The Athenian Murders

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  Heracles didn't seem disturbed. 'What do you want?' he asked.78

  'Don't stop working. It looks so important.'

  Heracles didn't know if she was making fun of him (he found it difficult to tell - to him, all women were masks). He watched her as she came slowly towards him, at ease in the darkness.

  'What do you want?' he repeated.79

  She shrugged. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she moved her body close to his. 'How can you sit for so long in the dark?' she asked curiously.

  77I'm now convinced that my jailer is completely insane. I was about to translate this paragraph when I looked up and found him standing there, just as Heracles does Yasintra. He'd come in without making a sound. He looked quite ridiculous: he was wearing a long black cloak, a mask and a straggly wig. The mask was female, but

  the voice and hands were those of an old man. And, as I found when I proceeded with the translation, he said and did exactly the same as Yasintra in this section (he spoke in the same language as me, his words a precise translation of hers). I'll note down only my

  answers, therefore, after Heracles'. (T.'s N.)

  78'Who are you?' I asked. (T.'s N.)

  79 I don't think I said anything at this point. (T.'s N.)

  'I'm thinking’ said Heracles. 'The darkness helps me think.'80

  'Would you like me to give you a massage?'she whispered.

  Heracles stared at her and said nothing.81

  She held out her hands.

  'Leave me alone’ said Heracles.82

  'I just want to give you a massage’ she whispered, playfully.

  'No. Leave me alone.'83

  Yasintra stopped. 'I want to give you pleasure,' she breathed. 'Why?' asked Heracles.84

  'I owe you a favour,' she said. 'I'd like to repay you.'

  'Please, it's not necessary'85

  'I'm lonely, too. But I can make you happy, I can assure you.'

  Heracles stared at her. Her face was expressionless.

  'If you want to make me happy, leave me alone,' he said.86

  She sighed and shrugged again. 'Would you like something to eat? Or drink?' she asked.

  'I don't want anything.87

  80'But I don't want to be in the dark!' I cried. 'And you're the one

  who's locked me in here!' (T.'s N.)

  81'A ... massage? Are you mad?'(T.'s N.)

  82'Get away from me!' I shrieked, jumping up. (T.'s N.)

  83'Don't touch me!' I think I said here, I'm not sure. (T.'s N.

  84'You're . . . completely insane’ I said, horrified. ('T's N.)

  85'Favour? What favour? Translating the book?' (T.'s N.)

  86'If you want to make me happy, let me out!' (T.'s N.)

  87'Yes! I'm hungry! And thirsty!' (T.'s N.)

  Yasintra turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway. 'Call me if you need anything,' she said. 'I will. Now go away.'88

  'You just have to call, and I'll come.' 'Go away!'89

  The door closed. The room was in darkness once more.90

  88 'Wait, please, don't go!' I cried, suddenly anxious. (T.'s N.)

  89'don't go!' (T.'sN.)

  90 'No!' I yelled, and started crying.

  I've calmed down now. I've been wondering what on earth my kidnapper thought he was doing. Showing me how well he knows the novel? Letting me know that he's keeping tabs on the progress of the translation? I know one thing for sure - I'm in the hands of an old madman!. Protect me, O Greek gods! (T.'s N.)

  IX

  As the crimes attributed to Menaechmus, son of Lacos, of the deme of Carisio, were crimes of blood - of 'flesh', some called them - the trial was held at the Areopagus, the court on the Hill of Ares, one of the most venerable institutions in the City. Once, the sumptuous decisions of government had been prepared within its marble structure, but with Solon's and Cleisthenes' reforms, it was reduced to a simple tribunal for murder cases, offering its customers only the death sentence, loss of rights or ostracism. Athenians, therefore, felt no pride at the sight of the white tiers, severe columns and archons' high podium facing an incense-burner as round as a plate, containing fragrant herbs burning in honour of Athena, their scent, some claimed, vaguely reminiscent of roasted human flesh. Modest banquets were, however, sometimes held there at the expense of high-ranking defendants.

  The trial of Menaechmus, son of Lacos, of the deme of Carisio, had aroused great interest. This was because of the noble birth of the victims and the sordid nature of the crimes, rather than Menaechmus himself, who was, after all, just one more heir of Phidias and Praxiteles earning a living by selling his work, as one sells meat, to aristocratic patrons.

  Soon, following the herald's strident announcement, not a single empty seat remained on the historical tiers. Most of the hungry crowd consisted of metics and Athenians belonging to the guild of sculptors and potters, together with poets and soldiers, though there were, too, fair numbers of the merely curious.

  Eyes grew as wide as saucers and there were murmurs of approval as the soldiers brought in the accused with his wrists bound. Lean but robust, solid, Menaechmus, son of Lacos, of the deme of Carisio, puffed out his chest and held his grizzled head high, as if about to receive not a sentence but a military honour. He listened calmly to the succulent list of accusations and, as was his right, remained silent when the speaker archon called upon him to correct the charges against him as he thought appropriate. Will you speak, Menaechmus? Nothing, not even a yes or a no. He continued to puff out his chest, as obstinately proud as a peacock. Would he plead guilty? Not guilty? Did he have some terrible secret that he intended to reveal at the end?

  Witnesses filed past. His neighbours offered a tasty preamble by describing the youths, mostly vagabonds and slaves, who frequented the workshop under the pretext of posing for his statues. They referred to his night-time activities - the piquant cries, the greedy grunts, the bittersweet smell of the orgies, the daily half-dozen ephebes as naked and white as cream cakes. Many stomachs clenched on hearing such statements. Several poets then declared that Menaechmus was a good citizen and an even better writer, who had tried painstakingly to revive the ancient formula for Greek theatre. But since they were as dull artists as the man they praised, the archons ignored their testimony.

  It was now time to hear of the butchery - attention was drawn to the bloody trimmings, the sliced flesh, the deliquescing viscera, the crude reality of the bodies. The captain of the border guard who had found Tramachus spoke; the astynomi who had discovered Euneos' and Antisus' bodies gave their opinion. Questioning revealed an array of remains; imagination seasoned a corpse with chunks of limbs, faces, hands, tongues, loins and bellies. At last, at midday, beneath the roasting dominions of the Sun's steeds, the dark figure of Diagoras, son of Iampsachus, of the deme of Mardontes, climbed the stairs to the podium. There was deep silence - all were waiting with ravenous impatience for what they knew would be the principal testimony for the prosecution. Diagoras, son of Iampsachus, of the deme of Mardontes, did not disappoint them: his answers were firm, his diction impeccable, his exposition of the facts honest; his assessment of those facts was cautious, with a slightly bitter aftertaste, a little harsh at times, but in general satisfactory. As he spoke he looked up not at the tiers, where Plato and some of his colleagues sat, but at the archons' podium. The judges, however, seemed to be paying little attention, as if they had already decided upon a verdict, and Diagoras' testimony was merely an appetiser.

  At the hour when hunger begins to importune the flesh, the king archon decided that the court had heard enough. With the courteous indifference of a horse, he turned his limpid blue gaze towards the accused. 'Menaechmus, son of Lacos, of the deme of Carisio, this court grants you the right to defend yourself, if you so wish.'

  And suddenly, in the circular Areopagus, with its columns, burner of fragrant incense and podium, there was a single point of focus upon which the gluttonous gazes of the spectators converged: the sculptor's roughly drawn face, his dark flesh
scored by age, his blinking eyes and his head sprinkled with grey hair.

  In the hungry silence, as during a libation before a banquet, Menaechmus, son of Lacos, of the deme of Carisio, opened his mouth and slowly licked his dry lips.

  And he smiled.91

  91 And the spectators ate him. The description of Menaechmus' trial bears the eidetic overlay of a banquet at which the sculptor is the main course. I'm not sure yet to which Labour it refers, but I have my suspicions. The fact is the eidesis is making my mouth water. (T.'s N.)

  It was a woman's mouth - her teeth, her burning breath. He knew that the mouth could bite, eat, devour, but what worried him just then was the beating heart grasped by an unknown hand. He wasn't bothered by the slowly searching female lips (for it was a female, rather than a woman), her teeth running over his skin, for part of him (only part) found such caresses pleasant. But the heart... the moist, throbbing flesh gripped by strong fingers . . . He had to find out what was beyond it, and to whom the thick shadow lurking at the edge of his vision belonged. Because the arm wasn't floating in mid-air, he knew that now. The arm was attached to a figure that appeared and disappeared, like the body of the moon in its different phases. Now ... a little ... he could almost see an entire shoulder, a ... A soldier, in the distance, was issuing orders, or clarifying something. The voice was familiar, but he couldn't quite make out the words. Yet they were so important! Something else was bothering him: flying caused a pressure on the chest. He must remember that for future investigations. Pressure, yes, and a pleasurable feeling in the most sensitive places. Flying was enjoyable, despite the gently nibbling mouth, the relaxing of one's flesh ...

  He woke up. The shadow was sitting on top of him. He thrust it aside furiously. He remembered that in some cultures a nightmare was a monster with a mare's head and woman's body that rested its naked buttocks on the sleeper's chest, whispering bitter words into his ear before devouring him. There was a confusion of bedclothes, taut flesh, intertwined limbs, moans. It was so dark! So dark!

  'No, no, calm down.'

  'What... Who ...'

  'Hush. It was a dream.'

  'Hagesikora?'

  'No.'

  He was shaking. He recognised his own body, lying on its back in his own bed in what was still (he knew it now) his own bedroom. Everything was as it should be, except for the warm, naked flesh moving beside him like a strong, restless colt. He yawned. His reason lit a candle in his head and, with a jolt, he began a new day.

  'Yasintra?' he realised.

  'Yes.'

  Heracles sat up, the bands of muscle round his belly tense, as if he had just finished eating, and rubbed his eyes. 'What are you doing here?'

  She didn't answer. He felt her move, warm and moist, as if her flesh were exuding juices. Suddenly the bed dipped in several places and he lost his balance. He heard thuds and the unmistakable slap of bare feet upon the floor. 'Where are you going?' he asked.

  'Don't you want me to light a lamp?'

  He heard scratches as the flint was struck. She knows where I leave the lamp at night and where to find the flint, he thought, storing the information somewhere in his vast mental library. Soon after, her body appeared before him, half of the flesh smeared with honey in the lamplight. He would hesitate to describe her as naked. He had, in fact, never seen a woman so utterly naked - without makeup, or jewels, or the protection of dressed hair, stripped even of the fragile, but effective, tunic of modesty. Quite naked. Raw even, he thought, like a piece of meat thrown on the floor.

  'Forgive me, I beg you,' said Yasintra. There was not a trace of anxiety in her boyish voice at the possibility that he might not forgive her. 'I heard you moaning from my room. You seemed to be suffering. I simply wanted to wake you.'

  'It was a bad dream,' said Heracles. 'A nightmare I've been having recently.'

  'The gods speak to us through recurring dreams.'

  'I don't believe that. It's illogical. Dreams can't be explained. They're simply random images that we create ourselves.'

  She said nothing.

  Heracles thought of calling Ponsica, but remembered that she had requested permission the previous evening to go to Eleusis, for a meeting of worshippers of the Sacred Mysteries. So he was alone in the house with the hetaera.

  'Would you like to wash?' she asked. 'Shall I bring you a bowl?'

  'No.'

  Suddenly, Yasintra asked: 'Who is Hagesikora?'

  For a moment Heracles stared at her blankly. Then he said: 'Did I call out her name in my sleep?'

  'Yes. And the name Itys. You thought I was both of them.'

  'Hagesikora was my wife,' said Heracles. 'She fell ill and died some time ago. We had no children.' He paused, and added in the same didactic tone, as if reciting a boring lesson: 'Itys is an old friend . . . Strange that I called out both names. But, as I said, dreams have no meaning.'

  There was a silence. The girl was now lit from below, the lamplight disguising her nakedness - a wavering black harness covered her breasts and pubis; fine straps ran over her lips, brows and eyelids. Heracles scrutinised the hetaera avidly for a moment, trying to find what lay beneath the surface other than blood and muscles. How different she was from his lamented Hagesikora!

  Yasintra said: 'I'll go now, unless there's anything you want.'

  'Is there long to go before dawn?' he asked.

  'No. The colour of the night is grey'

  'The colour of the night is grey,' Heracles repeated to himself. 'A remark worthy of the creature.'

  'Leave the lamp on, then,' he said.

  'Very well. May the gods grant you rest.'

  He thought: Yesterday she said, 'I owe you a favour.' But why is she forcing such payment on me? Did I really feel her mouth on ... Or did I dream it? 'Yasintra.'

  'What?'

  There was not the slightest trace of hope or longing in her voice, and (oh, the all-consuming pride of men!) he felt pained. And it pained him that he was pained. She had simply stopped and looked round, turning her naked gaze upon him as she said, 'What?'

  'Menaechmus has been arrested for the murder of another ephebe. His trial is taking place today at the Areopagus. You no longer have anything to fear from him.' And, after a pause, he added: 'I thought you'd like to know.'

  'Yes,' she said.

  The door creaked as it closed behind her, echoing the sound: 'Yes.'

  He remained in bed all morning. In the afternoon, he rose, dressed, devoured an entire bowl of figs, and decided to go for a walk. He didn't even bother to find out whether Yasintra was still in the small guest room, or whether she had already left, without saying goodbye. Her door was closed and, anyway, Heracles didn't mind leaving her alone in the house, for he didn't believe her to be a thief, or even a bad woman. He walked unhurriedly to the Agora and, once there, came across several men he knew and many more he did not. He preferred to inquire of the latter.

  'The sculptor's trial?' said a man, with tanned skin and the look of a satyr spying upon nymphs. 'By Zeus! Don't you know? In the entire City there's talk of nothing else!'

  Heracles shrugged apologetically.

  The man added, baring huge teeth: 'He's been condemned to the barathrum. He confessed.'

  'He confessed?' repeated Heracles. 'He did.'

  'To all the crimes?'

  'Yes. It was just as noble Diagoras said. He's guilty of the murders of the three youths and the old pedagogue. And he confessed before everyone, with a smile: 'I'm guilty!', or something similar. The crowd was astounded by his audacity, and with reason!' The man's faun-like face grew darker still as he added: 'By Apollo, the barathrum is too good for the scoundrel! For once I agree with what the women are calling for!' 'What are they calling for?'

  'A delegation of wives of the prytaneis has requested that the archon have Menaechmus tortured before he is killed.'

  'Flesh. They want flesh,' said the man, with whom the faun had been talking before Heracles interrupted. He was short and sturdy, with broad shoulders
, his head and chin lightly seasoned with blond hair.92

  92 The frequent culinary metaphors, and metaphors relating to 'horses', allude eidetically to the Labour of the Mares of Diomedes. As everyone knows, they ate human flesh and devoured their own master. I'm not sure whether the 'wives of the prytaneis' who 'want flesh' are meant to represent the mares. It's a rather irreverent comparison if they are. (T.'s N.)