Akropolis Page 6

  Norika jumped up. “Let’s transcribe it after breakfast. I’m starving.”

  Nat thought, not for the first time, that what Norika lacked was patience.

  Yoshiki had prepared a meal‌—‌rice, pickled vegetables, fruit. After eating they took their packs and returned to the deck. The sun was well up and they sat in the shade of an overhanging tree.

  Nat opened the file of the diagram with the Greek symbols and zoomed in on them. When he’d finished transcribing them he leaned back.

  Norika was looking over his shoulder at the screen. “It doesn’t make sense, but each set has a full point near the end like a domain name.”

  Nat remembered the text message. Enter the numbers. “We could try entering the sequence as a URL.”

  “How could a website open with no connection?”

  He shrugged. “My phone’s been weird lately. It might work, and it’s all we’ve got.” He keyed in the first letter and to their surprise a site bar came up. He continued to the end of the sequence.

  The connection was instant. They watched astonished as a website opened on its homepage. Nat read the title aloud, Ancient Greek Mosaics, and turned to Norika. “The drawing on the diagram‌—‌I think it’s a close-up of a mosaic.”

  They studied the drawing again, now seeing clearly the tiles of a mosaic. Two lines of tiles branched at the bottom to form a shape resembling a claw, and above the claw was a line of small white tiles, forming a narrow band around it.

  “It’s a bird,” Norika said excitedly, “with a message attached to its leg. It’s a pigeon‌—‌a messenger pigeon.”

  “The mosaic should be on the website, then.”

  In the site’s search bar he keyed in pigeon. Immediately four small images of mosaics came up, all of them featuring pigeons. They studied each one for the matching claw.

  “There it is, the fourth one,” Norika said.

  The pigeon was shown in profile perched on the edge of a metal vessel, its head fully turned to regard an unseen watcher behind it. Attached to its leg was the unknown message they were looking for.

  Below the image was a passage of text. Nat enlarged it and read it out:

  This rare early mosaic dates from the Classical period of ancient Greece, c. 480 to 323 BC, and was thought to form part of the floor of the andron in the home of an Athenian aristocrat. The Classical period represents the greatest period in the history of Western civilisation, when philosophy, science, art, poetry and drama all flourished and the democratic systems of government and justice were developed. During this time were laid the foundations for many of the freedoms we enjoy today.

  Norika nudged Nat’s shoulder. “Open it, Nat.”

  Nat clicked on the image. The screen shimmered briefly and seemed to liquefy in front of them. Darkness followed. Silence. A glimmer of light. They were in a dimly lit room with a small, square window and the smell of figs in the air.

  Part 2

  The Long Walls

  Future ages will wonder at us, as the present age wonders at us now.

  ‌—‌Perikles, 430 BCE

  11

  Athens, 423 BC

  Andreas was watching the crowds pass by outside the shop. The street led to the marketplace and Athenians were in a festive mood, despite a light rain. It was spring, and the harvest festival was about to commence.

  He hoped the rain would soon ease. The roads were damped down enough to prevent dust entering the shop, but more rain would cause muddy tracks. Andreas made good money during the festival when the weather was fine. People came from the provinces and there were always large groups around the marketplace and in the streets.

  He’d arrived at the shop early. For weeks he’d been planning towards this day, working long hours to build up his stock, confident his efforts would secure his reputation as the best sandal-maker in the city. The shop was open at the front and he sat at his bench facing the street, absorbed in crafting a pair of sandals ordered by a regular customer, a well-known poet who espoused a simple life but appreciated the finest sandals money could buy.

  He was smiling at this thought when a man entered the shop and spoke to him. “I’ve heard you’re looking for an apprentice.”

  Andreas could tell from his appearance he was someone important, an aristocrat or a merchant. The fabric of his chiton was of the highest quality, and draped over his left shoulder was a finely woven himation with an embroidered edge.

  “I don’t know who told you that,” Andreas said, “but, with all due respect, I have no need of an apprentice. I barely make enough to feed my family. Costs are going up all the time. Hides, tools. How could I afford an apprentice?”

  The man ignored his reply. “I know of someone, a foreigner, a clever youth. He needs training and his keep for a period of time. They say you are a good man, Andreas. I’m keen to have the boy learn a trade and if you agree to take him on I’ll make it worth your while.”

  He produced a leather pouch of coins and held it towards Andreas. The sandal-maker could tell it contained more money than he could make in a year. He was astonished, unsure whether to show interest or feign reluctance. He supposed the boy was the merchant’s son, although the man had said he was foreign. A relative, then, or the son of a friend? Andreas wondered why the boy needed to be cloistered here in his small shop to learn a trade. Surely he could be found more important work than to make sandals? Perhaps he was in some kind of trouble and his father thought he should lie low for a time. Youths were always causing trouble‌—‌Andreas had been robbed of hides twice lately.

  He decided to inquire further, but with caution. The man would have powerful friends. Andreas was thinking the shop could do with new shelves and his wife a fashionable new chiton. If it were only for a short period of time, why not help the boy? Besides, if he were trustworthy, the boy could look after the shop when Andreas attended the assembly.

  “Where is he?” he asked.

  “He arrived today by the Long Walls and is resting. You will meet him soon.”

  “Today!” said Andreas. “Where will he sleep?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find somewhere. I have provided him with more suitable attire for Athens and have ensured he speaks our language.” The man smiled slightly. “His home is far from here and you will notice certain differences, but you will find he learns fast. Treat him well. I rely on you to keep your part of the bargain, Andreas. Tell no one of this. If you need to speak with me you can leave a message with the old man at the shop on the corner.”

  He gestured in the direction of Leontios’s shop. Andreas was surprised. He knew Leontios well‌—‌his shop sold earthenware. How would Leontios know such a man?

  He made his decision and gave a brief nod. The man turned to leave.

  “Wait,” said Andreas, “What is your name?”

  “I am Kleitos.”

  “And the boy’s?”

  The man hesitated. “Sebastian.”

  * * *

  Before the arrival of the boy, Andreas had planned that he should sleep at the back of the shop, in a safe and secure room overlooking the small courtyard. He placed a straw pallet and blanket in the room, and provided jugs of water and good food‌—‌plenty of bread, cheese and fruit. The boy would be tired and hungry after his travels.

  Andreas knew these were excellent conditions for an apprentice and would please even Kleitos. He was satisfied he would meet the terms of their arrangement. But a few days after he met Sebastian he changed his plans.

  He liked the boy on their first meeting. Sebastian had entered the shop with Kleitos, not diffidently but with confidence, and Andreas could see he was an impressive youth‌—‌courteous, personable and intelligent, and clearly far from home. With his wife’s agreement, Andreas arranged for Sebastian to move in with his family. Phoibe had taken to Seb immediately, and their two young daughters were entranced by the tall young foreigner who told them fascinating stories of his homeland.

  Since then, they had come to reg
ard Seb as their own. True, he was a strange boy, as Kleitos had said, with foreign ways. But within a month Andreas was forced to admit that Seb had become indispensible. Seb had surprised the sandal-maker with his speed and dexterity in learning to plait thongs of leather into intricate designs, and had already acquired a reputation as a craftsman. Andreas often now gave him the more challenging work, creating special sandals for wealthy clients to wear on important civic occasions.

  The shop’s reputation grew. Business improved. Most of Andreas’s customers supposed that Seb was a foreign slave and accepted him without question, with many now insisting on wearing sandals crafted by Seb alone.

  Andreas was happier than he could remember and he secretly hoped Seb’s stay would be a long one. But there were times when he would find Seb at his workbench, gazing out to the street, deep in thought. Andreas would ask him if he were missing his homeland, and Seb would answer that his home was wherever he happened to be. He often ended such discussions by saying he was here to learn, as if that explained everything.

  Learn what? Andreas had thought, How to make sandals?

  * * *

  Seb was glad his bench was positioned within the thick walls of the shop, out of the afternoon sun. Most Athenians avoided the marketplace during the hottest part of the day. So different from home, Seb thought. In Tasmania the humpback whales would be making their way up the coast from Antarctica at this time.

  The memory caused him to pause. Three months had passed since he arrived in Athens, and his homesickness had eased. Andreas trusted him and often left him, as today, in charge of the shop while he attended the assembly. Daily life had become routine and even pleasurable.

  Seb held up to the light the sandal he was making and checked the leatherwork, smiling as he recalled where he’d first seen these patterns. They’d come up on a Google search‌—‌part of a class project on ancient Greece. He silently thanked his teacher for the topic. Miss Irwin’s enthusiasm for her subject had paid off in ways she couldn’t have imagined.

  His indifference to the change in his life hardly surprised him. Be ready, his father had often told him, be ready to adapt. The same words Yoshiki had used.

  Kleitos had asked him to be patient. He had explained that Seb’s stay in another timespace was for his own protection‌—‌the term he had used was repositioning‌—‌and he’d refused to explain more. Seb had no choice but to trust him.

  Seb had long ago accepted how impossible his situation seemed, how implausible his knowledge of the language, how like a dream it all was. But as the months passed he knew it was real.

  He remembered reading of unusual occurrences in the St Annes Herald‌—‌reports of people vanishing and reappearing, locals suddenly speaking a strange dialect, strangers whose movements were slightly out-of-sync. At the time he dismissed them as the kind of dubious stories that often appeared in regional newspapers. Now he believed them to be true. It was the day-to-day, uncomplicated life of his hometown that had deceived him. It had never been like that and he could never return.

  Meanwhile he had become, as much as any foreigner could, an Athenian, part of the polis he had once studied in class, and his interest in the city had grown. If he had to be away from Tasmania, it suited him here.

  He was occupied with these thoughts when a woman accompanied by a young girl entered the shop. They were regular customers and Seb smiled in greeting.

  “Sebastian. I would like to buy sandals for my daughter,” the woman said. “Chloe has lost one of the fine pair you made for her. I hope she will be more careful with her new ones.” She smiled fondly at the girl.

  Seb turned to the girl and gestured towards the shelves. “Please feel free to try on any here. If they don’t fit, I can make a pair within a day to your size.” He remembered her taste in footwear was distinctive and expensive.

  Chloe was about thirteen years old and tall for her age. Like many young Athenian aristocrats, she had an imperious manner. She wandered casually along one side of the shop, scarcely glancing at the sandals on the shelves, then turned and looked at Sebastian.

  “Where are you from, Sebastian? You’re not from Athens.”

  Seb laughed. “You’re right, I’m not from Athens. And one day I’ll return home. But I’ll remember my customers‌—‌especially the nosy ones!”

  The girl’s mother laughed in return. “Well said, Sebastian! Better to remain a mysterious stranger, especially to young and curious Athenians, than suffer the disrespect afforded familiar faces.”

  A few days after he’d arrived Seb had hidden his pack in a shallow hole behind the shop, removing only his notepad to use as a diary. His timeband he placed in a leather pouch which he fixed to the underside of his workbench. At least he had proof, if only for himself, that he was not from these parts or, more importantly, not of this time. As the days passed, he found himself checking it less frequently.

  Earlier that day, the timeband’s display showed 5.40 pm Thursday, Tasmanian time. Today in Athens it was hemera selenes, the day of the moon, during a time Seb guessed to be around the fifth century BC.

  What am I doing here? Seb asked this question of himself every day. He knew he was in danger, but why?

  He thought about the day of the accident. Rick’s story of a portal was now plausible‌—‌Seb himself had arrived at the Long Walls through a portal. Other things troubled him. The fish. At first he’d insisted that the fish he’d seen in the storm was unusual‌—‌something beyond a fish. After a while he realised that everyone, including Jake, thought he was imagining things, so he dropped it.

  Now he considered it again. He knew what he’d seen, even though Jake coming behind hadn’t noticed. The fish had leaped out of the storm towards him and, suspended in mid-air like a freeze-frame, had looked at him. Only for a second or two, but there was no other way to describe it. With the wind roaring around them and the boat in danger of sinking, a fish had looked at him as if it knew him. No wonder no one had wanted to hear about it.

  He heard shouting outside and went to the front of the shop. Someone was screaming and people had stopped in the street. He ran outside. A crowd had gathered at the corner facing the marketplace. A man was beating a slight young woman‌—‌no more than a girl‌—‌with a heavy staff and it was her screams which filled the air. Her attacker was large and flushed with anger, yelling to the crowd that the slave had robbed him of his coin pouch and he would beat her to within her last breath. The woman was protesting her innocence, stumbling to escape, crying out for someone to help her. Onlookers pushed for a better view, reluctant or unable to intervene.

  Seb forced his way through the crowd. Before he could intervene, a youth ran forward and without hesitation knocked the staff out of the man’s hand. As Seb reached them he recognised the youth as Alexios, the son of a prominent statesman whose family were customers of the shop.

  He and Alexios bent to help the woman, who was unable to rise. Clearly angered by their presence, the man stooped and picked up the staff. More enraged than before, he set upon Alexios from behind with a savage strike to his upper body. Alexios managed to partly deflect the blow with his arm, but fell to the ground stunned.

  The man raised the staff to continue the beating. Before he could wield the weapon a second time, Seb leaped in front of him and delivered a rapid front kick hard to the man’s stomach. The man dropped the staff and doubled over in pain. Seb followed up with a strong karate chop to the back of his neck, bringing him down. The crowd, astonished at this turn of events, murmured and jostled to watch this display of strange fighting techniques.

  The man was dazed but not out. He rose to his feet and turned towards his attacker to finish the fight, confident his bulk and strength would prevail. He had been caught by surprise but he, Nikodemos, had never lost a fight and he wouldn’t lose this one. He would have no hesitation in killing his opponent if necessary and, in truth, would enjoy it. Someone in the crowd called out his name and Nikodemos raised his hand to ac
knowledge a supporter.

  Seb dropped to a slight crouch and they circled each other. His heart was pounding. He had never before used his karate training in a real fight, one where his life depended on the outcome. If he had any doubts that this was that fight, he had only to look at his opponent.

  Nikodemos moved first, judging his target. He landed two blows in rapid succession, the first glancing off Seb’s jaw and the second connecting with the side of his head, stunning him for a few seconds. But Nikodemos was not nearly as agile, and Seb was able to avoid the full impact of the second blow with a quick sideways movement.

  The next time, Seb was ready. To the delight of the crowd, he blocked the next blow with a high kick to Nikodemos’s chest, delivered with all his force and strength. Nikodemos staggered back, took some seconds to regain his balance, and then rapidly advanced on Seb, the anger of his previous attacks replaced with a cold determination. Seb dodged the oncoming blows as best he could, but a heavy one landed on his jaw and he fell to the ground.

  As he lay stunned he saw Nikodemos draw a knife from his tunic. He rolled over and tried to rise but Nikodemos stamped his foot hard on Seb’s leg and held him fast. He smiled down at Seb and raised the knife to finish the fight.

  The crowd murmured, unsure. Nikodemos was confident. This was his moment. He was still smiling when in the next instant he was brought down with a heavy blow to the head. Alexios stood above him, pale and unsteady, holding the staff. Nikodemos convulsed twice and was still.

  The crowd’s cheers slowly faded as they realised that Nikodemos was dead. They shifted uneasily as Alexios helped Seb to his feet, and started to disperse as he and Seb went to the aid of the woman lying unconscious on the ground. Oblivious to the growing unrest of the crowd, Alexios bent and tried to revive her.

  “She’s still alive‌—‌we must get her home,” he said, fast and low. “Her name is Melitta. She lives with my family and was buying food from the market. I saw what happened from a distance‌—‌Melitta didn’t take the money. She picked up the pouch from the street where he’d dropped it. She was standing looking for its owner when he attacked her without warning. By the time I reached her he was trying to kill her.”