The Athenian Murders (27 page)

'Is that what Crantor told you all yesterday?' Heracles could scarcely contain his anger. 'Philosophy will drive you insane, Diagoras! I'm talking about logical, coherent things, while you . . . The enigma surrounding your student isn't a philosophical theory, it's a rational chain of events that—' He broke off, for Diagoras, still looking out at the empty orchard,
⁷⁵
was shaking his head. Diagoras said: 'I remember you saying: "There are strange places where you and I have never been." It's true. We live in a strange world, Heracles. A world where nothing can be entirely rationalised or understood. A world that doesn't always behave according to the laws of logic, but to
those of dreams or literature . . . Socrates was a great reasoner, but he claimed that a
daemon,
a spirit, inspired him
with the most profound truths. And Plato believes that madness is, in some ways, an arcane method of attai
ning knowledge. This is what is
happening now: my
daemon,
or
my madness, is telling me that your explanation is wrong.'

⁷⁴
The 'cow in the orchard' is, of course, like the 'savage beast' in Chapter Four and the snakes in Chapter Two, purely eidetic, and therefore invisible to the characters. The author is using it to underline Diagoras' doubts. Indeed, to
the
reader,
the cow is
real.
My hands
are trembling. Maybe it's because I'm so tired. (T.'s N.)

⁷⁵
Having fulfilled its eidetic purpose, the cow disappears, even for the reader, and the orchard is now 'empty'. This isn't magic, just literature. (T.'s N.)

'My explanation is logical!'

'But wrong.'

'If my explanation is wrong, then
everything is wrong!
'

"That's possible,' said Diagoras bitterly. 'Yes, who knows
?'

'Very well,' grunted Heracles. 'As far as I'm concerned, Diagoras, you're welcome to wallow in the swamp of your philosophical pessimism! I'm going to prove to you that—Ah, a knock at the door. That must be Eumarchus. You stay there, contemplating the world of Ideas, my dear Diagoras! I'll bring you Menaechmus' head on a tray, and you will pay me for my work! Ponsica, answer the door!'

But Ponsica had already done so, and the visitor came out on to the terrace.

It was Crantor.

'Heracles Pontor, O Decipherer of Enigmas. And you, Diagoras, from the
deme
of Mardontes. Athens has been rocked to its very foundations! All citizens who yet possess the strength to cry out are clamouring for your presence.'

He tried to calm Cerberus, who was squirming furiously in his arms. Smiling, as if about to announce good news, he added: 'Something horrible has happened.'

The dignified, imposing figure of Praxinoe seemed to reflect the light that poured in thick waves through the windows of the workshop. Gently, he pushed aside one of his companions, while motioning for help to another. He kneeled. He remained thus for what seemed like an eternity. Onlookers imagined the expressions on his face - anguish, grief, wrath, fury. But Praxinoe's immobile features disappointed them all. His countenance bore the traces of memories, almost all of them good; symmetrical black eyebrows contrasted with a snow-white beard. There was nothing to indicate that he was looking at his son's mutilated body. Save for one detail: he blinked, incredibly slowly; he fixed his gaze on a point between the two corpses, and his eyes seemed to sink into their sockets, as slowly as the setting sun, until they were two waning moons behind his lashes. Then he opened his eyes again. That was all. Helped by those around him, he got to his feet and said: 'The gods have called you to them before me, my son. Hungry for your beauty, they will keep you with them and make you immortal.'

A murmur of admiration greeted his noble, virtuous words. More men arrived: several soldiers, and a man who appeared to be a doctor. Praxinoe looked up, and Time, which had halted out of respect, now moved on.

'Who did this?' His voice was less firm now. Soon, with no one looking, perhaps he would weep. Emotion was taking a long time to appear on his face.

There was a pause - the kind of moment at which looks are exchanged to see who will speak first. One of the men accompanying Praxinoe said: "The neighbours heard shouting in the workshop in the early hours, but they thought it was another of Menaechmus' parties ...'

'We saw Menaechmus running away!' said someone else, his voice and unkempt appearance contrasting with the dignified respectability of Praxinoe's men.

'You saw him?' asked Praxinoe.

'Yes! And others did, too! We called the servants of the
astynomi!’

The man seemed to expect a reward for his statement but, ignoring him, Praxinoe asked: 'Can anyone tell me who did this?'

He pronounced the word 'this' as if referring to an unimaginable sacrilege, a godless act worthy of hounding by the Furies. All those present looked down. There was total silence in the workshop; even the flies slowly circling in the glare of the open windows, made not a sound. Almost all unfinished, the statues gazed upon Praxinoe with rigid compassion.

The doctor - a thin, gangling man, even paler than the corpses - was kneeling, examining the bodies in turn, touching first the old man, then immediately touching the young, as if to compare them, and whispering his findings with the slow perseverance of a child reciting the alphabet. Beside him,
an
astynomos
listened respectfully, nodding in approval.

The corpses lay facing each other on their sides, in a majestic lake of blood. They resembled figures of dancers painted on a vase. The old man wore a shabby grey cloak. His right arm was bent, his left was stretched above his head. The young man's position was a mirror image of the old man's, but he was naked. Otherwise, old and young, slave and free man were equals when it came to their wounds: the eyes had been torn out, the faces ravaged and the skin scored with deep cuts; between their legs, the amputation had been impartial. There was one other difference: two eyeballs were gripped in the old man's stiffened right hand.

'Blue,' declared the doctor, as if entering them in an inventory.

And, incongruously, after these words, he sneezed. He went on: 'They belong to the young one.'

'The servant of the Eleven!' someone announced, breaking the ghastly silence.

But though all eyes searched the group of onlookers at the door, none could identify the official. Suddenly, a voice full of feeling drew everyone's attention: 'O Praxinoe, noblest of men!'

It was Diagoras of Mardontes. He had arrived at the workshop just before Praxinoe, accompanied by a short, fat man, and a second, huge, strange-looking man carrying a small dog. The fat man appeared to have vanished, but Diagoras had been attracting notice for some time as he kneeled beside the corpses, weeping bitterly. Now, however, his manner was resolute. He seemed to have gathered all his energy in his throat, no doubt for the words to issue with the necessary force. His eyes were red, his face deathly pale.

'I am Diagoras of Mardontes, Antisus' tutor at the Academy'

'I know who you are,' Praxinoe said, without gentleness. 'Speak.'

Diagoras licked his parched lips and took a breath. 'I wish to act as a sycophant and publicly accuse the sculptor Menaechmus of these crimes.'

There were lazy murmurs. After a slow battle, emotion had taken over Praxinoe's face - flushed, he raised a black eyebrow, slowly pulling at the strings of his eye and eyelid; his breathing was audible. He said: 'You seem sure of what you say, Diagoras.'

'I am, noble Praxinoe.'

Another voice said, with a foreign accent: 'What has happened here?'

It was, at last - it could be no one else - the servant of the
Eleven, the eleven judges that constituted the supreme authority in criminal cases. He was well built, and dressed in the barbarian manner in animal skins, with an ox-hide whip wound round his waist. He looked menacing, if dimwitted. He was panting loudly, as if he had run, and, judging by the expression on his face, was disappointed to see that anything interesting had happened before his arrival. Several men (there are always some on such occasions) came forward to explain what they knew, or thought they knew. Most, though, stood listening to Praxinoe: 'Diagoras, why do you believe Menaechmus did . .. this to my son and to his old pedagogue, Eumarchus?'

Diagoras licked his lips again. 'He himself will tell us, noble Praxinoe, under torture if necessary. But do not doubt his guilt. It would be like doubting the light of the sun.'

With different pronunciations, different intonations, Menaechmus' name was on everybody's lips. His face, his appearance was called to mind. Someone shouted, but was immediately ordered to be quiet. At last, Praxinoe loosed the reins of the respectful silence, saying: 'Find Menaechmus.'

As if this were the long-awaited signal, Anger raised heads and arms. Some demanded vengeance, others swore by the gods. Some, who didn't know Menaechmus even by sight, called for him to suffer appalling torment. Those who knew him shook their heads and stroked their beards thinking, perhaps: Who would have thought it? The servant of the Eleven appeared to be the only one who didn't understand what was happening, asking those around him what they were talking about, and who was the mutilated old man lying beside young Antisus, and who was it who had accused the sculptor Menaechmus, and what were they shouting, and who, and what.

'Where is Heracles?' Diagoras asked Crantor, tugging at his cloak. There was great confusion.

'I don't know.' Crantor shrugged his huge shoulders. 'He was here a moment ago, sniffing around the corpses. But now . ..'

It seemed to Diagoras that there were two kinds of statue in the workshop: some still, others moving only a little. Clumsily, he tried to make his way through them; he was jostled; in the tumult he heard someone call his name; his cloak was being pulled; he turned and saw the approaching face of one of Praxinoe's men, moving his lips. 'You must speak to the archon if you wish to file an accusation.'

'I will,' said Diagoras, not really understanding what the man was saying.

He freed himself of all hindrances, tore himself from the crowd, made his way to the door. Outside, the day was beautiful. Slaves and free men stood petrified under the portico, seemingly envious of the statues inside. The presence of the crowd was a slab of stone pressing on Diagoras' chest - he breathed freely once he had left the building behind. He stopped and looked around. In desperation, he chose a street. To his immense relief, he glimpsed the Decipherer's shambling gait as he made his plodding, meditative way up the hill. He called out.

'I want to thank you,' he said, catching up. There was a strange insistence in his tone; like a cart driver urging on his oxen without raising his voice. 'You've done your job well. I no longer need you. I will pay you the agreed sum this very afternoon.' As if uncomfortable at the Decipherer's silence, he added: 'In the end, all was as you thought. You were right, and I was wrong.'

Heracles muttered. Though the words came out very slowly, Diagoras had to lean towards him to understand: 'Why did he do it, the fool? Fear, or madness, obviously got the better of him. But. . . both bodies mutilated! It's absurd!'

Diagoras replied, strangely, fiercely joyful: 'He will tell us his motives himself, good Heracles. Torture will make him talk!'

They walked in silence along the sun-filled street. Heracles scratched his pointed head. 'I'm sorry, Diagoras. I was wrong about Menaechmus. I was sure he'd try to escape, not...'

'It no longer matters.' Diagoras sounded like a man resting after a long, slow journey through a wilderness. 'I was wrong. I see that now. I put the honour of the Academy before the lives of those poor boys. But it no longer matters. I will speak and make my accusation! I will also accuse myself as their tutor, because ...' He rubbed his temples, as if immersed in a complex mathematical problem. He went on: 'Because if something drove them to seek the guidance of that criminal, I must answer for it.'

Heracles was about to interrupt, but thought better of it and waited.

'I must answer for it,' repeated Diagoras, as if learning the sentence by heart. 'I must answer! Menaechmus is just a furious madman, but I... What am I?'

Something strange happened, though neither noticed at first: they both started speaking at once, not listening to each other, dragging out their sentences, one sounding impassioned, the other cold: 'I'm responsible; I'm the true culprit!'

'Menaechmus catches Eumarchus, gets scared and -'

'Now, let's see, what does it mean to be a tutor? Tell me!'