The Pericles Commission (8 page)

“Diotima, you mustn’t continue with this delusion you can find Ephialtes’ killer. A woman can’t move around Athens the way a man can, and the men certainly aren’t going to talk to you, priestess or no.”

“I have a big advantage over the men though.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m smarter than most of them. Come talk to me when you need more help, Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus.”

I stood to go.

“Wait!” she said, raising her hand in alarm. She touched my arm, as a supplicant might, and looked up at me with big brown eyes. “You won’t tell anyone, will you, that I was following you dressed as a man? No one must find out, or I’d lose my position at the temple.”

She’d just given me the perfect hold over her. I thought of several nasty things I could say, but I swallowed all of them. She seemed genuinely frightened.

“I’ll tell no one if I can avoid it.” I walked briskly away from Diotima. I had no intention of seeing her again. I’d set her the job with Ephialtes’ wife only to get her out of my hair. As soon as I was out of sight, I began to run.

I ran all the way to the Rock of the Areopagus. Thank the Gods,  they were still there, the same two slaves who’d been cleaning the day Ephialtes died. Their faces were weathered, old, and lined, their hands gnarled where they gripped their brooms. I suppose this light cleaning was the only job they could do.

I grabbed the first slave and started dragging him along. “Quick, show me where you sat while you were waiting for Xanthippus to finish.”

They took me down and up, to the edge of the Acropolis, not quite directly across from the point where it is closest to the Areopagus. I could see everything: the Agora in all its chaos, the sturdy walls surrounding the city, and close by the top of the Areopagus.

“Men, I don’t give a curse about the legal process. I promise I won’t tell anyone where I got the information. Now, you are going to tell me everyone you saw while you sat here this morning.”

One of the slaves crossed his arms and pouted. “Why should we? There’s nothing for us but trouble.”

I said, with a quiet but firm voice, “Because if you don’t, I will report that you witnessed the murder.”

The men turned visibly red, even beneath their weathered skin. “That’s a lie!”

“I know it is, but that won’t help you after they’ve finished torturing you, will it? Come now, if you tell me who you saw, I promise on the shades of my ancestors to hide you from the law. Whatever you tell me, I’ll confirm some other way before I reveal it.”

The slave was glum, but I had left him no choice. “There was Xanthippus first. He told us to clear off. We never saw Ephialtes. He must have come up the path as we were walking to the Acropolis. Some time later there was Pericles. He walked up here to the Acropolis, went behind us, and we didn’t see him again. Then Xanthippus left the Areopagus. We saw him leave, but figured we’d stay here until he found us. No point in lining up for work early, is there? That was all we saw until you came along.”

“That’s it?” I asked, disappointed.

“Oh, and there was a city guard loitering about.”

Dear Gods, a guard! How could I have been so slow? In Athens, it is illegal for any citizen to lay hands on another for any reason whatsoever. This makes arresting citizen-criminals something of a problem. How do you arrest someone you’re not allowed to touch? So to get around this silly rule, the city owns a force of three hundred Scythians—northern barbarians—who keep the peace, do crowd control, and arrest Athenians when an archon orders it.

Everything about the Scythians made one of them perfect for this crime. Their barracks lies at the side of the Areopagus, where they can defend the Council in an emergency, and they’re known for their favorite weapon: the bow.

I rushed to the barracks immediately. Pythax, the chief of the Scythians, was there watching some young men exercise with swords: a tough, leathery, scarred man with bulging muscles, who looked as if he would as soon squash me as talk to me. This was a man who regularly intimidated archons.

He looked me up and down. “We don’t take piss-poor little mama’s boys in this outfit. So if you’ve run away from home, go find some other place to cry,” he greeted me.

“You misunderstand, sir! I’m on an errand to ask you something, from Xanthippus, sir.” I decided immediately, if I didn’t embellish my authority I was going to be kicked out.

“Xanthippus, eh? Well, ask away then.”

“Who of the Scythians were here four mornings ago?”

His eyes narrowed. “That would be when Ephialtes bought it. Is that what you mean?”

I nodded.

“No one.”

“
No one
was here?” I was amazed.

“Every Scythian not on duty in the city was with me on a field exercise. We ran to Piraeus and back, in full armor.”

I winced. That would have hurt.

“Could one of the duty Scythians have returned to barracks?”

“Not unless he was injured, and there were no injuries that morning. What’s your problem, boy?”

“Someone reported seeing a man looking like a guard in the area that morning.”

“On his own? Then he wasn’t one of ours. We patrol in pairs.”

How hard would it be to impersonate a Scythian? Not that hard, as long as you avoided speaking. The accent is unmistakable. The Scythians mostly wore light leather armor and a rather odd, noticeable peaked leather cap. Anyone wearing the leather jerkin and cap, and carrying an unstrung bow, would go unnoticed in Athens.

“Oh, and by the way, little boy?”

“Yes, sir?”

“It’s funny Xanthippus should have sent you to ask that, because he was the one who ordered us away on the exercise. His memory must be slipping. I’ll mention it next time I see him.”

I felt the blood rush to my face, but managed to croak out, “Yes, sir,” before disappearing.

It was only after I was well away that I realized I’d been calling a man “sir” who was technically a slave.

I walked slowly up the path to the Acropolis and took a seat among the ruins. Perhaps Athena would grant me wisdom, here where her temple had once stood.

Xanthippus had been on the spot, and his actions were suspicious, but he couldn’t use a bow. The Scythians could use a bow, but they hadn’t been there. Pericles might be able to use a bow, but I myself had seen him immediately after the death, and he hadn’t been carrying one. Then there was the mysterious man who looked like a guard but wasn’t. Who was he, and where did he go?

Yes, indeed, where did that man go? I knew he hadn’t returned down the path to the Agora, because Pericles and I blocked the way. But a man pretending to be a Scythian could hide in their empty barracks. He would stay there until the excitement of discovering the body was over, and then walk back into the city with no questions asked. The safe thing would be to change clothes and return as a normal citizen. A citizen carrying a bow and leather armor? Definitely not. Therefore the armor and bow were still in the barracks, where no one would notice an extra set.

I thanked Athena for her wisdom. “When Pericles rebuilds your temple, I’ll make sure it’s an especially nice one,” I promised.

“You again?” Pythax growled.

“Do your men use their own armor and weapons?”

“Armor is issued by the city. Some men prefer their own weapons, but the city provides a serviceable sword and bow for the men who can’t afford their own. Every man looks after his own kit until he’s freed or dies. If he returns the kit in anything less than perfect condition, the reason for return had better be death.”

“Any objections to me looking through your armory?”

“Be my guest, little boy.”

The armory was a dank room that smelt of sweaty leather. I sifted through the pieces, and quickly found what I wanted. Underneath the first layer was a leather jerkin, recently oiled. I searched carefully but could find no clue as to the owner.

There were stacks of short, composite reflex bows, made of reinforced horn. They looked identical. I shoved them aside. At the back, out of sight, was one longer than the rest. I pulled it out to study it closely. On this one the reinforcement of the horn was quite different. It was heavier, but the grip was noticeably more comfortable. They all had the same maker’s mark at the base, even this odd man out.

I went back to Pythax. “Who supplies your bows?”

The workshop of Brasidas the bowyer was at the rear of his home, in the smithy and armorers’ section of the city. Hellenes generally avoid bows, so Brasidas was outnumbered by forges, many to one. I found him bent over his workbench; a middle-aged man of middle height, wearing an exomis that was covered in sawdust and flecks of wood, we stood exactly eye to eye. We also shared the same dark hair, though his was straight and hung long. He had large hands and remarkably broad shoulders. His right arm was noticeably better muscled than his left. I held out the bow to Brasidas and asked, “Did you make this?”

He glanced at it and nodded. “It’s my work. Is something wrong with it?”

“No, if what I suspect is true, then it works very well indeed. I found it in the armory of the Scythians.”

“Impossible,” he said shortly.

“Why?”

“For two reasons. The first is, the Scythians don’t like that kind of bow.”

“But it looks much the same, only a bit bigger,” I commented.

“Only to someone ignorant of bows.” He snorted. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Brasidas took out a bow from below his workbench. It was unstrung and curved forward from the grip.

“This is a bow I made for the Scythians. Scythians like their bows short and powerful. No good for any distance farther than you can spit, but what you hit with this bow will go down and stay down. They don’t aim well, but the Scythians don’t care because they’re quick to draw and so can loose three arrows to your two. In a close fight that gives a man an edge.” He took the bow I was holding. “Now this is a marksman’s bow,” he said lovingly. “The stave is longer, so the arrow doesn’t pack as much punch, but it will travel farther with accuracy. It’s longer and harder to draw, but you don’t care, because this isn’t a fighting arm. This is a hunter’s weapon.”

“I’m convinced! But you said there were two reasons this bow couldn’t be Scythian. What was the second?”

“I recognize that bow. I sold it to a man from Tanagra not long ago.”

I grinned like a madman. This was wonderful news, exactly what I’d been hoping for. I mentally vowed to sacrifice to Athena, Zeus, and Apollo in thanks.

“What was his name?” I held my breath.

Brasidas shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Look, when I sell a weapon, should I care who buys it?”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“Sorry.”

I canceled the sacrifices. “If you don’t know his name then how do you know he was from Tanagra?”

“He tried to pay me with their coins, and he sounded like he was from there. But I only take good old Athenian owls. That’s money you can trust. We argued about it, but he gave in.”

Every city mints its own coins, and few traders willingly take the risk of accepting the coins of a foreign city; the chances of being shortchanged are too great. A visitor anywhere would normally be expected to exchange his coins for the local currency with a money changer at the Agora. The sole exception to this rule are the coins of Athens, which are all stamped with the picture of an owl, the sacred bird of Athena. Athenian “owls” are the only currency accepted across all of Hellas, because
everyone
trades with Athens.

“Can you at least describe him?”

“I’ll bet his friends call him Scarface. Looks like he’s seen a lot of sun. I’ll tell you one thing: the man knew his business. He insisted on testing every hunting bow I had, and the way he handled them, I could tell he knew what he was doing. I gave him five test shots with each one, and then he selected the best in my shop.” Brasidas waved the bow he held. “This one.”

“Did he say anything? Anything outside of bows and archery, I mean.”

“He was the close-mouthed sort.”

He would be. I sighed.

Brasidas considered me through suspicious eyes and said, “Why are you asking all these questions, and how did you get this bow?”

I debated how much to tell him, then realized it wouldn’t be long before he put the pieces together himself.

“Listen, this is very important. That bow you’re holding was the one used to kill Ephialtes. You want to think about that. Do you want people to know you’re the man who made the weapon that killed him?”

His knuckles whitened on the stave. “The bow didn’t kill him, the guy holding it did. No one’s got any cause to blame me. And if that was a threat you just made then you can get out of my shop right now.”

“Relax! I’m only trying to point out it’s in your interest to help me find this man.” I picked up a potsherd and scratched my name into it, then dropped it on his workbench. “Come see me if you think of anything. I’m willing to pay a reward if you can tell me where to find him.”

That got his attention. “How big a reward?”

“Big enough.” I was being a trifle free with Pericles’ money.

Brasidas guffawed. “You’re paying, are you?” He looked me up and down, and I knew what he was thinking. I looked a mess after the chase through the Agora after Diotima, and my chitoniskos was patched and stained.

“Pericles is paying.”

Brasidas threw the bow back at me and said, “Oh, I get it! You’re going to take a cut for
my
information. Well, I might just go straight to him, and what will Pericles pay if I bring in the man himself?”

That alarmed me. “Brasidas, do yourself a favor and tell me if you know anything.”

Brasidas stood mute, and folded his arms.

“This is dangerous. You’d better be careful, or you could find yourself dead.”

“You’re not going to hurt my father!”

I turned, surprised. The lad standing in the doorway behind me was three or four years younger than me.

“That’s not what I said.”

“Yes it is. I heard you.”

My head was aching, I was sure Brasidas knew more than he’d told me, I was exasperated by his attitude, and I was disappointed and frustrated at having victory held out before me and then snatched away.