It was still too early for theories, explanations, enigmas. For now, general interest was focused on the facts of the case. And those facts were like rubbish piled under the bed: no one knew exactly what they were, but everyone was aware of the bad smell.
In the cenacle, Trisipus sat like a patriarch, surrounded by family and friends, receiving tokens of condolence, paying little heed to the givers. He held out one hand or both, kept his head high, expressed thanks. He looked confused - not sad or angry, but confused (and this made him worthy of compassion), as if he were disconcerted by the presence of so many people, and preparing to make the funeral speech. Grief had turned the bronze face, with its dishevelled grey beard, darker still, highlighting the dirty white scar, and making him appear poorly constructed, as if disparate pieces had been stuck together.
Weakly he requested silence and, seeming to have found the appropriate words at last, he said: 'My thanks to you all. Had I as many arms as Briareus, I would use them - heed me well -to clasp you all tightly to me. To my joy, I see that my son was well loved . . . And now allow me to honour you with a few brief words of praise . . .'50
'I thought I knew my son’ said Trisipus, nearing the end of his speech. 'He worshipped the Sacred Mysteries, though he was the only devout member of our family. And he was considered a good student at Plato's school... His tutor, here with us, can testify to it.'
50 There is a gap in the text at this point. According to Montalo, 'There is a large dark brown stain, elliptical in shape and quite unexpected, covering thirty whole lines. What a shame! Trisipus' speech has been lost to posterity!'
I'm now back at my desk after an odd incident: I was writing this note when I noticed something move in the garden. The weather is fine, so the window was open - I like, even at night, to see the row of little apple trees that marks the boundary of my modest plot. Although my nearest neighbour is only a stone's throw away from the trees, I'm not used to seeing anyone, particularly in the early hours. Anyway, I was immersed in Montalo's words when I glimpsed a shadow out of the corner of my eye, an indistinct figure moving among the apple trees, as if searching for the best spot from which to spy on me. Needless to say, I got up and went to the window; just then I saw someone emerge from the trees to the right and run away. I shouted, futilely, at him to stop. I've no idea who he was - I saw little more than an outline. I'm starting work again, feeling distinctly nervous -I live alone, so I'm an easy target for burglars. I've closed the window now. Oh, well, it was probably nothing. I'm continuing the translation, starting with the next legible line: 'I thought I knew my son . . .' (T.'s N.)
All faces turned towards Diagoras, who reddened. 'Indeed he was’ he said.
Trisipus paused, sniffing and summoning a little more dirty saliva: when he spoke he expelled some, with calculated precision, from a corner of his mouth - the least firm of the two, although he may have alternated corners at each pause in his lengthy speech. Since he always spoke as a military man, he never expected anyone to talk back. He therefore went on too long, when the subject was more than exhausted. Just then, however, even the greatest advocate of concision would have hoped for more. Indeed, everyone was listening with an almost unhealthy interest: 'I am told that he was inebriated ... that he was wearing women's clothing and slashed himself with a dagger ...' Spitting out tiny drops of saliva, he continued: 'My son? My Euneos? No, he would never do something so . . .foul-smelling. You must mean another, not my Euneos! I am told that he lost his mind! That he lost his mind in a single night and desecrated the temple of his virtuous body ... By Zeus and aegis-bearing Athena, it is a lie! If not, am I to believe that my son was a stranger to his own father? And, further, that you are all as mysterious to me as the designs of the gods? If such rubbish is true, I will, from now on, take it that your faces, your expressions of grief and sympathy, are as foul as carrion!'
There were murmurs. Judging by their looks of indifference, it seemed as if almost everyone was happy to be considered 'carrion', and that no one was prepared to alter their opinion of events even slightly. There were reliable witnesses, such as Diagoras, who claimed, though reluctantly, that they had seen Euneos drunk and crazed, wearing a peplos and linen cloak, slashing himself with a dagger. Diagoras added that it had been a chance meeting: 'I was returning home last night when I saw him. At first I thought he was a hetaera; then he greeted me, and I recognised him. But I realised he was drunk, or insane. He was cutting himself with a dagger, but he was laughing so I didn't appreciate the gravity of the situation immediately. By the time I thought of stopping him, he had fled. He was heading towards the Inner Ceramicus. I hurried to get help and found Ipsilus, Deolpos and Archelaus, former students . . . They, too, had seen Euneos . . . We called the soldiers . . . but it was too late ...'
Once Diagoras was no longer the centre of attention, he looked round for the Decipherer. He was making his way through the crowd towards the door. Diagoras rushed after him and managed to catch up with him outside, but Heracles wouldn't stop. Diagoras tugged at his cloak. 'Wait! Where are you going?'
The look on Heracles' face made him step back. 'Engage another Decipherer to listen to your lies, Diagoras of Mardontes,' he said, with icy fury. 'I will take half of the money you have paid me so far as my fee and will have my slave return the rest to you at your convenience. Good day.'
'Please!' begged Diagoras. 'Wait! I...'
The cold, severe gaze intimidated him once more. Diagoras had never seen the Decipherer so angry.
'I'm offended, not by the deceit itself, but by your foolish belief that you could deceive me. That, Diagoras, is unforgivable!'
'I haven't tried to deceive you!'
'In that case, my congratulations to Master Plato, for he has taught you the difficult art of lying unintentionally.'
'You are still working for me’ said Diagoras irritably.
'Again, you've forgotten that it's my investigation.'
'Heracles . . .' Diagoras spoke more quietly, realising that a crowd of onlookers had piled up around them like litter. 'Heracles, don't abandon me now. After all that's happened, you're the only person I can trust!'
'Tell me again that you saw that ephebe in girls' clothing slicing himself up before your eyes, and I swear by the peplos of Athena Polias that you will never hear from me again!'
'Come, I beg you ... let us find a quiet place to talk.'
But Heracles continued: 'A strange way to assist your students, O tutor! Do you think that smearing the truth with dung will help to uncover it?'
'My concern is the Academy, not the students!' Diagoras' round head had turned quite red, he was panting and tears had risen to his eyes. And he had accomplished a strange feat: he had shouted noiselessly, smudging his voice until he achieved an internal howl, letting Heracles (but only him) know that he had shouted. Repeating his vocal trick, he added: 'You must swear that the Academy will be kept out of this!'
'I'm not in the habit of pledging my word to those who lie so freely!'
'I'd kill—' cried Diagoras, at the peak of his inverse scream, his stentorian whisper,'- hear me well, Heracles - I'd kill for the Academy’
Heracles would have laughed, had he not felt so indignant. He thought Diagoras must have discovered the 'ultra-murmur' - a means of deafening one's interlocutor with spasmodic whispers. The stifled screams reminded Heracles of a child who is terrified of having a precious toy snatched away by a schoolmate and does everything he can to prevent it, but without the teacher noticing. But in this case, the 'toy' was the Academy (and it was at the word 'Academy' that Diagoras' voice became almost completely inaudible, so that Heracles knew what he was saying only from the movement of his lips).
'I'd kill!' repeated Diagoras. 'What is a lie, compared with harming the Academy? The worst must give way to the best! That which is worth less must be sacrificed to that which is worth more!'
'Then sacrifice yourself, Diagoras, and tell me the truth,' said Heracles, calmly, sarcastically. 'Because I assure you t
hat you have never seemed to be worth less than you do now.'
They walked through the Poikile Stoa. At that hour it was being swept, with slaves moving their brooms rhythmically, clearing the day's litter. Heracles wasn't sure exactly how, but the repetitive, commonplace sound, so like the chattering of old women, seemed to mock Diagoras in his impassioned state. Incapable as ever of taking anything lightly, the philosopher was now comporting himself with the solemnity he felt appropriate to the situation - head hung low, using language befitting a speaker at the Assembly and sighing deeply.
'I... in truth, I last saw Euneos at the play last night... This morning, just before dawn, one of my slaves woke me to tell me that the astynomos' servants had found his body among the rubble on land in the Inner Ceramicus. When I heard the details, I was horrified. My first thought was for the honour of the Academy.'
'So it is preferable for a family to suffer dishonour rather than an institution?' asked Heracles.
'Do you not believe it is? If, as in this case, the institution is so much more qualified than the family to govern and educate men nobly, should not the institution have priority over the family?'
'But how would the Academy be harmed if it became public that Euneos was murdered?'
'If you found that one of those figs was filthy,' Diagoras pointed at the one Heracles was about to eat, 'but you didn't know how it became so, would you have confidence in the other figs from the same tree?'
'Maybe not.' Heracles reflected that if you asked a Platonist a question you ended up answering his questions.
'But if you found a dirty fig on the ground,' Diagoras continued, 'would you blame the fig tree for its filthy state?'
'Of course not.'
'Well, that's what I thought. I reasoned as follows: If Euneos alone was responsible for his own death, the Academy will not be harmed; people will even be relieved that the bad fig has been removed. But if someone was behind Euneos' death, how can we avoid chaos, panic, suspicion? And what if one of our critics (of which we have many) started making dangerous comparisons with Tramachus' death ... Can you imagine what would happen if word spread that someone was murdering our students?'
'You're forgetting one small thing,' smiled Heracles. 'With your actions you're contributing to Euneos' murder going unpunished.'
'No!' cried Diagoras, triumphant for the first time. 'That's where you're wrong. I intended to tell you the truth. You would continue the investigation in secret, with no risk to the Academy, and you would catch the culprit.'
'A masterly plan,' said the Decipherer sarcastically. 'Tell me, Diagoras, how did you do it? I mean, did you place the dagger in his hand?'
Reddening, the philosopher looked gloomy once more. 'No, by Zeus, I would never have touched the corpse! When the slave led me to the place, the astynomos and his servants were there. I told them the version of events I had devised on the way, and named several former students who I was sure would confirm everything I said, if the need arose ... When I saw the knife in his hand and smelt the strong odour of wine, I thought my explanation was plausible. Could that not, in fact, be what happened, Heracles? The astynomos who examined the body said that all the wounds were within reach of his right hand. There were no cuts on his back, for instance ... In truth, it would seem that he himself ...'
Diagoras fell silent on seeing that the Decipherer again looked angry.
'Please don't insult my intelligence, Diagoras, by quoting the view of a miserable rubbish collector like the astynomos. I am a Decipherer of Enigmas.'
'What makes you think Euneos was murdered? He smelt of wine, he was wearing women's clothes, he held a dagger in his right hand and could have caused all those wounds himself. I know of several horrible cases of the effects of wine on the young. This very morning I remembered an ephebe from my deme who became inebriated for the first time during the Lenaea one year and killed himself by dashing his head against a wall. So I thought—'
'You started thinking, as always,' interrupted Heracles placidly. 'While I simply examined the body. There you have the difference between a philosopher and a Decipherer.'
'So what did you find?'
'His clothing. The slashed peplos’
'Yes?'
'The slashes bore no relation to the wounds beneath. Even a child would have noticed. Well, maybe not, but I did. A simple examination was all it took for me to see that beneath a straight cut in the cloth lay a round wound, and that a large puncture mark concealed a light, straight cut on the skin . . . Somebody obviously dressed him as a woman after he was stabbed . .. first slashing the clothes and covering them in blood, of course.'
'Incredible,' said Diagoras, truly impressed.
'It's merely a question of knowing how to look at things,' replied the Decipherer, indifferent. 'As if that were not enough, our murderer made another mistake: there was no blood around the corpse. If Euneos had stabbed himself so savagely, there would have been a trail of blood over the rubble and rubbish, at least close to him. But there was no blood on the ground: it was clean, if you like. Which means that Euneos was stabbed somewhere else and then moved to that derelict part of the Inner Ceramicus.'
'Oh, by Zeus ...'
'But perhaps this last mistake was crucial.' Narrowing his eyes and stroking his neat, silver beard thoughtfully, Heracles added: 'Though I still don't understand why they dressed him in women's clothing and placed this in his hand ...'
He took an object from under his cloak. They both stared at it in silence.
'Why do you think someone else put it there?' asked Diagoras. 'Euneos could have picked it up before ...'
Heracles shook his head impatiently. 'Blood was no longer dripping from Euneos' body. Rigor mortis had set in,' he explained. 'If Euneos had been holding this when he died, the fingers would have been too stiff for me to remove it as easily as I did. No. Someone dressed him in women's clothing and slipped this into his hand.'
'But, by the sacred gods, why?'
'I don't know. And I find that disconcerting. I haven't translated that part of the text yet, Diagoras. Although I assure you, in all modesty, I'm not a bad translator.' Suddenly, Heracles turned and set off down the steps of the Stoa. 'Now, everything has been said, so let us waste no more time! We've got another Labour of Hercules to perform!'
Diagoras hurried after him. 'Where are we going?'
Heracles replied: 'To meet a very dangerous man who may help us! We're off to Menaechmus' workshop!'
As he walked away he put the withered white lily back under his cloak.51
51I could help you, Heracles, but how to tell you all that I know? How are you to know, clever as you are, that it isn't a clue for you but for me, for the reader of an eidetic novel in which you yourself, as a character, are just one more duel. Your presence, I now realise, is also eidetic. You're there because the author decided to put you there, like the lily the mysterious murderer placed in his victim's hand, to convey more clearly to the reader the idea of the 'Labours of Hercules', which is one of the central themes of the novel. So, the 'Labours of Hercules', the 'girl with the lily' (with her cry for 'help' and warning of 'danger') and the 'Translator' - all three mentioned in the last few paragraphs - are, so far, the main eidetic images. What can they mean? (T.'s N.)
In the darkness, a voice asked: 'Is anybody there?'52
In the darkness, a voice asked: 'Is anybody there?'
52 I've stopped translating but I'm still writing so that, whatever happens, I'll leave a record of my plight. Briefly, someone has got into the house. I'll recount the events leading up to this (I'm writing in a hurry, so it may be a bit of a mess). It's evening, and I was just about to start the final part of this chapter when I heard a slight, but unfamiliar noise somewhere in my empty house. I ignored it, and set to work. I had written only two sentences when I started hearing regular rhythmic sounds, like footsteps. My first instinct was to check the hall and the kitchen, since the sounds seemed to come from there, but then I thought I ought to write down
what was happening, because—
Another sound!
I'm back now after looking round. There was no one there, and nothing appeared to have been moved. I don't think I've been burgled. The lock on the front door hasn't been forced. True, the kitchen door, it leads to a little yard, was open, but I may have left it open myself, I don't remember. I had a good look round. I could make out the familiar shapes of my furniture in the dark (I didn't want my visitor to know where I was, so I didn't turn on any lights). I checked the hall and the kitchen, the library and the bedroom, calling out, 'Is anybody there?' several times.
Reassured, I switched on a few lights. It seems to have been a false alarm. Now, back at my desk, my heart is gradually settling down. I must have imagined it. But then I think back to last night: someone was spying on me from behind the trees in the garden, and now ... I don't think it was a burglar, though anything's possible. Surely a burglar would concentrate on burgling, not watching his victims? Maybe he's preparing his masterstroke. He's in for a shock (I laugh at the thought): apart from a few ancient manuscripts, there's nothing of any value in my house. I'm rather like Montalo in that respect... Well, actually, in lots of other respects, too.
The Athenian Murders Page 14
