Spartans at the Gates (14 page)

Nikias stifled a laugh. “My grandfather once chased me with a
spear,
” he said.

“What did you do?” asked Konon, nearly choking on a mouthful of wine.

“I hid in the mountains for a couple of days,” said Nikias. “Until his iron cooled off.”

The drunk turned his chair and faced the two young men, giving them a lopsided smile. “I couldn't help overhear your story of love, young man,” he said with an unknown accent. “And I am compelled to offer my advice.”

Nikias looked closely at the foreigner—a dark-skinned man with bushy eyebrows, a proud beaky nose, and wine-stained teeth. He was around forty years of age, and handsome in his way, but possessed one of the scrawniest physiques Nikias had ever seen. If the man had been a Plataean citizen he would have been fined annually by the state for being unable to meet the battle fitness of a hoplite: to wear the fifty pounds of armor, and bear a twenty-five-pound shield—a prerequisite that lasted into a man's eighth decade.

“What's your advice, friend?” Nikias asked.

“Don't ever,” said the foreigner, “under any circumstances, no matter how lonely or drunk or depraved”—a pause to take a long drink from his cup—“be so foolish as to marry a woman and thus forever seal your miserable fate. And furthermore, do not procreate.” The foreigner put his cup to his lips and drained the wine, then chewed on some lees between his incisors. Then he stood and tried to bow, but pitched forward.

“Now I must be off, young fellows,” he said politely, after they'd put him back on his feet. “I must attend to some business. I hope that you will heed my advice.”

He staggered out of the wineshop and disappeared into the street.

“Crazy drunken foreigner,” said Konon, fingering the metal disk he would use to redeem his mule and cart. “I pity the man's sad wife.”

“What's this, then?” asked Nikias.

A tall, willowy, and dark-skinned slave girl, of perhaps twelve years of age, approached their table and looked Nikias straight in the eye. She was unveiled and had a self-assured expression on her intelligent face.

“Nikias of Plataea?” she asked, raising her chin regally.

“Yes,” replied Nikias. “Who wants to know?”

“My mistress sent me with a message.” She handed Nikias a tiny scroll bound with ribbon.

He took the proffered message and pulled on one end of a rose-scented ribbon, then held the papyrus up and read it silently.

“Well,” asked Konon impatiently. “What does it say?”

Nikias read aloud. “‘To the great pankrator, Nikias of Plataea. Please come to my symposium tonight and make me laugh again. Blessings, Helena.'” He handed the note to Konon, who read it for himself, openmouthed.

“She must be the hetaera I saw in the theatre,” said Nikias. He looked at the slave girl. “You were there, too, weren't you? Standing beside your mistress?”

The slave girl nodded.

“I've heard of this hetaera,” said the amazed Konon. “She is very popular! You've only been in Athens for an hour and you've been invited to one of her symposiums. Unbelievable!”

Nikias thought for a while. He didn't have anything better to do until he found the doctor. And this Helena might be able to direct him to Chusor's old lover—the hetaera named Sophia. Maybe he would be able to find someplace to sleep at the symposium—on a cushioned couch. And he had to admit that the woman he'd seen at the theatre was gorgeous. The thing about her that had intrigued him most, however, was the cheerful sound of her laughter.

Nikias stood up and pulled on Konon's tunic, forcing him to rise to his feet. “Come on, then.”

“I—I can't go with you!” spluttered Konon. “I won't know what to say! It's a symposium! There will be philosophers and playwrights and Zeus knows what other students from the brain-factories!”

“Stuff that!” said Nikias. “I'm not going without you. And you don't have to say anything. Eat and drink and if you have to fart, well, just find yourself a lonely corner and stuff a pillow over your arse.”

Nikias followed the slave girl, who was already walking fast up the Street of Thieves with a determined stride.

 

THIRTEEN

The hetaera lived in a new two-story house in a neighborhood at the northeast base of the Akropolis. The house was lit up on the outside with hundreds of oil lamps, and Nikias heard odd, frenetic music playing from within.

Two well-built men who stood guard at the front door to the courtyard stepped aside as the slave girl approached. She led Nikias and Konon inside and told them to sit on a stone bench that encircled a splashing fountain. She called for slaves to attend to their feet.

“She has her own fountain,” whispered Konon with awe as one of the slaves took off his sandals and washed his feet in a bucket.

Nikias said, “Let's hope she has good food, because I'm still hungry.”

“Me too,” said Konon. “One silver owl doesn't go very far in the Street of Thieves.”

“Hey!” said Nikias, appalled. “What are you putting on my feet?” The young foot-cleaner was dousing his toes with scent from a phallus-shaped bottle.

“Everyone in the
city
does this, master,” replied the slave with barely contained contempt.

“Smells good,” said Konon, lifting one of his feet to smell it.

Nikias gently slapped the slave's hand away before he could spray the scent into his hair. “Not in my hair,” he said. “I like the way it smells just fine.” The slave curled his upper lip slightly, but did as he was told. Konon was grinning as his attendant sprayed copious amounts of perfume into his hair.

After the attendants were done with their work they bowed and departed. Konon leaned over and sniffed Nikias's head. “You do smell of horse,” he said with a newfound superiority.

“I like the way horses smell,” said Nikias. “If they'd sprayed me with horse sweat I would have been perfectly happy.”

“I think the perfume is brilliant!” said Konon, rubbing his hair and sniffing his palm.

The slave girl returned and handed each an empty wine cup, then asked them to follow her. Nikias looked into the bottom of his cup and saw an erotic painting of a young woman pulling back her dress to mount an aroused young man.

“Did your mistress pick this one out herself?” Nikias quipped.

“Yes,” said the slave girl, very serious. “Specifically for you.”

That put Nikias back on his heels a little.

Konon frowned as he peered at the painting on the bottom of his cup. “Mine's got a dirty old satyr raping a goat's arse,” he said, disappointed.

The girl led them across the courtyard and down a long corridor. The walls were hung with erotic scenes—images more graphic than anything either Nikias or Konon had ever seen.

“Gods,” whispered Konon reverently, pausing to gawk at an orgy scene set in a glade. “I didn't even know centaurs could do
that
.”

“And in a pond, no less,” said Nikias.

The girl stopped them at the threshold to the drinking room and asked them their full titles and told them she would announce them once the music had ended. An older slave woman emerged from an alcove and put a garland of flowers around their necks.

Nikias peered into the small room. It had couches along all four walls and a raised dais in the center upon which sat the musician. The kithara player was strumming rapidly on his harp in a mysterious style that Nikias had never heard before. About a dozen men were lounging on the couches, holding wine cups and nibbling on food.

“Where is your mistress?” he asked the slave girl, looking everywhere in the room for the hetaera but not seeing her.

“She is still dressing,” she replied. “She will come down soon.”

The musician ended with a flourish—scraping the catgut so forcefully with his plectrum that Nikias thought he would snap the strings right off the tortoiseshell body. When he was done the men in the room cheered loudly. Several put down their drinking cups and clapped to show their appreciation. The musician smiled and bowed his head.

“That was awful,” Konon whispered to Nikias.

“Waste of a good cat,” said Nikias, slapping his hands together unenthusiastically.

When the noise had quieted down, the slave girl took a step into the room and announced their names in a high, clear voice.

Nikias and Konon walked hesitantly into the silent room. Nikias scanned the faces and saw mostly bearded men and only one or two beardless boys, all wearing garlands. Some of the guests stared back with bemused expressions, others with curiosity, a few with out-and-out hostility.

“Somebody usher them in,” called out a stout man who was past military age. He carried an elaborate ceremonial staff showing that he was the symposiarch—the appointed master of the symposium. “You! Aristophanes. You're the youngest.”

Nikias recognized the smiling face coming toward him. It was the young man with the hawkish features he'd spoken to outside of the theatre in the agora.

“Remember me?” he asked, giving Nikias an ironic smile. “My name is Aristophanes.”

Nikias smiled and bowed his head politely. “Of course. You told me what a tragicomedy was all about.”

“And you demonstrated one for us soon thereafter,” said Aristophanes. “When you beat young Apollo with one punch.” He glanced at Konon and acknowledged his presence with a curt bob of his head.

“Aristophanes is famous for playing women upon the stage,” said the aged symposiarch.

Aristophanes smiled and bowed slightly. “And Aeskylos, here,” he said, gesturing at the symposiarch, “is simply famous.” He put a hand on Nikias's shoulder. “Come, both of you, I'll show you to the wine.”

He led Nikias and Konon to a gigantic clay vessel—big enough for Nikias to crawl into—sitting on a marble table at the back of the room. It looked several hundred years old and was decorated with little black painted figures. A slave boy stood inside it up to his waist in wine and dipped a ladle into the liquid, filling their cups to the top.

Nikias and Konon sipped their wine and smiled.

“Quality stuff,” whispered Konon.

A voice broke the silence, asking, “What's the news from the Oxlands?”

“Yes,” demanded another partygoer. “Tell us about the battle with Thebes.”

Aeskylos put his hands on his hips. “What is this?” he asked peevishly. “News corner at the agora? We are in a symposium, the subject of which was chosen by our hostess, the hetaera Helena. I will not insult her wishes by allowing the talk in this room to degenerate into gossip.”

“What is the subject of this symposium?” asked Nikias politely.

Aeskylos grinned at Nikias, showing a mouth missing several teeth. “Dear lad,” he said, “the subject of this gathering is ‘The Delights of Lovemaking.'”

“Gods,” said Konon, choking on his wine. “I guess I'll be keeping my mouth shut tonight.”

A dashing fifty-year-old with brooding eyes and a thick black beard said, “What does some sheep-stuffer from the Oxlands know about lovemaking?” The man was sprawling on a cushioned chair, glaring at Nikias.

Several of the men in the room laughed at this insult. But Nikias raised his cup in a mock salute, then asked the man, “What do you call an Oxlander with a sheep under each arm?” After a suitable pause he delivered the punch line: “A pimp.”

The room exploded with guffaws.

“What do you call his best customer?” asked Nikias. “A Theban!”

The laughter was much louder this time and the drinkers raised their cups, praising his wit. But the dashing man was not amused. He gave Nikias a slight smile and returned to his wine.

Nikias was pleased with himself. Now all he had to do was get through the night without putting his foot in his mouth. He hoped the hetaera would come soon. He didn't have to wait long.

“Gods, look at her!”

A chorus of exclamations—Nikias turned to look at the doorway. The figure standing there took his breath away. At first he thought it was a human-sized version of the giant golden statue of Athena in the temple on the Akropolis. But when the statue's eyes turned to him, he realized it was Helena—naked to the waist. She was painted gold and dressed like the statue. She even wore a Korinthian helm perched on the back of her head, though it appeared to be made of papyrus. And with her platform shoes she stood as tall as Nikias.

She smiled at everyone in the room, until her eyes finally locked onto Nikias. He bowed low. Helena nodded and walked over to her chair—a gilded, high-backed seat like a tyrant's throne—followed by four scantily clad young slave women whose job it was to hold the train of her skirt. She sat down and rested her hands on her lap, staring about the room with a regal expression.

“This is what it's like in the home of the gods,” said Konon in a voice of reverence.

A swarm of attendants bearing platters hustled into the room and handed out plates of steaming food to all of the men. Nikias took his plate and breathed in the aroma, smiling happily.

“Bless Helena,” he said and started gorging himself on the sheep's stomach packed with innards. He finished off his meal in no time and called for another. When he was done eating three more he licked his fingers, leaned back on a couch, and sighed contentedly.

He glanced over at Helena and saw the black-bearded man who'd insulted him earlier was kneeling by her and speaking in a hushed yet vehement tone. She was listening to him with an expressionless face. She flicked her gaze over to Nikias and they held each other's stares.

She stood abruptly and said, “I have been in this room now some time and yet I have not heard any talk about lovemaking.” She wore an expression of mock outrage. “All I have seen is a lot of hungry men gorging themselves on my food and wine. I am rather put out.” She sat down again and cast an imperious look about the room—a look that made the men smile and laugh. She whispered something to Black Beard and he skulked back to his seat.