The Pericles Commission (7 page)

When we reached the top we saw fallen, charred pillars, masonry rubble littering almost every part, and burnt timbers that were mostly charcoal. The old temple to Athena Polias, the protector of our city, once sat here. There had been a temple to Athena on this spot since the city was founded, rebuilt again and again. The one the Persians burnt to the ground had been a hundred years old. The replacement temple was a ramshackle collection of planking and daub mud that rose like a pimple out of the ruins, put together so that the city would still have the presence of our founding Goddess. The rough temple was so small it barely fit its statue of Athena. The plan of the original temple was clear upon the ground: the foundations had proven harder to destroy. There had been other buildings here too that suffered the same fate, notably the old palace of the tyrant Peisistratus, which if the exposed floor plan was any indication, must have been sumptuous.

We sat upon a toppled wooden pillar that lay cracked and rotting in the sun. I broke the silence by asking, “Pericles, what were you doing up here, on the day Ephialtes died?”

“I was wondering when you would think to ask that. I was considering my plans for the Acropolis.”

“You have a plan?”

He shrugged. “A new temple to Athena, at the very least.” He gestured at the small shack. “Look at that pitiful excuse for a temple. Do you think the Goddess is happy to be housed in there? What does it say about us? The people decided, after the Persians were defeated, to leave the ruins as they were, as a reminder of what had happened. But I say Athens has lived long enough in her past. It’s time to build for the future.” He paused. “That sounded good. I must remember that phrase for a speech.”

He shifted his position on the toppled pillar, then shifted again, in a search for comfort. Each time he did, Pericles edged away from me.

We made desultory conversation about the site, where a new temple might be laid, what should be done for gates.

“There was a second temple here,” Pericles said.

“There was?”

“Right next to us is where the new temple to Athena Parthenos had been planned. They were halfway through building it when the city was sacked.”

I looked but couldn’t even see the outline in the ground.

Pericles abandoned his seat and stood. I noticed the seat of his chiton was smudged and decided not to mention it. I stood too and we walked slowly around the site, avoiding the subject of Ephialtes.

We stopped at the northern edge where we could see conelike Mount Lycabettos, reaching up higher even than me, and directly below, the chaotic Agora. The people looked like ants scurrying at my feet.

The Rock of the Areopagus rose to the west, lower and much smaller. The ground between fell sharply away from the Acropolis, ambled along, then rose almost as quickly on the other side. The seats cut into the rock, upon which the Council sat when they met, stood out in strong relief in the reflected sunlight. The sight of the Rock of the Areopagus before us made me think back over the crowd who had accosted Pericles with their questions, and I realized something that bothered me. He had answered all but one. He had not said whether he’d seen Xanthippus murder Ephialtes.

“Pericles, did you know your father was to meet Ephialtes?”

“Yes, he told me of it.”

“And the time and place?”

“Not that.”

“Did you see them here, that morning?”

“No! And I did not see my father pick up a bow and shoot my friend, and I did not know he was dead until I came across his body upon the path, with you skulking in the shadows, ready to stab me in the back.” He was shouting, the first time I ever saw Pericles lose his self-control.

He turned and walked away.

I watched his back and thought to myself,
I have lost the most influential friend I am ever likely to have, and with him goes my chance of rising in Athens
. I would return to my family’s business and spend the rest of my days making statues of men more important than me.

I sat and buried my head in my hands. There was no point in moaning, but that didn’t stop me from doing so for some time. However, someone would eventually find me there, and I didn’t want to be seen wallowing in self-pity, so I rose.

I walked to the southern edge of the rock. The sea was easily visible in the far distance. It was from here that King Aegeus had thrown himself to death when he wrongly believed his son Theseus had died fighting the Minotaur. I looked down. Yes, jumping off here ought to do the job.

To my right stood the temple to Athena Nike: Athena Victorious. It was a small building because that’s all the Athenians had been able to manage at the time. It had been built to celebrate the victory over the Persians and give thanks to Athena for our deliverance. The tiny temple stood where the last defenders of Athens had died.

When the Persians invaded they had swept through Thrace and Macedonia and had come down upon us from the north. Themistocles ordered the evacuation of the city. The women and children were carried on our merchant boats and trireme warships, mostly to the island of Salamis where the government relocated, but also to the city of Troezen. I was among those who went to Salamis, but I was too young to remember it; a baby who had not yet seen his first year. Had the Hellenes lost the coming battle, the Persians would have taken my small body and dashed me against the ground, or run a spear through me.

But not everyone evacuated. A rearguard of volunteers remained. They were joined by the old and infirm, for whom there was no room on the boats, and some priests who refused to leave their holy places. They held their last stand atop the Acropolis. They used stone and wood to block the only path to the top, then sharpened their weapons and waited to die.

And, of course, they did die. But first they sent a lot of Persians to Hades before them. They held the barricades for longer than anyone thought they could. The Persian attacks broke up against their spears. But the tough soldiers and the old men and the priests died one after another. At the end they were overwhelmed when a few Persians climbed the unclimbable rock face on the far side and surprised the defenders in their rear.

I looked at the ground and imagined how much blood had flowed across this bare rock. Those men hadn’t given up, merely because what they attempted was impossible. I didn’t know if Pericles would continue my commission, but I would see it through to the end anyway.

I decided to go to the nearest tavern and get some food. If there were another way I would have taken it, but there is only one path down from the Acropolis. I stepped across Ephialtes’ lifeblood once more. It mocked me as I passed.

The Agora had calmed to normal commerce. There were several stalls selling wine, and I paid for a cup at the first I came to. Two stalls down, an old woman was selling bronzeware: mostly urns and pans. I stopped to admire a mirror. They intrigue me; it seems like magic to be able to see myself as others see me. I was relieved to notice the skin where I’d shaved off my beard was starting to darken to the same olive color as the rest of my face. The haggard look that Pericles had commented on was almost gone, my face was filling out now that I was getting normal, regular meals. I saw a bruise on my left cheekbone—I hadn’t realized it was so prominent—that I’d received during the beating, there were abrasions on my chin that had scabbed over, and a small cut above my left eyebrow, all of which my mother had treated and were healing well. I noticed my hair was curling, and I made a note to have it cut. As I tilted the mirror a fraction this way and that, to see myself from different angles, the image of the mysterious stranger appeared above my shoulder. He was peering from around the stall behind me and our eyes met via the mirror.

I turned and walked toward him. “Hello? You there!”

The figure broke from cover, snatched a huge fish from the stall next to him, and whacked me across the face. I fell back with a curse. Everyone but the fishmonger laughed at me. The stranger ran to the right.

He was fast and I was groggy but angry. I couldn’t keep up with him, but I knew it didn’t matter because someone was bound to trip him up.

No one did. They were all enjoying the show too much. I cursed again and ran faster.

He stumbled into a slave carrying pottery jars. The stranger went one way and the slave went the other. The jars flew up and crashed, shattering on the paving stones. The stranger staggered but kept going.

I had to run through this mess, shouting, “Ouch! Ouch!” as my sandals fell upon the jagged shards. He ran along the walkway, which was terminated by stacked jars of olive oil. He pulled a stack over to force his way. Olive oil flowed across the ground to the wails of the farmer selling it. I, of course, skidded and slipped, falling into the remaining stacks, which crashed down upon me. I flung my arms up to protect my head. I would have bruised arms tomorrow.

The stranger was out of the Agora now and disappearing down a narrow street. I had to be wary of being led into an ambush. I’d been beaten once already and had no intention of being caught again. But nor was I going to let this character go, not now that I had him in view.

I took off after him on my shredded, slippery sandals. I cursed, tore them off, and continued in bare feet. He darted down one street and then another, dodging the pedestrians. I stayed with him like a limpet, determined to finish this once and for all. For the first time I had a good look at him. He was obviously still a youth, wearing clothes slightly too big for him so that they covered him down to his knees, and wearing a headdress in the manner of the barbarians.

He turned another corner and was confronted by a hay cart coming from the other direction, which filled the street from side to side. He looked back at me, then around in desperation. He dived through the window of the building beside him. It was an inn.

I heard the clatter of falling cups and shouts of angry men. I ran through the door to see he had skidded along a table. Every man present pointed at the back door. Half of them were covered in wine. I ran into the back room in hot pursuit of this one-man army of destruction.

The innkeeper had been standing over an open barrel of soaking linen. They use urine in those tubs to get the cloth clean. He’d been pushed from behind and gone in headfirst. He’d hauled himself out, spluttering angrily, when I came through the door and knocked him back in again. I yelled, “Sorry!” but didn’t stop.

The stranger hit the back wall running and scrambled over it like a frightened hare. I jumped, grabbed the ledge, and hauled myself over. He was away down the street. We were on one of the major thoroughfares now, it was a clear run for both of us and I would chase him all the way to Megara via Eleusis if I had to.

He must have realized he’d be stopped at the city gates because he turned north back into the narrow streets. He was slowing; I was gaining. He made the mistake of turning into an alley that I knew doubled back. I jumped the wall and landed square on top of him. He collapsed beneath my weight and we both fell into a pile of garbage.

“Now I have you, you bastard!” I turned him over and pulled back my fist to knock him senseless. His headdress came off, and I stared, dumbstruck, my fist hovering.

“Get off me, you oaf!” she grunted. “Well, are you going to help me up?”

I hauled her out of the garbage. Now that her headdress had fallen away it was obvious, despite the loose clothing, that she was a young woman.

We sat with our backs to the wall, catching our breath. I didn’t think she had the energy to run any further, but I stayed to the exit side in case she decided to try it.

“And what do you think you’re doing running around the streets, a respectable woman like you?” This wasn’t some dirty street girl—well, at the moment she was, but that obviously wasn’t her norm—she spoke with an upper-class accent, and if you removed the grime she would probably look like any well-brought-up maiden. Her hair was tied back, dark and curly, and washed. Her face was feminine, with a thin nose and full lips. Her breasts were full, and clearly outlined through the material. She had rubbed dirt about her face for disguise, but close up I could see her skin was clean at her hairline. Her hands likewise had been rubbed in dirt, but her clipped fingernails and the lack of abrasions or scars gave her away. Whoever this girl was, she wasn’t a slave, and her family wasn’t poor. She was also in outstanding condition; I’d had to work hard to run her to ground.

“I’m investigating the murder of Ephialtes.”

I laughed. “You? All you’ve been doing is following me about, and you didn’t even do that well. I spotted you every time.”

“I’ve done a lot more than that! Someone has to avenge my father. I have no brother to act for me, and you’re not showing any signs of doing it.” She glared at me. “My name is Diotima. That’s Diotima of Mantinea.”

I had a terrible sinking feeling. “You’re…you’re…”

“The daughter of Ephialtes and Euterpe of Mantinea, and I’m priestess-in-training to the Goddess Artemis the Huntress.”

All I could think of to say was, “You don’t look like your mother.” That was a mistake.

“Well you’d know, wouldn’t you? All you did was sit there and ogle her.”

“You were there?”

“I handed you that watercooler. See what I mean? You don’t remember me at all, do you?”

“No,” I admitted. But now that I thought about it I had a vague recollection Euterpe had called someone Diotima.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, the way you behaved around her? She’s old enough to be your mother.”

“I have an idea she likes it that way, and I’m not sure she’d welcome the reminder about her age.”

“Aargh. All right then, let’s try and pretend that embarrassing incident never happened. Now, tell me everything you’ve discovered.”

“So you can go tearing around Athens again? I don’t think so.” I had no reason to trust her, and every reason to think she was acting for her mother, who was a suspect.

She sat there thinking about what I’d said.

“You want the glory of finding the killer for yourself, don’t you? Do you have some kind of deal with Pericles?”

This was so close to the truth that I blushed. She grinned.

“Then we trade. I can tell you where Archestratus was during the murder.”

“Where?” I asked eagerly.

“Oh no! First, you tell me what you got from Xanthippus. I haven’t been able to talk to him.”

I had no choice but to deal with her. “Xanthippus was at the scene. He lured your father there.”

“I know that. Tell me something I don’t know. You say ‘lured’ as if you think he’s involved.”

“He says he had nothing to do with it. He might be telling the truth, there’s no evidence one way or the other, but if he’s innocent he’s had incredible bad luck to be in the most suspicious spot. It was Xanthippus who sent me to Archestratus. He suggested a leadership fight.”

Diotima pursed her lips and thought about that. I could see the calculations flowing through her mind.

“Archestratus is framing Xanthippus?” she asked.

“Or Xanthippus is the murderer and throwing suspicion on Archestratus, or someone else is framing Xanthippus, or Xanthippus is plain unlucky.”

“Too many options. But no one carries a bow in town. Father’s death was planned. And the planner must have known where he was going to be.”

“Which brings us back to Xanthippus.”

“Or Archestratus, if Father happened to mention the meeting to him. Or maybe any other high up member of the democratic movement. It could be Pericles.”

I shook my head. “I saw him immediately after and he had no bow.” Then I pulled myself up. “Wait a minute, I didn’t agree to tell you that.”

Diotima said primly, “You offered me free product. If you regret it now, that’s your problem. But I owe you for Xanthippus, so yes, on to Archestratus. He was alone, somewhere out on the streets. He doesn’t have an alibi.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I haven’t been sitting around doing nothing. A respectable priestess has the freedom to walk around town as long as she’s decent.” I choked on that last comment, but forbore from pointing out that at the moment she looked more like the worst kind of pornê.

“Yes, I know what you’re thinking, but a respectable priestess is not supposed to be following strange men, and my position at the temple means everything to me. The last thing I want is to end up like my mother. I had to dress like this whenever I wanted to know what you were up to, who you were talking to. It was a shock when you came to visit Mother! I thought I was the only one asking questions. I couldn’t let you get information I didn’t have, so I had to see anyone you talked to.”

“How did you find out about Archestratus?”

“I asked his house slave, of course. Slaves see things about people but they never let on, and no one ever notices them. He told me Archestratus walks every morning. He always takes a different route.”

“That’s interesting.” But what Diotima said reminded me of something else, something I couldn’t quite recall. What was it? Slaves see things. So they do, but what other slaves could have seen something? The slaves at the Areopagus hadn’t seen a thing, they’d been atop the—I put a stop on that interesting thought before my expression gave me away to Diotima.

“Can Archestratus use a bow?” I changed the subject.

“I don’t know. I asked, but it’s not the sort of thing his house slaves would know. Maybe if we can find someone he’s hunted with we can ask them.”

“Where was your mother that morning?”

“At home, of course. You know that.”

“I don’t know if she was there the whole time.”

“I left the house early myself. I have temple duties every morning.”

“And you didn’t see Euterpe?”

“Does my mother strike you as an early riser?”

“Point taken. But wait! That means you must have seen your father.” Diotima nodded.

“So what was said?”

Diotima hesitated. “What do you mean?” She chewed at her thumbnail. “We just talked. I didn’t know he was about to be murdered. I didn’t know to say, ‘Farewell forever, my father.’” She paused. “I think I complained about the milk. It was curdled. I said I’d talk to the cook about it.”

“Did you?”

“Forgot completely.”

“It all sounds too domestic. I can’t imagine what it must have been like in your household, having a father married to another woman. Did he stay often?”

“Maybe two nights in five. But that wasn’t the problem. If you ask me, the unlucky one was the wife. I doubt she saw as much of him as we did—I think he was too busy with his politics to pay her any attention—and at least when he came home to us he brought love with him.” Diotima muttered to herself, “If anything, he loved us too much.”

“Did he talk about his…er…other family?”

“There weren’t any children. I’m his only child. He never said anything about his wife. But then, if you were with your mistress and the daughter you got on her, would you talk about your wife?”

I didn’t bother to ask why Ephialtes didn’t divorce his wife and marry Euterpe. In Athens that would have been social and political self-destruction. All marriages are arranged, and if a man doesn’t like what was arranged for him he can always find his pleasure elsewhere. What made Ephialtes odd was being fond of his alternative. Keeping the girl-child of a hetaera was unheard of; normally such children are taken to Mount Lycabettos and left there to die. Ephialtes’ reputation for kindness must have been deserved.

“Did Euterpe or you ever meet—”

“Never. And I don’t want to meet her now either. From what Ephialtes said she’s as boring as wash water.”

“But there’s something I need to know.”

“What’s that?”

I told her of Pericles’ theory that Ephialtes’ wife might be behind it. “But, of course, I’ll never be permitted to speak with her. I don’t even know the woman’s name.”

“Stratonike,” she said absently, considering. To my surprise Diotima didn’t reject Pericles’ idea out of hand. She was as intelligent as I’d thought.

“You want to know whether she might have asked a relative to murder her husband. Risky business. I don’t know what sort of a death they’d impose for that, but it wouldn’t be pleasant.”

“Stoning, I think, beside the old quarry pit. They tie you to a post and anyone can throw rocks. There’s a competition to keep the victim alive as long as possible. So you’ll do it, talk to his wife?”

“Are you going to tell me everything you discover?”

“No.”

“Then if you want to know what I find, you’ll have to trade for it. And I can think of a few other lines I might try as well.”