The Marathon Conspiracy (30 page)

The combined ages of Callias and Aeschylus couldn’t be less than 130. But that minor detail wasn’t going to stop these two. I pushed Socrates behind the line of our men and told him to stay there.

Callias raised his hand, his index finger extended. He pointed straight at Aeschylus and said—

“What’s going on here?”

The voice belonged to Pythax. I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Pythax was panting slightly. Well, my father-in-law-to-be was getting on in years—his beard was streaked with gray—and he’d probably run all the way from the guard barracks. Behind him stood eight Scythians. They weren’t panting at all. They looked relaxed and in tip-top condition, their bows unstrung and held in their hands, at the ready to break some heads.

It was a lucky slave who could get away with beating his owner. The Scythians, being state-owned slaves, were not only allowed but
required
to beat unruly citizens. I’d trained with them; I knew it was the part of their job they relished best.

The combatants all eyed one another.

This would be a three-way battle that only the Scythians could hope to win. There were 292 more where this lot came from, and Pythax was no fool; he surely must have sent for reinforcements from among his command. Indeed, even as he spoke another ten Scythians appeared from down the street and fell into line beside their comrades.

Pythax turned to me. “Why is it, little boy, that whenever there’s a riot, you’re in the middle of it?”

“It’s all a misunderstanding, Pythax,” I said. “Honest.”

“Yeah, sure.” Pythax looked as if he didn’t believe me. “You lot, and you lot,” he pointed at the mercenaries of both Aeschylus and Callias. “I want to see your backs, walking down the street. Now.”

One of the men behind Aeschylus pushed past, stuck his face in front of Pythax, poked him in the chest, and said, “Listen up, barbarian, you don’t give orders to an Athenian citiz—”

Pythax backhanded him, and he went flying into the wall headfirst.

“Anyone else?” he asked.

Both groups looked to their employers. Callias and Aeschylus, without taking their eyes off each other, nodded as one. Both of their groups turned and walked, leaving the Scythians to hold the field. I wondered if they’d later erect a victory tripod, as was the custom.

“Now,” Pythax said. “What in Hades is wrong here? You first,” he said to Callias.

Callias pointed at Aeschylus and said, “Gods know why, but he’s protecting the secret followers of Hippias.”

Pythax turned to Aeschylus.

Aeschylus pointed at me and said, “He’s plotting with the followers of Hippias.”

Pythax turned to me.

I said, “Don’t ask me, Pythax. I’m completely ignorant.”

“That,” Pythax growled, “is the first thing I’ve heard today that I can believe.”

P
YTHAX ORDERED US
all into the andron of Aeschylus’s townhouse. He sat us in a row like naughty schoolboys: the richest man in Athens, our greatest playwright, and me. Socrates stood to the side. For once, he wasn’t the one in trouble. He tried and failed to suppress a grin. I knew my brother wouldn’t let me forget this anytime soon.

Pythax stood before us, folded his arms, and tapped his foot. “Well?”

Callias said, “Nicolaos has information that proves Aeschylus is interfering with the investigation into who killed Hippias, or at least, the remains of what we think is Hippias. It was Aeschylus who sent thugs to attack him.”

Pythax turned to Aeschylus. “Those were your thugs following Nicolaos?”

Aeschylus nodded, and didn’t look embarrassed in the slightest. “For a good reason. I’ve received information that this fellow Nicolaos has been working with traitors.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded angrily. I was mortally offended. I might have reached for my knife except that Pythax was in the room.

Aeschylus said, “I was told by someone who was well informed.”

“Who? Who told you?”

“An anonymous source.”

That made Pythax, Callias, and me all stare at Aeschylus.

Aeschylus blushed. He said, “A man knocked on the door one night—”

“Let me guess,” I said. “He refused to come inside where there was light. Instead, the two of you stood in the dark street, and he spoke in a low whisper.”

Aeschylus nodded. “He told me that you’re an agent. An agent for hire.”

“That’s true,” I said.

“He told me the remains of Hippias had been discovered.” He paused to look each of us in the eyes. “This I already knew. You see, I was present when the Basileus was informed. The fact that this man was privy to the same information told me he had access to confidential sources.”

Callias nodded. “A reasonable deduction.”

“He knew about the signal that flashed on the mountain behind us after the battle at Marathon.”

“That’s common knowledge,” Callias said.

“He said a scroll was removed from the case found alongside the body.”

“That’s supposed to be a secret,” I said. “How did he know that?”

“You perceive the reason why I found his story credible. He then said the men who flashed the signal at Marathon were the ones who took the missing scroll, to hide their identities.”

“That’s one of the theories we’re running with,” I said. “It may even be the best theory.”

“He said you were in the pay of those traitors. To make sure their names never emerged.”

“That’s a lie!” I said, outraged.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” said Aeschylus. “Yet you
are
an agent, by your own admission. Such men will do anything for money,
and who better to hide the truth than the man assigned to uncover it?”

I was exasperated by his assumption that as an agent I must be dishonest. “All I can say, Aeschylus, is that you’ve been lied to.”

“If so, it’s a lie immersed in a great deal of truth.”

I had to concede that Aeschylus had a point. In his position, I too might have believed the entire story.

“Did this stranger have anything else to say?” I asked.

“He knew Hippias had been at Brauron. He knew that it was I who wounded Hippias.”

Callias snorted. “So you’ve always claimed. I know of no one who saw it.”

“No, Callias, it’s true,” I said. “I’ve met the son of a doctor who treated Hippias. The tyrant was wounded just as Aeschylus claims.”

“What’s this?” Aeschylus and Callias both exclaimed.

I explained the evidence of the doctor at Brauron, how as a boy he had seen Hippias stagger into his father’s surgery. “The doctor’s evidence places Hippias in Brauron, near to where the skeleton was found. With the diary found beside the bones, we can conclude that the remains are the tyrant.”

“So I
did
wound Hippias,” Aeschylus said in triumph, half to himself.

“Yes, Aeschylus, you did,” I said.

“Perhaps it was my blow that eventually killed him,” Aeschylus said hopefully.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so, not according to the doctor.” Then, in a spirit of tactful diplomacy, I added, “But it was your blow, Aeschylus, that forced Hippias to retreat to the place where he met his fate.”

Aeschylus brightened at that happy thought and sat back on the couch.

There was something about Aeschylus’s tone as he spoke, a note of confusion. I began to consider the possibility that he might be entirely innocent.

I said, “Aeschylus, you need to know that the man who approached you also bribed the father of the murdered girl not to complain about her death.”

I described the circumstances and finished with, “If you compare notes with Antobius, I’ll wager you’ll find that you spoke with the same man.”

Aeschylus thought about that, while the rest of us awaited his verdict.

“It seems we’ve been working at cross-purposes,” he admitted.

“Because someone’s been feeding us false information,” Callias said. “Someone who’ll face a jury when we catch him.”

“Not all false, but a combination of false and true,” I said. “Whoever he is, he’s a good liar.”

That would make him harder to uncover.

Callias leaned forward in his seat and said, “The stranger told Aeschylus that the soldier who flashed the signal was the same man who took the missing scroll.” Callias paused, then asked, “Was that a true part, or a false?”

“Probably true,” I said. “The odds are that we’re looking for a veteran of Marathon, and across this entire case, there’s only one other man who might fit.”

They all looked at me questioningly.

I said, “At the sanctuary there’s a man named Zeke. Did Zeke fight at Marathon? He’s old enough.”

“You think this Zeke might be the man who approached Aeschylus?” Callias asked.

I shrugged. “He knows about the skeleton. He lives in the right place to have been involved. He’s had command experience, I’m sure of it. He reminds me of my officers when I was an ephebe.”

Callias looked at Aeschylus. Aeschylus looked at Callias.

Aeschylus said, “Wait here.”

He left the room. The rest of us stared at each other and wondered what Aeschylus was about.

He returned with a large sheet of faded papyrus in his hand. It was covered in tiny letters. Aeschylus said, “Honors were awarded to every man who fought in the battle, their names read in assembly for all to hear. I did the reading, and I was meticulous about including every man, even the slaves who fought alongside us and the fine men from other cities. This is the sheet from which I read. There is no Zeke.”

“That settles it, then,” I said. “Zeke wasn’t at the battle. You see, sirs, why I centered on Aeschylus. He’s the only old soldier to be present for both the current deaths and the signal thirty years ago.”

Socrates frowned. “Nico, I don’t think this can be right.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

Socrates said, “I don’t think a soldier could have sent the signal at Marathon.”

To our combined astonished looks, he asked, in his inquisitive way, “Do soldiers really flash signals?”

“Yes, boy, they do,” Aeschylus said. “Soldiers use their shield to flash signals in the sunlight all the time. It’s a standard trick.”

“Over such a distance?”

“Usually across a battlefield.”

“Do they use the inside of the shield, or the outside?”

“The outside, of course. The inside is all wood and leather. Surely you’ve seen your father’s armor.”

“Socrates,” I said, “leave this to the adults.”

Socrates scratched his head. “But Nico, I can’t imagine it working here.”

“Whyever not?” I said, annoyed. Somehow Socrates had taken control of the conversation.

Socrates said, “Well, this man, whoever he was, stood on the mountain behind the army.”

“Far behind. Yes,” said Aeschylus.

“And high up?”

“High up. Yes.”

“This was after the big battle?”

“Yes.”

“Then the sun must have been high in the sky, to the south at least, maybe even the southwest.”

“Of course.”

“But the battle happened to the
northeast
of where this man stood. It’s impossible. You can’t reflect light like that. Not with the curved face of a shield.”

We all absorbed that thought for a few moments.

“What does it mean if the signal was
not
sent by a soldier?” Callias asked.

I said, “It unlinks the action at Marathon from the murders. It opens up the possible suspects, because we’re no longer definitely looking for a veteran.”

“Are you sure about this, boy?” Aeschylus asked Socrates.

“No, sir, I’m not. But I don’t think light could reflect off a curve like that, not at that angle.”

“Then there’s only one thing we can do,” I said. “We must go to Marathon. I’ll climb the mountain with Father’s shield. Socrates and Diotima can look for a flash.”

Socrates scratched his head again. “You mean … actually try it? To see what happens?”

“Yes,” I said.

“That’s really very clever, Nico. I never thought of that.”

“You won’t use your father’s shield,” said Aeschylus.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because you’ll use mine,” he said. “I’m coming with you. I’ve been tricked, and what’s more, whoever tricked me is a traitor to Athens. He must be found. He must be destroyed.”

I suppressed a silent groan. Aeschylus was an old man. He was sure to slow us down.

M
ARATHON IS WELL
north of Brauron, and even farther from Athens. It’s a coastal town, right on the beach.

The heroes of Marathon had force-marched the distance in less than half a day, but they were men in good condition, not a woman and a child and an old man. I put Diotima on the cart while Socrates and I walked beside Blossom. The donkey and I had spent so much time together on the road I’d come to like him. Aeschylus rode his horse, and therefore was the fastest of us. I watched him sourly, and thought it must be nice to have so much money to be able to afford such a fine beast.

Three quarters of the way between Athens and Marathon is a great mountain. The road goes up one side, through a pass, and down the other side. It slowed us enough that we arrived at Marathon in the late afternoon. It was too late to perform the test that day. It had to be done at the same time as the end of the battle, which Aeschylus and Callias both remembered as after midday.

We stayed overnight in the best local tavern, which wasn’t saying much, a hostelry where they wiped down the tables once a month, whether they needed it or not. At least there was straw on the floor to catch scraps, though it looked like it hadn’t been swept in ten days or more. The scuttling sounds from beneath the thicker parts in the corners did not bode well.

We all picked at our food that evening. Diotima and Socrates went upstairs to our room early—it would have been unseemly for a woman and child to tarry amongst the rough men with whom we shared the table. Aeschylus opened his travel bag to remove some old papyrus, a small jar of ink, and a thin brush of the kind used by scribes. He pulled one of the tavern’s lamps close, smoothed the papyrus out before him, dipped the brush in the ink, and began to write words.

I watched him do this.

“Is that a play?” I asked, unable to restrain my curiosity.