The Athenian Murders (11 page)

They made a detour to avoid the Agora, which would be packed at that time of the evening because of the Lenaea. Even so, their progress was hindered by an accumulation of public games, obstacles caused by improvised farces, a labyrinth of entertainments and the slow, violent crowd charging at them. They walked in silence, both deep in thought. At last, as they came to the district of Escambonidai where Heracles lived, he said: 'Please accept my hospitality for the night, Diagoras. My slave Ponsica is not too bad a cook, and a leisurely meal at the end of the day is the best way of gathering strength for the next.'

The philosopher accepted his invitation. As they entered Heracles' dark garden, Diagoras said: 'I would like to apologise. I should have expressed my disagreement more discreetly at the gymnasium. I apologise for wounding you with unnecessary insults.'

'You're my client and you're paying me, Diagoras,' said Heracles, as calmly as always. 'Any problems I have with you, I consider part of the job. As for your apology, I accept it as a gesture of friendship. But it, too, is unnecessary.'

As they crossed the garden, Diagoras thought: What a cold man. Nothing seems to touch his soul. How can someone who cares nothing for Beauty and who is never, not even occasionally, carried away by Passion, arrive at the Truth?

As they crossed the garden, Heracles thought: I have yet to determine whether this man is simply an idealist or an idiot as well. In any case, how can he boast of having discovered the Truth, if he sees nothing of what goes on around him?
²⁷

Suddenly, the front door of the house opened violently and Ponsica's dark form appeared. Her featureless mask was as blank as ever, but she began gesticulating to her master with unusual energy.

'What's the matter? A visitor...' deciphered Heracles. 'Calm yourself, you know I can't read you when you're agitated. Start again.' An unpleasant snort came from inside the dark house, followed immediately by extremely high-pitched barking. 'What's that?' Ponsica gestured frantically. 'The visitor? My visitor is a dog? Oh, a man with a dog . . . But why did you let him in while I was out?'

²⁷
I've really enjoyed translating this passage, as I think I have something of both protagonists in me. I wonder, can someone like me, to whom Beauty
matters,
who is
carried away
from time to time by Passion, and yet makes sure that nothing of what goes on around him goes
unnoticed,
discover the Truth? (T
.'s
N.)

'Don't blame your slavewoman,' bellowed a powerful voice with a strange accent from inside the house. 'But if you think she should be punished, tell me and I'll leave.'

'That voice . . .' muttered Heracles. 'By Zeus and aegis-bearing Athena!'

The man, who was huge, emerged energetically from the doorway. His beard was so thick it was impossible to tell if he was smiling. A small, frightening dog with a deformed head appeared, barking, at his feet. 'You may not recognise my face, Heracles,' said the man, 'but I'm sure you remember my right hand.' He held out his hand, palm upwards: the skin at the wrist was violently twisted into a knot of scars, like the flank of an old animal.

'Oh, by the gods .. .' whispered Heracles.

The two men greeted each other warmly. Afterwards, the Decipherer turned to an open-mouthed Diagoras: 'This is my friend Crantor, of the
deme
of Pontor,' he said. 'I told you about him. It was he who placed his right hand in the fire.'

The dog was called Cerberus. At least, that's what the man called it. It had a huge forehead, creased into folds, like an old bull, and it bared an unpleasant set of teeth inside a pink mouth that contrasted with the sickly whiteness of its face. It had the cunning, bestial little eyes of a Persian viceroy. Its body was a small slave dragging itself after its cephalic master.

The man's head, too, was very large, but his tall, sturdy body was a column worthy of such a capital. Everything about him was exaggerated, from his manner to his size. He had a high forehead and large nostrils, and his big face was almost entirely covered by a beard; thick veins ran over his immense tanned hands; torso and belly were similarly huge; his feet were solid, almost square, and his toes all appeared to be exactly the same length. He wore an enormous, patched grey cloak, evidently a faithful companion during his travels, as it moulded itself stiffly to his body.

In a way, man and dog resembled each other. There was, in both, a gleam of violence in their eyes; when they moved, it took one by surprise and it was difficult to predict where their movements would take them, for it seemed that they were unaware of it themselves. And both had a voracious, and complementary, appetite, as anything that one rejected was furiously devoured by the other, or sometimes the man picked up a bone from the floor that the dog hadn't finished gnawing and completed the task in a few quick bites.

And both man and dog smelt the same.

Reclining on one of the couches in the cenacle and holding a bunch of black grapes captive in his huge hands, the man was talking. His voice was thick, deep, with a strong foreign accent.

'What can I tell you, Heracles? What can I recount of the wonders that I've seen, the marvels that my Athenian eyes have witnessed and that my Athenian reasoning would never have accepted? You ask many questions, but I have no answers. I'm not a book, though I'm full of strange tales. I've travelled across India and Persia, Egypt and the kingdoms of the south, beyond the Nile. I've been to caves where lion-men dwell, and I've learned the violent language of serpents that think. I've walked barefoot over the sands of oceans that opened before me and closed behind me, like doors. I've watched black scorpions scratch their secret symbols in the dust. And I've seen magic bring death, and the many forms
daemons
take to manifest themselves to sorcerers, and I've heard the spirits of the dead speak through their loved ones. I swear, Heracles, there is a world outside Athens. And it is infinite.'

The man seemed to create silence with his words, like a spider weaves a web with thread from its belly. When he stopped talking, nobody spoke immediately. A moment later, the spell broke and the lips and eyelids of his listeners sprang to life.

'I'm delighted to see, Crantor,' said Heracles, 'that you have managed to fulfil your original aim. When I embraced you in Piraeus all those years ago, not knowing when I would see you again, I asked for the umpteenth time why you were choosing to go into exile. And I remember that you answered, also for the umpteenth time: "I want to be surprised every day." It would seem that you have succeeded.' Crantor grunted, no doubt signifying agreement. Heracles turned to Diagoras, who had remained silent and obedient on his couch, finishing his wine. 'Crantor and I are from the same
deme
and have known each other since childhood. We were educated together, and although I became an ephebe before him, we took part in identical missions during the war. Later, when I married, Crantor, who was extremely jealous, decided to travel the world. We bade each other farewell and so . . . until today. In those days we were separated only by our desires.' He paused and his eyes glinted with happiness. 'Do you know, Diagoras? In my youth, I wanted to be a philosopher, like you.'

Diagoras expressed sincere surprise.

'And I, a poet,' said Crantor in his powerful voice, also addressing Diagoras.

'But he ended up becoming a philosopher—' 'And he a Decipherer of Enigmas!'

They laughed. Crantor's was a dirty, awkward laugh. Diagoras thought it sounded like a collection of other people's laughs, acquired on his travels. He himself simply smiled politely, while Ponsica, shrouded in silence, removed the empty platters from the table and poured more wine. It was now dark inside the cenacle, save for the light of the oil lamps picking out the faces of the three men, creating the illusion that they were floating in the darkness of a cave. Cerberus crunched ceaselessly and, occasionally, the violent cries of the crowds running through the streets shot, like lightning, through the windows.

Crantor refused Heracles' offer of a bed for the night. He explained that he was only passing through the City on his life of constant travel; he was heading north, beyond Thrace, to the barbarian kingdoms, in search of the Hyperboreans, and didn't intend to remain in Athens more than a few days; he wished to amuse himself at the Lenaea and go to the theatre -'To the only good theatre in Athens: the comedies.' He said he had found a boarding house that would tolerate Cerberus. The dog barked hideously upon hearing its name. Heracles, who had no doubt drunk too much, pointed to the dog and said: 'You've ended up married, Crantor. You, who always criticised me for taking a wife. Where did you meet your lovely partner?'

Diagoras almost choked on his wine. But Crantor's amiable reaction confirmed his suspicion that the impetuous current of a close childhood friendship, mysterious to the eyes of others, flowed between Crantor and the Decipherer, and that their years of distance and the strange experiences that separated them had not quite succeeded in stemming it. Not
quite,
because Diagoras also sensed - he couldn't have said how, but he often had such impressions - that neither was entirely at ease with the other: they had to return to the children they once were in order to understand, and even bear, the adults they now were.

'Cerberus has lived with me longer than you can imagine,' said Crantor. His voice was different, lacking its usual violence, as if he were lulling a newborn baby to sleep. 'I found him on a quay. He was alone like me, so we decided to join destinies.' He glanced over at the dark corner where the dog was chewing violently, adding, to Heracles' amusement: 'He's been a good wife, I assure you. He shouts a lot, but only at strangers.' And he stretched out an arm and patted the small white patch affectionately. The animal barked shrilly in protest.

After a pause, Crantor went on: 'About Hagesikora, your wife . ..'

'She died. The Moirai decreed that she should have a long illness.'

There was silence. At last, Diagoras said he must leave.

'Don't do so on my account.' Crantor raised his huge, burnt hand. 'Cerberus and I will soon be off.' And almost without transition, he asked: 'Are you a friend of Heracles?'

'I am really a client.'

'Ah, some mysterious problem to solve! You're in good hands, Diagoras. I know for a fact that Heracles is a wonderful Decipherer. He's grown a little stouter since I last saw him, but I assure you he has the same piercing gaze and quick intelligence. He'll solve your enigma, whatever it may be, and quickly.'

'By the gods of friendship,' grumbled Heracles, 'let's not speak of work tonight.'

'So you are a philosopher?' Diagoras asked Crantor.

'What Athenian isn't?' rejoined Crantor, raising his eyebrows.

Heracles said: 'Let us be clear, good Diagoras: Crantor is a philosopher in deed, not in thought. He takes his convictions to their utmost limit, for he doesn't like to believe in anything that he can't put into practice.' Heracles seemed to enjoy his speech, as if he had been talking of the trait he most admired in his old friend. 'I remember ... I remember one of your sayings, Crantor: "I think with my hands.'"

'You remember it wrongly, Heracles. The sentence was: 'Hands think as well.' But it applies to the whole body.'

'Do you think with your intestines, too?' smiled Diagoras. Wine had made him sceptical, as it often does to those who rarely drink it.

'And with my bladder, and my penis, and my lungs, and my toenails,' said Crantor. And he added, after a pause: 'I believe you, too, are a philosopher, Diagoras.'

'I am a tutor at the Academy. Do you know of the Academy?'

'Of course. Our good friend Aristocles!'

'We've long known him by his nickname, Plato.' Diagoras was pleasantly surprised to find that Crantor knew Plato's real name.

'I know. Tell him from me that he is fondly remembered in Sicily.'

'Have you been to Sicily?'

'I've come more or less straight from there. It is rumoured that the tyrant Dionysius has fallen out with his brother-in-law Dion because of your colleague's teachings.'

Diagoras was delighted to hear it. 'Plato would be happy to know that his sojourn in Sicily is beginning to bear fruit. But I invite you to tell him so in person at the Academy, Crantor.

Please pay us a visit whenever you wish. Come and dine with us. Then you can take part in our philosophical dialogues.'

Crantor stared in amusement at his cup of wine, as if it contained something extremely funny or ridiculous. 'I thank you, Diagoras,' he replied, 'but I'll have to think about it. The truth is, your theories don't appeal to me.' And he laughed quietly, as if he'd just made a hilarious joke.