TWELVE

Nikias and Konon ate a dinner of bread, boiled eggs, fish, and goat cheese at a crowded wineshop in the Street of Thieves, right around the corner from Dr. Pittakos’s home.

Night had fallen and the narrow lane was now lit by pitch torches and little oil lamps hanging from chains. This part of the agora was just coming to life now and was packed with men looking for cheap entertainment.

Every so often a passerby would recognize Nikias from the fight at the theatre and come over to pat him on the back and offer their congratulations. The young Plataean was already something of a hero to the denizens of this part of Athens for besting the haughty and aristocratic Apollo—the nephew of the wealthy magistrate Kleon.

But Nikias could take joy in neither the food nor the adulation, for he had lost the gold with which to hire mercenaries. His first day in Athens and he had already failed in his quest.

“I can’t wait to tell my father about the fight,” said Konon, his face shining with delight and too much wine.

“You’d better go home soon,” said Nikias morosely. “They’re going to be worried about you.”

Konon frowned. “You’re coming back to the farm with me, aren’t you?”

“No,” said Nikias. “I’m staying here. I’m going to find a way to talk to Perikles.”

“You might as well try to get an audience with Zeus himself,” said Konon with a laugh, stuffing a boiled egg into his mouth.

“I have to do something,” said Nikias, “if I’m going to get my grandfather to let me marry Kallisto.”

“Ah!” said Konon. “She’s a girl you love?”

Nikias scowled and glanced at a nearby table where a woman was loudly berating her husband. She had a fussy, red-faced toddler on her lap whose nose was running, as well as a baby in a ceramic high chair who was sitting close to Nikias. The husband was hunched over his wine krater, doing his best to ignore his wife.

“You’re as drunk as a Skythian already,” she hissed. “And not a scrap of food in the house except the few drops of milk left in my ragged bosom.”

The infant was bouncing up and down excitedly and pushed herself away from the table with her feet. Suddenly she tipped the high chair over backward. Nikias instantly reached out with his good hand and caught the back of the baby’s head, preventing her from smashing onto the hard stone floor, but the clay high chair broke apart with a noise that startled the baby and made her scream.

“Gods!” said Konon with a laugh. “You even save babies.”

The mother leapt out of her seat and scooped the girl in her arms, clutching her to her chest. She thanked Nikias profusely, and then rounded on her husband and cursed him to Hades and back for being a neglectful, drunken bastard of a father, then she stormed out of the wineshop carrying both of her children on her skinny hips.

The husband sighed, rubbed his eyes, and poured himself another cup of uncut wine. He was on his way to getting thoroughly drunk.

“Are you sure you want to get married?” asked Konon, eyeing the drinker with disdain. “You’re so young. Athenian men usually don’t get married until they’re in their late twenties. Look at what marriage has done to this poor bastard,” he added, gesturing at the drunk.

“I’ve wanted to marry Kallisto since I was a little boy,” said Nikias. He briefly told Konon the history of their love—how they’d grown up as neighbors, separated by nothing more than ancient boundary stones and the enmity that her father Helladios and Nikias’s grandfather had shared for one another.

When Nikias and Kallisto were children they would sneak off and build houses together out of branches and stones, hiding their friendship from everyone except Aphrodite, whom they called on as their protector. As they grew older they plotted their escape. They decided that if they were not allowed to marry, then they would run away together. Nikias reckoned he could make a living off prize money from fighting at the festivals, and eventually they could save enough silver to buy some land far from their feuding families.

But all of that had changed with the Theban invasion. Kallisto’s father Helladios had been revealed as one of the conspirators in league with the traitor Nauklydes. And even though Helladios was now dead, Nikias’s grandfather had told him that he would not let him marry a traitor’s daughter.

“In my grandfather’s mind Kallisto is tainted by her father’s crime,” Nikias said.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t defy my father,” said Konon. “You should see him when he’s angry. Once I broke an oil jar—the big kind—and he chased me all over the farm with a willow branch. I can’t imagine what he’d do if I tried to marry a woman without his consent.”

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.