to focus in the light – but when they did I found myself staring into the face of Xanthippus. He offered me a sad and strangely sympathetic smile.

  “I’m sorry you’ve been handled this way, Mandrocles, seems to happen every time I see you. Accept the apologies of my house.”

  He turned to the sailors.

  “This man fought at Marathon, he won his current hurts under my orders. Whatever Themistocles brought down on us was none of his doing. Consider yourselves fortunate you didn’t serve him worse.”

  A retainer tossed a purse of coin to Eubulus and they shambled out, touching their foreheads in deference, leaving me alone with Xanthippus. He put out an arm to help me and thus linked we walked slowly into a room where I presume he received his clients. A slave helped me onto a finely carved chair with arms inlaid in ivory while another handed me a wine cup. I recognised the cup’s provenance: Wild Goat style; delicate, ancient and rare. My father had some which had been handed down by his grandfather. I turned it in my hands, examining it carefully; it was a fellow refugee. Xanthippus noticed and laughed.