The Walled Orchard (44 page)

The captain laughed. ‘Thanks for the help,’ he said, and pulled his horse round.

‘You make sure you catch those Athenians,’ I replied.

‘I don’t feel so good now about leaving my cousin’s place unattended if there’s Athenians about. Mind,’ I added, ‘I wouldn’t much fancy being there if they took it into their heads to break in, so perhaps I’m better off where I am.’

The cavalryman laughed again, and led his troops back the way they had come. For a moment I was afraid he would turn in to the farm — which was what I would have done in his place — but he rode straight past it and out of sight. I dropped the reins and started to shake all over. This was not my line of work, I said to my soul; and for once my soul agreed with me. But (replied my soul) you mustn’t worry about it. Nothing can happen to you, today or for ever. You have been chosen to survive. You survived the plague. You survived the war. You have survived through Sicily. The old smith who could not die died. The veteran of Himera died. The Eleusinians who did not starve died. Everyone except you and the son of Philip has died and the son of Philip is protected by the God, as the old heroes were at Troy, and so he doesn’t count. You are quite probably going to live for ever.

I met various other travellers that day, but none of them was any bother. By now I was firmly convinced that I was a Syracusan farmer visiting my cousins near Leontini. My name was Pelopidas son of Temenus, and I had fifteen acres mixed cereal and grazing on the slopes of Epipolae, with a few vines on the other side of the mountain. My wife, Callistrata, was a big woman with a bad temper, but we had two fine sons, Leon and Gigas, and Gigas had been taken as apprentice by a well-established potter in the City. He would do well, if he worked at it. We also had a daughter, Theodora, but she died of a cold when she was ten. During the war we lived in the City, which was uncomfortable, and I had done my bit in the fighting. I missed out on the Epipolae business, but I was in at the kill at the walled orchard, when we stomped on those Athenians once and for all. I didn’t want to put in that last part, but I couldn’t help it.

However much I sought to rewrite my life, I couldn’t leave that out.

It was probably just as well that I wasn’t called on to play this part I had composed for myself, since it was probably riddled with inaccuracies. But I must confess that I enjoyed being Pelopidas son of Temenus. He was on the winning side, for one thing, and this was his country, for another. He might not have the wealth and talents of a Eupolis, say, or even an Aristophanes, but nobody was after his blood and he didn’t really care all that much if he never did get to Catana. God, I envied him.

That night, I carefully unpacked Aristophanes, who was not happy. He had a whole day’s recriminations stored up for me when I finally extracted him from the jar, and he seemed to get most of them past the gate of his teeth in the first five minutes of his liberty. I took no notice of him, however; I was bored with him now, and regarded him as nothing more than a piece of inconvenient and perishable merchandise that I had to deliver to Catana. I hid him under the cart and went to sleep, and dreamed, at first, of being Pelopidas son of Temenus. But that turned into a dream about the walled orchard, the first I had had, and I woke up drenched in sweat and shivering. This convinced me that I had the fever, and worrying about that kept me awake for the rest of the night.

When Aristophanes woke up, we breakfasted on half a Festival loaf each, a cup of wine, a sausage and a handful of figs, which was the best meal we had had since we arrived in Sicily. It was a lovely morning, warm but not too hot, and there was a spectacular sunrise over the mountains behind us. We washed in the river, and then I told Aristophanes that it was time for him to get back into the jar. Much to my surprise he refused.

‘Those olives stink,’ he said. ‘If I get back in there I’ll die.’

‘Please yourself,’ I said. ‘Only if you don’t get back in there, I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you.’ I drew my sabre in a matter-of-fact sort of way and laid it across my knees. Aristophanes stared at me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but there it is. I can’t afford to let you go wandering off on your own. They’ll see you’re an Athenian, and then they’ll come looking for me. So I’ll have to kill you and bury you in …’ I looked round quickly ‘… under that pile of rocks there. I’ll give you a stater for the ferryman, but that’s my best offer.’

Aristophanes opened his mouth but no words came out; and I suddenly realised what I had said. I hadn’t been joking; I would have done it. That was a horrible feeling.

I stood up, and Aristophanes cowered visibly. ‘So are you going to get into the jar?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ said the son of Philip. ‘Right away.’

‘Good man,’ I said. ‘We’d better tip the olives out first. Give me a hand with the jar, will you?’

We tipped the olives out and put the jar back in its mounting, then Aristophanes climbed in and I put the olives back on top of him. ‘Can you breathe?’ I asked. He assured me that he could.

‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘Right, time to go.’ I put the lid back on and backed the ox into the shafts. He was a good ox, docile and well behaved. I liked him. Then I took up the reins and we were off again.

We reached the sea just before evening, and the sight of it made me feel like a small child once more. It was huge and beautiful and friendly, and on the other side of it was Athens in Attica, and Pallene, and my house there, and my steward and his wife, and my grey horse with the black tail, and my house in the City, and my wife. I hadn’t so much as thought about Phaedra since I set foot in Sicily; and now that I had remembered that she existed I couldn’t for the life of me remember what she looked like. I dismissed the thought from my mind, and went back to being Pelopidas. Only a day away from Catana. Would the olives keep fresh that far?

I had stopped for the night and was just about to let Aristophanes out when a party of men leading donkeys came up the road behind me. There were about ten of them, and I saw they were farmers taking their produce to the city. That city could only be Catana.

‘Evening, friend,’ said one of them, a tall man with a lot of fine grey hair. ‘Going to market?’

His voice was warm and friendly, and I smiled as I replied, ‘Sure. I’ve got olives in the jar here.’

The man wasn’t so friendly now, and I realised that I was still being Pelopidas, purely from instinct. My Syracusan accent had become so good that he recognised it instantly. The trouble was, of course, that the Catanians hate the Syracusans like poison. I would have laughed if I wasn’t suddenly so frightened.

That’s the way it goes with fool’s luck, said my soul inside me, and I could hear a horrible sort of smugness in its voice, as if it had known it would all end in tears. You muddle your way right across Sicily and manage to get out of the most horrific scrapes without really trying; then, as soon as you’ve got your act together enough to pass for a Syracusan, you run in with a bunch of Catanians who’ll tear you limb from limb for not being an Athenian. That’ll teach you to be so damned lucky.

‘Just where exactly did you say you were from, boy?’ said the grey-haired man. ‘Maybe I didn’t catch it the first time.’

‘I’m from Pallene,’ I replied in my normal voice — only it didn’t come out normal. ‘Pallene in Attica. I’m an Athenian.’

The grey-haired man scowled and said, ‘Don’t you try being funny with me, stranger. Are you going to tell me the truth, or do I have to beat it out of you?’

I tried to dig down into my mind for some way out of this mess; but there was nothing left. ‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ I said, ‘I’m an Athenian, can’t you see that? I’m one of Demosthenes’ men. I was in the battle at the walled orchard, but I got away. I stole this cart outside Leontini because there were cavalrymen after me and I needed to fool them. I pretended to be a Syracusan just now because I didn’t know I was in your country.’

The men muttered darkly to each other; they weren’t convinced. I didn’t know what to do.

‘I don’t believe you,’ said the grey-haired man. ‘I reckon you’re a Syracusan spy, and I’m going to take you in. Get him, boys.’

‘Hold it, hold it,’ I shrieked. ‘You’re making a really silly mistake here. Look, I’ve got another Athenian in this jar-contraption here. He’s my friend, we escaped together.’

The grey-haired man stared at me. ‘In the jar?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I shouted, ‘in the bloody jar. Get him out if you don’t believe me.’

They cut the jar loose and tipped it on to the ground. There was a minor cascade of olives, and out came the son of Philip, looking extremely put out. He tried to draw his sword, but they took it away from him and tied his hands together.

‘Athenians my arse,’ said one of the men. ‘He tried to kill me.’

‘He couldn’t hear you, he was in the jar,’ I said. ‘He thought you were the enemy.’

The grey-haired man didn’t like that. ‘Do we look like the Syracusans?’ he said angrily.

‘He couldn’t see you either,’ I replied frantically, ‘because he was in the sodding jar. Don’t you ever think?’

‘Don’t you talk to me like that,’ said the grey-haired man. ‘You’re lucky we don’t string you up right now.’

‘Oh, do what you like,’ I said miserably.

‘I might just do that,’ said the grey-haired man. His companions seemed to agree with this, and one of them uncoiled some rope from his donkey. Just then, I remembered something. I remembered the fat dry-fish merchant who had sat next to me during the performance of
The General.
I remembered that his name was Pericleidas son of Bellerophon and that he said he was from Catana. I could have wept with pleasure.

‘Will you listen to me, just for a moment?’ I said. ‘I have a friend in Catana who’ll vouch for me. Pericleidas son of Bellerophon, the dry-fish man. Do any of you know him?’

‘Sure I know him,’ said one of the men, ‘I sell him tuna in the season. You know him?’

‘I met him in Athens.’

‘If you know him,’ said the grey-haired man, ‘where does he live?’

I was about to explain that I had only met him in Athens and couldn’t be expected to know where he lived when suddenly I remembered that I knew exactly where he lived. The God had told me, in the walled orchard.

‘Next to the shrine of Dionysus,’ I replied, ‘by the little gate.’

‘That’s true,’ said the man who knew Pericleidas, ‘that’s just where he lives.’

‘Proving nothing,’ said the grey-haired man. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘I didn’t,’ said one of his companions. But the grey-haired man ignored him.

‘Take me to him,’ I said. ‘He’ll know me.’

The grey-haired man thought for a moment. ‘Who’s that?’ he said, pointing at Aristophanes.

‘He’s my friend,’ I replied. ‘Like I told you.’

‘Does he know Pericleidas?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘But not many people in Athens do. Look, can we get on, please?’

The grey-haired man thought again, then nodded. ‘You’d better hope Pericleidas recognises you,’ he said, ‘or so help me I’ll string you up myself.’

They bundled me and Aristophanes on to the cart, and we spent the rest of that day bouncing along the road to Catana. It was not the way I had intended to arrive there, and somehow it didn’t feel right. My main nightmare was that Pericleidas was out, or abroad peddling his misbegotten fish. That would be just my fool’s luck, and then they would string us up and make us into sausages.

A crowd gathered round us as soon as we entered the city, and we soon attracted the attention of a magistrate and some soldiers. When asked what he had got in his wagon, the grey-haired man said he didn’t know; they said they were Athenians and that Pericleidas could vouch for them; but if he couldn’t, they were Syracusan spies and should be hung. The magistrate thought this was eminently reasonable, and walked in front of us through the streets. As we passed, some people cheered and others threw stones; this is what is known as hedging your bets.

The cart jolted to a halt and we were hauled out. It was quite dark by now, but there were plenty of torches round us, and the whole proceeding looked like a cross between a wedding and a sacrifice. The magistrate came over and addressed us both.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘this is Pericleidas’ house. We’ll see what he has to say.’

He knocked loudly on the door and called out Pericleidas’ name. As I waited for what seemed like for ever while the slave came down and opened the door, I reflected bitterly on my fate, which now rested on an idiot of a dry-fish merchant I had met once in the Theatre. This could only happen to a Comic poet, I said to myself, and considered, not for the first time in my life, whether I had chosen the right profession.

‘What is it?’ said the slave. He was startled by the sight of so many people. ‘My master is having dinner.’

‘He’s needed to vouch for these men,’ said the magistrate. ‘They say they’re Athenians.’

‘I’ll fetch him,’ said the slave. He disappeared into the house, and there was another eternity of a wait, with the good people of Catana whispering inaudibly around me. Then Pericleidas the dry-fish man appeared, exactly as I remembered him, except that he was a trifle fatter, and his hair was quite grey. But what if he didn’t remember me?

‘Are you Pericleidas son of Bellerophon?’ asked the magistrate.

‘Sure I am,’ said Pericleidas, clearly bemused. ‘You know perfectly well who I am, Cleander, you had dinner here last night. Why did you bother to ask?’

This got a good laugh from the audience, and the magistrate frowned.

‘Pericleidas,’ he said, ‘I have to ask you if you recognise these men. They say they know you.’

Pericleidas shrugged. ‘What have they done?’ he said.

‘Never mind that now,’ said the magistrate, ‘just see if you can identify them for me. Can you do that?’

‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, and turned to Aristophanes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, after an agonising moment, ‘I’ve never seen this man before in my life.’

There was a gasp from the crowd, and muffled cheering. Then he turned to me. He looked at me, blinked, and looked again.

‘Well?’ said the magistrate, ‘do you know this one or don’t you?’