Scorpions in Corinth Read online

  Dedication

  For the organisers, authors, academics and audiences of the St Hilda’s Mystery and Crime Fiction Weekend; an annual delight in Oxford since 1994, and a catalyst for my transformation from reader to writer.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  Credits

  Praise for JM Alvey

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  ‘Oligarchs have no sense of humour. They’re famous for it.’ Hyanthidas slid the dish of olives across the tavern table.

  ‘Then we have a problem.’ I edged my papyrus sheets away from the bowl’s oily rim.

  ‘Cutting a dozen jokes is hardly going to wreck the whole play.’ The musician still didn’t understand, but then, he was a Corinthian.

  ‘The trouble is where I have to cut them.’ I shuffled through the pages to find the turning point in the drama. ‘If we can’t get some decent laughs in the political debate, it’s going to kill the pace stone dead, but we won’t get a chuckle in this town with jokes about Athenians who no one has even heard of. Or worse, by mentioning ones the audience will know for all the wrong reasons.’

  I handed a sheaf of papyrus to my beloved Zosime, who was sitting patiently beside me on the bench by the tavern’s whitewashed wall. ‘Here we are.’

  I read aloud from the scene where our play’s hero and his second in command were allocating tasks to their men, now that this boatful of warriors returning from Troy had decided to build a city on the wild shore where they found themselves stranded.

  ‘Send Myronides and a few men out to stake our claim to this land, but don’t expect him to be any good at masonry. I hear he’s far better at pulling down walls than building them.’

  That had been hilarious in Athens. Myronides was the name of the general who had led our armies to successive victories in Boeotia, before underscoring his domination by having the city of Tanagra’s fortifications demolished.

  Here in Corinth, though, he was remembered as the general who’d defeated a Corinthian army not once, not twice, but three times in rapid succession, to assert Athenian dominance over the Megarans whose lands lay between our two great cities. That might have been fifteen years ago, but memories of such humiliations linger. There would be men around us in this tavern this evening who’d marched and fought in those battles. They wouldn’t laugh at being reminded of that when they were in our audience at the theatre.

  ‘I see what you mean, but you won’t get any laughs making jokes about the city’s influential men.’ Hyanthidas raised his voice to make himself heard. ‘Everyone knows it’s foolish to cross the Council. No one will risk a grin at their expense.’ He helped himself to sausage and cheese.

  As he did so, I saw he was busily scanning the tavern for anyone he knew, taking advantage of being taller than most, even sitting down. I knew how much he had been looking forward to coming back home. He’d spent most of the past year in Athens after I’d hired him to compose and play the music for our comedy in the Dionysia drama competition.

  ‘Those jokes still have to go.’ Zosime took the remaining pages out of my hands and tapped the whole manuscript into a tidy stack with her elegant, artist’s fingers. ‘You’re here to convince everyone that such conflicts between your cities are over.’ Born in Crete, she was as impartial as she was beautiful.

  ‘I know.’ I reached for a piece of bread.

  Strictly speaking, we were here to convince the locals that Athenians, Corinthians and anyone from any other Greek city would all be equals as new citizens of Thurii, the colony currently being built across the sea in Sicily. Perantas Bacchiad, the wealthy Corinthian and Council member who was paying our bills on this trip, was a vocal supporter of the Thurii project, just like Aristarchos, who’d introduced me to him in Athens. Aristarchos had been my play’s original patron, footing the costs of our Dionysia performance as a rich man’s tribute to our city and our gods. He’s a firm supporter of Hellenic expansion westward into the untamed lands of Sicily and the mainland beyond, rather than looking east and risk butting heads with the Persians again. My play reflected that.

  I yawned. I was starting to feel like Sisyphus, endlessly rolling his boulder uphill only to have the bastard thing slip and hurtle all the way down to the bottom of his cursed mountain again. I’d already rewritten the songs that the play’s chorus would perform so that all references to unity, equality and common purpose now clearly and only referred to the colony that the actors were preparing to found in those days long ago, after the fall of Troy.

  Back in Athens, the chorus had celebrated our democracy where all men are equal before the law and every citizen plays his part in our city’s good government, justice and legislation. But now we were in Corinth, where their Council of wealthy merchants rule by decree to suit themselves and their friends. Oligarchy. Rule by the few. Barely distinguishable from tyranny as far as Athenians are concerned, though I’d be keeping such thoughts to myself. A good guest doesn’t insult his hosts and we were being paid handsomely to restage my play, after The Builders’ first performance had been so well received back home.

  I yawned again. I was longing for a comfortable bed. Our journey had taken two days on the leisurely coastal trading ship that had brought us from Athens. First, we’d sailed to Aegina, where a business associate of our patron had put us up for the night. Unfortunately, I’d barely slept, restless in an unfamiliar house and tense about bringing my play to this new audience. When we’d sailed for Kenchreai the next morning, choppy seas had me hanging queasily over the ship’s rail until we were tied up at the dockside of Corinth’s eastward port on the Saronic Gulf.

  I poured myself a little more of the excellent local wine, well watered down. I had to get these rewrites right to satisfy our new paymaster, and time was short. I needed an insider with local knowledge to suggest some notables whom I could make the butt of a few jokes without risking the Council’s wrath.

  ‘Where’s Eumelos?’ I looked around the tavern for the man who’d met us on the docks at Kenchreai, identifying himself with an agate signet ring that was the twin of the one Perantas Bacchiad had worn in Athens.

  I’d recognised his type at once; open-handed with a broad smile and a hearty welcome, while his shrewd eyes darted this way and that, never missing a detail. The rich and powerful of every city always have fixers like him to call on. I was thinking that such a character would make a great comic lead for my play in next year’s Dionysia.

  Eumelos had had wagons waiting for our pe
rsonal luggage as well as the hefty wicker baskets holding the play’s costumes and masks. He had also persuaded the crew to unload our baggage before the rest of the ship’s varied cargo, so I guessed the right amount of obols had discreetly changed hands.

  The journey from the port on the eastern side of Corinth’s famous Isthmus was a short one and an easy walk. Eumelos saw us settled in the comfortable house that Perantas Bacchiad had put at our disposal. As the sun was sinking, he’d recommended this local tavern for dinner, and we’d left my personal slave, Kadous, to supervise the house slaves that Perantas had loaned us as they unpacked our bags and baskets.

  ‘He’s over there.’ Hyanthidas twisted around on his stool and pointed.

  Eumelos was sitting with his back to us, his shoulders as broad as any wrestler’s. It was hardly his fault that we couldn’t find two tables together. The quality of the food and the wine proved why this place was so popular. He gestured as he explained something to Menekles, sitting beside him. The two men were much of a height, though Menekles wasn’t as heavily muscled. Sitting opposite, shorter and stocky, with his curly hair and beard both needing a trim, Apollonides was chuckling into his wine.

  Seeing that the actors liked our new friend reassured me. I trusted both men’s judgement, since anyone who makes a successful living on the stage soon learns to spot charlatans and chancers.

  Our play’s third actor, and the fourth man at the table, was unremarkable in height and heft. I saw he wasn’t smiling, though thankfully Lysicrates looked a little less dour than he’d done on the voyage here. He’d been the most reluctant to accept Perantas Bacchiad’s offer, arguing that we should stay home and start rehearsals for next year’s Dionysia. I still didn’t know why, and I could only be thankful that Apollonides and Menekles had persuaded him to earn this generous bonus. The show simply couldn’t go on without all three of them.

  Someone on the far side of the room struck a chord on a lyre. Several voices united in a drinking song, as well known in Athens as it was here.

  ‘All praise to Praxilla of Sikyon!’ Hyanthidas raised his wine in a toast to the famous composer.

  Zosime raised her own cup. ‘Praxilla!’

  She glanced at me as she drank, her dark eyes bright with amusement above the rim of her cup. Visiting a city where women poets and musicians performed their work in public was merely one of her reasons for insisting on coming on this trip.

  Sitting in this Corinthian tavern, I was forced to agree it was a little hypocritical of Athenian men to sing Praxilla’s songs as they caroused while insisting their own wives’ and daughters’ musical talents were kept for strictly private, family entertainment.

  Eumelos stood up to lead another rousing song, waving his cup of wine. His voice rose above the rest, powerful and tuneful. He was tall as well as broad-shouldered, a commanding presence.

  I wondered if he had ever performed in a theatre chorus. Our first task here was recruiting twenty-four Corinthians to take the place of the Athenian citizens who’d performed as the chorus of builders that the play was named for. Once we’d got those new singers rounded up, I would be their chorus master, with ten days to get them fit to perform.

  It was a role I felt wholly unsuited for. I wished Chrysion, who’d led our chorus in Athens, could have come with us. He was back in Athens, recruited by my friend and rival Pittalos, whose new play would grace the upcoming winter’s Lenaia festival. Besides, while actors were expected to travel when plays went abroad, chorus masters never did. It’s long-established custom for the playwright to take on that duty.

  I watched Eumelos singing with exuberant enjoyment. Teaching two dozen complete strangers how to perform The Builders’ songs and dances would be a good deal easier if I had someone local at my right hand. Someone with a knack for getting things done.

  Hyanthidas stood up, beckoning. I followed his gaze and saw a strikingly handsome woman in a long, pleated green dress entering the tavern. A watchful escort followed a few paces behind her. Friend, slave or brother? In Corinth, as in Athens, it was impossible to tell.

  Zosime sat up straight. ‘Is that Telesilla?’

  I was as interested as she was. As we’d sailed along the Saronic Gulf coast, Hyanthidas had told us about his long-time lover. They’d never expected to be apart for so long when he’d come to Athens looking for a few months’ lucrative work playing his flutes at rich men’s drinking parties. Then Aristarchos had heard the talented musician and we had hired him to stay for nearly a year.

  Hyanthidas had written to Telesilla and she’d agreed he couldn’t pass up the opportunity, for the sake of his art as well as the money. She was a poet and composer herself, so she understood that. On the other side of those scales, she wasn’t prepared to join him in Athens and sit twiddling a distaff and spindle all day, unable to perform.

  She saw Hyanthidas and greeted him with a loving smile. Her escort turned to go and she made her way over. As she cut between the tables towards us, she passed our three actors.

  Eumelos was still on his feet, singing loudly with ever more expansive gestures.Noticing Telesilla, he set down his cup with a thud that spilled wine across the table. He stepped into her path with his arms spread wide.

  I could see Lysicrates’ surprise and concern. I was taken aback myself. Eumelos must have been drinking hard to get so drunk so quickly. Maybe recruiting him for our chorus wasn’t a good idea if he habitually soaked up wine like a sponge.

  Eumelos embraced Telesilla. She tried to hold him off, her hands pushing back against his chest. I saw her consternation as she realised that, taller and stronger, he wouldn’t be denied. He folded his long arms around her and buried his face in her lustrous black hair.

  Hyanthidas was scowling like Zeus polishing up a thunderbolt. I couldn’t blame him, but a tavern brawl on our first night in Corinth wouldn’t be an ideal start to our visit.

  Thankfully Apollonides and Menekles were already there, taking hold of Eumelos’ arms to force him to release the woman. Lysicrates stepped between the Corinthian and Telesilla. I saw the actor lay a solicitous hand on her shoulder, doubtless asking if she was all right, as well as introducing himself.

  Apollonides and Menekles got Eumelos turned around and ushered him back to their table. Menekles raised a hand, summoning a fresh jug. I hoped some cold spring water could dilute whatever the big man had been drinking.

  Lysicrates brought Telesilla to our table. She was as baffled as she was indignant. Seeing no trace of embarrassment or, worse, guilt on her face, I breathed a little easier. Hyanthidas didn’t deserve to come home and discover the woman he loved had been letting someone else pluck her heartstrings.

  ‘What was all that about?’ he asked, all concern.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea.’ With her shock receding, Telesilla was annoyed. ‘Who is that oaf?’

  ‘Eumelos. He works for Perantas Bacchiad.’ I would have said more but Zosime elbowed me gently in the ribs.

  ‘Here, have my seat.’ She smiled at Telesilla as she stood up. ‘Philocles, let Hyanthidas sit there.’

  I saw the Corinthian woman’s tension ease as Hyanthidas sat beside her on the bench. He put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. She shook her head, clearly puzzled. ‘He was calling me Kleoboulina.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Zosime looked at me as she claimed Hyanthidas’ vacated stool.

  ‘I have no idea.’ Mystified, I looked at Lysicrates.

  The actor could only shrug. ‘He never mentioned her to us.’

  ‘Whoever she is, she has my sympathies,’ Telesilla said tartly. ‘He was begging for my – for her – forgiveness.’

  ‘Why?’ Zosime handed me the wine jug. I saw it was nearly empty.

  ‘Who knows?’ Telesilla’s voice shook.

  ‘Who cares?’ Hyanthidas said coldly.

  My beloved reached across the table to offer Tel
esilla a comforting hand. ‘I’m Zosime, and this is Philocles Hestaiou.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you both.’ As Telesilla did her best to shake off her bizarre encounter with Eumelos, she looked more closely at Zosime. ‘But you’re not Athenian, are you?’

  Zosime smiled. ‘My mother was from Crete and we lived there for some years. My father’s Egyptian. He’s a potter and I’m a vase painter.’

  Telesilla was only too pleased to pursue this new conversation. ‘What do you paint?’

  I raised the wine jug. ‘Let me get a refill.’

  ‘I’ll help.’ Lysicrates followed as I headed for the nearest waiter.

  ‘More of the amber, well watered, if you please, and another cup.’ I handed the slave the jug and pointed to our table. ‘We’re sitting over there.’

  As the man hurried off, I turned to Lysicrates. ‘What are you lot drinking? Something mixed by satyrs?’

  ‘We ordered the same jugful as you,’ he protested, ‘and we shared it between us.’

  ‘Has Eumelos had anything to eat?’ Wine on an empty stomach makes a lot of mischief.

  Lysicrates nodded. ‘I don’t know why—’

  ‘No!’ Eumelos’ bellow silenced the entire tavern.

  Everyone stared as the big man lurched to his feet, scarlet-faced. He set the table rocking so violently that the cups and wine jug crashed to the floor.

  ‘Where is she?’ Eumelos roared. He spun around, his eyes staring and his jaw slack.

  Menekles and Apollonides got warily to their feet, staying beyond the big man’s reach. I snatched a glance at Zosime. She had darted around behind our table to sit on the bench with Telesilla. Hyanthidas stood in front of them both, his fists clenched. Lysicrates had moved quickly and was standing braced at his shoulder. If Eumelos tried to get to the women, there’d be no avoiding a fight.

  The big Corinthian’s vacant gaze swept straight past them. Then he looked back at me as I stood there in the middle of the tavern. I saw that his eyes were eerie hollows of darkness. Dionysos save me; the man looked possessed.

  ‘You! How did you get in here?’