The Glory That Was

Chapter Eleven

The "House" stood at the north end of the Agora — a small, nondescript brick building whose rooms opened outward. In one of these stinking cells sat Wiyem Flin, shackled to a ring in the wall by a fetter on one ankle.

"So there you are!" he cried. "Where the devil have you been? I've sat here for hours and I'm jolly well starved."

"I'm sorry," said Bulnes. "I came as soon as I heard." His jaw muscles tightened.

"Well, why didn't you start hunting when I didn't come back from the play on time? And why haven't you brought some lunch?"

"Don't they feed you here?"

"Of course not. Any ass knows that. Why didn't you ..."

"My dear sir," said Bulnes, eyeing the little man coldly. "I've done the best I could, and if you're going to be a farstard, I'll simply go away until you stop."

Flin mumbled something apologetic. Bulnes asked the prisoner, "What happened this time?"

"It wasn't really my fault. You'd have done the same if you weren't such a cold-blooded ..."

"Get to the point, please."

"Blast it, I'm trying to tell you! I went to the performance of Aias with Podokles and saw Thalia in the women's section, as I thought I might."

"You did!"

"Yes, I did. There was no mistake."

"Are you sure it was the right woman?"

"I ought to know my own wife after being married for eleven years! When the play was over, I hurried to the exit and stopped Thalia on her way out. 'Thalia!' I said. 'I'm here!' She looked at me blankly and replied, in Greek, that she didn't understand — 'Ouk' oida.' So I repeated what I'd said in that language.

"She said, 'You've made a mistake. My name isn't Thalia.' 'Oh, yes it is,' I said. 'I'm Melite, the wife of Euripides Mnesarchou,' she said. 'Go away and stop bothering me.' And she started to brush past me.

"I lost my head a bit, I suppose, and caught her wrist, saying, 'Thalia, don't you know your own husband?' Then she screamed for help, and the next thing I knew a couple of the Scythians had grasped my arms and hauled me out under the direction of a tall chap with a tremendous long beard. This, it turned out, was Euripides himself, the great playwright.

"One thing about a small town like this, it doesn't take you long to get from place to place. It can't have been ten minutes before those coppers had marched me all the way from the theater around the Akropolis to the Agora, where the Polemarchos holds forth. We had to wait at the Epiloukeion for the Polemarchos to show up, because he'd been at the play like the other citizens. When he did come, Euripides laid a complaint before him of second-degree assault or something of the sort. The Polemarchos asked me if I had anything to say, and I was so rattled by that time I could only babble about Thalia's being my wife and not that of Euripides. Which made no impression. So the Polemarchos ordered me confined under a bail of five mnai pending my trial. What are you going to do about it?"

A tart sentence formed in Bulnes's mind, asking Flin why he should do anything for a damned fool, but with his usual self-control the Spaniard thought better of saying it aloud.

"Five mnai, eh? That's five hundred drachmai, which would be about — ah — seventy-five to a hundred krauns in modern money. Not unreasonable, I suppose, but much more than I have."

"Why not ask one of your pupils? Demokritos seems pretty well upholstered, and Kritias is simply rolling in the stuff."

"An idea, comrade. Definitely an idea."

"How'd you find out about me?" asked Flin.

"Sokrates sent his slave to tell me."

"He did? Dashed decent, considering how vexed he was with us. That's the real Sokrates for you."

"Yes?" said Bulnes, cocking a skeptical eyebrow. "We shall see about that. Meanwhile, I'll get you some lunch and then go see about raising bail."

"Hurry up about it," said Flin. "If I'm knocked on the head and thrown into the Barathron, it'll be all your fault. And none of that beastly barley porridge, mind you!"

Bulnes, wondering what he had done to deserve so unreasonable a companion, departed rather than argue the point. In the Agora he bought a loaf of bread, a bunch of mixed vegetables, and a cheap cup and plate to hold the victuals. He filled the cup at a public fountain and carried the meal back to Flin, who sneered at it but fell ravenously to eating.

Bulnes then hiked to the house of Kallaischros and asked for Demokritos. As neither Kallaischros nor Kritias nor Demokritos was in, the porter told Bulnes, "The young men have gone to the Kynosarges. Kritias usually attends the Akademeia, but they have gone to the other gymnasium because Demokritos is not a citizen."

Bulnes set out again. He found the street that ran over the low saddle between the Areopagos and the Akropolis and toiled over it into the south part of town, which he had not previously visited. He would have gotten hopelessly lost in the tangle of narrow streets except that he kept looking back at the Akropolis to orient himself. Outside the Diomean Gate, near the great unfinished Olympieion, lay the Kynosarges, a small park.

The Scythian at the entrance looked Bulnes over to see that he bore no slave brands and waved him on in. Bulnes passed a couple of altars and came to a large quadrangle comprising a gym building and a series of porticoes.

In and around the quadrangle naked men were running, jumping, wrestling, and otherwise exerting themselves. Bulnes (who took a dim view of calisthenics) passed them by, for they reminded him that he possessed the beginnings of a middle-aged paunch, which he somehow never found time, energy, or will power to train back. At length he located Demokritos in a huddle under one of the porticoes. The young man was engaged in a game of Greek checkers, with several kibitzers standing around.

Demokritos looked up and said, "Rejoice, my dear Bouleus! I shall be through here directly, as soon as I have forced this man's stones off the sacred line."

He made a move, and his opponent said, "That does it. Away with you, man of Abdera! Tyche is too good to you."

As the group broke up a voice said, "The Tartessian professor! What can we do for you here?" It was Kritias, with dirt on his face and his skin glistening with oil. "How would three falls out of five suit you? Come now ..."

"If you please, gentlemen," said Bulnes, "I am here on more serious business. My colleague are in prison."

Kritias laughed loudly. "That is good! What has he done, broken into the treasure of Athene Parthenos? Tried to pass himself off as a citizen in hope of snaring a juror's pay?"

"Not so serious as that, but vexatious, nevertheless."

He thereupon began the story he had been rehearsing.

"When we dwelt in Tartessos, my colleague Philon had a wife on whom he doted. But on an evil day a Carthaginian galley raided the coast near our city for slaves and caught my poor friend's wife. Ever since then he has been a little mad on this one subject. When he sees a woman he think looks like his wife, he will have it that it is indeed she and tries to claim her."

"And he has been claiming the wife of one of our people?" said Kritias.

"Exactly so. It was at the play this morning, and the victim was the wife of Euripides the playwright, who had my friend thrown in jail for making a disturbance."

"That will teach him," said Kritias.

Demokritos said, "On the contrary, it proves my point, my dear Kritias. You will remember my saying that in an ideal commonwealth, slavery would not be allowed."

"Nonsense!" said Kritias. "Without slaves, who would do the work? We, of course, and we should therefore have no time for sports, art, science, and literature. In other words, no slaves, no civilization."

"But there ought to be ..." began Demokritos.

"Besides," continued Kritias, "it is logical that we Hellenes, who alone of the peoples of the world combine valor with intelligence, should rule the stupid northerners and the cowardly southerners. However, I will concede that in an individual case, like that of our Tartessian friend, the seizing of a person seems an undeserved hardship. But what is to be done?"

Bulnes said, "First, he is in jail on bail of five mnai, which I do not have."

Demokritos and Kritias looked at one another. The former said, "I am sorry, but when I planned this trip to Athens, I did not allow for such an unexpected expense. However, it is otherwise with you, O Kritias."

"We do not after all know these Tartessians very well."

"Oh, I think we can trust Bouleus. He stands to gain more from his lecture course than by letting his friend jump bail."

"Fair enough," said Kritias. "If you will remind me when you appear for the lecture tomorrow, Bouleus, the money shall be given you."

Bulnes said, "Thanks you, my dear friends. However, while I dislike exceedingly to seem ungrateful, my poor colleague am still in the House with a fetter on his leg, and there he will stay until bailed. You have not the sum with you, have you?"

"My dear man," said Kritias, "I do not carry the family patrimony on my back as an invitation to . every footpad in Athens. And as I do not wish to leave my exercise here, you will have to wait till tomorrow."

"I see," said Bulnes. "Perhaps you could advise me what to do next, as I am not familiar with your laws?"

Kritias said, "Your best chance, I should say, would be to persuade the complainant to withdraw his complaint. Said you he was Euripides the poet?"

"Yes. Where is he to be found?"

He has a house in the Peiraieus, but most of his time he spends on Salamis. The man is said to be a worse recluse that Timon. Rejoice!" And Kritias strolled off, singing:

The sun had sunk low when Bulnes knocked on the door of the house of Euripides in Peiraieus. It had taken him over an hour to walk down from Athens, and another half-hour to locate the house by incessant questioning, for most streets had no names, and house numbers had not even been thought of. He had put aside the temptation to wander down to the waterfront to look at the boats and ships, for, as a yachting enthusiast, he was much more interested in these objects than in many-columned Greek temples.

Bulnes resolved, if he ever got out of this alive, to spend a month on the Dagmar II just drifting and never walking more than five steps at a time.

If he continued to dwell in Periklean Athens, perhaps he could someday procure a horse — or no, that would not do. A burro or a mule would more likely be within his means. Moreover, never having ridden an animal of any sort, he did not care, in a stirrupless age, to begin his riding career quite so far from the ground as the back of a horse.

He also worried about Flin, who would have kittens if he did not get a progress report. However, Bulnes could not spend half his time trotting back to the Oikema. Perhaps, as Kritias in his crude way had implied, a night in the calabozo would do the little man good.

The spy hole opened. "No, the master is not in."

"When do you expect him?"

"I do not know. Who are you?"

"Bouleus of Tartessos."

"What do you want?"

"I should like to discuss the regrettable incident of this morning at the Dionysia."

"You mean when the barbarian tried to kidnap the mistress?"

"Yes," said Bouleus.

"You will have to come back later."

Bulnes said, "Look, I have just walked down from Athens. May I at least come in to rest for a few minutes?"

"No, I cannot admit anybody in the master's absence. Go away!"

Bulnes was about to stagger off when he heard voices raised in argument. Then the same slave's face appeared again at the hole. "The mistress says you may come in."

Que esta? thought Bulnes. Much as he wanted a place to rest, people who invaded one of these quasi-Oriental harems in the absence of the sheikh were likely to regret it. On the other hand, so tired and footsore was he that if the Devil had thrown open the door to Hell and asked him in, he would have taken him up on it.

The mistress of the house awaited him in the andronitis. Bulnes looked hard at her as he came forward. It was Thalia, all right, perfectly recognizable despite her long chiton and the silver tiara on her glossy-black hair — a woman in her mid-thirties, still attractive in a lush, full-blown way. Although he had not disliked Flin's wife, back in England, he had never taken much to her, either. She was quite intelligent, but a garrulous and gossippy female, and definitely the dominating half of the couple. However, a childish personality like that of Wiyem Flin no doubt needed domination.

He looked her in the eye for any spark of recognition, but saw none. Instead, she gave him the hand wave, with the back of the hand outwards, that here took the place of a handshake. She said, "Rejoice, good Bouleus. Euripides will be home in an hour or so, and meanwhile there is no point in your wandering the Peiraieus like the ghost of an unburied corpse. Sosias, fetch a stool for the gentleman and a small stoup of wine. (See his frown — he thinks your presence here will compromise me.) And rout out Euages to take the ferry over to Salamis and tell the master he has a visitor." She turned back to Bulnes. "I understand you have come on behalf of the other Tartessian, he who accosted me this morning?"

"Yes," said Bulnes, sitting down gratefully. "Whatever possesseth man to act so? Tell me — I am all agog to know. Is he mad? Is he in rut and cannot wait a few days for the Aphrodisia?"

"The first guess were nearly right, madam," said Bulnes, and told Thalia-Melite the same tale he had told his pupils.

"The poor fellow," she said. "I am sure that under this circumstance Euripides will withdraw the complaint. My husband has a good heart if you can get him down from the clouds long enough."

"I am told," said Bulnes, "that Euripides spends most of his time on Salamis?"

"Yes, the old dotard! Every morning before dawn he and Kephisophon take their boat across the channel, with one of the slaves to row, and there they spend the day scribbling. He claims he cannot concentrate in a house full of wives and children and slaves, which is ridiculous. As if his wretched plays were more important than his own household!"

"Who is Kephisophon?"

"His secretary. The Euripides is becoming one of the standard sights of Athens, along with the Akropolis and the ship of the divine Theseus. I am told that guides harangue visitors about him: 'And there, gentlemen, is the island of Salamis, scene of the great sea fight against the trousered Mede, and there is the cave of the eminent poet Euripides. If you row out a few furlongs, you can see Euripides himself in the entrance, no doubt working on some sublime new drama.' And if I complain of neglect he says, 'I am really doing it all for you, my dear,' which does not deceive me in the least."

"A man thoroughly absorbed in his work?" said Bulnes.

"Absorbed! Why, he will not take the time to buy food for the house, which every man in Athens does as a matter of course, so the slaves swindle us right and left. Personally, I think little of these Attic customs, but must not one conform to some degree?"

"You are not an Athenian?"

"Yes and no. My parents were, so I rank as a citizen, but my father was ostracized and spent his exile in hollow Lakedaimon, where I was reared. There women are personalities in their own right and not playthings locked in a chest when not in use."

"You must find it quite a contrast."

"Contrast!" she leaned forward on her stool. "Many a time I have thought I should go mad. Why think you I told them to admit you? Danae in her tower had no more frustrating lot, locked up with no company but a husband old enough to be my father, and occasional visits from these vapid Athenian dames — I, who as a young girl ran and wrestled naked on the athletic field like a man ..."

During this conversation she had been hitching her stool farther and farther forward, and now was gently pressing her thigh against his. Her face was flushed, breath coming fast, dark eyes half-closed and mouth half open. All the slaves seemed to have vanished.

Bulnes's own pulse began to pound — but then he thought of the enormous complications and decided to be good — this once anyway. Another time ...

He drew back stiffly, saying, "Tell me, what is Euripides working on now? For rumors of his fame have reached far Tartessos."

"Oh," she said, with a look that expressed regret for having admitted this stick of a foreigner in the first place. "Some huge tetralogy — I never keep track of his works ..."