by Corby, Gary
“Did this stranger have anything else to say?” I asked.
“He knew Hippias had been at Brauron. He knew that it was I who wounded Hippias.”
Callias snorted. “So you’ve always claimed. I know of no one who saw it.”
“No, Callias, it’s true,” I said. “I’ve met the son of a doctor who treated Hippias. The tyrant was wounded just as Aeschylus claims.”
“What’s this?” Aeschylus and Callias both exclaimed.
I explained the evidence of the doctor at Brauron, how as a boy he had seen Hippias stagger into his father’s surgery. “The doctor’s evidence places Hippias in Brauron, near to where the skeleton was found. With the diary found beside the bones, we can conclude that the remains are the tyrant.”
“So I did wound Hippias,” Aeschylus said in triumph, half to himself.
“Yes, Aeschylus, you did,” I said.
“Perhaps it was my blow that eventually killed him,” Aeschylus said hopefully.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so, not according to the doctor.” Then, in a spirit of tactful diplomacy, I added, “But it was your blow, Aeschylus, that forced Hippias to retreat to the place where he met his fate.”
Aeschylus brightened at that happy thought and sat back on the couch.
There was something about Aeschylus’s tone as he spoke, a note of confusion. I began to consider the possibility that he might be entirely innocent.
I said, “Aeschylus, you need to know that the man who approached you also bribed the father of the murdered girl not to complain about her death.”
I described the circumstances and finished with, “If you compare notes with Antobius, I’ll wager you’ll find that you spoke with the same man.”
Aeschylus thought about that, while the rest of us awaited his verdict.
“It seems we’ve been working at cross-purposes,” he admitted.
“Because someone’s been feeding us false information,” Callias said. “Someone who’ll face a jury when we catch him.”
“Not all false, but a combination of false and true,” I said. “Whoever he is, he’s a good liar.”
That would make him harder to uncover.
Callias leaned forward in his seat and said, “The stranger told Aeschylus that the soldier who flashed the signal was the same man who took the missing scroll.” Callias paused, then asked, “Was that a true part, or a false?”
“Probably true,” I said. “The odds are that we’re looking for a veteran of Marathon, and across this entire case, there’s only one other man who might fit.”
They all looked at me questioningly.
I said, “At the sanctuary there’s a man named Zeke. Did Zeke fight at Marathon? He’s old enough.”
“You think this Zeke might be the man who approached Aeschylus?” Callias asked.
I shrugged. “He knows about the skeleton. He lives in the right place to have been involved. He’s had command experience, I’m sure of it. He reminds me of my officers when I was an ephebe.”
Callias looked at Aeschylus. Aeschylus looked at Callias.
Aeschylus said, “Wait here.”
He left the room. The rest of us stared at each other and wondered what Aeschylus was about.
He returned with a large sheet of faded papyrus in his hand. It was covered in tiny letters. Aeschylus said, “Honors were awarded to every man who fought in the battle, their names read in assembly for all to hear. I did the reading, and I was meticulous about including every man, even the slaves who fought alongside us and the fine men from other cities. This is the sheet from which I read. There is no Zeke.”
“That settles it, then,” I said. “Zeke wasn’t at the battle. You see, sirs, why I centered on Aeschylus. He’s the only old soldier to be present for both the current deaths and the signal thirty years ago.”
Socrates frowned. “Nico, I don’t think this can be right.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
Socrates said, “I don’t think a soldier could have sent the signal at Marathon.”
To our combined astonished looks, he asked, in his inquisitive way, “Do soldiers really flash signals?”
“Yes, boy, they do,” Aeschylus said. “Soldiers use their shield to flash signals in the sunlight all the time. It’s a standard trick.”
“Over such a distance?”
“Usually across a battlefield.”
“Do they use the inside of the shield, or the outside?”
“The outside, of course. The inside is all wood and leather. Surely you’ve seen your father’s armor.”
“Socrates,” I said, “leave this to the adults.”
Socrates scratched his head. “But Nico, I can’t imagine it working here.”
“Whyever not?” I said, annoyed. Somehow Socrates had taken control of the conversation.
Socrates said, “Well, this man, whoever he was, stood on the mountain behind the army.”
“Far behind. Yes,” said Aeschylus.
“And high up?”
“High up. Yes.”
“This was after the big battle?”
“Yes.”
“Then the sun must have been high in the sky, to the south at least, maybe even the southwest.”
“Of course.”
“But the battle happened to the northeast of where this man stood. It’s impossible. You can’t reflect light like that. Not with the curved face of a shield.”
We all absorbed that thought for a few moments.
“What does it mean if the signal was not sent by a soldier?” Callias asked.
I said, “It unlinks the action at Marathon from the murders. It opens up the possible suspects, because we’re no longer definitely looking for a veteran.”
“Are you sure about this, boy?” Aeschylus asked Socrates.
“No, sir, I’m not. But I don’t think light could reflect off a curve like that, not at that angle.”
“Then there’s only one thing we can do,” I said. “We must go to Marathon. I’ll climb the mountain with Father’s shield. Socrates and Diotima can look for a flash.”
Socrates scratched his head again. “You mean … actually try it? To see what happens?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s really very clever, Nico. I never thought of that.”
“You won’t use your father’s shield,” said Aeschylus.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because you’ll use mine,” he said. “I’m coming with you. I’ve been tricked, and what’s more, whoever tricked me is a traitor to Athens. He must be found. He must be destroyed.”
I suppressed a silent groan. Aeschylus was an old man. He was sure to slow us down.
MARATHON IS WELL north of Brauron, and even farther from Athens. It’s a coastal town, right on the beach.
The heroes of Marathon had force-marched the distance in less than half a day, but they were men in good condition, not a woman and a child and an old man. I put Diotima on the cart while Socrates and I walked beside Blossom. The donkey and I had spent so much time together on the road I’d come to like him. Aeschylus rode his horse, and therefore was the fastest of us. I watched him sourly, and thought it must be nice to have so much money to be able to afford such a fine beast.
Three quarters of the way between Athens and Marathon is a great mountain. The road goes up one side, through a pass, and down the other side. It slowed us enough that we arrived at Marathon in the late afternoon. It was too late to perform the test that day. It had to be done at the same time as the end of the battle, which Aeschylus and Callias both remembered as after midday.
We stayed overnight in the best local tavern, which wasn’t saying much, a hostelry where they wiped down the tables once a month, whether they needed it or not. At least there was straw on the floor to catch scraps, though it looked like it hadn’t been swept in ten days or more. The scuttling sounds from beneath the thicker parts in the corners did not bode well.
We all picked at o
ur food that evening. Diotima and Socrates went upstairs to our room early—it would have been unseemly for a woman and child to tarry amongst the rough men with whom we shared the table. Aeschylus opened his travel bag to remove some old papyrus, a small jar of ink, and a thin brush of the kind used by scribes. He pulled one of the tavern’s lamps close, smoothed the papyrus out before him, dipped the brush in the ink, and began to write words.
I watched him do this.
“Is that a play?” I asked, unable to restrain my curiosity.
“Yes,” he said, without stopping the movement of his brush across the papyrus.
I’d seen plays at the theater, but this was the first time I’d seen one written down.
“I write military adventure,” Aeschylus said as he scribbled. “The Persians. Seven Against Thebes. They’re all war stories. That, and family drama like this trilogy I’m doing now. Dysfunctional families slaughtering one another. You know the sort of thing.” Aeschylus shrugged. “It’s what people like.”
“You never thought about doing serious work?” I asked. “Like Pindar does? I met him at Olympia.” Pindar was the foremost poet of the Hellenes and deeply revered.
“People say they admire Pindar, but in the contests what they vote for is my stuff.” Aeschylus paused. “Did you say you know Pindar?”
“Yes.”
“A decent writer, if a little stuck-up.”
I was beginning to wonder if that was a common trait among writers.
“What’s this one about?” I asked.
“It’s called Agamemnon,” he said. “I’m writing this for the next contest.”
He hadn’t stopped scribbling all the time we’d been talking. I peered over his shoulder to read the words.
“You just misspelled KATAKAPΦOMENHΣ.”
“I’m not surprised,” he said calmly. “There’re a lot of letters in it.”
But he didn’t go back to correct his error. Aeschylus continued to scribble new words.
“Aren’t you going to fix it?” I prodded after a moment.
“I’ll catch it in the edits,” he said, and ignored my helpful correction.
I got the impression Aeschylus wanted to be left alone, so I resolved to remain silent. I watched over his shoulder while he wrote a few more words.
“You just used the wrong declension of ΔYNATON.” I leaned across him to point out the mistake. Unfortunately my finger slipped and I smudged the line.
Aeschylus threw down his brush. “Perhaps I’ll write later,” he said. “I’m not concentrating well at the moment.”
“Oh, don’t mind me!”
“Not at all.”
Aeschylus called to the innkeeper for his best wine, in the forlorn hope that it might be drinkable.
“So what happens in your play?” I asked as we drank.
“It’s in three parts. In the first, Clytemnestra, the wife of Agamemnon, murders her husband with an axe. That’s in revenge for him using their daughter as a human sacrifice before going off to the Trojan War for ten years. Also, she’s very angry about a slave girl that he brings back with him.”
“Yes, I’ve had that problem too,” I murmured, half to myself.
“Your wife took an axe to you?” Aeschylus asked solicitously.
“No. Diotima and I aren’t married yet. The bit about the slave girl.” I explained that Diotima had once been very displeased to find me in the company of a beautiful slave by the name of Asia. It had all been entirely innocent, but convincing Diotima of that had been tricky.
Aeschylus shrugged. “Wives can be irrational about such things.”
“What happens next in the play?”
“In part two, Orestes, the son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, slaughters his mother in revenge for her taking an axe to his father. He also offs his mother’s lover.”
“Fair enough.”
“Then in part three, the Furies attack Orestes as a kin-slayer. He’s saved at the last moment by the goddess Athena. The gods hold a trial over the whole affair. Orestes gets off on a hung jury. Athena invites the Furies to live in Athens forever by way of compensation, since they’re not allowed to tear Orestes into little bits. The play closes with women and children singing the praises of the gods and the mysterious workings of destiny.”
“Seems a bit flat on the climax,” I said.
“What’s wrong with it?” Aeschylus said. For some reason he seemed defensive.
“After all that murder and mayhem, it ends with a not-guilty? Your fans will never go for it, Aeschylus. Also, it’s obvious Orestes did it. I have an idea to fix the plot—”
“If you can do better, young man, I look forward to seeing you at the next contest. Come with your own play, then we’ll see who’s got the plot.”
“I might do that,” I said. Now that I’d seen how Aeschylus did it, the writing seemed very simple, and I knew I could spell better.
THE PLAN WAS for Aeschylus to stand where he’d stood all those years ago, when he saw the flashing signal. We would try to reflect light using his shield, from the direction in which he said the signal had come. At the end, we would know whether it was a soldier or someone else who had talked to the enemy. The answer would narrow our field of suspects.
There was nothing to distinguish Marathon from any other Hellenic fishing village. The people lived on the coast, beside a spring where a stream of fresh water flowed. Their homes were small and designed for shelter from the wind more than comfort. They didn’t bother with a jetty. Each morning the fishermen hauled their craft off the sands and straight into the sea.
We ate a simple breakfast of figs and bread and watered wine, before Aeschylus led us out of the town, through a grove of olive trees that grew behind the houses, and onto the open field. It was a short walk. Aeschylus stopped at the edge.
The plain of Marathon didn’t look like a battlefield. It looked like a good place for a camping holiday.
“This is the first time I’ve been back,” Aeschylus said to us as he surveyed the scene for long moments. “It’s been thirty years.”
We could only imagine what Aeschylus must be feeling.
“Has it changed much since you saw it last?” Diotima asked.
“There are fewer Persians,” Aeschylus said shortly. “It’s a distinct improvement.”
He stepped forward and we followed behind, not wishing to disturb his memories with our talk.
I’d always thought of Marathon as being a small place, but it wasn’t. The open land before us was roughly rectangular in outline, some two thousand paces across the short side, and perhaps three times that in length, stretching along the coast to the northeast. From where we stood, the village lay in the bottom right-hand corner of the field of battle.
Before us, two hundred paces away, was an enormous mound of dirt, upon which grew grasses. It was easy to see that the dirt had been shoveled there by men, because it was perfectly round at the base and rose evenly on all sides. A monument of marble stood at the top. That mound was in the perfect location for a good view.
Aeschylus strode toward it. The soil underfoot was rich and soft and covered with fennel plants that grew to knee height. It was like wading through a sea of yellow and green.
I thought that, like me, Aeschylus wanted to climb it for the view, but instead he stopped short, careful not to tread upon its slope. He held out an arm, to prevent our passage.
“My brother lies in there,” he said, simply.
“Your brother, sir?” Socrates asked.
“You see before you the burial mound of the heroes of Marathon.”
I canceled my plan to enjoy the view from the top.
Aeschylus said, “The memorial stone displays one hundred and ninety-two names.” He pointed to the far end of the field. “And in that direction you will find the trench where we buried the Persian dead. All six thousand four hundred of them.”
I already knew those incredible numbers; that facing an army almost ten times their own size, the Athenia
ns had killed thirty-two enemies for every one of their own who had fallen. But seeing now the sheer scale of it, my mind boggled.
The plain of Marathon was ringed by mountains to landward. Aeschylus pointed to the southernmost of these and said, “That’s where we camped, on the slopes.”
Then he pointed to the mound of the dead. “And this … this is where we began our attack. We thought the dead would wish to lie where their victory began.”
Socrates spoke up. “Our father fought here.”
I knew what Socrates was thinking. My brother and I had always considered our father to be the mildest of men. Yet he had stood upon this plain with his spear and shield, and he had hewn down enemies with the best of them. I wondered how many of those Persian dead were my father’s work. I knew, because he had told me, that he hadn’t expected to survive that day.
Diotima, Socrates, and I pressed on, leaving Aeschylus alone for a few moments with the funeral mound. We walked in silence, absorbing the atmosphere of the place. I wondered how the villagers felt about living so close to what was practically holy ground.
Aeschylus called to us when we were about halfway across the plain. We waited for him to catch us up. He was barely out of breath after the long walk.
“This is where we began our charge,” he said. “Up to this point, we’d marched in close formation.”
“Where were the Persians, sir?” I asked.
Aeschylus pointed to a location about eight stadia distant. He said, “They formed a line over there, at the far end.”
“They didn’t come out at you?” I asked.
“No. They had archers waiting for us to come within range. Their soldiers were still getting into line. It was at this point we saw the first of their cavalry arrive. We’d moved at first light, you see, before their side was ready, and their horses were still out to paddock. It took them until we were halfway across the field to get mounted.”
We moved on.
“Ouch!” I hopped on my left foot while I held my right and swore. “There’s something sharp in the sand.”
Socrates thrust his hand into the dirt where I’d stepped. His hand emerged with a small bronze object with a pointy end.
