The Marathon Conspiracy (37 page)

“You killed Melo, Sabina. You met him by this spring, maybe exactly where we stand now. Maybe you crept up behind him. You hit him on the head then pushed him in, where he drowned.”

“Why would I do such a thing?”

“Because he found Ophelia, and he was unlucky enough to tell you about it. You’re always patrolling the grounds, aren’t you? You caught Diotima and me holding hands quickly enough. Melo ran into you first. Melo told you where to find Ophelia, then you got rid of him. You didn’t dare let anyone find Ophelia before you did. She might have told them what she knew. So you murdered Melo, and I’m guessing then you went to that abandoned farmhouse.”

I searched her face for confirmation, and I saw it.

“Why didn’t you go in and attack Ophelia?” I asked.

“The bear,” she said. “I didn’t think the sightings were true until I saw it for myself. It was protecting her. I couldn’t see a way around the bear.” Sabina looked back into the running waters of the spring. “All I ever wanted was to be High Priestess of this place,” she said.

“You’re not fit,” said Diotima.

“I don’t see why not. Thea got the job by default. Why not me?” She sounded like a petulant child.

“When did you decide to murder Allike?” I asked.

“I didn’t. I was as shocked as everyone else. You see, when I forwarded the scrolls to Athens, to the Basileus, I sent five.”

I said, “But Glaucon was assistant to the Basileus. He opened the case before anyone else saw it.”

“Yes,” Sabina agreed. “Glaucon read all the scrolls. When he came to the fifth, he was horrified. Hippias had named Glaucon
as the man on whose estates he stayed while he recovered from his wound. That scroll would destroy any chance of Glaucon ever gaining high office. In fact it would probably get him killed when the people found out. There was no chance to scratch out his name without it being obvious. So he did the only thing he could: he removed the scroll.”

“That was when the conspiracy began,” I said.

Sabina nodded reluctantly. “Glaucon started it. I received a note by courier, asking me to meet him in town,” Sabina went on. “I knew him, of course; Glaucon’s a wealthy landowner in these parts. I’d always been careful to make sure the well-known and the wealthy knew of me. Glaucon made his proposal in person: that if I helped him get elected in Athens, he would help me become High Priestess in Brauron. Well, I knew Thea didn’t have long to go. How could I say no?”

With the greatest of ease, I thought, but I didn’t bother to say it.

Sabina said, “Glaucon couldn’t suppress the discovery. Too many people knew about it. But he thought to turn it to his advantage. Glaucon reasoned that with the fifth scroll out of the way, all he had to do was claim to be the man who killed Hippias. It wasn’t that big a lie, you know, and it was only to get one miserable man a single year in office. Glaucon probably only wanted to be treasurer so he could embezzle state funds, but that wasn’t my lookout. The so-called statesmen in Athens do worse every day.”

I said, “So he suppressed evidence of his own perfidy and then took credit for someone else’s crime. What happened to the fifth scroll?”

“Glaucon destroyed it. There was nothing we could do about the gap within the case. Too many people had seen that case to get rid of it. But with any luck, no one would care about the contents, and even if they did, who was to say there hadn’t always been four scrolls? It should have worked. No one should have been hurt.”

“Except a girl died.”

“Allike blurted out to me that she knew there were five scrolls. She’d tried to read them. I doubt she understood a word, but merely knowing of their existence was a danger. I warned Glaucon. I never intended for him to kill her. Please believe me.”

“Glaucon tortured the child,” Diotima said, and I could hear the vile taste in her mouth as she said it.

“There’d been so much talk of a bear loose in the countryside. Glaucon probably thought it was the most natural thing to make it look like Allike had been killed by a bear.”

“Probably?” Diotima said.

“That’s what he said, later,” Sabina admitted slyly.

With Glaucon dead, we’d never know whether it was his idea or Sabina had told him to make it look like a bear attack. One thing I was sure of: it was Sabina, not Glaucon, who was the smart one in that partnership.

“Then Ophelia disappeared,” I said.

“That wasn’t my doing! How was I supposed to know she had a tame bear?”

I said, “Ophelia was the only one who knew
for sure
that the bear hadn’t killed her friend. She knew it was a human killer. She didn’t know who, but she guessed she’d be next. She ran.”

“It was the bear that started this, you know,” Sabina said bitterly. “Or those gods-accursed children, rather. If they hadn’t discovered the cave, I wouldn’t be a murderer. And who would have thought a bunch of old men would get so excited about one thoroughly dead body? All that talk of flashing signals and traitors and other nonsense. Men can be very stupid about such things.”

“There was murder in your heart anyway, or you would never have done it,” Diotima said.

“Why did you tell us there were five scrolls?” I asked. “If you’d said four, it might have muddied the trail.”

“I had no choice,” Sabina said, as if it had been a difficult move in a child’s game. “I knew Allike and Ophelia had looked inside.

They knew there were five; I didn’t know who else they might have told. If I’d said four and someone else at the sanctuary swore to five, it would have pinpointed me at once.”

Sabina scuffed her bare feet in the soil and stared once more into the pond. Her eyes had a faraway look. Was she recalling what it had been like to push Melo in at this very place, to watch him drown?

“I suppose you’re going to turn me in,” Sabina said, self-pityingly. “They’ll execute me, you know.”

“No, Sabina,” said Diotima. “We won’t say a thing. You’ll stay here.”

Sabina looked surprised. She hadn’t expected mercy. “Why?” she asked.

“Gaïs doesn’t know numbers,” Diotima said. “She can barely read. Doris reads well, but she can’t add. Gaïs must have someone who understands money if she’s to succeed here, and I’m going to make sure it happens. I sentence you, Sabina, to be the best treasurer this sanctuary has ever had.”

“
Help
Gaïs?” Sabina said, aghast. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you’re a dead woman. You’ll serve Gaïs as if your life depended on it. Which it does. That’s the deal, Sabina, and it’s far, far better than you deserve. Take it or leave it.”

Diotima stopped abruptly, as if she’d suddenly remembered something. She looked up at me, and said, “If my husband-to-be approves, of course.”

It was my turn to be surprised. I hoped I didn’t show it.

In the past, I’d been appalled at Diotima’s readiness to blackmail whenever it suited her, and she knew how I felt. But Diotima was right about Gaïs, and nobody knew the temple finances like Sabina did.

Besides, I had a point to make.

I said. “Diotima, whatever you think best, that’s what we’ll do.”

“Seriously?”

“This is your field, Diotima. Only an idiot would question
your judgment. I hope I’m not an idiot.” I was starting to see this marriage would be more complex than either of us had thought, but I could also see we’d find a balance, if we kept trying.

Diotima smiled at me, then she turned back to Sabina. “One more thing. Gaïs might not know numbers, but I do, Sabina. I’ll be back here on a regular basis, and when I am, I’ll be checking your books. If I find one
obol
out of place, or the slightest problem, or if I hear one word that you’ve caused Gaïs trouble, then you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

“I could throw myself on the mercy of the High Priestess,” Sabina said. “Then we’ll see what your threats are worth.”

“Does Gaïs strike you as the forgiving sort?” I asked.

Sabina was silent. We all knew that Thea might forgive human weakness; she’d endured her fair share. But Gaïs was younger, and Sabina had put her ambitions above the good of the sanctuary. Gaïs would be merciless.

“One final thing,” Diotima said.

“
Another
thing?” Sabina said. I could see she was already wondering if death might not have been easier.

“Yes,” said Diotima. “This is non-negotiable. From now on, when Nico and I visit the sanctuary, we get our own room.”

Sabina said at once, “Very well. I accept.”

I
DON’T KNOW
what made me wake up that night. Perhaps it was the full moon, because when my eyes opened its bright light was shining in my face. Whatever it was, I stood and tiptoed over the sleeping bodies in the shed and out into the sanctuary.

I walked about, curious to see the place in the dead of night. In moonlight it seemed eerie. It was as if everyone had died, or we’d all been transported to the underworld in our sleep.

I stepped around the sacred pond, careful to give it a wide berth—if I fell in now, no one would find my body till at least
the morning, maybe not for days—and that was when I noticed torchlight within the Temple of Artemis.

At this time?

It flickered, and the movement of the shadows told me someone was within.

I crept, slowly, careful not to disturb whatever was happening. I edged up to the entrance and peered around the corner, not knowing what to expect.

There, with her back to me, standing before the statue of the Goddess, was Diotima. Her arms were raised, and she intoned a prayer to Artemis.

I stood up and walked in, not bothering to hide my steps, which echoed in the nighttime silence.

I was only three steps across the small temple when Diotima turned and said, “Help me, Nico.”

Lying at her feet were three balls of different colors; two drawing slates of the kind used by children, on which a child’s pictures were still drawn in fading chalk; a wooden pull-along toy of a puppy, the wheels of which had seen long use; a doll; and, in a brightly painted box, a set of doll’s clothes.

I stopped alongside her and held her hand. She gripped me back and held on hard. She whispered to me, “I collected them from my cupboard when we were back in Athens.”

She spoke to the Goddess.

“I am Diotima, the daughter of Ephialtes, the stepdaughter of Pythax. I stand before you, Artemis of the Sacred Spring, before my wedding, to dedicate to you my doll and her pretty clothes, my bouncing balls, and the slates on which I drew so many pictures; my gift to you, Goddess, before I am a married woman.”

Diotima let go my hand. She picked up each toy and placed it on the wall beyond the statue, where hung hooks to accept offerings. When she came to her doll, she hugged it tight, and there were tears in her eyes. But she placed the doll, too, upon the wall, and with a final gesture smoothed down the doll’s tiny dress.

Then my fiancée took my hand once more, and together we left the temple.

“The usual formula is to say it’s a virgin’s gift,” she said to me. “But it’s a bit too late for that.”

“Better late than never. The Goddess won’t mind.”

“No, I don’t think she will. I feel better, but sad, Nico. Very sad.”

I didn’t return to my bed that night, and nor did Diotima. We spent the night in each other’s arms, on the soft grass beside the Sacred Spring.

“N
OW IT
’
S BACK
to school for me,” said Socrates mournfully. He’d have sounded more cheerful if someone had sentenced him to death.

“Don’t you like school?” Diotima asked.

“I like learning. I don’t like school. The two things are totally different. School’s boring. It’s a drag having to wait for the teacher to catch up with me.”

“The solution to that’s easy,” said Diotima. “I’ll teach you, Socrates.”

“You?”
I said, astonished.

“I’d appreciate it if you said that with some more confidence. Why not? I’m better qualified than all those clapped-out soldiers who take up teaching, aren’t I?”

“Well, yes, of course. But—”

“It’s not like I won’t be around the home. We’re living in the same place now. He won’t have to travel to school.”

I could already see Socrates scheming to get around her.

“Don’t think this means you get to slack off,” she told him. “The difference between Karinthos and me is,
I know what you can do, and I expect you to do it
. If I catch you working one bit below your ability, my brother-in-law, I’ll have the slaves beat you.”

“Terrific,” Socrates muttered.

“Do you know your Homer?” she demanded.

“Of course,” Socrates said confidently.

“Excellent. Then we can move on to the good stuff. I think we’ll start with Sappho.”

“Sappho?”
Socrates said, aghast. “You want me to learn
girlie
poetry?”

“All of it.”

“It’ll be good for you, Socrates,” I said, grinning. “It’ll help you later with the girls.”

“Then why don’t you learn it?”

“I don’t need to. I’ve already got a girl,” I told him.

He glared at me.

“Your idea’s brilliant, Diotima,” I said. “I’ll talk to Father about it as soon as possible.”

Diotima rubbed her hands in anticipation. “This is going to be fun.”

D
IOTIMA AND
I drove Aposila to her brother’s farm, to the far northeast. She’d said her goodbyes to Malixa back in Athens, and also to her sons, who by law remained with their father; and so Aposila left with us to begin her new life as a divorced woman.

With Glaucon dead, and with all the talk of who killed Hippias finally dying down, the elections would be free and fair. Pericles was already talking about next year’s vote, making noises about standing again.

It was hard, stony land we rode through. The farms we passed looked as if they could barely scratch a living. When we came to the farm of Theoxotos, I saw it was no different.

I led Blossom into the yard that surrounded the farmhouse. Naked children ran about, the owner’s children and the slave children together. They chased the chickens, which squawked and flew away, and the children laughed. Men and women toiled at their tasks about the yard. They looked up as we arrived. They’d been expecting us.