Free The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae by Nick Brown Page B

a purse of coin to Eubulus and they shambled out, touching their foreheads in deference, leaving me alone with Xanthippus. He put out an arm to help me and thus linked we walked slowly into a room where I presume he received his clients. A slave helped me onto a finely carved chair with arms inlaid in ivory while another handed me a wine cup. I recognised the cup’s provenance: Wild Goat style; delicate, ancient and rare. My father had some which had been handed down by his grandfather. I turned it in my hands, examining it carefully; it was a fellow refugee. Xanthippus noticed and laughed.
    “What, Mandrocles, did you not consider I might be a man of taste who could appreciate things fashioned far from Attica?”
    Strange how something so trivial can transform mood; a simple exchange about a cup altered my perception of Xanthippusand, I think his of me. No, I can’t explain it any further, reader, but you know what I mean: something similar must have happened to you.
    I sipped the wine; the mix was delicate and honeyed. For a moment we sat in silence: me sipping wine and trying to regain a measure of what old Pythagoras used to call equilibrium; as for Xanthippus? Well, I think he was considering what the basis of his relationship with me was to be.
    He was a crueller, harsher man than his modernising son, the onion headed Pericles, but easier to understand and predict. We spent our lives alternating between being on opposing and then the same side but in spite of that I found it easy to get close to him in a way I never could with his, admittedly greater, son. Silence is, however, only temporary.
    “I’m sorry for the way you were brought here, Mandrocles, but not sorry that you are here. I have a use for you.”
    He must have seen the look in my eyes.
    “No, I give you my word; this time you’ll come to no harm.”
    I must have looked unconvinced.
    “Neither will I make you perform a task injurious to those you currently serve.”
    He clapped his hands and two slaves entered the room, one carrying another less fine cup.
    “But now we will have your hurts dressed before showing you your bed; drink from that cup, it will help you sleep.”
    They led me off; I was in a daze but knew I needed sleep. As we left the room he added,
    “Tomorrow I’ll tell you about the task: I think it’s one you will like.”
    Minutes later I was still trying to make sense of that as I fell into a pleasantly drug induced sleep.
    I don’t know what they’d put in the drink but it worked:when I woke next day, the morning was half gone. It worked another way too. My body still ached, I felt bereft and lost but I realised I didn’t want to die. I got up and wandered out of the small sleeping cell to try to get some bearings: I didn’t want to blunder into the women’s quarters and be expelled with a beating. I got no further than a few paces when a slave, obviously instructed to watch for me, escorted me to the andron.
    The house of Xanthippus was elegant, light and airy, very different from most. The statues were few but exquisite; the man had an unexpected discernment and love for the modern ideas of beauty. It was clear where Pericles, with his fondness for sculptors and artists, inherited his tastes. Curiously there was no sign of the faithful hound that Xanthippus presented as a legend in the later wars. Why do I make so much of this, reader?
    Because in those early days of the great changes consequent upon the rise of the Demos, leaders of men had to change ahead of the times. They had to begin to consider the opinions of those whom they previously instructed or employed. They had to grow a public face acceptable to the new force. In those early days few either tried or, if they did, succeeded. Themistocles was the best: you could almost believe he was born for the role but Xanthippus in a more subtle way wasn’t too far behind. He would of course deny this, but in his manufactured tale of the faithful hound you can see the