by Gary Corby
“What do you mean, changes its banks?”
“See those great loops?”
I did indeed. The river swerved left and right in sweeping arcs, never going in a straight line. I said, “It flows like a drunken sailor.”
“Right. Those loops change all the time. Usually they get bigger and bigger, pushing outward. Sometimes the loop becomes so large it collapses, and the water takes a shortcut across what used to be dry land, before the new path begins looping out again. It plays havoc with the farmers, I can tell you. That land you’re looking at right below us is new. A whole loop collapsed here six months ago. The farmers love it when that happens because the new soil is always rich. See how green and strong the plants are? Of course, it was bad luck for the farmer who owned this land.”
“Owned? Past tense?”
“He fell into the new waterway at night and drowned. It’s easy to do in the dark when the riverbank isn’t where it used to be.”
“What’s this river named?”
“They call it the Maeander.”
We rode the trails for the rest of the day. It was a pleasant way to spend the time, and I found Cleophantus was good company. He was older, but compared to me he was an inexperienced child.
As we rode back toward the palace late that afternoon, side by side, Cleophantus said without any preamble, “I suppose you know a lot of ways to kill people.”
“I do?”
“Well, it’s only a guess.” He sounded diffident. I would be too if I said crazy things like that.
He continued with, “I know why you came to Magnesia.”
“To deliver your sister back to your father.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me, Nicolaos. I know.”
“Know what?”
“So you’re saying your presence here has nothing to do with a certain letter, which may have arrived in Athens?”
That stopped me dead. “What letter?”
This had to be a trap. Barzanes must have coerced Cleophantus into asking these questions, hoping I’d loosen up with a fellow Hellene. No real conspirator could be as clumsy as Cleophantus.
Our path had taken us into the foothills, close to the necropolis, the city of the dead.
I realized then we had taken a very indirect route home. I hadn’t thought anything of it until that moment. After all, this was supposed to be a fun ride.
Cleophantus said, “This way,” and turned his mount sharply, straight into the necropolis. It occurred to me a necropolis is the perfect place to hide a body. I followed after a moment’s hesitation, but while his back was to me I used my right hand to check that my dagger was in place, as was the backup I kept hidden beneath my chiton.
We passed row after row of stele, memorial stones, all poking out of the ground and inscribed to speak to the passerby. Some were engraved with an image of the dead.
A woman standing with an arm raised in greeting: Agesilla, wife of Timacrates, well deserving of him. She died bearing his son.
Xaribolos lies here. I raised four sons and many daughters, and lived to seventy-five.
Some men, wealthier, had commissioned statues of the dead, or even monuments.
Two boys made of stone, standing side by side with an arm around each other: Criton, son of Thrasybolous, erected this for his two sons, Dexiphanes, age five, and Criton, age four, who drowned in the river.
Cleophantus wound past all of these graves, row upon row of the dead, and upward along the narrow path of trodden dirt, bordered by high, tough grass. The place was silent but for the whistle of the wind, the thud of hooves, and the occasional snort from our mounts. Well, in a necropolis, silence was preferable to the alternative.
Directly ahead, high above us, rock tombs were cut into the hills themselves. I’d heard of rock tombs, but never seen one; Athens doesn’t have them. They are family graves that have been cut deep into the side of a solid hill by hand. The rock tombs of Magnesia stood in a ragged row, high and proud above the necropolis, with the outside faces chiseled, carved, and painted to resemble the façades of temples. All but one showed signs of wear: faded paint, or a certain loss of definition in the fine features where wind and rain had worn the carving. The exception was the last in the row, either new or freshly maintained. Its lines were sharp, complete; its paint bright; the effect astonishing. From a distance, I could have sworn it was the front of a real building.
I saw the path up the hill was a dead end, in more ways than one.
“Cleophantus, where are we going?”
He didn’t answer, but dismounted at the first of the temple outlines. Now that we were closer I could inspect the work. As the son of a sculptor, I was fascinated. Someone had actually carved Ionic columns out of this solid rock, and temple roof outlines and metopes and friezes. This was quality artwork. I ran my fingers along the stone, feeling the erosion. They would have done better to have picked a hill made of marble, though I supposed valuable marble would have been mined. The paintwork up close was in poor condition, but that was to be expected, no paint could last on stone exposed as this rock face was. Even so, these tombs beat the burial urns we Athenians used any day. When I died, I wanted to be put in one of these.
There was a thick wooden door in the middle of the temple carving, hung on iron hinges. Cleophantus gripped the handle and pulled it back. It moved almost silently; someone had oiled the hinges.
Mnesiptolema sat inside, exposed to view as the door swung open. Her hard, angular face was sharpened by the contrast of light and dark.
I said, “I hope you’re here to tell me who killed Brion.”
“I rather thought you did.” She pursed her lips. “I must say, you don’t look like an assassin. But if Thorion sent you, I suppose you must be the best Athens has.”
* * *
We sat on the stone benches carved into the walls, which should have held bodies but which had been long empty. It was cool and damp inside the tomb, and very private, which is what the children of Themistocles wanted. I sat opposite three of them: Mnesiptolema, Cleophantus, and Nicomache. Nicomache had been sitting unnoticed in the corner when the door opened. Invisibility seemed to be Nicomache’s skill.
I said, for the third time, still not believing, “You want me to kill your father?”
“Surely Thorion explained this to you?” Mnesiptolema said, her impatience plain.
“So it was you three who sent the letter to Thorion?” I studiously avoided her question.
“Four. You forget my husband. Granted, that’s easy to do.”
“That’s a good point. Why isn’t Archeptolis here?” I asked.
“I speak for us both,” Mnesiptolema said at once.
That was believable.
“Are you experienced at this sort of thing?” Mnesiptolema asked, as if I were an artisan interviewing for a commission.
“I haven’t assassinated that many people.”
“How many?”
“Well, none actually.”
“None?” Cleophantus said. “We ask Athens for a killer, and they send you?”
“Athens didn’t send me to kill anyone. I’m not an assassin; I’m an investigator, an agent.”
“But we told Thorion—”
“Thorion’s dead,” I said.
Silence.
“How?” Mnesiptolema demanded.
“An assassin got him. A real one.”
“I told Nessie this was a bad idea,” Cleophantus said glumly.
I said, “The man who killed Thorion stole the letter before we could read it.”
Nicomache gasped.
Cleophantus went pale. “Then whoever sent the assassin—”
“Has the letter. I don’t know who he is.”
“Barzanes, it has to be him,” Nicomache said. “But if Barzanes knows, why hasn’t he arrested us?”
We all turned to look at her. She went red when she realized the answer to her question. Even if Barzanes had perfect evidence, he would do nothing against his future
wife.
“I suppose it could be someone else,” she muttered.
Cleophantus sat down and held his head in his hands. “The one time in my life I try and do something positive, and this is what happens.”
“If Thorion didn’t send you, then why did you come?” Mnesiptolema said.
“To solve Thorion’s murder. So you’re telling me this letter said nothing of treason?”
“Certainly not treason against Athens. Treason against Persia, definitely.”
“So Thorion wasn’t a traitor.”
Mnesiptolema shrugged. “If he was, it’s nothing to do with us.”
“And Brion?”
Nicomache muttered, “Poor Uncle Brion.”
“Uncle Brion?”
“Well, not in fact, but that’s what we called him when we were children.”
“Oh, really? So much for him being a mere acquaintance like you said at dinner, Mnesiptolema.”
Each looked at the others, waiting for someone to speak. Eventually Cleophantus said, “Nessie said that for our protection, Nicolaos. Please understand, we have a good reason to be nervous. But she didn’t entirely lie. Brion was a friend on our mother’s side of the family. There may have been a distant relationship; I’m not sure. He visited our home in Athens whenever he was in town on business, and Father received him. I couldn’t say what the relationship was. You have to remember, we three were young children and Asia was a baby. Then when Father was condemned, it was a very scary time for all of us.”
Nicomache nodded. “I don’t think any of us ever got over it. I still have nightmares. The stigma…”
Mnesiptolema snorted.
Nicomache said, “It’s true, Nessie. Just because you were happy to throw the stones back.…”
Cleophantus said, “The family became hated, you see. We were the children of a traitor. People spat on us. Other children threw stones. Father was already in exile. There was no protection.”
His words reminded me of the persecution of Onteles, the son of Thorion, and the fate his family faced. I recalled the graffiti on their wall, which threatened to burn down their house with them in it. I nodded and said, “I know someone in a similar situation. I understand what you went through.”
Cleophantus went on, “A man called Epicrates—a friend of Father’s—smuggled us out in a cart. They killed him for it later, for helping us.” Cleophantus paused and I could see, even in the dim light, the color in his face fade to an awful white. “It’s awful knowing a man died for the crime of saving you when you were a child. Nicomache talked of nightmares; that’s mine. Anyway, people think Epicrates took us all the way to Father, but he dropped us off at his farm estate. The man who took us the rest of the way was Brion.”
“Themistocles must have been grateful to him for that.”
“He never talked about it, but of course he must have been.”
“I suppose he was a frequent visitor to you here then.”
“Oddly, no. We never saw him again. Until recently, that is, when he began making trips to Magnesia.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know.”
“What drove the three—four—of you to conspire to murder your own father? You do realize the Gods would curse you?”
Patricide is the worst possible crime for a Hellene, worse than any other form of murder. The only crime that comes close is bedding your own mother. Only one man ever committed both. That was Oedipus, and the Gods went out of their way to make him suffer.
Mnesiptolema smirked. “Our hands will be clean. We merely informed Athens of certain facts. The rest should have followed naturally.”
I hoped for her sake the Gods saw it in the same cynical light she did.
“I gather this was your idea.”
“You think these soppy fools could come up with a sensible scheme?”
“Nessie!” Nicomache objected.
I turned to Nicomache. “What could make a nice girl like you want to kill your own father?”
Nicomache clasped her hands together and rubbed them, as if she washed her hands in some invisible water. “I don’t. I love Father. I don’t wish him harm. But he’s so determined to marry me to Barzanes. When I think of his hands on me I feel sick.” She visibly shuddered.
I couldn’t blame her. I wouldn’t want that cold fish handling me either.
“I’ve pleaded with Father, and pleaded, and pleaded, but he says the marriage is a good one and I should be pleased. What he means is, the marriage is good for his ambitions. He doesn’t care about my happiness at all.”
“That’s his right, you know, to make the judgment.” As I knew all too well. Suddenly I felt a sympathy with Nicomache that I would never have expected.
“My brothers have promised me”—she looked to Cleophantus—“if Father dies, they’ll annul the agreement with Barzanes and allow me to marry the man I love, my cousin Phrasicles of Athens.”
“There’s still the blood curse,” I pointed out.
Nicomache said, “No, Nessie’s explained it. If all we do is tell Athens of the threat to the city, then we aren’t being bad at all. Quite the opposite: we’re being good citizens.”
Mnesiptolema said, “It’s amazing how easy it is to persuade someone an action is moral when it’s in their own best interests.”
“Oh, be quiet, Nessie,” Cleophantus said angrily. “Why must you always attack people? I don’t want to be brother-by-marriage to Barzanes, any more than Nicomache wants to marry him.”
“I see.” I thought for a moment. “I think I’ve met this Phrasicles of yours, Nicomache.”
Nicomache clasped her hands and said, “Oh, do please tell me, how is he? Is he well?” she asked with such a voice that I realized this was a lovelorn girl.
I shook my head. “It’s only a passing acquaintance. What’s your excuse, Mnesiptolema?”
“That’s my business.”
“Then explain to me why Athens should help you homicidal offspring commit murder.”
They all three looked at each other in confusion, almost like comics playing in the agora.
Cleophantus said, “We explained it all in the letter.”
“That would be the letter stolen from Thorion’s dead body.”
Cleophantus hung his head, shifted in his seat, and said, “Father’s best days are behind him, his victory—despite everything, people still honor him for that—it would be terrible if he did something to destroy his greatest legacy. In a way, we’d be doing him a favor, because an honorable man in his situation would commit suic—”
“Oh, get on with it!” Mnesiptolema snarled at him. “Can’t you do anything?” Mnesiptolema turned to me. “Our father is writing an invasion plan, and the Persians are going to use it. If someone doesn’t do something, Athens will be conquered.”
13
To spy upon the enemy, alone in the dead of night, it will be a deed of great daring.
I didn’t hesitate. As soon as we returned the horses to the stable, I went straight to the agora in Magnesia and bought two wax tablets and leather cord, exactly as I had in Ephesus, and as before I took them back to my room, wound the cord about the pole, and began to write.
URGENT! THEMISTOCLES PREPARING INVASION PLAN OF HELLAS. PERSIAN ATTACK IMMINENT WHEN HE COMPLETES. PREPARE AT ONCE.
That ought to get Pericles’ attention.
Twice before the Persians had tried to conquer Athens. The first time had been in the reign of King Darius, thirty years ago. Twenty-five thousand Persians had landed at Marathon. The Athenians, outnumbered three to one, had attacked, and the Persians were pushed back into the sea. It was a famous victory. Ten years later Xerxes, the son of Darius, launched his own massive invasion, and was defeated at the sea battle of Salamis, but not before taking Athens and razing it to the ground. No one doubted the Persians would try a third time if they could, and it seemed Artaxerxes, son of Xerxes, had decided that with Themistocles on their side the time was ripe.
I continued
the coded message to Pericles, in smaller text, passing on all the details I’d learned from the homicidal siblings.
Back in the tomb I’d asked them, “How long has this been going on?”
Mnesiptolema said, “Months. Three months at least. Probably longer, but that’s when we noticed.”
Cleophantus added, “Usually he’s open with us about whatever he’s doing, I think because he wants us to take an interest—we’ve all disappointed him by not having any talent for statesmanship—the only one who pays attention is Asia. She dotes on Father.”
Nicomache said, “Then one day as I cleaned the room—I’m the only one allowed, because I’m family—I chanced upon some notes. They talked about Persian forces in Hellas. I showed them to Cleophantus.”
Cleophantus said, “I had a horrible feeling they were what they turned out to be. At which point we took Archeptolis and Nessie into our confidence.”
“You came to this tomb to meet?”
“It’s the only place we can be certain no one listens.”
“But surely difficult to find a pretense to come here very often.”
“It’s no pretense,” Nicomache said. “My mother—mine and Asia’s—lies in the new crypt at the end of this row.”
“Asia told me she was dead. I’m sorry.”
“If she had lived, she would never have allowed Father to betroth me.”
“How did you get the letter to Thorion?”
Mnesiptolema said, “Through Brion, of course. Brion handles so much correspondence to Athens, it was the simplest thing in the world to slip him the letter when he was in Magnesia. No one even blinked.”
“Did Brion know what you’d written?”
“Not unless he’s been reading our mail.”
Which he may well have.
Mnesiptolema said, “When are you going to kill him?”