Now Pericles, weakened by the plague, had died. In his place, Cleon now led our democracy. But we had little faith left in it, and though we fought on, our hopes for winning the war against Sparta and her allies had dimmed.
And I? I, Kleides, a Sophist and skeptic who never believed that I knew the final answers to life's questions, found myself now wondering if life held any more surprises, any more discoveries. I felt tired and, worst of all, uninterested in life.
On the voyage that I had halfheartedly undertaken, my first hint that, indeed, life still held wonders came as my half brother's ship, carrying myself and wheat from Egypt, sailed into Syracusa's great bay.
From the deck, the ship's sail preened white against an impossibly blue sky and hummed in the brisk wind. I stared up at Ortigia, the great high section of the city of Syracusa, with its theater and temples almost as praised in our Greek world as those of Athens itself.
Golden rays flashed from Ortigia, and in spite of myself, I felt a sense of wonder.
"What is it?” I asked Agis, who stood next to me.
"The great shield of Athena, outside the temple to her at the very top of the city. On days like this, the mariners use the shield as a guide into the great harbor.” Agis stared at the light. “Perhaps,” he said, “great Athena will guide us to my uncle before it is too late. Perhaps this is a sign from the goddess."
I wanted to point out that if the mariners used the sunlight that flashed off the shield as a guide, the phenomenon was not unusual and could hardly be interpreted as a sign. But I bit my tongue. Agis was very worried about his uncle. If my sister-in-law's young nephew believed in the gods, as I did not, then let him have his comfort.
"We will accept what help is offered from any quarter,” I said, “but first we must depend on our own resources.” I suppose that I had grown rather more cynical about gods and humans during the horrors of the plague that had spawned such fear and loathing in the citizens of Athens, but my years as a Sophist had ingrained reliance on reason too deeply in me to have had it totally washed out. “Tell me again, Agis, and give me every detail you can remember of what the messenger from your uncle said."
Agis’ forehead folded into several pleats, as it always did when he thought. Socrates claimed parts of Agis’ brain fell into the pleats. True, Agis was not the most logical of thinkers, but I liked him. Possibly, I admit, because he had, even as a young boy, always admired me.
"The messenger said that my uncle begged that I come to Syracusa because his life was in danger. He had a rich treasure that some people would kill to possess."
"Are you sure the messenger quoted your uncle as saying he had a rich treasure? Earlier you said ‘priceless treasure.’”
Agis nodded. “Yes, yes. Priceless. But what difference is there between rich and priceless?"
"Perhaps a great deal.” I also recalled that earlier Agis had quoted the messenger as saying Agis’ uncle had strongly urged him to come to Syracusa. I did not pursue this change in the quote. Agis, like many a young man, was given to exaggeration.
"Look,” Agis said. “I am sure that there is no more beautiful temple in all Greece.” He pointed across the blue waters of the great bay to the top of the headland, to the city of Ortigia with its fourteen columned temple to Athena perched on the top.
"The temple does look beautiful,” I said. “I doubt that any temple could match the perfect proportions of our Parthenon, but I will withhold judgment until I see this temple close up."
We watched the merchant ships and triremes moving in and out of the great port and bobbing in the docks cut into the rock. Truly, Syracusa deserved its reputation as a rich and beautiful port. If its navy were not yet as great as that of Athens, it might someday be so.
I could see in the distance the gleam of polished marble on a large complex of structures. “It is the theater I see, isn't it, Agis? The great Aeschylus wrote and presented some of his plays here. He died here on this island, you know, some six Olympiads ago."
"Yes,” Agis said. “I know. Syracusa has produced much that is great. Writers, sculptors, architects.” He turned to me. “You have the bit of writing my uncle sent with the messenger?"
"Of course, Agis. It is perhaps the real sign that your uncle feared harm and perhaps very soon. Otherwise, why send a written message as well, one the illiterate messenger could not read?"
"But the message has nothing to do with his fear or anyone intending harm to him."
"Perhaps not, but I think it must.” I recited the few lines on the precious piece of papyrus sent by Dameus, Agis’ uncle:
Dear Muse
Do this for me.
Keep my words safe.
Let them live.
"I don't understand why my uncle would write these lines,” Agis said. “What words did he want kept safe? Words about what?"
* * * *
No one answered. A peddler stopped to stare at us. From farther up the street, a woman carrying a water jar turned. She too stared.
Agis stepped inside and cast his eyes round the room. “He isn't here. Thanks be to Zeus. He must be out and about somewhere."
"Perhaps,” I said. “Your uncle is not a tidy man, I take it."
"He is not known for it. But,” Agis fingered a broken jar, “he is generally a bit more orderly than this."
I walked over to an open chest, half dreading what might be inside. I looked in. Papyrus scrolls, rather carelessly tossed about.
Agis came over. “He or someone must have been searching for something in the chest. These manuscripts he has always kept with great care."
I closed the lid and looked into a basket by an overturned stool. Shiny black objects glinted. I picked one up. Mesmerized, I carried it to the door to study it better in the light.
It was beautiful. In perfect proportions, an athlete held up a laurel wreath. The sculpture had caught the grace of the young man, arresting the motion as the youth lifted the wreath to crown his head.
Agis came over and took the figure.
"It is quite magnificent,” I said. “Did your uncle collect such figures?"
"He carves them,” Agis said.
I looked at Agis in surprise. “Is this how he makes a living? You said nothing about this."
Agis ran a finger lovingly over the shiny figure. “My uncle does occasionally take drachmae or other coins for his sculptures, just to keep himself in food and clothing. More often, he gives his sculptures away for nothing or for very little to people who help him find the obsidian and who want an offering for a god but are too poor to pay."
"A generous man,” I said. “And an intelligent one.” I walked back over to the chest, curious about what scrolls Dameus possessed. I owned several myself and would like to own many more. Selkine and my son would be of great comfort as I grew older, but I admit to also looking forward to quiet time to read.
I opened the chest and lifted out a scroll: a bit of Herodotus’ Histories. I lifted another: the poetry of Pindar. Dameus was a man of good taste. I began to read one of the poems when a shadow blocked the light from the door.
I looked over and saw a tall well built figure silhouetted against the sunlight.
For a moment no one moved. I had the impression that the man was staring at me.
He stepped inside, and I saw his face. A handsome one, strong, with a straight nose and sharp, intelligent eyes. He looked from myself to Agis and back to me. “One of you is Dameus’ nephew, I assume?"
"I am,” Agis said, “and this is a very good friend of mine, Kleides of Athens."
The man's eyes sharpened. “Kleides, indeed. I have heard of you. A Sophist, I understand. A friend of Socrates and a teacher of Herodotus’ Histories and Pindar's poetry."
"Yes,” I answered, placing the scroll back into the chest.
"I am Aptimus of Syracusa,” he said, watching me closely. His chiton, whose hem boasted a classic key design in rich purple, fluttered in a light breeze. “You were looking for something in that chest?"
"Do you know Dameus?” I asked, ignoring his question.
"I did.” He turned to Agis, who was still holding the obsidian figure. “I must tell you. Your uncle is dead."
Agis lowered himself onto a stool. “Kleides feared as much."
"When did he die?” I asked. “And how?"
Aptimus spoke to Agis. “He died two days ago. Someone beat him. A crushing blow to the skull killed him. He was found by another relative, I believe. He was buried yesterday."
"And were you looking for something here today?” I asked.
Aptimus took a moment to answer. “A reasonable enough question,” he said. “I came looking for nothing. I was at the house of a potter nearby and saw the two of you enter this house."
"I assume,” I said, “that the assailant is unknown."
"Correct,” Aptimus said.
"Where is my uncle buried?” Agis asked.
"On the necropolis, to the north. There is a simple stele on the grave, put there, I believe, by the relative. Or so the potter tells me.” He raised his hands. “You know all that I can tell you. I will leave you.” He turned and left.
"Who is the relative?” I asked Agis. “Do you know?"
Agis nodded. “Almeus, the son of my uncle's sister. My aunt is dead. My uncle befriended Almeus, much good it did him."
"What is it about Almeus you dislike?"
"He is lazy and thoughtless, except in terms of his own welfare, of course. He did not often visit my uncle, except when he needed some money. What little my uncle had.” Agis looked around. “I wonder what it was he wanted. He must have heard talk of a treasure here."
"Perhaps,” I said. “Keep your mind clear and open, Agis. We must learn more."
I turned back to the chest of scrolls. Had I been able I would have lit an oil lamp, closed the door, and lost myself in reading. As it was, I satisfied myself with one scroll. I picked it up and unrolled a bit. The scroll looked fairly new. It was a medium size scroll, the height of three fingers. The papyrus fibers showed little wear. I recognized the poem. This one was by one of the greatest of our Greek poets: Sappho. It was a poem of longing.
She calls out
the many eared night echoes the call
across the silver sea between us.
I hastily rolled the scroll up and dropped it back into the chest. It had hit home, and I stood still, my head down, hurting for Selkine and our child.
"What is it?” Agis asked.
"Nothing.” I braced up. I could assuage my longing a little in the work of finding the murderer. “We must talk to Almeus immediately. Do you know where to find him?"
"In a tavern or with some hetaera. Anyone of the prostitutes of the port could tell us where to find him. But might we visit my uncle's grave first?"
"Of course, Agis,” I said, ashamed of having lost sight of my friend's need in my concern over my own.
We left Dameus’ little home and headed for the necropolis.
Perhaps, I thought as we walked, we should have searched the house further. But I suspected that, if indeed Dameus had had some sort of treasure, it was no longer there. Somewhere, someone on this island had it.
We walked through the great square of the new lower city, the wealthy Ortigia at our backs and the great limestone plateau on which the theater sat in front of us.
Agis seemed lost in thought, whether of sorrow, anger, or prayer I could not tell. I concentrated on taking in as much detail of this great city as I could. It helped to keep my mind off Selkine and my son.
We passed fountains and temples, and the east to west road that led to other parts of this island. Syracusa was rich and powerful. I began to suspect that if Syracusa and Athens ever clashed in the war that had now raged off and on for several years between Sparta and Athens, my beloved Athens might well find itself in a battle it could not win. I turned my thoughts from that unhappy prospect. Pericles’ death, the recent plague, and my separation from Selkine were quite enough to sink my spirit. I needed no dwelling on any future disaster.
We climbed up, cutting west, past the great quarries of limestone that provided the stone for the temples of the city, through groves of olive, citrus, and pistachio trees, and at last reached the cemetery.
A field of grave stelae, funeral vases, and monuments lay before us. Agis threw up his hands. “How can we find my uncle's grave?"
"Let us think, Agis,” I said. “Your uncle was not wealthy. We need not enter the section of the cemetery with the large monuments."
Agis nodded and we headed to a section of graves marked by simple limestone blocks or simple funeral vases.
We drew close to some newly dug graves where a few people were laying offerings of wine or bits of bread or small votive statues on the graves of loved ones. As we approached, a man in a rough wool robe turned.
"Agis,” he said.
"Mynos,” Agis said, clasping the man's hand. “Kleides, Mynos is a stone carver. He has worked on some of the great temples of the island."
Mynos nodded to me, then said to Agis, “You have heard about your uncle's death.” He turned and looked at the grave in front of him.
"He lies here?” Agis asked.
"He does."
Agis stepped forward and stood in silence for a few moments.
"Do you know anything of how he was killed?” I asked Mynos.
"Someone beat him, then bashed in his head."
"The Furies will pursue this murderer.” Agis’ voice was thick with anger and sorrow. “The snake-haired women from Hades will punish him. The gods will see to that."
I had less confidence than I had had in the past that reasoning and inquiry could find the murderer, but even less confidence that the gods would do so. The plague in Athens that had made Agis turn to the gods had deepened my skepticism about their concern, if they existed at all, with human affairs.
"How do you know how Dameus was murdered?” I asked.
Mynos looked at me sharply. “It is only what I have heard others say."
"Do you know of any enemies Dameus might have had?"
Mynos shook his head vigorously. “None. He was a kind man.” He swept his hand toward the graves of the poor. “Many of the votive statues here are his handiwork, his art. For a bit of food or clothing, he gave his statues to those who could ill afford other sculptors or potters."
"And yet,” I said, “he possessed scrolls. Though one can buy scrolls in the agoras of Athens and other cities, they are not cheap: a drachma or more."
"Dameus willingly traded his sculptures for scrolls,” Mynos said. “He loved the poets of Ionia from past times.” Mynos frowned. “But his murder nearly made me forget. I saw Dameus a few days before his death. He recited a poem to me. He told me he wrote it for you, Agis."
"Can you remember it?” I asked. “Exactly?"
Mynos paused. He closed his eyes, then began to recite.
From the earth flows
Erato's beauty.
Her words fill my heart.
I will go there.
There, I will save her words for posterity.
Mynos kept his eyes closed.
"You are sure,” I said. “Those were the words of Dameus’ poem, the exact words? The poem invoked Erato, the muse of poetry?"
"Yes,” Mynos said. “But there was something else. Something he wanted you to have, Agis. He was carving from obsidian a beautiful statue of a god. He and his helpers had found the obsidian, shiny black and red, near the smoking mountain to the west, a beautiful piece that the mountain had belched out."
"A volcano,” I said. “I have heard of the famous volcano of this island."
"Did you find such a statue at his house?” Mynos asked.
"No,” Agis said. “I saw no such statue of a god. Did you, Kleides?"
I shook my head. “We must look more carefully. I think, Agis, we should return to the house now."
Agis turned to the grave once more, then followed me out of the cemetery. We left Mynos starin
g after us. I kept a good pace.
At Dameus’ house, we searched thoroughly. It took little time. Dameus was an artist and a scholar, not a man given to material goods. We found cups for wine, a jug for water, and amphora. Dameus had used the latter for storing some spices, barley, and olive oil. We found pieces of obsidian, shiny black and red, some carvings of animals and flowers, and the athlete, but no statue of a god.
"Someone killed my uncle for that statue,” Agis said. “My cousin, Almeus.” Agis flung down a piece of obsidian. “My uncle would have given him that statue if he had asked. I would have given it to him. By all the gods, I will avenge my uncle."
Agis lunged toward the doorway.
I grabbed his arm and pulled him back inside. “By all the gods, if you must invoke gods, Agis, we have seen and felt enough needless death and hatred during the plague. I will find your uncle's murderer, Agis. I will stay in Syracusa until I do. But we must be sure. We must use the reason and cleverness of an Odysseus, not the anger of an Achilles."
"Achilles’ anger was justified, as is mine."
"Your anger, yes; your haste, no. We must not dishonor your uncle's memory with blood that might be innocent."
That calmed Agis.
"Let us take with us the things that your uncle valued and go to a tavern and find accommodations. Rest and wine will do us good."
We gathered some of the obsidian carvings and a few scrolls and headed back toward Ortigia.
We managed to secure a room for ourselves in a decent tavern, and Agis managed to eat and drink. I was happy to see exhaustion clouding his eyes. In our room, he fell asleep almost immediately.
I looked at a few more of the scrolls. There was a bit of Ionian poetry, some poetry of Pindar on Olympic heroes.
I forced myself to put the scrolls aside and quietly left the room. I headed to the port and inquired at some taverns, finally tracking down Almeus.
He sat on a stool, his back leaning against a wall. I noted that the tavern was several steps above that of my friend, Callista, back in Athens.
AHMM, October 2009 Page 9
