The Pericles Commission (3 page)

It wouldn’t take much to turn this lot into a mob. I wouldn’t have been a Council member in this crowd for anything. In fact, the old men of the Areopagus were not to be seen. They had wisely decided to stay safe in their homes, or they would be scurrying through the streets to the homes of their colleagues, to confer. The men who mattered among the populist politicians had not come to the Agora either. I guessed they were banging on each others’ doors. There was a power vacuum to be filled. I had little doubt that at least three conspiracies would be underway before nightfall.

I edged my way out for fear the mood might turn to rioting. There was a pile of building stone waiting to be used and I climbed up it. From the top I could see over the heads as if they were so many sheep. I could see the Panathenaic Way, which leads from the end of the Stoa to the Acropolis. It is one of the few paved roads in Athens, and no wonder, because this is the route the people of the city walk during their religious festivals. It was this path I had been walking in the morning. From where I sat I could see it reach to the base of the Acropolis and then curve right to begin winding its way round to the top. The path disappeared from view a hundred paces before the spot where Ephialtes had fallen.

“Hey, Nico!”

An ugly little boy threw himself onto my back. He almost knocked me down but I managed to stagger, reach behind and swing him before me. Like me he wore the chitoniskos tunic but his was filthy, smeared down the front with some kind of dark dirt, and ripped at the bottom.

“Guess what!” he demanded in great excitement.

“Ephialtes has been murdered. He was shot by an arrow and fell from the Rock of the Areopagus.”

He gaped. “How did you know?”

“I was there. He came within a pace of falling on me.”

My little brother gaped at me in admiration, as if being felled by a falling corpse was a sign of great virtue.

“There you are!” A man elbowed his way through to us, slightly out of breath and frowning. “Your father ordered us to find you; where on earth have you been hiding all morning?” This was Manes, one of my father’s slaves. When a boy is judged old enough to wander the streets, his father gives him a pedagogue to accompany him everywhere, to provide a role model, possibly to teach him a little, and hopefully to keep the boy out of trouble, though that was asking too much of any man when it came to Manes’ current assignment. Manes had been my own pedagogue ten years ago. Now that he was quit of me, he was landed with my brother. It hardly seemed fair on the poor old man.

My brother said, “There was a boy said I was ugly as a toad.”

“So what did you do?”

“He almost killed him,” Manes interjected. “I pulled them off each other and sent the other boy running.”

It was true. My little brother was as ugly as a toad, but I would never have admitted it to anyone, least of all him or my parents. This was odd, because I conversely was considered quite handsome. We had the same unruly dark hair, the same brown eyes, but where he was short, I was medium height; where his face was squashed like a…well, like a toad’s, mine was rounded; where he had a bulbous nose pasted into the middle of his face, my nose was typically Hellene; and where he was stocky, even squat, I was the normal build of any young man.

“Did you hurt him?” I asked.

“Yes, Nico.”

“Well done. Next time you see him, hit him again.” I knew from my own bitter experience what it is like to be a boy in Athens. You either prove yourself with your fists, or you are persecuted by the bullies for the next decade. I had been too quiet to fight, too happy to live within my own imagination, believing the other boys would become bored and leave me alone, and had suffered grievously for my miscalculation. When I was finally goaded into attack they were ready for me and beat me black and blue. I hoped my brother would take the fight to them.

Manes looked from one of us to the other in dismay. “Master Nicolaos! If I had not lived with your family for fifteen years, listening to this I would have said you were the sons of a Spartan, not an artist.”

“Nico, I’ve been thinking—”

“Yes?”

“Is it true the murderer ran away?”

“No one knows who did it.”

“Whoever killed him must be a really good shot. And they’d have to practice a lot to be confident.”

“What makes you say that?” I was intrigued and annoyed at the same time. This was my case, not his, though he didn’t know it yet.

“What if he missed with his shot? The killer must have been far away, because if he’d been close he would have used something more certain, like a sword or a spear. But if he was far away he must have been sure he could kill with a single arrow. If he’d missed with his first, then Ephialtes would have run away quickly. The killer must be an expert marksman.”

“Who have you been talking to?” I demanded, angry. Not only had he reproduced the logic I had used to impress Pericles, but he’d gone on to deduce more.

“No one! I swear it, Nico.”

“Then how do you know all this?”

“I thought about it, that’s all. I’m sorry, Nico—”

“This is my case, not yours, so don’t butt in.”

“Your case, Master Nicolaos?” Manes asked.

“Mine,” I said firmly. “I have a commission from Pericles to discover the murderer.”

“Wow! Can I help?”

I ignored my brother.

“But, Master Nicolaos, your father—”

“I will talk to my father,” I cut Manes off.

“I was about to say your father is looking for you. He expects you back at the workshop immediately. He said to tell you. That’s why we’ve been out, looking for you.”

I groaned. The excitement had made me forget I should have been assisting my father all morning. Father cannot conceive of any better life for a man than that of a sculptor. It was not that he disapproved of my rejecting his profession, it was simply that he couldn’t even comprehend such a thing. He was as determined to turn me into a polisher of stone as I was to avoid that fate.

My commission was like a gift from the Gods. I had a chance to learn about Athenian politics from the inside. This could be the start of my proper life if I succeeded, or the end of it if I failed.

“Go to Father, Manes, and tell him I have been unavoidably detained by this murder. I will explain the rest later. Warn him it may be some time before I can return.”

“The master will not like that.”

“I know. It’ll be a long explanation.”

“Nico, I’ve been thinking—”

I sighed. I didn’t want to hear any more ideas from my clever little brother. No matter how much I might love him, I was determined this was going to be my case, my success, the making of my name. “Try not to think so much, Socrates. It will only get you into trouble.”

“Yes, Nico.”

I decided my next step must be to do exactly as I had advised Pericles: speak with Xanthippus.

I imagined Pericles’ relationship with his father must have been more strained than the usual father-son tension. Pericles was a leader of the party that was destroying the old ways and strengthening the democracy. Xanthippus was a respected member of the power base his son was determined to destroy. Family dinners must have been interesting.

Xanthippus’ house would normally have looked like any other, but right now it resembled a small fortress. Two armed men stood at the front door. Others stood upon the roof. The guards would have turned me away but I claimed to have been sent by Pericles. I knocked on the door, and was answered by a house slave, looking scared, who let me into the public room. Xanthippus entered quickly, an old man but lively. He looked me over carefully. “You come from my son?”

“Yes, sir. I am Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus. You are aware Ephialtes has been murdered?”

“It did come to my attention as one of the day’s more important events.” He crossed his arms and stared at me, waiting. It occurred to me Xanthippus did not suffer fools.

“Pericles asked me to look into the death of his friend.”

“That’s a job for Ephialtes’ deme, if they care,” Xanthippus said. “Let’s see now…Ephialtes of the deme Oa, of the tribe Oeneides, wasn’t it? I suggest you go home and wait to hear what the men of Oa have to say.”

I was uncomfortably aware that Xanthippus was correct, but no deme in its right mind would involve itself in what looked like a murky political assassination, even if the victim was one of their own. I wondered if Xanthippus was relying on exactly that. However, I had an out.

“Technically, any man can investigate a crime,” I said. “It is merely by custom that the job is left to the demes.”

Xanthippus harrumphed. “A custom that has worked for our people for generations.”

“Your son is hoping I might resolve the matter more quickly and, if necessary, more quietly,” I offered.

“Why you?”

“I found the body, sir, and questioned the slaves working on the Rock of the Areopagus.”

“Is that where he was killed?”

“I was hoping you could help me with that, sir. I understand you were there this morning.”

“I was there, to meet with Ephialtes, in fact.”

“What did you discuss, sir?”

He glared at me. “Did my son hire a simpleton? We talked politics, and matters of state. That’s what one does at the Areopagus. Ephialtes was determined to destroy the Council. I was determined Athens should retain the good counsel of her elder statesmen. We met to see if there was some compromise that might avoid a damaging fight at the next meeting of the Ecclesia. There wasn’t. I left him after our discussion.” He paused. “Alive.”

“How are you with a bow and arrow, sir?”

His face tightened in anger and he said, “If you’ve come here to insult me, then you can leave immediately. I’m a hoplite citizen, young man! I fight in the phalanx with my spear and shield. I have no use for bows, like some auxiliary from a weak city, nor am I a mercenary.”

I nodded gloomily, all too aware that he was telling the truth. There is a hierarchy in the world of arms, and this man was at the top of it: a soldier-citizen who could afford the large, round hoplon shield, armor, and spear necessary in a phalanx. Archers were light troops who couldn’t afford better weaponry, and they mostly hired themselves out. Even if I put a bow in his hands, Xanthippus probably couldn’t aim it.

“I apologize, sir, but I had to ask. Was there anyone else there as you left?”

Xanthippus needed a moment to calm down before he said, “No one, not even the slaves. I sent them off before Ephialtes arrived. I had to find them to tell them to return to work. They were lounging about atop the Acropolis, enjoying the view and avoiding their duties, as usual.”

“How did Ephialtes know where to meet you?”

“I sent him a message, of course. Is this your idea of incisive questioning? I will send a note to my son suggesting he replace you with someone with at least a modicum of intelligence. You are looking in the wrong place, young man.”

“I am?”

“I suggest things are not all rosy among the democrats. Ephialtes told me so himself. You could hardly expect otherwise when a rabble thinks it can run a city. Now if you wanted to know who would like to see Ephialtes gone, you might start with Archestratus.”

“Archestratus?” One of the men with Pericles had named him future leader.

Xanthippus smiled. “He’s Ephialtes’ little dog. He likes to nip but he can’t hurt you. The man holds delusions of grandeur way beyond his ability. He wants to lead the democrats after Ephialtes, and he’s made no secret of his ambition.”

“And that might happen now,” I said.

Xanthippus became grim. “Archestratus is nothing more than a legal technician. He drafted the laws that emasculated the Areopagus.”

“Oh? Then whose idea was it, Ephialtes’ or Archestratus’?”

“To give total power to the Ecclesia? That was Ephialtes. Archestratus hasn’t the imagination. But these new laws leave the Areopagus as the court for homicide and treason. That, I suspect, was a little whimsy on the part of Archestratus. If it were up to Ephialtes, the Areopagus would have been dissolved altogether. Allowing us some function means we are left to squirm in public. That sort of humiliation is the type of thing Archestratus would enjoy.

“Ephialtes was competent, I’ll grant him that. If Archestratus gets his hands on the government, Athens will collapse within months.”

I left Xanthippus’ home more confused than I’d arrived. He didn’t sound like a murderer to me, he sounded like a grumpy old man. Of course there were plenty of other members of the Areopagus who might have cheerfully killed Ephialtes, but Xanthippus had been the man on the spot.

I noticed a young man as I departed, loitering on the other side of the street. Normally I would not have given him a second glance, but I was preternaturally alert to anything that seemed out of the ordinary, and I felt the fellow’s eyes on me the moment I stepped through Xanthippus’ doorway. I returned his gaze, wondering if I knew him, but he turned and walked away. I decided that my newfound job was already making me overly suspicious, and I told myself firmly not to go chasing shadows.

Some of those shadows were falling across the city and the narrow streets between the crowded homes were already dark. The men of Athens were making their way home to eat with their families, or to the homes of their friends to attend a symposium, with a slave or two in tow to help them stagger back to their beds in the middle of the night. To continue daily business after dusk is not quite a crime, but it is close enough that no sensible man would take the risk. So I did what any sensible young man does when he is hungry, but which I had been putting off for as long as possible. I went home.

I lived with my parents, as most young men do until they marry. Only the sons of the richest men can afford their own place. Like most Athenian houses, the street front of our home was a blank wall with only a door and no windows on the bottom floor. Athens is a crowded city, so the citizens build upward, where a country estate would build out.

I stepped inside to the entrance hall and checked the public rooms to the left and right, which are reserved for the men. Both were empty. Upstairs to the left were my father’s private rooms, his study and bedroom; to the right, the women’s quarters, which in our household meant only my mother Phaenarete. I had not been up there since I was twelve. I stepped through into the courtyard beyond the entrance hall. This was the main living area of the house, and the place where the men sit if the weather is good. Our family altar to Zeus Herkeios stood in the middle, as it does in every proper household, and I smelled the lovely aroma of a fresh garland that had been placed upon it. The dining hall lay behind the courtyard, also my bedroom and my brother’s. I could hear my father’s voice.

“Where have you been?” Sophroniscus demanded as I walked into the dining hall. The first things people notice about him are his hands. His right hand is larger than his left, his right arm better muscled. The left hand was damaged where he had struck it with a mallet in his early days, but is still good for doing the most delicate finishing work. The skin of both hands is calloused and scarred, and the rest of his skin seems almost permanently layered with marble dust; even after he’s washed, it still seems to cling to him. His face is round, like Socrates’, his hair thinning but not balding. He likes to smile. He claims in his youth to have been as thin as I am now, but I have never known him to be anything other than comfortably padded. Our family is not rich or powerful, but it has always been well enough to put food on the table, and not every family in Athens can say the same.

Father was reclining on a dining couch, next to his close friend Lysimachus. Lysimachus was slightly younger than Sophroniscus, I think, but in better condition, barely gray, and certainly better dressed. I never quite worked out why they were friends, because their personalities were as different as the mountains and the sea. Sophroniscus was a practical man with an obsession for stone. Lysimachus thrives on knowing people, and conversation. With those qualities he is a valued dinner guest in many of the best homes in the city.

I heard the quiet laughter of women and the clatter of utensils and crockery in the small domestic area beyond the dining hall, which is reserved for the women and slaves, and is where the kitchen lies and the slaves sleep. Before us, two slave boys were already mixing the water and wine in the krater, to be drunk after the meal. Another slave was bringing out the first courses.

Lysimachus often dined with us, so he knew me. However, since he was here it meant my mother Phaenarete and my little brother would be eating in her rooms, since no proper Athenian household would allow its women and children to dine with visitors. I sighed inwardly. What was to come would have been easier if my mother were present.

“I’m sorry, Father. I was—”

“Your brother and Manes returned with some ridiculous story about Ephialtes being murdered and you doing something about it.”

“It’s true, Father.” I related the day’s doings as best I could. My tongue became twisted in his presence because I feared how he would respond. I had spoken easily with Pericles and Xanthippus, great players in the political game of Athens, but I stumbled speaking to this respectable sculptor who was my father. When I drifted to a confused finish he asked sharply, “Have you joined the democrats?”

“No! I’m only doing work for Pericles.”

“That sounds like the same thing to me!”

“Would it be so bad if I had, Father?”

“Wait on there, Sophroniscus,” Lysimachus interrupted, holding up his hand. “The Gods know your son is your own concern, and may the Friendly Ones visit me before I get between a man and his son having an argument, but I know this Pericles, and he’s not such a bad chap.”

I blinked. Was Lysimachus taking my side?

Sophroniscus looked at his friend in surprise. “Comes from a good family, does he?”

“His tribe is Acamantis from the deme Cholargos. His father is Xanthippus, you know, the strategos who commanded the army at Mycale and won, and on his mother’s side he’s descended from the Alcmaeonid family.”

I could see Sophroniscus was impressed. The Alcmaeonids are an ancient aristocratic family who have held great power in generations past. But still there was the inevitable question whenever a member of that family is mentioned. Sophroniscus asked it. “But what of the curse?”

The Alcmaeonids incurred a curse more than a hundred years ago when they slaughtered a band of revolutionaries on sacred ground. It wasn’t the slaughter that offended the Gods, it was doing it on temple territory that really rankled. The family had been accursed in all its subsequent generations.

Lysimachus waved his hand airily and said, “If it lingers on, it doesn’t appear to have settled on Pericles. He’s a talented man and he’s enjoyed great fortune. But then again, he’s only just started in politics, so there’s plenty of time for him to be ostracized, executed for treason, bankrupted, or any combination of the above. You know how it goes.”

Father nodded. “I do indeed, and that’s why I don’t want Nicolaos involved.”

“That of course is your decision to make, my friend.”

Sophroniscus considered, drumming his fingers, then asked me, “I suppose this democratic movement is popular with the young men? It’s the latest fashion, is it?”

“I don’t know, Father. Uh, I suppose so.” In fact I knew many young men were vociferous about the democracy, even those from the better families. However, none of them moved in the circles I had frequented this morning. The young men were the supporters of Pericles, not his colleagues. I thought with great satisfaction that the young men who had run in the streets with me when we were youths would be watching with jealousy when they saw me consulting with important politicians.

Sophroniscus picked figs from a bowl and said, “I see. In my day, son, it was tragedy. All we young men were going to turn our backs on society and become tragedians, actors, or both. We did it to annoy our fathers. No doubt this is the same thing again, the mere trend of the moment and the revenge of the Fates for the anguish I caused my own sire. It’ll all blow over when the next fad comes along. As long as it doesn’t affect your work, I suppose it can’t do any harm yet.”

“My work…” I didn’t quite know how to say what I knew I must. I breathed deep and took the plunge. “Father, this political work…I think that’s what I want to do.”

Even Lysimachus laughed at that one. Sophroniscus said, “Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody gets paid for doing politics, son. That’s what the rich do because they don’t have to earn a living. You need substantial wealth even to begin, and I don’t have that sort of money, and even if I did I wouldn’t spend it on helping you become yet another opinionated orator.” I had expected anger, I was prepared for that, but his scorn was more devastating.

“They are more than mere orators, Father. Among them are men who make real decisions, important decisions.”