by Corby, Gary
I scratched my head as I thought about it. “I don’t know,” I said. “This might be setting a bad precedent.”
“Please,” she begged. “My daughter is dead. My husband doesn’t care. You’re the only man who’ll help me.”
“Nico, we must help this woman,” Diotima said. She didn’t look at me as she spoke. She stared at the bruising beneath the skin of Aposila.
I didn’t see myself as the sort of investigator who would take on family cases, but it was impossible to say no to a lady who’d lost her only daughter. Especially one with a black eye.
“Very well, Aposila. I’ll do what I can.”
But first, Diotima and I would have to interview Antobius, to see if he’d had anything to do with his own daughter’s death.
CHAPTER TEN
ANTOBIUS, THE FATHER of Allike, lived in the deme of Phrearrhioi, which lies within the city walls in the southern part of Athens. Phrearrhioi was very much an upper-class neighborhood, and the house of Antobius was very much an upper-class house, as I could tell at once from the quality of the herm he’d placed by his front door. The bust of the god Hermes was made in bronze, in the latest fashion, and had been painted for realism. I marveled at the eyes, which seemed to watch me wherever I stood. In the case of Antobius, I thought it a pity the herm hadn’t protected his own daughter.
Aposila was out of sight when we arrived, whether by coincidence or because she knew we were coming to interview her husband, I didn’t know.
Antobius saw us in his courtyard, which was predictably populated with comfortable couches, had a well-paved floor of flat stones, and was surrounded by neatly painted columns in red and green. He was a thickset man in a chiton. I wondered if he’d done manual labor in his past, from the width of his forearms.
When I delicately approached the matter of taking a bag of money in the dead of night, I got a surprising answer.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“You talked with the man out on the street. You were seen.”
Antobius watched me, clearly waiting for the name of his accuser. I silently held his gaze until he got the message that I wouldn’t be revealing the informant.
Antobius sighed. “A neighbor, no doubt. I hate nosy neighbors, particularly when they don’t understand what they’re seeing, and in this city, everyone talks. All right, I admit it,” said Antobius. “I was paid money that night.”
I gasped in shock.
“You took money to ignore the death of your own daughter?” Diotima said, her tone making it clear what she thought of that.
“Not at all,” Antobius said calmly. He seemed oblivious to the reaction he’d provoked. “I’d already decided that my daughter’s death was a misfortune sent upon her by the gods.”
“You can’t be serious,” I blurted.
“I am. Allike was killed by a bear. Such a thing must have been ordained by the gods, perhaps by Artemis herself, since the bear is her special servant. I don’t know what Allike did to deserve such a fate, but I for one am not going to take issue with the gods.”
Diotima asked, “Did you see her body?”
“She was cremated and her ashes returned to us. They lie in the cemetery at Ceramicus.”
“If you didn’t see the wounds, how do you know a bear killed her?” Diotima said.
“Because everyone who saw her says so.”
It was, unfortunately, a perfectly adequate answer. Even if I didn’t believe it for a moment. Privately, I gave Aposila a mark of approval for wanting to divorce this man. I made sure I kept my face expressionless, reminded myself not to glance up to the women’s quarters of the house, and asked, “Who was your visitor?”
“I rather thought it must be someone from the temple,” Antobius said.
“You didn’t ask his name?” I said.
“He didn’t offer it.”
“So when a man turned up, offering to pay you for the death of your daughter, you didn’t think to ask any questions?”
“I saw it more as a monetary consolation for our loss. It was all according to the law, I assure you.”
According to the law, my ass. I’d become a minor expert on homicide law, and I knew perfectly well it was illegal to accept blood money for a death. A man has an absolute obligation to prosecute the killer of any member of his family.
Antobius said to me. “I understand you act for the temple?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you should ask them the name of the man who came to me. I’m sure someone there would know him. You may also tell the temple that I hold them blameless. I expect they’ll be relieved to hear it.”
DIOTIMA STAGGERED FROM the house in shock. “Nico, he took blood money.”
“I know that, and you know that, but can we prove it? Antobius will maintain the money was a gift. Did you notice he was clever enough to dispute the interpretation of what was seen, but not the veracity of the witness? He doesn’t know who saw him, so he had to admit to what some reputable citizen might have reported.”
“We have to help Aposila against him.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“Why would someone pay to shut down an investigation?” Diotima said.
“Well, the murderer might have a vested interest,” I said. “If that was him, then we’re looking for a man.”
Diotima said, “Have you forgotten what Socrates pointed out on the road back from Brauron? We all agreed we’d left the killer behind at the sanctuary.”
“There’s no chance that someone could have passed us on the road,” I said, rubbing my chin in thought.
“And if someone was away long enough to bribe a father in Athens, their absence from the sanctuary would have been noted,” Diotima added.
“Then it wasn’t the murderer Antobius met,” I said.
“Or he has a friend. Or an agent. Can we force Antobius to name him?”
I said, “The one moment when I actually believed Antobius was when he said the murderer didn’t hand over his name along with the bribe money.”
“Good point,” Diotima said. “But Nico, we have to do something.”
Was it possible to prosecute Antobius for taking blood money? I didn’t know.
We needed to ask a lawyer. Unfortunately, Diotima had already killed the best lawyer in Athens. That had been last year, in the course of another case. We’d have to go see the second-best lawyer, assuming he was brave enough to talk to us.
I HAD NO idea about the law for divorce, but I knew who would: the man outside whose office lay the tablets of the law. I went to see the Basileus.
I had to wait a long time for my turn to see him. This was a private matter and I no longer had the letter from Pericles to get me past the queue. Bored, I sat on the steps and watched the other men who had business with him. These supplicants stood in the shade of the portico and argued; or they sat on the steps beside me and argued; or they crouched to play games on boards that had been scratched into the stone, with pebbles for playing pieces. Men stood about the game players and loudly critiqued their every move.
But the majority of the men around me argued over the coming elections.
“Philocles for Eponymous Archon, I reckon,” one said.
Several heads nodded, enough to make me think Philocles was in with a chance.
“I like Glaucon for treasurer,” the first man said. That got my attention.
“Glaucon is a nobody,” a second man said.
I mentally dismissed Glaucon’s ambitions. Unless it turned out he really had killed Hippias, in which case he’d become an instant celebrity. Perhaps that was why he’d been so quick to come see me. It occurred to me that Glaucon’s career prospects depended very much on me.
“What do you think about Pericles?” I asked the group. They turned to notice me for the first time.
One of the men said, “He’s going for strategos, isn’t he? Pericles’ll get voted in no matter what.”
Every head present nodded glumly.
“Is tha
t a bad thing?” I asked, intrigued.
“I guess not,” the first man said. “But with him you know what the result’ll be. That takes all the fun out. What’s the point of turning up to vote when you know the result?”
Heads nodded again. Another man said, “It’s like a race where one man’s obviously the fastest. There’s no interest in it. No one wants to watch. You know?”
Another man said, “Here, you look like a young fellow. You ever voted before?”
I shook my head. “No, I only finished my army time just last year. This’ll be my first time.”
“Well, don’t let it faze you, kid. Just remember, voting’s like sex. No matter what you do, you’re gonna get screwed.”
“Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus!” Glaucon emerged from the offices within and shouted my name.
“I’m here!” I yelled at once, before he had time to assume I’d wandered off and selected the next man in line.
Glaucon said, “It’s good to see you again. How goes the investigation?”
I shrugged, not wanting to tell him anything useful, but I had to state my business or the secretary wouldn’t pass me through.
I said, “I need to see the Basileus about a divorce.”
“Surely not for you,” Glaucon said. He sounded surprised.
I spoke in a low voice, so only he could hear. “No, a client.
Aposila, wife of Antobius. They’re the parents of the dead girl from the sanctuary at Brauron. Please tell the Basileus that. I’m sure he’ll agree to see me.”
Out on the steps of the stoa, one of the board-game players suddenly accused the other of moving a piece while he wasn’t watching, in a loud, screeching voice. The other angrily denied it.
Glaucon opened the door. “Come inside.”
As I went inside, the board-game players were grappling with each other and rolling in the dust, fighting over who had cheated.
“You again,” said the Basileus when he saw me. “Don’t you have anything better to do than take up my time?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I need to ask how someone gets a divorce.”
“I thought you were only just about to get married?”
“I am.”
“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”
“It’s not for me, sir. I ask for a client.”
“Oh?” I could see he didn’t believe me. “Well, it’s simple enough, in any case. A man need only declare his intention to divorce. The wife is then required to leave her husband’s household and return to her closest male relative. By law her dowry must go with her, every last drachma, and all property attached to her. There are obscure situations where the archons might disallow a divorce—if there’s not yet a legitimate heir for the lady’s property, for example—but those needn’t concern us in general.”
“Yes, sir, that’s for a man,” I said. “What if it’s a woman who wants to divorce?”
“This is a client you ask for?” he said, clearly disturbed.
“The mother of the child who died at Brauron,” I told him.
“Young man,” he said sternly, “I think you had better tell me everything.”
So I did. The Basileus had a reputation for honesty, which was rare enough in Athens, and of the greatest integrity—during his term he had actually prosecuted other officials for taking bribes—but he was also known as a very strict follower of the law.
As I told my tale, the expression of the Basileus became angrier and angrier.
When I had finished, the Basileus said, “So this husband and father, Antobius by name, refused to follow up the death of his own child?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t care if she was only a girl. The law gives him no latitude in this. He’s required to pursue the killer.”
I said, “Then perhaps you could tell me, sir, is it possible to prosecute Antobius? I know he can legitimately declare that the girl’s death was an accident, but what if we can prove he took money to ignore her death?”
The Basileus slumped on his stool. He said, “Unfortunately, such a prosecution is likely to fail.”
“Why?”
“Because the law sets no time limit on the duration of an investigation. Your hypothetically bribed man could claim he intends to prosecute, but that he’s still collecting evidence. He could do this for decades and stay within the letter of the law.”
“Even if everyone knows it’s a deliberate delaying tactic?”
“Even so. Of course, the rest of society would cut him dead—a man who behaved so badly could forget about ever holding public office—but if the bribe is sufficiently large, perhaps he doesn’t care.”
This was depressing news. It meant a man could murder someone and then buy his way out of trouble, as long as his wealth was deep enough, and the victim’s family venal enough, to take money for their loved one’s demise.
There was another implication, too: this killer who had visited Antobius, whoever he was, must have a source of wealth great enough to tempt a man.
The Basileus added, “But this Antobius could be prosecuted for beating his wife.”
I snorted but was too polite to say what I thought.
“Yes, all right,” the Basileus conceded. “A jury is more likely to take the husband’s part.”
“What about divorce for the wife?” I asked. “Is it possible?”
“You act on the wife’s behalf?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I must say, this is very generous of you. I warn you, young man, that your legal standing in this matter is dubious. You’re no relative of the victim; if anything goes wrong, you’ll be exposed to prosecution.”
I said, “If Antobius can’t be punished for his crime, sir, perhaps he can be punished for his behavior?”
“I see the thread of your reasoning now. Yes. To divorce, a lady must simply present herself to an archon and declare her intent.”
“That’s it?” I asked, incredulous. It seemed too simple.
“Restrictions apply with respect to heirs.”
“She has two sons.”
“Then there’s no possible objection. Technically she should go to the Eponymous Archon, since he deals with matters of citizenry, but the law permits any archon to perform the service. I suggest that she come to me instead; any other archon will demand to know why she wishes to divorce; I know her case and can save her the pain.”
“That’s kind of you, sir. I’ll bring her as soon as possible.”
“No,” the Basileus said, horrified. “That’s what you mustn’t do. No matter what, you must not come with her. If a man accompanies the wife, it will bring her motives into question. It’s not unknown for a man to lure a woman away from her husband in order to gain the wealth that comes with her.”
“Does that happen?” I asked.
“More often than you might think,” the Basileus said grimly. “It’s completely illegal, of course; to steal the affections of another man’s wife is a listed crime on the tablets outside this office. But some men will do anything for money, and women will do anything for love.”
“What happens then, after Aposila comes to see you?”
“I must ask after the cause of the divorce. If the lady has been suborned, I must refuse to hear her request, and thereby prevent the divorce. This is for the lady’s own good. Women, as you know, are easily misled by unscrupulous men.”
“Yes, of course.”
The door slammed open. Antobius stood there, his chest heaving, the sweat pouring from his brow—he was slightly overweight—his mouth curved into an angry scowl.
“What has this man been telling you?!” Antobius shouted at the Basileus.
“Who in Hades are you?!” the Basileus shouted back. “And what do you mean bursting in here—”
“My name is Antobius, and this man”—he pointed at me—“this man has been interfering with my wife.”
The Basileus looked from one to the other of us. I could tell he was trying
to decide which of us to believe, because by his own words, the Basileus had more than once had to deal with unscrupulous fortune hunters. How did he know I wasn’t one of them?
“That’s not the story I hear,” the Basileus said at last.
“What do you hear?” Antobius demanded.
“I make no accusation I cannot prove. But I will ask you a question. Tell me, Antobius, if I were to visit your home this instant this instant and ask to see your wife, would I find her bruised, or with black eyes, or a crooked nose?”
“I deny you permission to see her, as is my right,” Antobius said at once.
The Basileus nodded. “That’s your right,” he agreed.
Then Antobius made a mistake. He said, “What a man does in his home is his own business.”
“The law does not permit you to beat a woman, even if she’s your wife,” the Basileus said sharply. “I warn you, Antobius, that there’s plenty of precedent for wife-beaters being fined large sums.”
Antobius said nothing.
“Now I require you to leave this office,” said the Basileus. “As is my right.”
The Basileus stood, and the two men faced each other.
I thought for a moment that Antobius might actually strike an elected archon. But instead he turned and walked. We could hear the sound of his departure as he hit things and people on the way out.
When all was quiet, the Basileus turned to me and said, “I will assist you this much: I will clear the offices when the lady is to come, and give orders that she’s to be admitted at once. I will not have a lady of Athens stand in the agora like a common supplicant.”
“That’s kind of you, sir.”
“No, it’s merely the most that the law permits me. I believe your words, but that’s not enough. An archon must be seen by the people to have enforced the law fairly, especially when he’s asked to separate a woman from a man who doesn’t wish to lose her. This Aposila must be seen by the people of Athens to walk alone, and to speak to me alone, so that all of Athens will know that the customs have been observed and that it is her own wish that speaks. If there’s any deviation, with all the people watching, no matter how much I may agree with you, I will refuse to hear your client.”
