The Pericles Commission

by Gary Corby

  I grabbed the only thing I could, his feet, and heaved upward, desperate to keep his knife out of my back. He fell backward and I crawled across him to grab his knife arm. He slipped the blade downward, aiming for my eyes. I had to grab the blade to save my sight. I shouted in pain but found a grip on his wrist and came level with him as he turned the blade upward to slit my stomach. Now it was a matter of main strength whether he could drive the blade home, or whether I could turn his blade against him. We were both gritting our teeth with the effort. I could smell his breath and hoped it wouldn’t be the last thing I remembered.

  Aristodicus hooked a leg around me and rolled us both. With him on top, I couldn’t hope to keep the blade out of my belly. I tried the same trick.

  Those backstreets are muddy due to the straightforward sanitary arrangements. Aristodicus and I rolled over and over, struggling for control of the knife, and covering ourselves in substances I didn’t want to contemplate.

  Aristodicus stopped the roll and straddled me so he could put all his weight into the drive home. I felt a thud, something sharp pressed my stomach. I closed my eyes.

  But Aristodicus didn’t finish me. He’d gone limp. It was a moment before I realized I could no longer smell his rancid breath. I pushed him away, astonished to see an arrow embedded in his back. I looked down, and saw the arrowhead protruding out of his belly. The point I’d felt had been the arrow, driven straight through him and cutting into me.

  Pythax was standing in the street, slinging his bow.

  “Thanks, Pythax,” I said, and meant it. But I couldn’t resist adding, “A little harder and you could have had two for the price of one.”

  Pythax was having none of this jollity. “Where’s your backup, boy?” he demanded.

  “My what?” I asked stupidly.

  “Your backup! Your backup, you stupid son of a poxed Persian whore.” He reached down to his calf and pulled out a wicked-looking knife. “Listen to me, little boy. If you’re going to play with the grown-ups, then never walk the street without an extra blade hidden somewhere you can reach in a hurry. Think you’re the first man to lose his weapon in a fight? Hades is full of idiots like you. Learn, boy. Learn, or join them. Your choice.” Pythax grunted and looked me over with a hard eye. “Be at my barracks first light tomorrow for training, and every day from now on.”

  “I finished ephebe training last year,” I objected.

  Pythax spat into the mud. “Ephebe training is learning how to be a soldier, to fight in the ranks of a phalanx. You think that’s going to do you any good, boy? The way I see it, you’re the kind who’s going to be doing his fighting on your own, in the dark, or rolling in the mud in a disgusting street. I’m not going to teach you how to fight like a soldier, boy. I’m going to teach you how to kill like a man, any way you have to.” He eyed my dripping wrist. “To start with, you’ve got to learn to use your blade in either hand.”

  “Okay, I’ve got the message. I’ll be there. Thanks, Pythax.”

  He spat into the mud again. “Don’t thank me. I figure Athens is going to be a safer place if you stop blundering around.”

  And with that warm vote of confidence, Pythax turned and sauntered away, leaving me with the body, and numerous questions I didn’t think of until he was gone.

  “Who was he?” the innkeeper demanded.

  “That man with the bow was Pythax, chief of the Scythians.”

  The innkeeper nodded, and started up the stairs. “I’ll turf out Aristodicus’ things.”

  I immediately turned to the body. I had to search it before the locals stripped him of everything of value. This was my fourth corpse examination of the day. I wondered if a priest would have predicted it if I’d asked for an augury that morning.

  I picked up the dagger that had come so close to ending me. It seemed standard issue from any smithy. Next I put my hands down his tunic to see if he’d carried anything there. Men watched this from the inn and a few muttered, “Pervert…” I felt myself blushing but finished the job. I found a sweaty piece of papyrus lodged under his belt. It said, “Areopagus at dawn. Eastern edge.” I put it in my bag. There was a bag of coins tightly strapped round his waist. It felt heavy. I hesitated to bring it into the open for the same reason Aristodicus had strapped it down, but I had little choice. I cut the knot with his dagger and transferred the belt to me and retied it. At least twenty pairs of eyes followed this action.

  I followed the innkeeper upstairs without waiting for an invitation. He glanced at me and continued stuffing clothing into a bag.

  “So that was Pythax, was it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I guess this was an official killing? It’s okay if he kills someone?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Good-oh then. So long as it’s official.”

  “You have a relaxed attitude toward dead tenants,” I commented.

  He grunted. “It happens from time to time, in this business. I just don’t want any of those officials from Athens wandering about the place, scaring off the customers. I know they’ve got all those riots keeping them busy, but that won’t go on forever.”

  “I hope not. What do you do with the belongings?”

  “Sell them for back rent, of course.”

  “What about the body?”

  “Nah. Can’t sell that.”

  I wandered about the tiny room. The place was a pigsty. The innkeeper sighed. I quickly spied a scroll case that looked oddly familiar next to the bed, and hid it beneath my chitoniskos before the man could notice.

  I looked around, with the quiet satisfaction of discovering someone untidier than me. I picked up a rag from the floor, realized it was a soiled loincloth, and quickly dropped it.

  “I wonder he didn’t buy new ones when he was in Persia,” muttered the innkeeper.

  “Say that again?” I asked.

  “I said, he should have replaced his old clothes when he was in Persia,” the man said loudly. He must have thought I was hard of hearing, or an idiot.

  “How do you know he was in Persia?” I asked.

  “Simple. See these sandals?” He picked up one that was lying on the floor. “These straps are embossed with figures, right? When was the last time you saw a Hellene sandal embossed with figures of Persian soldiers? Never, right?”

  I squinted, and saw that the innkeeper was probably right. The figures looked vaguely Persian to me.

  “How did you spot that?” I asked him, intrigued.

  “I’m an innkeeper, and this is Piraeus. We see all sorts shipping in, from all over the world. You get to know people by what they wear and the things they carry.”

  I took the sandal from him, inspected it. The sandal was worn, but not so much that the sole had become uneven. I took off one of my own and compared it. The wear was about the same, and I had bought mine three months ago.

  “What else can you tell me?” I asked.

  The innkeeper eyed the sandal, and said cautiously, “It was probably made somewhere in Asia Minor. The style is Hellene, the design Persian, and the leather is light. They tan the leather darker in the farther parts of the Persian Empire, you know. So I’d say this sandal was made by a Persian tradesman living in a Hellene city inside Persia.”

  I thanked the innkeeper profusely, and left him a handful of coins.

  The body was lying there, minus his dagger, the rings he’d been wearing and, no doubt, everything else of value I’d left behind. Piraeus was that sort of place. They probably would have taken his clothing too except he’d soiled it as he died.

  I tried entering a nearby tavern for a drink to calm my nerves, and to read the scroll. They wouldn’t let me in. One look down the front of my chitoniskos was enough to tell me why. I was covered in mud, feces, and blood, and my hand was still bleeding freely.

  I walked-staggered-back to Athens and slipped in the back entrance of our home, hoping to wash myself and burn the clothing quietly, but a house slave screamed when she saw me, bringing Phaenarete r
unning. Mother didn’t panic, being a midwife, but her voluble description of my numerous intellectual defects was quite vivid as she personally stripped, washed, and bandaged me. All the while my little brother was watching, wide-eyed. This excitement brought Sophroniscus from his workshop, covered in dust. He took one look at me, ordered Phaenarete away, and led me into his private room. He ordered a slave to bring wine and had me down two cups unwatered as I told him everything that had happened.

  His only comment was, “Have you accepted the Polemarch’s offer yet?”

  “No, Father. I turned him down this morning.”

  Sophroniscus gripped his own cup tightly. His face paled.

  “I knew you were young, and rash as all young men are, but I had not thought you foolhardy.” He sighed. “Son, I hope you know what you’re getting into. You have now aligned yourself irrevocably with Pericles. Politics in Athens is rough, the mob is fickle, and there’s no mercy for losers.”

  “I’m not doing politics,” I said.

  Sophroniscus raised an eyebrow. “No? You have a commission from Pericles, the victim is Ephialtes, Xanthippus and the whole Council of the Areopagus is suspect, the killer is a mercenary foreigner, and you don’t think this is politics?” He shook his head. “You might not be standing before the people making speeches, but you’ve become a politician all the same. One working behind the scenes, like some men do during a play, so everything works for the actors out front. Do one thing for this old man, Nico: make sure your play is a comedy, not a tragedy.”

  “I’ll have to discuss that with the author, if I can find him.”

  Sophroniscus smiled. “Use this room whenever you need privacy.” And with that he returned to his work.

  I sipped at the wine and inspected the things I’d taken from Aristodicus. I was sure he had killed Ephialtes, but was none the wiser who had instructed the assassin.

  The door opened slightly, and a little head poked its way in. “Can I help?”

  “No.”

  “Can I watch?”

  “No.”

  “I promise I’ll be quiet!”

  “You can come in if you stop interrupting me,” I grated, thinking this conversation could go on forever otherwise.

  I opened the two notes and began to read. Instantly two little eyes were reading over my shoulder.

  The first seemed straightforward to me. It gave the time and place of the murder. Obviously someone had told Aristodicus.

  The handwriting wasn’t familiar to me. I pulled out the papers I’d taken from Xanthippus’ study and laid them out flat beside the one from Aristodicus. None of these bills and notes had anything to do with the murder, but I didn’t care. I picked through them to find one that had certainly been written by Xanthippus. I compared the handwriting of Xanthippus to that on the note. I was hugely disappointed. They didn’t look the same to me, and I’d been so sure I’d been about to solve the killing. I took out the note Ephialtes had sent to Xanthippus, setting the meeting at the Areopagus. Ephialtes’ writing didn’t match the note from Aristodicus either, but then, I’d never expected that it would.

  Next I examined the shipping note. It was an agreement with a merchant to give Aristodicus a place as passenger on one of his boats leaving Athens. It was marked with what I guessed to be the seal of the boat owner. Aristodicus had paid in advance. This was so unusual, I frowned. No one ever paid a captain for passage in advance. The chances were the captain would take the money and leave early.

  “Nico, what does this mean?” my little brother asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he thought he wouldn’t have time to negotiate passage when he wanted to leave.”

  “Like people were chasing him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But Nico, how would you know days ahead that someone was going to be chasing you?”

  I read the note again. “It doesn’t give a departure date. It only says, ‘When Aristodicus says to Telemenes he wishes to sail from Athens, Telemenes will give Aristodicus space on his first departing boat. If Telemenes has no boat within the two days then Telemenes will buy immediate passage for Aristodicus on the boat of another man.’ And for the amount he paid, I’d say Telemenes is getting a good deal. It says here Aristodicus paid three times the going rate. Even if Telemenes had to buy space from a competitor he would still make a profit.” I threw down the page. “It doesn’t make sense. Why go through this bizarre arrangement when for the same money Aristodicus could simply stand at the docks and shout out what he wanted? There’d be half a dozen captains sailing the same day who’d take him for that price.”

  My little brother said, puzzled, “But Nico, isn’t that because Aristodicus doesn’t want anyone to know about him? If he did that everyone in Piraeus would know about it right away, and he wants to hide. Isn’t that why he moved to a different inn?”

  I said grudgingly, “All right, that might be true. But then you have to explain why he’s still in Athens at all. If he felt he needed to hide, and he had this get-out-of-Athens agreement with Telemenes, why didn’t he use it?”

  “Because he hasn’t finished what he was doing.”

  I thought back to what Diotima and I had deduced long ago, after Brasidas had been shot: that there was another murder to come. But since then the slaves and the women of Ephialtes’ household had met violent deaths. Did they count in the equation? The innkeeper had proven Aristodicus had been in Asia Minor, and the evidence of the sandals suggested it had been not more than three months ago. That was very important because Cimon, the brilliant General recently ostracized by Pericles, champion of the conservative party and bitter enemy of Ephialtes, was not in Asia Minor. I didn’t know where Cimon was, but I was quite sure Asia Minor would not be it. The Persians controlled Asia Minor, Cimon had spent most of his life fighting them, and the Persians were none too fond of Cimon either.

  Could Aristodicus be working for the Great King of Persia? It was certainly possible-many Hellenes did-and the Great King was rumored to have an extensive spy network. The idea of the Persians sending a Hellene to assassinate a Hellene was totally believable. If this was a Persian plot, then it meant the Persians were on their way again. That was a possibility I had to take to Pericles right away. Every political squabble, every conspiracy, every other consideration paled alongside the prospect of another Persian invasion. They had almost beaten us last time, and only the cunning of Themistocles had saved Hellas.

  I paused. Themistocles was in Asia Minor. After being accused of treason, he had fled for his life and washed up at the palace of the Great King, who had made him Governor of Magnesia, Lampsacus, and Myus. Was Themistocles, the deep strategist who had preceded Ephialtes as leader of the Athenians, the man behind the death of his successor?

  I picked up the bag of money. I spilled the coins across the table. What Aristodicus had hidden were tetradrachmae minted in Athens, with Athena on one side and her sacred owl peering out at us on the obverse. Aristodicus had placed bits of rag in among the coins to prevent jangling when he moved.

  “Nico, is this what people usually get paid for killing other people?”

  The coins were wealth, but not a fortune. “I don’t know, little brother, but I doubt it. It doesn’t seem enough to me, considering who Ephialtes was. Father is paid more for a large statue.” I picked over the coins. In among them was a token I didn’t recognize. I held it up to the light. It was a piece of board, fitting easily into my palm, with a design on it of some form. The board had been cut in two, slicing through the design with a zigzag edge. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it, but I knew Aristodicus had thought it important.

  I returned my attention to the bag the coins had been in, which seemed familiar to me although I knew I’d never seen this bag before in my life. Now where had I seen one similar?

  At the house of Xanthippus! In his study there was a row of bags identical to this one, I was sure of it. I could have leapt for joy. At last I had a connection between Xanthippus and Ar
istodicus. I would have to find out where the bags had come from. If they were bought then someone else might have the same, but if they’d been made by Xanthippus’ slaves, he would have a hard time evading the implication. I imagined myself prosecuting Xanthippus before the people of Athens and tearing apart his defense with ease.

  “Nico, I’ve been thinking.”

  “What now?” I demanded, exasperated.

  “The man who gave Aristodicus his orders must be in Athens.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The note about the meeting. No one outside Athens could have written it.”

  It was so obvious it made me ashamed. I gave up all thoughts of Persian spies, Cimon, and Themistocles.

  “All right then, you’ve made your point. Anything else to add?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Whoever wrote the note probably ordered Aristodicus to stay in Athens. He probably has someone else to kill.”

  My little brother had reproduced almost everything I’d worked out, but with only half the evidence.

  “Nico, I’ve been thinking-”

  I sighed. “Try not to think so much, Socrates. It will only get you into trouble.”

  “Yes, Nico.”

  14

  Pythax screamed, “Again!”

  I thrust again with the blade in my left hand. And again I missed. It was astonishing the difference in strength between my left and right wrists. It was my first morning of training with Pythax. With my right still bandaged, Pythax was starting by teaching me what to do when my normal fighting arm was out of action.

  The Scythians thought it terribly amusing that a citizen should be fighting in the dirt with them, but they took it in good part because Pythax treated me not one whit different to them. In fact, if anything he treated me more harshly. When I asked him why, he replied, his expression grim, “Because my men keep the peace and do crowd control, but you go looking for trouble.”