by Corby, Gary
I dropped my arm. “Who do you work for?”
“Aeschylus.”
“The playwright?”
“Yeah. It surprised me too when he hired us.”
“Dear Gods.”
Aeschylus was untouchable. He’d fought at Marathon. He was a war hero. He was the greatest playwright in the world; every contest he entered, he won. He practically owned the victory tripod of the Great Dionysia. And worst of all, his patron, like mine, was Pericles.
No wonder Aeschylus knew all about me. All he had to do was turn up at the latest symposium and ask the sources directly. No one would think not to tell Aeschylus anything he wanted to know.
“What does Aeschylus have to do with any of this? What does he want?”
“Hey, I just do what I’m told. That’s what we former professionals do.”
“Have you told me everything you know?”
“Yes. I swear it!”
I waved to Diotima.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
Diotima took up her bow once more and aimed. Even from a distance I could see her slightly unorthodox stance. Owing to the happy circumstance of her well-developed breasts, she wasn’t able to hold the bow across her chest like a man; instead she had to extend her left arm for a slight angle and pull the string high, with her pulling hand at eye level. But years of practice had made her adept.
Our captive said, “Hey! We’re all professionals here, right?”
“Sure.”
“Then why are you doing this to me?”
“Well, I guess some of us are more professional than others. But if I could be persuaded that you’ll leave Athens and never return, I might ask my fiancée not to use you for target practice.”
“It’s a deal. This town ain’t safe for me anyway, not now I’ve betrayed my employer.”
“Where will you go?” I asked, curious.
“I’m not sure. Do you have any suggestions?”
I thought about it. “How about Corinth? It’s a rich place.” Also, Corinth was the sworn enemy of Athens. I was very happy for him to cause trouble there.
“Good idea. Corinth it is.”
I waved to Diotima. “You can shoot now!”
“Hey!”
Diotima released.
The arrow flew straight and true, with barely an arc. It whistled in and sliced through the rope just above his feet. The rope snapped. He fell to the ground head first, and was knocked out once more.
Diotima walked over.
“Good shot,” I said to her.
“It was an effort to miss him the first few shots. Did you have to swing him?”
“I thought you needed the practice,” I said. “Anyway, you missed him by a whisker, exactly as planned. Those were great shots.”
“No they weren’t. I really am out of practice. I was aiming to graze his legs.”
THE PROBLEMS I’D had with Diotima had started to rankle. Pythax wanted to know why I couldn’t control my own wife—or wife-to-be. The situation didn’t bode well for the future. It was clear I’d have to do something to exert control, or our married life would be a disaster. So I sought advice from someone who I knew was an expert on how to run a happy household.
I found him in his workroom.
“Father, I have a question.”
Sophroniscus looked up from his work. He was chiseling into a large block of marble, the first of his works destined for Olympia. “Yes, son?”
I asked, “What do you do when Mother disobeys you?” Then, after a moment, I added, “Why are you laughing?”
“I’m sorry, son,” said Sophroniscus, wiping away the tears. “I wondered how long it would be before you asked that.”
“I hope I haven’t disappointed you,” I said, somewhat miffed.
“I thought it would be another two months before we had this conversation.”
“Oh,” I said, taken aback. “You expected me? Do all men have this problem?”
“You’ll never find one who’ll admit it.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. What’s the answer? How do other men cope?”
“You’ve done your two years of basic training in the army. What did you learn?”
“Never volunteer?”
“Besides that.”
“A lot of marching drills. I don’t quite see the application to married life—”
“Did you spend time as a mess leader?”
“Of course. They rotate the position so everyone gets a turn to practice shouting at people.”
“Good. So there you were with your friends, young men whom you’ve known since you were boys. You once played in the street together. You gave them a direct order, like … like …”
“Make camp?” I suggested, recalling one embarrassing incident. “Cut firewood, fetch water, pitch tents?”
“Just so,” Father agreed. “You gave all those orders, and they laughed at you.”
“How do you know?” I said.
“Son, unless young men have changed significantly since my day, I know exactly what happened. And after they laughed at you, and you couldn’t make them obey orders even though you were nominally in charge, you lost all authority. From that point on, you had to ask your men to do things where the commanders would have ordered and expect to be obeyed.”
“Are you sure you weren’t there?”
Father shook his head.
“I guess I’m not leader material,” I said sheepishly.
“Few are. The men of our family have always been upstanding citizens, but never in the public eye.”
“I think that will change with my generation, sir.”
“I hope you mean yourself and not Socrates,” Father said.
We both shuddered. Socrates as a public figure didn’t bear thinking about.
I said, “If my investigation work continues, I hope it will take me to a leadership position in Athens.”
“Your ambition is foreign to me,” Father said. “If you follow this course, then you must be aware your choice of wife will be an impediment.”
“I’ll manage.”
“I see you’re bent on self-destruction. Well, most young men are, I suppose. I asked for your army experience because it answers your question about woman management.”
“It does?” I said, amazed.
“It does,” Father said. “Simply this: don’t give your wife an order she won’t obey.”
“That’s it?” I said, incredulous. “That’s all I need to know?”
“A marriage, son, is like leading a squad in the army. You’re in charge, but the squad will only obey the orders they feel like. Get them in the habit of obedience by only issuing orders that make sense.”
I said, “I see what you mean.” I’d never thought about it before, but Father was right. I couldn’t recall a time when my mother had disobeyed my father in public, but at home, Father toiled in his workshop while Mother made all the decisions and managed the household.
“I think I see,” I said, excited. “Mother is like the commander of an auxiliary unit, such as … as … archers!” I said, inspired by my father’s military analogy. “While you’re the overall army commander.”
“Exactly. The sub-commander is free to do whatever she likes with her troops—those are the house slaves—within the overall guidance of the supreme command.”
“Thank you, Father. For the first time, I think I truly understand marriage.”
“It’s a pleasure, son. Come to me any time for advice.”
“But sir, what if I want my soldiers … er, that is, what if I want my wife to do something she insists she won’t do?”
Father scratched his head. “If you find the answer, son, let me know. It would help with your mother.”
WITH THIS ADVICE in hand, I returned to the courtyard, where Diotima was sitting with my mother, Phaenarete. They were talking about weddings, so they barely noticed my presence. Socrates had made himself scarce.
A slave came from the front of the ho
use. He addressed my mother. “Mistress, there are two visitors to see the lady Diotima.”
Phaenarete said, “Why are you telling me?”
The slave blinked. “Because you’re in charge?” he suggested.
Phaenarete sighed. “We may as well get used to the new way of things around here,” she told him. “Very soon now we’ll have another mistress in the house. Two of us! When she tells you to do something, it’s as if I told you myself. Do you understand?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Then perhaps you might like to address your new mistress directly.”
I don’t think I’ve ever admired my mother more. She was making things as easy as possible for the woman I loved.
The slave looked at Diotima uneasily. A new mistress can upset even the most balanced of homes, and when Diotima and I wed, she would be second only to my mother in the running of the house. So many things can go wrong when a new mistress arrives. The mother and the bride might not get on, and if that happens it’s a disaster for everyone, particularly the bride. Or the new mistress might prove a martinet, or worse, slack with the slaves in the hope they’ll like her. Our slaves didn’t know it yet, but they were in for a treat. Diotima had been running her mother’s household for years, due in large part to Euterpe’s indifference to everything but men. If there was anything that characterized Diotima’s management style, it was ruthless efficiency.
The slave said, “Two women are here to see you, mistress. They asked for you by name. They’re both gyne, matrons.”
“Are they friends of the household? Do we know them?” Diotima asked.
“No, mistress. They have attendants, and they carry baskets.”
Diotima and I shared a look. For a woman to visit a strange house without her husband was unheard of. Unless she was a working girl, and matrons with slaves didn’t do that sort of work.
“Show them in.”
As the slave departed, Diotima said to my mother, “Thank you, Phaenarete.”
Phaenarete shrugged. “It’s the way of things, dear. Just be good to the slaves.”
“Of course.”
“Your arrival makes me all too conscious of the passing of my years. A young mistress in the house … I remember when that was me, in this very courtyard. I was terrified.”
Two women entered, almost the same age as my mother, followed by more attendants than I could quickly count. I was struck by the attendants—every one of them wore quality clothes that had been ripped to pieces—and even more so by the hair of one of the women: it had been cut roughly, almost to the scalp, and what remained stuck out in all directions. Her eyes were very, very red.
“My name is Aposila,” said the lady with the shredded hair. “I am the mother of Allike.” She paused. “I was the mother of Allike.” She sobbed. Her friend put an arm around her to comfort her.
Diotima said, “We’re very sorry.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at home?” I asked. Diotima threw me a nasty look, but I meant the question well. Women in mourning are not supposed to be out and about.
“This is the ninth day since the … since the funeral. I carried flowers and fruit and cakes and libations to Allike’s tomb, as the custom decrees. She always liked fruit cake. I made it with my own hands and left it by the urn.”
That meant Allike had been cremated, and her ashes lay in a pelike—a richly decorated jar—in the cemetery at Ceramicus.
I knew who the second woman was, because I had already met her. This was Malixa, the wife of Polonikos and the mother of Ophelia. I introduced her to Diotima and my mother.
Malixa said, “I pray to every god that will listen that I will not soon wear my hair like Aposila.”
Phaenarete made sympathetic noises and looked like she was about to cry.
“Our husbands think we’re going to the cemetery and then straight back home,” Malixa said. “We’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell them we were here.”
“Of course not,” Diotima said. “We knew Allike and Ophelia were friends, but we didn’t realize the families knew each other.”
“We don’t. Or we didn’t,” Malixa said, and shared a look with Aposila. Aposila said, “Malixa came to see me, to offer her sympathies. It was against the laws of proper mourning, but, well, it seemed very appropriate.”
“We discovered we have a lot in common,” Malixa said simply.
“Malixa told me—please tell me if it’s true—that you’re investigating my daughter’s death.”
“It’s true.” I didn’t tell her that as far as the powerful of Athens were concerned, Allike’s death was a side issue to the mystery of Hippias.
“She also told me that you said anything you can learn might help her lost daughter.”
“It’s true.”
“When I told Malixa what I’d seen, she convinced me to come see you.”
“Oh?” I said, suddenly interested.
Aposila said, “We’ve come to you because our husbands—both of them—seem absolutely determined to do nothing about their daughters.”
Polonikos, the father of Ophelia, had his financial problems with a dowry, but I couldn’t imagine the coincidence of two fathers with the same problem. I said as much to Aposila, and she shook her head.
“At first my husband, Antobius, was furious. He demanded that the killer be caught. I’m not sure he had any idea how to catch a killer, but he said the sanctuary must know who’d done it. He said he would sue the sanctuary, take them to court, and expose them for negligence. That was on the day we heard the news.” Aposila paused to wipe her face of tears. “Then, overnight, he changed his mind. He decided not to pursue the killer. It happened,” she said bitterly, “after the stranger called.”
Phaenarete called for refreshments. Slaves brought small bowls of figs, olives, grapes, goat’s cheese and flat bread, and cups of heavily watered wine.
We wanted to know everything about strange visitors.
“It was late at night,” Aposila went on. “Antobius and I were settling down for the night, when the house slave came to say there was a caller at the door. We never have visitors that late. Antobius would have told the slave to shut the door on him, but the stranger said it was urgent. Antobius went out to see him.”
“Did you see him?” Diotima asked.
“They stood outside, in the dark.”
“What did you do?”
“I watched out of the window. They talked for a long time. They were too far away for me to hear what they were saying; I heard voices but no words, and it was dark. But I could swear I saw the stranger hand my husband a bag. From the look of it, the bag was full and heavy. From the way Antobius hefted it, I think there were coins in it. Then the stranger walked away.”
“When was this?”
“The day after we heard Allike had died.”
Malixa spoke up. “The moment Aposila told me this, I knew you needed to know.”
“You were right,” I said with feeling. “Did the stranger return?”
“Not that I saw. But my husband acted differently.”
“How so?”
Aposila shifted in her seat. “Antobius had been angry before, but next morning he was mollified. When I asked him about the strange visitor, he said it was business. I told him I’d seen the bag and asked him what was in it. He became angry and ordered me never to mention the incident again.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“What did your husband do?”
“Nothing. After that night, he never again said anything against the sanctuary, nor blamed them for Allike’s death.” Now Aposila clenched her hands in anguish. “When I pressed him, he said he’d decided to let the matter rest.”
“I’m confused,” I said. “How does he explain the death of his daughter?”
In Athens, by law, a man was required to investigate the murder of any close relative. It was the only investigation that was guaranteed. Polonikos, the father of Ophelia, could argue that so
far his daughter was only missing, but if Antobius, the father of Allike, refused to look into his own daughter’s death, he’d be in flagrant breach of the law.
“My husband said that our daughter had been unlucky, that a wild bear had killed her. He said the stranger told him there’d been reports.”
If true, that meant no crime had been committed. We knew there really was a bear, which meant Antobius was permitted to make such a finding—technically.
“When Aposila told me this, I became desperate,” said Malixa, the mother of Ophelia. “I had thought that perhaps when Allike’s killer was found, it might bring us to my daughter. But if Antobius does nothing, then who will find the truth? Who will find my Ophelia?”
“If anyone can find your child, it’s my son,” Phaenarete said. “I promise you.”
My jaw dropped. It was the first time my mother had ever said a word about my investigation work, and she’d begun with a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.
“What do you think?” Diotima asked Aposila. “What do you want to do?”
“What can I do?” Aposila said. “Tend the grave of my daughter and care for my family. I have two other children—sons—but I loved Allike best.” Aposila paused, took a deep breath, then said, “I am determined to divorce my husband.”
Diotima and Phaenarete gasped.
I asked, “Are you sure about this?”
Aposila said, “When I pressed him on the death of my daughter, he refused. Then, when I demanded that he do something, when I said I would go to the archons if he continued to do nothing, he struck me repeatedly.”
“What!”
I could barely believe it, but now that I looked at Aposila, I could see the bruising about her left eye—there was a dark tinge to her cheek beneath the white makeup.
I had only one question.
“What are the rules for getting divorced?” I asked. It wasn’t something I’d ever thought about.
“I don’t know,” Aposila said. “One hears of these cases, but no one ever talks about the details. I want you to find out,” said Aposila. “Act for me as my agent, Nicolaos.”
“Me?” I said, aghast.
“Yes. I’ll pay you.”