by Gary Corby
Later I asked Socrates, “Did you truly mean what you said in there? If you didn’t, Father is going to be even more hurt later.”
“It’s okay, Nico. I think I’d like to be a sculptor.”
“Very well then, as long as you mean it.” I shared Sophroniscus’ surprise. Socrates didn’t seem the sculpting sort, or any other type of artist for that matter. You never can tell about people.
4
It seemed to me the next thing to do was talk to Archestratus and find out where he’d been at the time of the murder. To my surprise I found him at home. As soon as I said I came from Pericles, I was admitted into the andron, the public room at the front of the house reserved for men. Archestratus was a well-fed man with squinting eyes. He sat in an upright chair, in which he barely fit, surrounded by men, sitting upon couches set along the walls or standing. There were perhaps twenty or more of them, half with the worn faces and skin of middle age, and half younger men. A couple of those standing were jittering up and down on the spot, like runners about to start a race, but most of the men sitting had a slight slump to their shoulders. The air in the room felt hot, despite the open windows looking out onto the courtyard. Bowls of half-eaten food and cups of wine sat on low tables. A few scraps and overturned empty cups lay scattered about the floor.
The men were certainly citizens, or they would not have been present. Most wore the exomis, a knee-length garment that wraps around the body from the right side, belted about the waist, and tied over the left shoulder, leaving the right shoulder and arm bare. The exomis was the favored clothing for artisans and craftsmen. My father and I wore the same thing when we worked. Only a few men with gray hair had both shoulders and chest covered by the full-length chiton tunic of a genteel citizen, and two men my age wore the thigh-length chitoniskos of an active man. Excepting Archestratus, I doubted there was a landholder among them. Typical, in fact, of the very men the Areopagus wanted to keep from power. They had been talking loudly, but fell silent as I entered and was introduced. Every eye was upon me.
“So Pericles wants to deal, does he?” Archestratus said with satisfaction.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“A power-sharing accommodation is possible, but tell Pericles I won’t have any of that ‘you lead every alternate day’ nonsense. We split our interests down the middle. He can have foreign policy and I’ll take domestic.”
“That’s not why I’m here, sir. I’m investigating the murder of Ephialtes.”
Archestratus goggled. “You’re from his deme?”
“It’s a private commission.”
“The man’s dead. Obviously the old men of the Areopagus killed him, and there’s nothing we can do about it. We could hardly arrest the entire Council, and even if we did there’s no mechanism for taking them to trial.”
The men on the couches sat up straighter. One of the other men said, “What do you mean, Archestratus? Of course there is. Anyone accused of murder can be forced to stand trial. Being a member of the Areopagus is no immunity.”
Archestratus smiled and said, “You’re quite right. So can anyone tell us, when a man stands trial for murder, in which court is it held?”
I knew the answer to that one. “You wrote the law yourself, Archestratus. They’re tried by the Council of the Areop-Oh.”
Archestratus smiled and said, “Correct. Our accused murderers are the city’s entire set of homicide judges. Imagine the scene at the end of the trial, the accused walk to the front of the court to lay judgment on themselves. What verdict would you expect?”
Archestratus let that sink in for a moment.
“Constitutional crisis, gentlemen,” Archestratus said with relish. “Constitutional crisis of the highest order. I think I can say with all due modesty I am one of the few men equipped to deal with it.”
He certainly had me impressed, and I could see the other men were admiring Archestratus.
I said, “But sir, what if the murderer wasn’t a member of the Council?”
Archestratus frowned and said, “Of course he was.”
“Not necessarily. For example, what if someone else wanted to lead the democratic movement?”
“Your implication is clear, but I cannot imagine Pericles resorting to murder.”
“Pericles!” I exclaimed.
“Of course. You’re not suggesting I am a murderer, are you, young man?”
“Er-”
The men growled.
“No, of course not, Archestratus.”
“Good. If it was not the Council that did the deed, then look to his personal affairs.” A few of the men sniggered.
“Oh? Can you tell me about that?”
“I don’t inquire into other men’s personal business. I merely make the suggestion as a man who has seen his fair share of trials. Did you know most murders are over family feuds? Take it from me, young man, if the motive isn’t politics, then it’s personal.”
“Sir, I’m sure you understand the law better than I ever will. Could you tell me what happens now to Ephialtes’ house and property?”
Archestratus harrumphed. “If he had sons, or even nephews or brothers, his possessions would pass to them. I happen to know he had no close male relatives still living. There was a brother, but I believe he died in battle against the Persians before he could sire children. The law requires property to stay within the family. So in this case Ephialtes’ widow will be required to marry the closest possible man within his greater family. I have no idea who that is.”
“What if that man is already married?”
“Then the law requires him to divorce so as to marry the widow. Keeping property within the family overrides all other considerations. The man would retain his own property and acquire that of Ephialtes. The divorced woman would be sent back to her family.”
This struck me as being somewhat harsh. But fortunately that wasn’t my problem. My problem would be finding the name of the lucky groom.
“It couldn’t have been Cimon who killed Ephialtes, could it?” a man speculated.
Archestratus chuckled. “Cimon? He’s an arch-conservative, no man is more aristocratic, and he and Ephialtes hated each other with a passion, but have you forgotten he was ostracized three months ago? We won’t see him back in Athens for nigh on ten years. How he could fire a bow on the Rock of the Areopagus when he isn’t even in Attica is an interesting question.”
Nevertheless, the suggestion was a good one. Cimon was our greatest living military commander, and the son of Miltiades, who led us to victory at the Battle of Marathon. With credentials like those, he was a hero to many, and as Archestratus said, was known for his deep conservative views, so deep that he was friend and admirer of the strange, militaristic city-state Sparta, Athens’ greatest rival for domination of Hellas. Yes, indeed, if Cimon were in Athens he would be a prime suspect.
But he wasn’t in Athens, nor anywhere in the Attica region surrounding, because the previous year, Cimon had led a party of volunteers to go to the aid of the Spartans when they suffered a slave revolt. The expedition had ended in a farce when the Spartans sent home the Athenian contingent as not required. The people were incensed by the insult, blamed Cimon, and had taken out their indignation by ostracizing him.
I said, “What if Cimon hired an agent to act for him?”
“I don’t believe it,” another man spoke up. “Cimon wouldn’t kill a man like that. He’d face you down.” Others around the room nodded their heads.
“Where is Cimon now?” someone asked.
Silence. Nobody knew where he’d gone. That wasn’t so strange since he’d only recently departed. No doubt he would surface in a few months after he’d found a new home. Cimon had been the only man capable of stopping Ephialtes. The moment he was gone, Ephialtes had pushed through his reforms.
“Maybe one of Cimon’s friends is acting on his own,” someone suggested.
“I suppose that’s possible,” Archestratus conceded. “But if you’re right, ther
e’s going to be another murder.”
“What!”
“Oh, yes. It was Ephialtes who wanted Cimon’s political destruction, but the man who prosecuted him after the Spartan disaster was Pericles.”
It was only after the door shut behind me that I realized I’d never asked Archestratus the one question I’d gone there to ask: Where had he been at the time of the murder? I shook my head in disgust with myself. How could I have let him get away with that? Xanthippus had called Archestratus a little dog who liked to nip but couldn’t hurt, but having met the man I thought there was plenty of bite in Archestratus. The difference between them was, if Xanthippus was a hunting dog that came at you from in front and went for your throat, then Archestratus was the kind that pounced onto your back from behind.
I considered Archestratus’ rather clever backhanded suggestion that Pericles might be the killer. But if he was, I had to get around my own evidence that he held no bow, and besides, why would he commission me to catch himself?
It had all looked so simple when I’d questioned the slaves!
Archestratus had dropped a broad hint that all was not well in Ephialtes’ private life. I decided to visit his home, where I’d be able to ask about his family, and perhaps even discover if there was a relative who hated him.
The home was easy to find, since such a public figure had a long line of mourners visiting. I pushed my way through the crowd, which began even outside the door.
The public rooms held some decent dinner couches, but nothing opulent. The cups men held were standard pottery. There were murals on the walls, the usual Homeric scenes, but nothing like what I would have expected in the home of such a famous man. Indeed, our own house held better artwork, and that confused me. Ephialtes would not have been a rich man, not compared to an aristocrat like Xanthippus, who owned many estates and probably a silver mine, but he should have been very comfortable compared to most. So where was his money? It certainly wasn’t in this house.
Everything was overshadowed by the most important display, the body of Ephialtes. As is the custom, he had been carried straight home from the murder scene. The body had been washed in perfumed water and seawater and laid to rest in the courtyard, with his feet pointing toward the door.
I stepped forward to the body, as was required. An urn of ashes had been placed there. I dipped my hands in, raised them high above me, and poured a handful of ash over my head, felt the soft falling touch against my face, and the harsh burnt smell in my nose. Looking down I could see the pattern of black and white specks on the floor all about me, where every visitor before had done the same thing. I cried and lamented for the shortest time I decently could, inspecting the body all the while. Ephialtes had been dressed in a white shroud. A honey cake rested by his right hand. A strip of linen had been tied around his chin to the top of his head to keep his mouth shut, by which I knew the coin, an obol, had already been placed in his mouth. Ephialtes would give the coin to Charon the Ferryman, who would carry him across the Acheron, the river of woe, on his way to Hades. He would cross the river Cocytus of lamentation, and the Phlegethon of fire, before coming to the river Lethe, where he would dip in his hand and drink of the waters, and so lose all memories of his earthly life, finally coming to the Styx, the river of hate, after which he would be in Hades, and remain there for all eternity.
Death, my death, was not something I had ever contemplated before, but looking down at this man whose death I was investigating, knowing what he was going through that very moment, I wondered for the first time what my own fate might be. The great hero Achilles of Trojan fame had said he would rather be slave to the poorest man living than king over all the dead, and he should know. Achilles’ word was enough to tell me being dead was a bad idea.
When I felt I’d lamented sufficiently I stepped back.
Without a son in the home there was no one to greet the mourners, so they wandered, poking their noses about the home of a famous man, talking to each other, and picking up and inspecting anything that took their interest. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few items disappeared before the day was out.
We could all hear the wailing from the women’s quarters, particularly shrill from one voice, whom I guessed would be the wife. It is against all decency for a married woman to socialize with men, and the husband being dead is no excuse for breaking the rule. Ephialtes’ wife and any girl-children would not leave their quarters until all the visitors had left. Equally, the custom was that they must keep the wailing going to show their distress. It set my teeth on edge, and the men talking to one another had to raise their voices to be heard above it.
I hadn’t fully appreciated how confused this house would be. How was I going to get any information here?
A slave was hobbling about with difficulty, serving wine. The slave was thin, almost weedy. His hair was falling out, and he had the look of illness rather than old age.
He was struggling to carry the amphora. It almost slipped from his grasp and I barely grabbed it in time.
“Here, let me help you.”
“Oh no, sir, I couldn’t do that!”
“Whyever not?”
“What would the master say?”
“Very little. He’s dead.”
The slave was taken aback. “Why, so he is, sir. I keep forgetting, it doesn’t seem real.”
I took the amphora from his protesting hands and started to serve. As I walked among them, some of the visitors asked if I was Ephialtes’ son. I claimed to be the son of an old friend-explaining why I had not cut my hair in mourning-and moved on.
The cup into which I was pouring jerked, making the wine splash my feet. The fellow holding the cup said, “Now there’s a brave man.”
For a moment I thought he meant me before I realized he was looking over my shoulder. I turned to see an older man standing by the body, a new arrival since he had no ash on his shoulders. Many in the courtyard had stopped talking to watch him.
A voice called out, “What is it, Lysanias? Come to make sure he’s dead?”
Lysanias ignored the implicit challenge, but said in a tone that brooked no argument, “Paying my respects to a good man.” The expression on his face was grim, made grimmer by his hair being cut so close that it was barely gray fuzz above his skull.
“Who’s he?” I asked the man next to me.
“One of the Council of the Areopagus.”
Lysanias stood for a moment, looking down at the corpse, then made his respects, much as I had done, but with more style, lifting the ashes in two hands above his head and letting them fall upon him. His lamentation sounded like he might have meant it.
When he finished, he did not stay. Probably there was no one in the house who would have wanted to speak with him anyway, except for me. Lysanias strode to the front door and out.
It had been an impressive performance. I had to agree with the fellow who’d spilled his wine on me: there went a brave man.
Several more members of the Areopagus arrived late. They too had come to do what was right for the dead man’s shade, and they were left in peace. Time passed slowly, but the stream of visitors finally slowed to a trickle, and by dusk they were all gone. I sat down, exhausted. It had been a long day. The slave sat beside me, looking like he might faint. I poured a cup of wine and handed it to him, then one for myself.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Achilles, sir.”
“Achilles?” I could not keep the surprise from my voice. Never has a name less matched the wearer.
“I believe it was in the nature of a jest, sir, on account of my heels.”
Looking down, I saw that both Achilles’ heels had been cut deeply. They had not healed clean. The scars ran to his ankles, the mutilated flesh was tight and folded, white and flaky. Walking must have been painful.
“Who did this?” I asked in horror.
“A distant cousin of the master, sir, when they were boys.”
“For goodness’ sake, why? Did you
do something very bad?”
“I believe it was in the nature of a jest, sir.”
I sat there with Achilles, trying to ignore the wailing from the women’s quarters, which had not let up the whole afternoon, as was proper.
“They’re doing a good job up there, but they must be getting tired,” I said, as I refilled his cup. “Is that shrill one the wife? She must be upset, her screams almost sound genuine.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir,” Achilles said and, after a long pause, he added in a low voice, “There’s another house will be in mourning,”
“What’s that?” I asked, startled.
“Another house, only not so public. His mistress, a hetaera with a special place for the master.”
I had to think about that. “When you say this woman’s a hetaera, I suppose you mean that as a courtesy title. Surely she’s some young girl that Ephialtes took in and gave a home?”
“Oh no, sir! Euterpe of Mantinea was never one of those common pornoi one finds walking the streets. Ephialtes first met Euterpe at one of her soirees, when she was already well established, with her own salon and a respectable clientele.”
Euterpe would be her professional hetaera name, not the one she was born with. The name meant “Great Delight.” The idea of Ephialtes keeping a highly expensive hetaera didn’t fit my image of him as a noble leader of the common man. The hetaera is a courtesan. Unlike most respectable women, she can read and write, and is as versed in poetry, philosophy, and politics as any man. She is able to hold an enchanting soiree in her salon, and the best men of the city will clamor to be invited. Hetaerae are not considered respectable by the wives, but the men who can afford them aren’t too bothered by that. On rare occasions, such a lady will form a special relationship with one man. He is expected to keep her in the style to which she is accustomed. She will see no other man.
“How do you know this, Achilles?”