The Marathon Conspiracy (27 page)

“Or he has a friend. Or an agent. Can we force Antobius to name him?”

I said, “The one moment when I actually believed Antobius was when he said the murderer didn’t hand over his name along with the bribe money.”

“Good point,” Diotima said. “But Nico, we have to do something.”

Was it possible to prosecute Antobius for taking blood money? I didn’t know.

We needed to ask a lawyer. Unfortunately, Diotima had already killed the best lawyer in Athens. That had been last year, in the course of another case. We’d have to go see the second-best lawyer, assuming he was brave enough to talk to us.

I
HAD NO
idea about the law for divorce, but I knew who would: the man outside whose office lay the tablets of the law. I went to see the Basileus.

I had to wait a long time for my turn to see him. This was a private matter and I no longer had the letter from Pericles to get me past the queue. Bored, I sat on the steps and watched the other men who had business with him. These supplicants stood in the shade of the portico and argued; or they sat on the steps beside me and argued; or they crouched to play games on boards that had been scratched into the stone, with pebbles for playing pieces. Men stood about the game players and loudly critiqued their every move.

But the majority of the men around me argued over the coming elections.

“Philocles for Eponymous Archon, I reckon,” one said.

Several heads nodded, enough to make me think Philocles was in with a chance.

“I like Glaucon for treasurer,” the first man said. That got my attention.

“Glaucon is a nobody,” a second man said.

I mentally dismissed Glaucon’s ambitions. Unless it turned out he really had killed Hippias, in which case he’d become an instant celebrity. Perhaps that was why he’d been so quick to come see me. It occurred to me that Glaucon’s career prospects depended very much on me.

“What do you think about Pericles?” I asked the group. They turned to notice me for the first time.

One of the men said, “He’s going for strategos, isn’t he? Pericles’ll get voted in no matter what.”

Every head present nodded glumly.

“Is that a bad thing?” I asked, intrigued.

“I guess not,” the first man said. “But with him you know what the result’ll be. That takes all the fun out. What’s the point of turning up to vote when you know the result?”

Heads nodded again. Another man said, “It’s like a race where one man’s obviously the fastest. There’s no interest in it. No one wants to watch. You know?”

Another man said, “Here, you look like a young fellow. You ever voted before?”

I shook my head. “No, I only finished my army time just last year. This’ll be my first time.”

“Well, don’t let it faze you, kid. Just remember, voting’s like sex. No matter what you do, you’re gonna get screwed.”

“Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus!” Glaucon emerged from the offices within and shouted my name.

“I’m here!” I yelled at once, before he had time to assume I’d wandered off and selected the next man in line.

Glaucon said, “It’s good to see you again. How goes the investigation?”

I shrugged, not wanting to tell him anything useful, but I had to state my business or the secretary wouldn’t pass me through.

I said, “I need to see the Basileus about a divorce.”

“Surely not for you,” Glaucon said. He sounded surprised.

I spoke in a low voice, so only he could hear. “No, a client.

Aposila, wife of Antobius. They’re the parents of the dead girl from the sanctuary at Brauron. Please tell the Basileus that. I’m sure he’ll agree to see me.”

Out on the steps of the stoa, one of the board-game players suddenly accused the other of moving a piece while he wasn’t watching, in a loud, screeching voice. The other angrily denied it.

Glaucon opened the door. “Come inside.”

As I went inside, the board-game players were grappling with each other and rolling in the dust, fighting over who had cheated.

“You again,” said the Basileus when he saw me. “Don’t you have anything better to do than take up my time?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I need to ask how someone gets a divorce.”

“I thought you were only just about to get married?”

“I am.”

“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”

“It’s not for me, sir. I ask for a client.”

“Oh?” I could see he didn’t believe me. “Well, it’s simple enough, in any case. A man need only declare his intention to divorce. The wife is then required to leave her husband’s household and return to her closest male relative. By law her dowry must go with her, every last drachma, and all property attached to her. There are obscure situations where the archons might disallow a divorce—if there’s not yet a legitimate heir for the lady’s property, for example—but those needn’t concern us in general.”

“Yes, sir, that’s for a man,” I said. “What if it’s a woman who wants to divorce?”

“This is
a client
you ask for?” he said, clearly disturbed.

“The mother of the child who died at Brauron,” I told him.

“Young man,” he said sternly, “I think you had better tell me everything.”

So I did. The Basileus had a reputation for honesty, which was rare enough in Athens, and of the greatest integrity—during his
term he had actually prosecuted other officials for taking bribes—but he was also known as a very strict follower of the law.

As I told my tale, the expression of the Basileus became angrier and angrier.

When I had finished, the Basileus said, “So this husband and father, Antobius by name, refused to follow up the death of
his own child
?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t care if she was only a girl. The law gives him no latitude in this. He’s
required
to pursue the killer.”

I said, “Then perhaps you could tell me, sir, is it possible to prosecute Antobius? I know he can legitimately declare that the girl’s death was an accident, but what if we can prove he took money to ignore her death?”

The Basileus slumped on his stool. He said, “Unfortunately, such a prosecution is likely to fail.”

“Why?”

“Because the law sets no time limit on the duration of an investigation. Your hypothetically bribed man could claim he intends to prosecute, but that he’s still collecting evidence. He could do this for decades and stay within the letter of the law.”

“Even if everyone knows it’s a deliberate delaying tactic?”

“Even so. Of course, the rest of society would cut him dead—a man who behaved so badly could forget about ever holding public office—but if the bribe is sufficiently large, perhaps he doesn’t care.”

This was depressing news. It meant a man could murder someone and then buy his way out of trouble, as long as his wealth was deep enough, and the victim’s family venal enough, to take money for their loved one’s demise.

There was another implication, too: this killer who had visited Antobius, whoever he was, must have a source of wealth great enough to tempt a man.

The Basileus added, “But this Antobius
could
be prosecuted for beating his wife.”

I snorted but was too polite to say what I thought.

“Yes, all right,” the Basileus conceded. “A jury is more likely to take the husband’s part.”

“What about divorce for the wife?” I asked. “Is it possible?”

“You act on the wife’s behalf?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I must say, this is very generous of you. I warn you, young man, that your legal standing in this matter is dubious. You’re no relative of the victim; if anything goes wrong, you’ll be exposed to prosecution.”

I said, “If Antobius can’t be punished for his crime, sir, perhaps he can be punished for his behavior?”

“I see the thread of your reasoning now. Yes. To divorce, a lady must simply present herself to an archon and declare her intent.”

“That’s it?” I asked, incredulous. It seemed too simple.

“Restrictions apply with respect to heirs.”

“She has two sons.”

“Then there’s no possible objection. Technically she should go to the Eponymous Archon, since he deals with matters of citizenry, but the law permits any archon to perform the service. I suggest that she come to me instead; any other archon will demand to know why she wishes to divorce; I know her case and can save her the pain.”

“That’s kind of you, sir. I’ll bring her as soon as possible.”

“No,” the Basileus said, horrified. “That’s what you
mustn’t
do. No matter what, you
must not
come with her. If a man accompanies the wife, it will bring her motives into question. It’s not unknown for a man to lure a woman away from her husband in order to gain the wealth that comes with her.”

“Does that happen?” I asked.

“More often than you might think,” the Basileus said grimly. “It’s completely illegal, of course; to steal the affections of another man’s wife is a listed crime on the tablets outside this
office. But some men will do anything for money, and women will do anything for love.”

“What happens then, after Aposila comes to see you?”

“I must ask after the cause of the divorce. If the lady has been suborned, I must refuse to hear her request, and thereby prevent the divorce. This is for the lady’s own good. Women, as you know, are easily misled by unscrupulous men.”

“Yes, of course.”

The door slammed open. Antobius stood there, his chest heaving, the sweat pouring from his brow—he was slightly overweight—his mouth curved into an angry scowl.

“What has this man been telling you?!” Antobius shouted at the Basileus.

“Who in Hades are you?!” the Basileus shouted back. “And what do you mean bursting in here—”

“My name is Antobius, and this man”—he pointed at me—“this man has been interfering with my wife.”

The Basileus looked from one to the other of us. I could tell he was trying to decide which of us to believe, because by his own words, the Basileus had more than once had to deal with unscrupulous fortune hunters. How did he know I wasn’t one of them?

“That’s not the story I hear,” the Basileus said at last.

“What do you hear?” Antobius demanded.

“I make no accusation I cannot prove. But I will ask you a question. Tell me, Antobius, if I were to visit your home this instant this instant and ask to see your wife, would I find her bruised, or with black eyes, or a crooked nose?”

“I deny you permission to see her, as is my right,” Antobius said at once.

The Basileus nodded. “That’s your right,” he agreed.

Then Antobius made a mistake. He said, “What a man does in his home is his own business.”

“The law does
not
permit you to beat a woman, even if she’s your wife,” the Basileus said sharply. “I warn you, Antobius, that
there’s plenty of precedent for wife-beaters being fined large sums.”

Antobius said nothing.

“Now I require you to leave this office,” said the Basileus. “As is
my
right.”

The Basileus stood, and the two men faced each other.

I thought for a moment that Antobius might actually strike an elected archon. But instead he turned and walked. We could hear the sound of his departure as he hit things and people on the way out.

When all was quiet, the Basileus turned to me and said, “I will assist you this much: I will clear the offices when the lady is to come, and give orders that she’s to be admitted at once. I will not have a lady of Athens stand in the agora like a common supplicant.”

“That’s kind of you, sir.”

“No, it’s merely the most that the law permits me. I believe your words, but that’s not enough. An archon must be seen by the people to have enforced the law fairly,
especially
when he’s asked to separate a woman from a man who doesn’t wish to lose her. This Aposila must be seen by the people of Athens to walk alone, and to speak to me alone, so that all of Athens will know that the customs have been observed and that it is her own wish that speaks. If there’s any deviation, with all the people watching, no matter how much I may agree with you, I will refuse to hear your client.”

A
POSILA STEPPED FROM
the house of Malixa and Polonikos, where she had stayed since the episode in the office of the Basileus. Antobius had sworn his wife would not divorce him, which meant Aposila didn’t dare go home. He could have locked her in.

Malixa had offered her own home as refuge, telling her husband that Aposila was a friend whose husband was off with the army. It was common for wives to come together when their men were away; Polonikos had accepted the story without question. Nor did the two husbands know each other, so that Antobius had no way of knowing where his wife was hiding. All Antobius could do was ring the agora with watchers and wait for her to appear. We would have to escort Aposila through whatever cordon Antobius had devised, and do it without being seen to help her.

I watched Aposila out of the corner of my eye, from the opposite side of the street, where I leaned against a wall as if I were just another out-of-work laborer with nothing better to do. I wore the heavily sweat-stained exomis that I always used when my father needed me to help him with blocks of stone. If any civic-minded citizen asked me my business, I would tell him I was a laborer out looking for work.

The Basileus had made it clear I couldn’t accompany Aposila; he hadn’t said a word against guarding her from afar. The question was, did Antobius know that today was the day? Probably he did. And did he know where Aposila would begin her journey? Probably not.

Aposila wore a chiton of the type worn by many matrons, doubled over at the shoulders to give two layers of material for extra modesty, this one dyed in somber green and red, with a simple key pattern about the edges. She wore no jewelry, and her hair was braided and tied up in a simple knot of some sort. On her feet were strong leather sandals. Good. She’d need them for this walk.

Malixa appeared in the entrance behind Aposila. Aposila turned, and the two women hugged—the mother of a missing child and the mother of a dead one.