by Gary Corby
He took the vial from my hands and held it close to his eyes.
“What makes you think this contains hemlock?” he asked.
“The smell,” Diotima said.
“This vial is of a type used by doctors to contain medicine. It might be a prescribed dose.” Heraclides opened the stopper and took the lightest sniff. He made a face and put back the stopper. “It’s hemlock, all right.” He rummaged once more through the scroll jar beside him. He pulled one out and unrolled it. “Ah yes. The normal dose for medicinal use is one leaf, two at most.”
“What would be a fatal dose?” Diotima asked.
“Six leaves, according to the authorities. I can’t say of my own knowledge. A man taking hemlock to kill himself will typically make sure of it by taking much more, ten or twelve leaves. The roots and berries are more toxic than the leaves.”
“How long would it take to kill a man?” I asked.
Heraclides shrugged. “It’s highly variable. A man who drank a cup of the potion and then exercised vigorously might die quite quickly. But a large man who lay still could take as much as half a day.”
“But a man wouldn’t drop dead on the spot?”
“No.”
“Can you tell the dose in these vials?”
“Do you have a spare dog you don’t want?”
“No.”
“Then you’re out of luck. The only way is to try it.”
“Let’s say this is medicine, a leaf per dose,” I said. “Does that mean if I drink six vials in a row that I’ve taken a fatal dose?”
“Yes. Don’t do it.”
Diotima asked, “What should a man do, if he accidentally takes a fatal dose?”
“Say farewell to his friends.”
“There’s no cure?”
“There are things you can try. I once had to.”
“To save a man from hemlock?”
“It was back at my home on Kos, where I have some small renown for my skills. I had only sat down to supper, when the door of my house crashed open and a wild-eyed fellow ran in, a young man, he could not have been more than thirty. He barged into my courtyard before the house slave could even announce him, fell upon his knees, and begged me to save his sire. It seemed his aged father had decided to end it all with an infusion of hemlock. The practice is well established on the islands—traditional even—the man who has chosen to die eats a final meal in pleasant surroundings, says farewell to his friends and family, makes any last bequests, and then downs the cup of hemlock. All perfectly reasonable.”
“Of course.” The practice is illegal in Athens, where to commit suicide is considered a crime against the state, but I knew some of the islands preserved the ancient custom.
Heraclides said, “Do you know what the bloody fool did then? He changed his mind. There he was, surrounded by his family, his son at his side. He’d drunk the infusion to send him peacefully to Hades, and then he gets scared. He started to cry and grabbed his son by the hands and begged his son to save him. He behaves in this cowardly fashion before his friends.”
“Oh dear.”
“Indeed. It must have been a pitiful spectacle, and it put the poor son in a dreadful position. If he refused to help his father, he’d risk the curse of the Gods, but if he tried in good faith and failed, men might have wondered if the son had helped along the father for his inheritance. I should add this fool was a wealthy one.”
“Tricky. So the son ran to you,” said Diotima.
“Sensible of him. If I killed the old man, no guilt attached.”
“What did you do?”
“Tripled my fee at once. Then I induced vomiting, to remove as much of the poison as I could. It’s the nature of hemlock that it’s a relatively slow death. Unfortunately considerable time had passed before I was called. The patient had already lost feeling in his feet, which meant much of the poison had already entered his body.”
“Is that normal?”
“That’s how death proceeds. The patient loses all feeling in his feet, then his legs. The lack of sensation progresses upward until it reaches the heart, which stops.”
“I see.”
“That’s why I never prescribe hemlock. It is much, much too easy to make a mistake.” He held up the scroll. “But I must say it’s unlikely anyone would accidentally take too much. The taste is distinctive.”
“What if it were mixed in wine?” Diotima asked.
Heraclides thought about that for a moment. “Possible,” he conceded. “Especially if the wine has been made with fenugreek. The fenugreek would mask the taste.”
Most Hellene wine has fenugreek added.
“But I doubt a fatal dose could be hidden that way,” Heraclides finished.
“What about a succession of nonfatal doses?” Diotima asked.
“That’s possible. But there’d be no lasting effect.”
“What are you getting at, Diotima?” I asked.
“The vials are small,” she said to me.
“All right, but this can’t be how Arakos died,” I said. “We’ve gone down the wrong path.”
Diotima asked, “Is there some way to tell if a man has died of hemlock poisoning?”
“None, once he’s dead. It’s indistinguishable from death by natural causes.”
“There’d be no sign at all?”
“Well, the aroma of the hemlock might remain in the mouth. But that’s not a medical sign.”
Diotima said, “Heraclides, would you come with us to the body of Arakos? I’d like your opinion on how he died.”
Heraclides looked at Diotima as if she’d asked him to descend into Hades. “You expect me to go near a corpse? Are you mad?”
“Don’t you do it all the time?”
“I’m a doctor. The idea is to not be with a corpse.”
Heraclides took back his son from Socrates. The two had been staring at each other and making faces.
“He’s cute when you get used to him,” Socrates admitted.
“When he’s grown, we’ll practice medicine together,” he said proudly. “They’ll call us Heraclides and Son.”
“What’s his name?”
“Hippocrates,” said the proud father. The baby looked up with big, round, loving eyes.
AS WE WALKED, I said, “Diotima, what was all that about Arakos taking hemlock? We know that’s not how he died.”
“But think, Nico. The guilt of Timodemus hangs on the fact that only he could have beaten Arakos to death.”
“Yes?”
“What if someone poisoned Arakos with hemlock? Not enough to kill him, but enough to slow him down.”
“Dear Gods, you’re right. Even a weak woman could beat to death a man who can’t move.”
“It needn’t be even so much hemlock. Merely enough that a normal man could do him in.”
“Which means—”
“The killer is not limited to Timodemus. Anyone could have beaten Arakos to death, as long as they had access to his food. Of course, this is only a theory—”
“Come on.” I took her by the hand and dragged her along the muddy path.
“Where are we going?”
“I want to smell the mouth of a dead body.”
“THERE MIGHT BE a slight smell of something, but …” I knelt back, disappointed. “I don’t know, Diotima. I can’t smell a thing over the … er … over the other smell.” I tried not to breathe as I spoke.
“He’s been dead a while now,” Diotima admitted. Indeed, it was a hot summer, the taint of corruption was strong about the body of Arakos, and a cloud of flies had settled in for the long term.
“There’s no evidence here,” I said.
“Sorry, Nico.”
“Don’t be. Your idea was brilliant.”
“There’s only one thing we can do: confront Festianos with the evidence, and see what he says. Nico, I think perhaps I should learn something about medicine,” Diotima mused, almost to herself.
“Why?” I exclaimed.
�
�You heard Heraclides. Doctors wouldn’t be seen dead around a corpse. Don’t you think it would be useful if we could study a corpse?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You just don’t want your wife to do it.”
“Are you arguing with me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Wives are supposed to obey their husbands. It hadn’t occurred to me that someday my wife might refuse to obey me.
I asked, “Is Festianos a doctor?”
“How should I know?” Diotima said.
“Nico, I’ve been thinking,” said Socrates. “I’m pretty sure the uncle isn’t a doctor.”
“Oh come now, Socrates, how can you possibly know?” Diotima said.
“Did you see all the instruments and things in the tent of Heraclides? He had jars of scrolls and bronze instruments.”
“So?”
“I sneaked a look inside while you searched the uncle’s tent. Festianos had none of those things.”
Diotima looked at Socrates in wonder. “Try not to think so much, Socrates. It’ll only get you into trouble.”
“Yes, Diotima.”
APOLLO’S LIGHT WAS well to the west. This being the middle of summer, the Sun God would remain with us longer.
Soon it would be dinnertime. This was the evening assigned for the negotiation between our fathers for the marriage between myself and the woman who, as far as I was concerned, was already my wife.
I sent Socrates to our tents with orders to make sure everything was ready and to collect wine. I escorted Diotima to her tent to dress for the dowry negotiation. Typically the prospective bride and groom would go nowhere near such talks, but in the special circumstances our attendance was required.
Diotima entered her tent while I waited outside.
I waited a long time.
“Are you all right in there?” I called. “What’s keeping you?”
“Everything!”
I went in.
I found Diotima naked, which was nice but not quite according to plan. How long does it take to change a chiton?
“I can’t decide what to wear,” she wailed. “Should I dress as a modest young woman or a forthright woman of the world?”
Diotima, indecisive?
“Go with the modest maiden,” I advised, thinking that would most likely please my father.
“A bit too late for that, but I’ll try for modest,” she said nervously.
I was nervous too, more than I’d been in a long while. Whether or not our fathers could agree would affect the rest of our lives; whatever decision they reached would bind us, and I had no idea what was about to happen.
Diotima, on the other hand, had a clear view.
“This meeting is all about the state of my genitals,” she said as she wrapped about herself an unrevealing chiton of dull browns and reds.
“That’s true,” I admitted.
“So why can’t I speak for myself?”
“Because your genitals are the concave sort,” I said. “Listen, Diotima, I’m very happy about the state of your genitals.”
“You better be. They’re your doing.”
“You don’t regret it, do you?” I asked, alarmed at the bitter tone of her voice.
She smiled. “No, Nico, I don’t. Not at all. I’m sorry if I sound tense, but I’m worried about this meeting between your father and Pythax.”
“So am I.”
Poor girl, she was embarrassed about the whole thing. This problem existed because she’d chosen to get into bed with me—with, it must be said, substantial encouragement on my part—and now two old men were about to discuss her sex life.
I lifted the tent flap for her to exit. Outside, she said, “Your father doesn’t like me.”
I nodded. There was no point denying it. “It’s not you personally, Diotima; it’s so important to him that his grandchildren be citizens, and your family is … er …”
“Unconventional?” she supplied helpfully. “I guess I’m the lucky one.”
“No,” I said, “that’s me.” And I took her in her arms and kissed her, just as a woman with two girl children walked past. The woman turned her head and sniffed. The young girls watched closely.
“We’re in public!” Diotima, the girl with the unconventional family, had the most conventional morals in Athens. To kiss one’s wife in public is scandalous behavior.
So I dragged her back into her tent.
“Nico!” Diotima said, startled. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure your genitals are still concave.”
Diotima squealed.
“Sorry. Cold hands.”
I ESCORTED DIOTIMA to my father’s tent, eventually.
“You’re late,” he complained.
“Sorry, Father, something came up.”
Not being a camping or fighting man by inclination, Sophroniscus hadn’t his own canvas. He’d hired one from the local scam merchants. It was tattered and smelled of decay, but it kept the sun off our heads and was warm enough at night. By rights we should have met at the house of the bride’s father, or in this case his tent, but Pythax had refused, I suspect because he was embarrassed.
Pythax had come to respectability late in life. Perhaps that was why he held onto it so tightly. He dressed in a formal chiton, dyed in bright reds and greens, that hung all the way to his ankles and covered a body that would have done credit to a man half his age. He wore sandals on his wide, flat feet, feet that had never before known any protection. A himation of the finest Milesian wool draped about his shoulders and trailed down his left arm. It was the dress of a wealthy gentleman, and it must have cost him a small fortune. On a man like Pythax, who had spent his life in leather armor, the effect was faintly ridiculous. Or perhaps that was because I’d known him when he was still a slave. On his head, a circlet of flowers sat askew. Beneath it, his craggy features and scarred, sunburned skin gave lie to the entire pose.
Pythax and Father sized each other up, and it was almost comic to see: the large, well-muscled man who looked so totally out of place, and the short, stocky sculptor.
“I never thought I’d negotiate a marriage opposite a northern barbarian,” my father said.
I winced.
“And I never thought I’d be negotiating with an artist weakling,” Pythax growled.
I forced a smile. “Can I bring you refreshments, sirs?”
They ignored me.
They sat down on either side of a low traveling chest to face each other. The camp stool onto which Pythax lowered his bottom creaked under the strain, but didn’t quite splinter.
I set out cups and poured wine for them both. The more the better, I reasoned, and poured only an equal measure of water. For a business meeting the ration would normally be three water to one wine.
Sophroniscus said, “We are here to negotiate the marriage of my son Nicolaos with your stepdaughter Diotima.”
“They’re already married,” Pythax said.
“They are not,” said Sophroniscus.
“They are,” said Pythax. “They say they did the ceremony.”
“Then perhaps we should review what happened.” Sophroniscus turned to me. “Nicolaos, did you perform the rite of marriage with Diotima?”
“Yes, sir.” It wasn’t the answer my father wanted, but it was the truth, and I didn’t regret it.
“There, you see?” said Pythax.
Sophroniscus persisted. “In this ceremony you say you performed, did the girl hand her girdle to her mother?”
“No, Father, how could she? Diotima’s mother wasn’t there.”
“So the girl wasn’t prepared by her mother. Did either of you bathe in the morning?”
“No.”
“Did you walk from our home to hers, to collect her from her father?”
“No.”
“Did you place her in a chariot drawn by a horse, to lead her to her new home?”
“Fath
er, everything you ask was impossible.”
“Precisely,” said Sophroniscus. “It is impossible that the marriage ceremony could have taken place as it is practiced by the Athenians. Therefore no marriage has occurred.”
Pythax turned a dangerous red. “You’re saying my daughter’s been used and now you won’t do anything about it.”
“It would help if we weren’t doing everything backward.” My father said to me, “It’s traditional to negotiate the dowry before you bed the girl.”
Diotima had sat silently behind Pythax up to this point. Now she sat up straight and angry and said, “That was my choice, thank you very much!”
Pythax said angrily, “Sophroniscus, if you try to deny this marriage, I’ll sue you.”
“On what grounds?” Father demanded.
“Damage to my property.”
“Property?” Diotima fairly screeched. “I’m pretty sure those bits are my property.”
But Pythax was right. No father in his right mind would contract a non-virgin for his son. After what had happened, if we returned Diotima, she’d only be good as a second wife for older men whose first had died.
To calm the situation, I said, “We didn’t mean to get married, sirs. It sort of just … happened. Sorry.”
“Don’t add lying to your father to your crimes. You’re not sorry at all,” Father said. He sighed. “Pythax, I’ll be honest with you. I’m not against my son marrying your daughter, not necessarily anyway, but I insist we negotiate on the basis that nothing has yet happened. There is no fait accompli here, no certainty, and certainly no presumption that the girl has been accepted without a dowry.”
“All right,” Pythax said gruffly. “Can’t say I agree, but it sounds fair. What do you call a reasonable dowry?”
“The normal arrangement would be the girl’s inheritance from her late father. I’ve looked into this, and I know she’s in line for his house and his farm.”
I had to stifle a gasp. Diotima’s late father had been comfortably well off, not dirty rich like the aristocrats, but worth far more than my own father. Such a dowry would more than double our family’s wealth. It seemed an outrageous demand, and yet Father was correct. Tradition clearly required the woman to bring her inheritance with her. Anything less amounted to theft by the stepfather.