by Gary Corby
Since the andron was in ruins, the house slave led me to the study, where Xanthippus sat.
He glanced up as I entered and said, “You again.” He stood. “I didn’t thank you for your assistance when the mob came. I thank you now.”
I was uncomfortable considering what I’d come to say. “Any citizen would have done the same.”
“Many citizens would disagree with you. The ones attacking my home, for instance.”
“The man who shot Ephialtes has been killed.”
“So Pythax told me. He also told me he saved your life.”
“I’m very grateful.” It was no surprise to me that Pythax had reported to Xanthippus.
“Good. Now we can put this whole sorry saga behind us and get on with the vital job of ruling Athens.”
“You think so? Then what of this proposal from Archestratus to recall Themistocles? Doesn’t that upset the Areopagus?”
Xanthippus, for the first time since I had known him, looked less than sure of himself. He fidgeted in his seat and crossed his legs.
After a pause he said, “I’m no hypocrite. I regret the death of Ephialtes, but I can’t deny it’s an opportunity to restore some imbalances.”
Xanthippus stopped speaking to watch some slaves carry out a broken table.
“It’s a compromise,” he said, oddly echoing the words of Archestratus. “Themistocles was a member of the Areopagus, but he was also extremely popular with the people. Perhaps Archestratus has the right idea.”
“But what if someone hired the killer? It’s inconceivable Aristodicus could have been acting on his own. What possible reason had he for killing an Athenian politician?”
Xanthippus shrugged. “Not every killing has to have a reason. In all likelihood, he was a madman acting alone. I understand he later ran amok in Ephialtes’ home and slaughtered all the women. Perhaps he had a personal grudge against Ephialtes. We’ll probably never know.”
I placed the bag I’d taken from Pericles on the table, then the other alongside it. “One of these was found around the neck of Aristodicus of Tanagra. Would you care to explain what your money bag was doing around the neck of the assassin?”
Xanthippus’ eyes widened. “But that’s impossible! I have no idea how he got it.”
“Someone gave it to him. The obvious person is you.”
“I would be foolish to deny it. I am the obvious choice for your suspicions. Yet I will swear by any God that I didn’t. I’ve sent these bags to many people in the past. Any one of them could have passed it on to this assassin.” Xanthippus picked up the bag and examined it. He muttered to himself, “How interesting.”
“You see something?”
“What? Oh, no. I merely mean how interesting that this should have happened.”
“Your claim that Aristodicus was a madman acting alone is refuted. It is obvious the coins are the mercenary pay for his crime, and it is equally obvious the man who paid him was not just an Athenian, but someone you know, or you yourself, sir. Who else has these distinctive bags?”
“Any time I need to send money or a scroll to someone, I place it in one of these. The less honest among my acquaintances, or to be generous about it, the more forgetful, don’t always return the bag. It might be possible to list most people I’ve sent something to in the last few months, but I doubt the slaves would remember everyone.” Xanthippus thought for a moment. “Ah, I have it! It was not long ago that I had cause to send a scroll to Ephialtes. No doubt this assassin stole the bag from his house when he was slaughtering Ephialtes’ womenfolk.”
“What a very convenient explanation. Are you sure you sent a bag to Ephialtes?”
“I feel quite sure that when I check, I will find that a bag was sent to Ephialtes.”
Once more I pulled out the broken token. “Do you recognize this?”
Xanthippus examined the jagged edge with interest. “No,” he said curtly. “Does it have something to do with the murder?”
“Yes.” But I didn’t tell him what, because I didn’t know.
I left Xanthippus to the joys of restoring his ruined home. I felt sure that for all the glibness of his replies, he’d be spending a sleepless night. This pleased me. At last I was putting pressure on my suspects.
My next stop was the home of Lysanias, the only Eponymous Archon of the last six years whom Ephialtes had not targeted as corrupt. If Ephialtes, who had been active in trying to discredit every archon he could, had not been able to find anything against him, it probably meant Lysanias was honest. His slaves told me Lysanias had left for the new gymnasium at the Academy.
I walked northwest, out the Dipylon Gates, through the deme of Outer Ceramicus, past olive groves, orchards, and small, elegant estates, then to a walled park. Everything was green, the air tasted of life, beautiful trees provided shade, and olives grew for the picking. Statues and the occasional fountain lined the way. Three of the statues had been commissioned from Sophroniscus and I stopped to admire them as I passed. When I walked through the low gates, it was like stepping into the Elysian Fields.
The Academy had been built many years before my time, the third gymnasium of Athens, but its reputation had been so poor, and it was so far from the Agora, that almost no one used it until Cimon had virtually torn the whole place apart and started again. He had funded the entire enterprise out of his own pocket, using wealth he had taken during his many successful battles against the Persians, and it had cost him a fortune.
The gymnasium, like the grounds, was a thing of beauty. I passed through the entrance into a quadrangle lined with porticoes. Most held naked men giving and receiving massages, bathing, or anointing themselves with oil, so much oil in fact that the whole gymnasium smelled of it. I walked around all four sides but did not see Lysanias, so I passed through into the next courtyard. This was squared off into patches of sand for wrestling practice, jumping, exercises, and playing quoits. As I walked in, I was sprayed with sand as one man threw another, who landed on his back before me. I walked around the unconscious body and walked briskly to the other side, where I saw Lysanias about to throw a quoit. His body was so wiry I could see the cords of muscles move beneath his skin as he prepared.
Lysanias grasped the thong from which hung a heavy ball made of twisted rope. He swung the thong back and forth a few times, getting a feel for the weight, then made a series of rotating steps forward before hurling the quoit with all his strength. I shaded my eyes to look for the fall. I saw it in the distance, the ball struck and bounced thrice before stopping. For an old man it had been an excellent throw.
“Excuse me, Lysanias, could I have a word with you?”
He looked me over with clear blue eyes, which I was entirely unable to read. “You are?”
“Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, sir.”
“Ah yes, Pericles’ little attack dog. I’ve heard of you. Every member of the Council has been warned about you. Well, young man, I haven’t killed anyone this month, so I’m probably not of much interest to you.”
That was not the most flattering description of me I’d ever heard! I marveled at the different views of me going about. First the influential young politician from Telemenes, now the dog from Lysanias. And still I thought of myself as a mere investigator looking for a chance to show what I could do. As the philosophers say, no man can ever truly know another.
“I’m doing what I can to uncover who killed Ephialtes, sir. As for the rest, it is true my commission is from Pericles, but that won’t stop me from publishing the names of the killers when I have them.”
Lysanias humphed. “Likely story. So you’re going to prosecute them, are you?”
“I could hardly afford it.”
“No, you couldn’t. Will Pericles?”
“I can’t speak for him.”
“Then your assurances lack credibility. The reality is, if you found the killer was a democrat, Pericles would bury the truth quicker than you could blink.”
This was so close to what I knew
to be so that it was embarrassing.
“I thought as much,” Lysanias continued, reading me perfectly. “Very well, young man, what do you want to know?”
His offer surprised me. “You’ve decided my job is a political exercise aimed against the Council, but you are willing to answer my questions anyway?”
“I am an extremely unusual recent member of the Council. Do you know why?”
“No, tell me why.”
“Because I am competent. That surprises you, does it? That I admit the reality, or that I am not one of the usual dross we see as archons today.”
“Your forthright manner is certainly refreshing.”
“Delicately put. The current Council of the Areopagus is a group of no-hopers.”
He waited for my reaction, so I prompted him with, “It is?”
“I have been a Councilor for three years, young man. Supposedly I am doing this to guide the future of Athens, but what you hear at most Council meetings has much more to do with old men protecting their privileges. I tell you it turns my stomach.”
Lysanias drew himself up for an important announcement. “I am disillusioned. Therefore I am going to help you, for the good of Athens.”
“Did the Council of the Areopagus plot the death of Ephialtes?”
Lysanias snorted. “If that’s your style of subtle questioning then the plotters have nothing to fear.”
“Since you’re being so honest I thought I would try.”
“You mistake honesty for stupidity. No, the Council as a whole did not compass the death of the man we hate most in the world, but then, the true Council could have done so and I would be none the wiser.”
“The true Council? What’s that?”
“The Council is made up of former archons. These days the candidates for the archonships are selected by lot, but long before you were born the archons were chosen based on their personal merits. It means the new members are mostly idiots, because that’s usually what you get when you choose a man by chance. But there’s a core of old men, from the days of merit, and those old men know what they’re doing. If you were to sit in on a meeting, you would hear that the older members have everything discussed, weighed, decided, and stitched up before ever the issue makes it to the Councilors. Most of the lot men are too stupid to realize this. I am not.”
“This Council within a Council, they could have plotted the assassination?”
“I have no way of knowing.”
“If you are competent, sir, isn’t it likely they will invite you into the inner circle?”
“They have had three years, and not done so. I conclude all the lot men are tainted with the same prejudice.”
“Can you tell me who the ringleaders are of the inner circle?”
“They are all men of intelligence and experience, but I should say the three who lead are Calliades, Timosthenes, and Xanthippus.”
“Tell me, what was the reaction of the Council after the news of the murder came out?”
“Consternation and fear from most of the members. They saw as clearly as your friend Pericles what the likely result would be. Xanthippus called a special meeting. Aha! I see you didn’t know that. I asked the same question you did a moment ago. I demanded that if anyone had knowledge of this murder then they should reveal it forthwith, while there was still time to avert the crisis. None admitted to it, as I expected.”
“Then why did you ask the question?”
“Do you know so little of politics, you fool? To judge their reactions of course. The lot men were simply scared. In any case, if one of those idiots had planned this you would have caught them long ago. The reaction of those of the inner circle was much more interesting. They were surprised.” Lysanias paused.
“All right, at the risk of having you bite my head off again, I will ask the leading question. Why was their surprise surprising?”
“Because they were surprised, not scared and not shocked. I had the distinct impression that they’d been prepared for something, but what had happened wasn’t what they were expecting.”
“Thank you for your help, sir. I have one last question.”
“Ask it.”
I gestured at the quoits lying at our feet. “Aren’t you a little old for this?”
Lysanias scoffed. “Excellent! Spoken like a truly brash young man. Pick up a quoit.”
“Me?”
“You. Or are you too young for this?”
I’d asked the question to discompose Lysanias. I would have to follow through. So I stripped and performed some warming up exercises. Lysanias waited patiently. When I felt as ready as I was ever going to be I stepped forward and took hold of the thong of the nearest quoit. I swung this back and forth for a while, to understand how the weighted ball would fly. I had thrown discus before, but never the quoit variant.
Lysanias covered an ostentatious yawn.
I stepped behind the line and commenced a twirling pattern of steps, much as I would have done for the discus. I whirled faster and faster until the whole world was a blur and my entire focus was on the speeding quoit straining to leave my grip. I let go of the thong with a stupendous grunt and the quoit was hurled into the sky.
It was a massive throw. The quoit had no doubt left Attica by now and was halfway to Thrace. Shepherd boys would be looking upward, wondering what that thing was passing overhead. I stopped my gyrations and looked skyward for the ball.
Instead, I saw the dust come up as my quoit landed slightly short of the one Lysanias had thrown.
“Not bad,” Lysanias allowed. “If you practiced you might amount to something.”
“How old are you, sir?”
“Fifty-five, if my old, senile memory isn’t failing me.”
“You’ve made your point, Lysanias. I’m impressed.”
Lysanias preened.
I dressed myself. As I made to go, he put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t take it hard, lad. I practice every day. You seem better than most of the dross we’re rearing these days. Come back again and I’ll teach you how to throw properly. I could show you how to get extra distance.”
“Thanks, Lysanias, I might take you up on that offer some time.”
The inn by the gates on the road to Piraeus was empty when I walked in the next morning but for the innkeeper who still had crooked legs, looked more ragged than ever, and moved as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. I was feeling more than a little sore myself; Pythax had had me practicing extended lunges since dawn. My thighs, calves, and lower back ached.
“Remember me?” I asked. “I’m the one who was looking for Aristodicus.”
The innkeeper was bent over an amphora of wine, struggling to lift it to his bar bench. He winced up at me as if the sight were painful. I picked up the amphora and settled it for him in a hole in the wooden top. “Thank you.” He belched and straightened. “Ah, that’s better. Damned onions. Never could take onions. What do you want this time? I heard you found Aristodicus. How was he?”
“Dead when I left him.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I heard. Down at the Piraeus, wann’t it?”
“Right where you told me to look. I thought I’d drop in and express my gratitude with a jar of your best wine.”
He looked at me uncomprehendingly, as if the concept were foreign to him. “Best? Yeah, okay.” He shuffled off into a back room and emerged with a dirty cup and liquid inside that I thought it best not to contemplate.
“My thanks to you, innkeeper.” I threw enough coins on the bar to pay for several amphorae of this pig’s swill. My generosity was unparalleled. The excess coins would go straight into the innkeeper’s pocket.
A man staggered in, still more or less conscious as I’d hoped he’d be at this hour. It was Ephron, the drunk the innkeeper had shoved aside when I’d visited before. The man who was always here.
“Why, Ephron! I was hoping to see you.”
“Yeah, what for?” He squinted at me as if he were loo
king into the sun. “I don’t think I know you. Do I owe you money?”
“No, but if my hopes flower then shortly I am going to owe you money.”
“Yeah, what for?” he asked again. Clearly not a vivid conversationalist.
“Our host tells me you are a great customer of his.”
“It’s an okay place to get drunk. Any place you can get drunk is an okay place when you can’t work.”
I looked him over, but he didn’t seem sick or lame to me. “What’s the problem?”
“I was a sailor. Ran away from home when I was a lad and signed up on a cargo boat, ’cause all I ever wanted to do was sail and see the world. Sailed some good trips, even down to Egypt and back. Then I couldn’t sail no more. Couldn’t see.”
“You’re blind?”
“Nah, but everything’s a blur. Started years ago, when I was a young man, got worse and worse, ’til I couldn’t see what I was doing unless I was up real close. That’s a bad thing in a man who has to avoid rocks and put his boat alongside a wharf.”
I’d heard of this happening to other men, but not as bad as this case. “That’s too bad,” I sympathized. “Couldn’t you do something else?”
“Sailing’s what I know. I tried to get work as a laborer, you know? But it’s just as bad. The boss says to move a sack, and I can see something that’s probably a sack, but when I carry it I trip over stuff and run into things. No one’s going to pay me to drop their sacks, and when I dropped an amphora it was real bad. My woman ran away, got no slaves. So now I do what work I can, I don’t care what, as long I have enough to get drunk so’s I don’t remember.”
I said, “Let’s hold onto the remembering for a little while longer. Do you recall a gentleman by the name of Aristodicus? Tough-looking man, came from Tanagra, maybe didn’t talk much.”