“Old friend?” Herodotos said.
Perikles looked up, and his face lifted again, like a man seeing the sun after days of rain. He and Herodotos embraced. She noticed the historian whisper something in his ear. Perikles’s face dropped for a moment, before he nodded and thanked his friend. When they parted, he beheld Kassandra. “And this is?”
“Kassandra. A friend,” Herodotos said. “I heard from the men on the docks that you intend to hold a symposium tonight. She seeks the wisdom of your closest comrades. Perhaps she could attend?”
“After what you have just told me, old friend,” Perikles stopped him, “I would be a fool to invite a stranger—a misthios, no less—into my home.”
Herodotos leaned in to whisper in his ear again.
Perikles stared at Kassandra for a time. Whatever Herodotos had said had changed things in her favor. “You can attend,” he said. “You cannot bring your weapons… but you would be best advised to come armed with your wits.”
The marble-walled andron was a forest of polished columns, blazoned in bands of fiery red. Emerald vines hung like drapes from the pillars and the ceiling, and pots of purple bougainvillea and lemon trees hugged the corners. The floor was a riot of color: a tessellated scene of Poseidon lurching from a teal sea along with a school of silvery sea creatures, all dappled with an archipelago of sunset-red, honey-gold and lapis-blue Persian-silk rugs. The air was thick with the scent of baked fish, roasting meats and most of all, rich wine.
Citizens stood in clusters, locked in discussion and heated debate. Laughter and gasps of surprise floated through the room like waves. Men leaned on the columns, hung over balconies, swaying, shrieking with laughter, faces ruddy from the wine. A lyre and a lute combined to fill the hall with a sweet but pacey melody, and every chorus seemed to be marked by the raucous laughter of groups and pairs falling from one side room to the next, or the crash of a dropped amphora and a mighty cheer.
At one such sudden din, right behind her, Kassandra instinctively made a grab for her belt, her spear… then smoothed the thigh of her azure Athenian stola—cursing the absent mercenary leathers and weapons. “You’re supposed to be the symposiarch, aye?” she said with a roguish look. “The one stopping them getting too drunk?”
Herodotos, by her side, shrugged. “In theory. A task somewhat akin to grabbing a rabid wolf by the ears.” He tilted his as-yet-unfilled cup toward her, showing her the hideous, boil-ridden creature painted on the bottom of the inside. “The idea is that they will drink more slowly so as not to be first to see the monstrosity at the bottom of their cup—bad luck, apparently.”
Kassandra gazed around. Everybody seemed rather keen on this bad luck. She saw one fellow tilt his cup back to drain it and frowned at the thing painted on the vessel’s base. “Is that…”
“A massive, angry, swollen penis?” Herodotos finished for her. “Aye, Priapos would be proud. Supposedly the statesmanlike types here should be too reserved and cautious to tilt their cups back so much as to reveal the image. But…”
He needed say no more as the drinking man held the cup over his groin as if the penis image was his own. He danced a jig, a dozen others exploding with laughter.
“It seems wrong, aye?” Herodotos remarked. “The countryside burns, the streets are crammed with refugees… and up here men who should be leading this city to safety guzzle on wine and pickle their minds? But you have seen how it is outside the city. The Spartans are here and we are trapped within these walls like dogs. At the end of the world, who is to say how one should behave?” he said then threw his head back with a throaty laugh. “I verge onto the dramatic—something best left to the experts on such matters.” He gestured to some of the attendees. “In truth, Perikles hosts these gatherings not because he’s a fan of crowds, but to keep Athens’s loudest voices speaking in his favor. And not every mind in here is ablaze with wine. Go, speak with the ones who are not staggering or vomiting. They are the ones Perikles truly trusts—the ones upon whose shoulders Athens’s fate rests.” He handed her a wine krater and one of water. “Take this, and before you ask anyone for information, fill their cup. If they ask for a good amount of water to dilute the wine then they’re worth speaking to.”
Herodotos wandered off to talk with a cluster of hoary old men and Kassandra suddenly felt the walls of the villa close in on her. Every one of the men here seemed gull-like and intimidating. Long of tooth and reeking of experience. She felt like a girl, out of place. What a fool, thinking she could mine these haughty types for information. Some shot her arch glances, looking away again as soon as she caught their eye. She took a deep breath and stepped into the sea of strangers.
He watched her arrive as twilight cast Athens in a dark veil. The wretched historian walked as her chaperone. What a wonderful and unexpected turn of events, he mused, tracing the contours of his mask. Now, he would not have to hunt her through the squalid city streets. Now, he could deal with her—and the damned historian—right here in Perikles’s villa. He snapped his fingers, and the four shadows with him scuttled away into position.
She saw one short, pug-nosed, dark-bearded and incredibly hirsute fellow grinning at her, and turned away from him. Spotting another, a hawk-faced type—a man who looked like he oozed knowledge and seemed somewhat trustworthy—she edged over in his direction. “Wine?” she said. He stared through her, then slid, gently, silently, down the wall to a sitting position, his head lolling forward and a great, serrated, wine-fueled snore pouring from his nostrils.
“Appearances can be deceptive,” a voice spoke, right by her shoulder. She started, turning to see nothing, then looking down to see the short, hairy, grinning homunculus from moments ago, who had now sidled up to her. He wore a himation—an old-style garment that left half of his chest bare—and walked with the aid of a stick. She eyed him askance.
He smiled, straightening up and setting his stick to one side. “Yes, I am too young to need this stick, but I like to play with people’s perceptions. Assumption is the basis of ignorance, like shackles on the mind. Break them and a wondrous road opens up: from illusion, through belief, beyond reason… to pure, golden knowledge. And is knowledge not the one true good in this world?”
Kassandra looked at him blankly for a time. “And you are?” she asked, extending the wine krater to refill his cup. He nodded toward the water krater.
“Ask anyone and they’ll tell you Sokrates, but a name gives you nothing. Our actions determine who we are, and every action has its pleasures and its price. With that said, then, who do you claim to be?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Kass—”
“Kassandra,” he finished for her. “Perikles explained you would be here tonight.”
Kassandra noticed Herodotos and Sokrates exchange a warm and earnest look across the room. Her doubts eased a fraction. “And where is Perikles?”
Sokrates chuckled. “He rarely attends his own parties.”
“I imagine he is upset by the ostracism of his friend,” she said. The results had been announced just before dusk. Poor Anaxagoras had been exiled for ten years.
Sokrates chuckled. “Quite to the contrary. He was singing like a lark about it earlier.”
Kassandra turned the wine krater toward her own cup, filling it and taking a deep glug. The wine was sour and punchy. “I don’t understand. Why would he wish his own friend into exile?”
“Things are rarely as they seem, Kassandra. Anaxagoras is my friend too. Indeed, he was my tutor—planting the first seeds of light up here.” He tapped his temple and supped on his wine. “But I too whispered a prayer of thanks to the Gods when the result was announced. I understand your confusion. But ask yourself: what use succor and shelter… in a nest of vipers?” He leaned a little closer to her. “Anaxagoras was in danger here. Grave danger. Most in this room, likewise.” He pointed to a tall fellow in yellow robes, streaked with white dust. He was stacking ornaments on a table like a tower, enthusiastically describing the proportions of his “construction” to a gathered circle of people. “Phidias there is the city’s chief sculptor and architect, the creator of the great bronze statue of Athena and the unfinished temple. Yet he too is not safe and hopes to be next to find safe passage from the city.”