The Marathon Conspiracy (25 page)

“What in Hades were you thinking!” Pythax stormed at me. “You took
my daughter
into a gambling den?”

“I swear I didn’t, sir! Diotima got herself in there.”

“You didn’t stop her.”

“I told her to leave, sir, but she refused.”

“And you reckon you’re fit to marry her, do you? Shit, boy. What sort of a man can’t control his own wife?”

“Er …” I began, thinking of Pythax’s inability to control his own wife’s spending.

“If you answer that, I’ll kill you,” he said. He stopped his march, stared me in the face, and said, “What were
you
doing in there? You ain’t the sort to go slumming with the lowlives.”

“I was looking for a witness, Pythax. A man named Egesis.” I explained about the bear sightings, and how they were due to a real bear.

“A bear wandering about Attica,” he muttered. “And a murderous one at that. Gods, is there anything else that can go wrong?”

“Well …”

“Don’t answer that. And don’t make it happen, either, or my daughter’ll be a widow before she’s a wife.”

“Yes sir.”

“I suppose I’ll have to send men to hunt down this bear. I can’t have some bloody animal eating the citizens.”

“No sir.”

“You say there are men following you?”

“Yes sir. They’re hired thugs. Their leader will have a large lump on his head, about the width of a mallet.”

“I think we might have him. He was still unconscious when we picked over the bodies. Are you telling me you left an enemy alive? On purpose?”

“Yes sir.”

“You’re an idiot, Nico.”

“Yes sir.”

“Next time you got an enemy in your power, just kill the bastard. All right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Dear Gods, boy, didn’t I teach you anything?”

“No sir. Er … that is, yes sir.”

“Do you want this thug?”

“It would be nice …”

“He’s not a citizen; he’s a metic,” Pythax growled. “Just get him out of my sight, and out of Athens for that matter—I got
no room for troublemakers in my city—and make sure he never comes back.”

“Yes, Pythax. I can arrange that.”

W
HEN HE CAME
to, he was bound with rope, wrapped around him so many times he looked like a fish. The winding finished at his ankles, whence the rope went up and over two tree branches. He hung upside down.

“Where am I?” was the first groggy thing he said.

I said, “Welcome to my farm. We thought this would be the best place to take you. Fewer people to hear you scream.”

In the background, two roosters clucked and scratched about in search of seed. Diotima’s first considered action on being released from her father’s house had been to remove the spurs from the animals and tend to their wounds. We had to keep them separated—they had a tendency to want to kill each other—but they seemed happy enough. The slave Pericles had assigned had begun building a pen for each. We’d have to get a few chickens too. With two cocks and a few chickens we’d soon be chicken breeders. I’d always loved fresh eggs.

I said to our captive, hanging upside down, “We’re all professionals here, right?”

“Right!” he said. “And as a professional courtesy, if you could get me down from here … the blood’s rushing to my head, and I got a bad headache—”

“Tell me, how does one professional extract information from another?”

“Well, normally he beats the crap out of him, but in this case—”

“You see that woman over there?” I pointed to a figure fifty paces away. “That’s my wife—fiancée rather—”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Diotima’s quite a good shot with a bow. But I’m afraid she’s a bit out of practice.”

I grabbed hold of my victim, took two steps back, pulling him with me, then let go. He swung back and forth. The rope creaked slightly, and the olive branch bent under his weight, but he went with a more or less regular rhythm.

I said, “I’d like to know who you work for.”

“You know I can’t tell you that. It would be unprofessional.”

I waved to Diotima.

She raised her bow, took careful aim, and fired.

The arrow whistled past and embedded itself with a solid thud, point-deep into the trunk of the olive tree. It had missed him by a whisker.

He twisted in a vain attempt to escape. “Hey!”

“I told you she was out of practice. Who do you work for?”

“You know a professional wouldn’t tell—”

I waved to Diotima again.

This time the arrow grazed his head and went into the ground at the tree roots. The shot had drawn a scratch across his ear that quickly turned bright red and began to drip.

“Aaargh!”

“Sorry about that. I guess it’s hard for a woman to get the pull right, them not being as strong as we men. It’s a good thing you’re a professional who doesn’t talk. She’ll have plenty more time to get her arm in.”

I raised my arm to wave.

“I could retire from the professional ranks,” he said quickly. In the background one of the roosters crowed, and, not to be out-done, the other replied.

I dropped my arm. “Who do you work for?”

“Aeschylus.”

“
The playwright
?”

“Yeah. It surprised me too when he hired us.”

“Dear Gods.”

Aeschylus was untouchable. He’d fought at Marathon. He was a war hero. He was the greatest playwright in the world; every
contest he entered, he won. He practically owned the victory tripod of the Great Dionysia. And worst of all, his patron, like mine, was Pericles.

No wonder Aeschylus knew all about me. All he had to do was turn up at the latest symposium and ask the sources directly. No one would think not to tell Aeschylus anything he wanted to know.

“What does Aeschylus have to do with any of this? What does he want?”

“Hey, I just do what I’m told. That’s what we former professionals do.”

“Have you told me everything you know?”

“Yes. I swear it!”

I waved to Diotima.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Diotima took up her bow once more and aimed. Even from a distance I could see her slightly unorthodox stance. Owing to the happy circumstance of her well-developed breasts, she wasn’t able to hold the bow across her chest like a man; instead she had to extend her left arm for a slight angle and pull the string high, with her pulling hand at eye level. But years of practice had made her adept.

Our captive said, “Hey! We’re all professionals here, right?”

“Sure.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?”

“Well, I guess some of us are more professional than others. But if I could be persuaded that you’ll leave Athens and never return, I might ask my fiancée not to use you for target practice.”

“It’s a deal. This town ain’t safe for me anyway, not now I’ve betrayed my employer.”

“Where will you go?” I asked, curious.

“I’m not sure. Do you have any suggestions?”

I thought about it. “How about Corinth? It’s a rich place.” Also, Corinth was the sworn enemy of Athens. I was very happy for him to cause trouble there.

“Good idea. Corinth it is.”

I waved to Diotima. “You can shoot now!”

“Hey!”

Diotima released.

The arrow flew straight and true, with barely an arc. It whistled in and sliced through the rope just above his feet. The rope snapped. He fell to the ground head first, and was knocked out once more.

Diotima walked over.

“Good shot,” I said to her.

“It was an effort to miss him the first few shots. Did you have to swing him?”

“I thought you needed the practice,” I said. “Anyway, you missed him by a whisker, exactly as planned. Those were great shots.”

“No they weren’t. I really am out of practice. I was aiming to graze his legs.”

T
HE PROBLEMS
I
’D
had with Diotima had started to rankle. Pythax wanted to know why I couldn’t control my own wife—or wife-to-be. The situation didn’t bode well for the future. It was clear I’d have to do something to exert control, or our married life would be a disaster. So I sought advice from someone who I knew was an expert on how to run a happy household.

I found him in his workroom.

“Father, I have a question.”

Sophroniscus looked up from his work. He was chiseling into a large block of marble, the first of his works destined for Olympia. “Yes, son?”

I asked, “What do you do when Mother disobeys you?” Then, after a moment, I added, “Why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, son,” said Sophroniscus, wiping away the tears. “I wondered how long it would be before you asked that.”

“I hope I haven’t disappointed you,” I said, somewhat miffed.

“I thought it would be another two months before we had this conversation.”

“Oh,” I said, taken aback. “You expected me? Do all men have this problem?”

“You’ll never find one who’ll admit it.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. What’s the answer? How do other men cope?”

“You’ve done your two years of basic training in the army. What did you learn?”

“Never volunteer?”

“Besides that.”

“A lot of marching drills. I don’t quite see the application to married life—”

“Did you spend time as a mess leader?”

“Of course. They rotate the position so everyone gets a turn to practice shouting at people.”

“Good. So there you were with your friends, young men whom you’ve known since you were boys. You once played in the street together. You gave them a direct order, like … like …”

“Make camp?” I suggested, recalling one embarrassing incident. “Cut firewood, fetch water, pitch tents?”

“Just so,” Father agreed. “You gave all those orders, and they laughed at you.”

“How do you know?” I said.

“Son, unless young men have changed significantly since my day, I know
exactly
what happened. And after they laughed at you, and you couldn’t make them obey orders even though you were nominally in charge, you lost all authority. From that point on, you had to ask your men to do things where the commanders would have ordered and expect to be obeyed.”

“Are you sure you weren’t there?”

Father shook his head.

“I guess I’m not leader material,” I said sheepishly.

“Few are. The men of our family have always been upstanding citizens, but never in the public eye.”

“I think that will change with my generation, sir.”

“I hope you mean yourself and not Socrates,” Father said.

We both shuddered. Socrates as a public figure didn’t bear thinking about.

I said, “If my investigation work continues, I hope it will take me to a leadership position in Athens.”

“Your ambition is foreign to me,” Father said. “If you follow this course, then you must be aware your choice of wife will be an impediment.”

“I’ll manage.”

“I see you’re bent on self-destruction. Well, most young men are, I suppose. I asked for your army experience because it answers your question about woman management.”

“It does?” I said, amazed.

“It does,” Father said. “Simply this: don’t give your wife an order she won’t obey.”

“That’s it?” I said, incredulous. “That’s all I need to know?”

“A marriage, son, is like leading a squad in the army. You’re in charge, but the squad will only obey the orders they feel like. Get them in the habit of obedience by only issuing orders that make sense.”

I said, “I see what you mean.” I’d never thought about it before, but Father was right. I couldn’t recall a time when my mother had disobeyed my father in public, but at home, Father toiled in his workshop while Mother made all the decisions and managed the household.

“I think I see,” I said, excited. “Mother is like the commander of an auxiliary unit, such as … as … archers!” I said, inspired by my father’s military analogy. “While you’re the overall army commander.”

“Exactly. The sub-commander is free to do whatever she likes
with her troops—those are the house slaves—within the overall guidance of the supreme command.”

“Thank you, Father. For the first time, I think I truly understand marriage.”

“It’s a pleasure, son. Come to me any time for advice.”

“But sir, what if I want my soldiers … er, that is, what if I want my wife to do something she insists she won’t do?”

Father scratched his head. “If you find the answer, son, let me know. It would help with your mother.”

W
ITH THIS ADVICE
in hand, I returned to the courtyard, where Diotima was sitting with my mother, Phaenarete. They were talking about weddings, so they barely noticed my presence. Socrates had made himself scarce.

A slave came from the front of the house. He addressed my mother. “Mistress, there are two visitors to see the lady Diotima.”

Phaenarete said, “Why are you telling me?”

The slave blinked. “Because you’re in charge?” he suggested.

Phaenarete sighed. “We may as well get used to the new way of things around here,” she told him. “Very soon now we’ll have another mistress in the house. Two of us! When she tells you to do something, it’s as if I told you myself. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Then perhaps you might like to address your new mistress directly.”

I don’t think I’ve ever admired my mother more. She was making things as easy as possible for the woman I loved.

The slave looked at Diotima uneasily. A new mistress can upset even the most balanced of homes, and when Diotima and I wed, she would be second only to my mother in the running of the house. So many things can go wrong when a new mistress arrives. The mother and the bride might not get on, and if that happens it’s a disaster for everyone, particularly the bride. Or the new mistress might prove a martinet, or worse, slack with
the slaves in the hope they’ll like her. Our slaves didn’t know it yet, but they were in for a treat. Diotima had been running her mother’s household for years, due in large part to Euterpe’s indifference to everything but men. If there was anything that characterized Diotima’s management style, it was ruthless efficiency.

The slave said, “Two women are here to see you, mistress. They asked for you by name. They’re both gyne, matrons.”