by Gary Corby
Pericles shook his head. “The city gates closed long ago.”
Why couldn’t Thorion have died at a more convenient time? That was the way my luck went these days. But—“Say that again?”
Pericles wrinkled his brow. “What? The city gates closed long ago? It’s true. So?”
“So Thorion was killed at night, after the city gates closed. The murderer is trapped inside Athens.”
There was silence while Pericles absorbed that.
“The gates open at dawn,” he said, his manner snappier than before, his back straighter. He glanced out the window into the dark night. “Can we catch him before then?”
“In a city as large as Athens? Not a hope in Hades, unless the murderer makes a mistake, and this man’s no idiot.”
Pericles’ shoulders slumped.
“We could keep the gates closed in the morning,” I suggested.
“Lock in Athens during the day?” Pericles shook his head. “The people wouldn’t stand for it.”
I nodded unhappy agreement. “Besides, that would tell the killer we’re looking for him. He’d only go to ground until we were forced to reopen the gates. No, we have to let him come out into the open.”
“You have a plan,” Pericles deduced from my tone. “What is it?”
“The slave said the killer smelled of the sea, as did the real courier. Their boats docked at the port town of Piraeus, and they walked uphill to Athens. I’d be willing to bet our man will be lined up with the normal crowd to walk downhill back to Piraeus at first light. All we have to do is watch the traffic pass by.”
“There are two roads to Piraeus,” Pericles pointed out.
“So there are. I suggest that tomorrow morning, there will be a problem with the gate to the northern road.”
Pericles nodded. “That can be arranged. You want everyone down the south road?”
“The south road is enclosed every step of the way within the Long Walls. If he goes that route then he can’t escape; he’ll be trapped in a tunnel where we control both ends.”
“Brilliant,” Pericles said.
“I’ll be at the south gate to watch every man who passes,” I said, pleased with myself. There were those who said I was too young and inexperienced for my position. This operation would prove them wrong.
* * *
I could imagine Pericles’ reaction if I lost the scroll because I’d overslept. Yet dawn was far enough away that the wait would be tedious, particularly since I couldn’t eat.
I solved the problem by shaking awake a slave when I returned to my father’s home, and ordered the bleary-eyed man to stand over me—so he wouldn’t fall asleep himself—and wake me in the predawn. I was so tired I went to sleep immediately, despite being on edge about my mission.
The slave got his revenge by kicking me in the stomach when the time came, but I didn’t mind. I’d completed my two years of compulsory service in the army as an ephebe; broken sleep and rough awakenings had been the norm then.
One glance upward showed me the rosy-fingered dawn, as Homer would have called it, lighting the otherwise dark sky. I rose naked and wrapped the short material of a gray exomis about myself from the right side and tied it over my left shoulder. Such clothing is favored by artisans; I would be merely another workman, waiting at the gates to make my way to Piraeus for the day’s employment.
I hurried through the dark streets, stepping in more than one pool of sewage, soaking my sandals in the stale wash water, the urine, the feces, and the rotting, rancid leftovers that neighbors had tossed out their doorways. I cursed as my feet plunged into yet another sticky, squelchy mess up past my ankles.
At the south gate, men were already lined up, shivering, yawning, and scratching themselves. Two guards stood at the head, waiting for Apollo’s rays to appear in the east, when they would pull back the gates so the men could shamble through. I had visited these guards after leaving Thorion’s house. They knew of my investigation and what to expect.
I walked from the end of the line in the direction of the guards, reminding myself every few steps to amble, to not appear as if I had any purpose, nodding or wishing good morning to the men I passed.
“Kalimera.”
“Kalimera. Good morning.”
Most nodded back; some gave me queer or hostile looks. They probably thought I was a line jumper, something that could end with a fistfight. To them I explained I was looking for my workmate: had they seen a man with white hair? They would shake their heads and I would pass on.
Among one group were some women, haggard-looking, with unwashed hair and wearing patched linen. I couldn’t imagine why they were waiting, until it occurred to me these were probably drudges whose men were too ill to work, or couldn’t be bothered. One of them looked me up and down and smiled, then she blew me a kiss and said, “Gorgeous.” The few teeth she retained were black. I felt myself blushing; had I been staring?
It was all too easy to pass by my suspects without even breaking step. Some wore hats, and these I had to stare at a little longer. Others held the leads of donkeys harnessed to carts, or sat atop protesting mules. A very few had horses, a luxury item.
The artisans among them had a slave or two to carry their tools and wore an exomis like mine. The common laborers wore nothing but short leather cloaks and surly expressions. The slaves stood together and told jokes. What man would rather be a slave than free? Yet the slaves did not seem hungry, and the free men whose only skill was to sell their labor looked thin and their faces were taut—I could see the ribs beneath the flesh, so perhaps slavery was to be preferred over being useless.
These men, as I say, were easily dismissed, and if a man owned slaves it was all the more easy to ignore him, because no one arriving in an afternoon can both murder someone and acquire slaves before the next dawn. The front of the line came ever closer, and still no Araxes. Had I made a mistake?
There were only two in the line before me now, a man leading a donkey, and a flattop cart pulled by a horse. Apollo peaked over the hills, and on cue in the weak light the guards lifted the heavy bar and carried it to the side.
Where had I gone wrong? The only thing I could think was that Araxes had arrived late, or perhaps wanted to hide himself in the crowd. I would stand by the gates and watch as the men passed through. Despite the chill I felt the irritating trickle of sweat in my armpits and down my back.
The man with the donkey had dark hair and beard. He grinned as I passed.
The distinct aroma of dead fish surrounded the horse cart. It was probably on its way to collect the morning’s catch. Two men sat at the front, the one on the left held the reins. He was slumped forward and wore a full-length cloak to keep out the chill. The man on the right was fast asleep, leaning back in the seat with his hat over his face.
Behind the driver and his companion was a rack holding amphorae: clay pots with narrow lids, wide middles, and long tails that taper to a point; they looked like a row of pregnant worms standing upright. The amphorae exuded the strong, pungent, salty fish sauce called garos, which the fishwives make from gutted intestines fermented in large vats with seawater. No doubt the cart carried empties to be refilled. Anyone buying fresh fish would want the popular sauce to go with it. The smell made me ravenous.
The man under the hat was suspect. I leaned over and said to the driver, “Kalimera. I wanted to ask you—” I knocked the sleeping man’s hat, which fell onto the seat and I jumped back.
His hair was disappointingly dark. But he didn’t wake. His eyes stared, and his jaw hung slack, his tongue limp in his mouth. Across his throat was a dull red band, almost like a tight necklace, and there were claw marks in the flesh about it.
I stared for one shocked moment, then looked to the driver. His cloak had a hood. With the sun rising at his back he was a faceless silhouette.
I said, “Kalimera, Araxes.”
He replied, “And a good morning to you, dear fellow.” Araxes shoved. The dead man fell on me. I hit the ground
with a corpse on top; the lifeless eyes stared into mine.
“Gah!” I pushed him off.
One of the guards grabbed Araxes’ left arm. In a blink, Araxes had pulled a knife with his right and driven it into the guard’s shoulder. The guard staggered back.
The other guard tried to snatch the harness but failed when Araxes lashed out with his whip.
The horse surged through the gateway, onto the road to Piraeus; the road that, according to my plan, Araxes would never reach.
I had no backup plan. None at all.
The unwounded guard grabbed his spear and ran into the middle of the road. It was a soldier’s spear, not a javelin, not weighted for throwing, but the cart had not gone far. Araxes’ back was crouched over, shrouded in his light leather cloak. The guard stood, legs apart. He considered his target for a heartbeat, hefted the spear, left arm pointing where he wanted to hit and eyes locked on the target, took three rapid steps forward and threw in a controlled arc, elbow firm. His right arm followed through. He kept his head up and his eyes never left the target.
It was a beautiful throw. I saw at once it would make the distance.
The spear arced across space, wobbling as it did, and passed over the shoulder of Araxes, so close I thought for a moment it would take him in the skull. But it passed him by, only the Gods know how, and landed, thwack, into the horse’s rump.
The horse screamed. It half-reared, held by the harness, stumbled then recovered. The shaft flailed wildly. The wound opened to inflict even more pain.
The spear fell from the fleshy hole and the cartwheels clattered over it. The horse whinnied and accelerated away.
The guard beside me cursed. “I aimed for the man; all I did was scare the shit out of the animal!”
2
But Sarpedon missed him with his bright spear, which smote the horse Pedasus on the right shoulder; and the horse shrieked aloud as he gasped forth his life … and the two warriors came together again in soul-devouring strife.
We took off after the disappearing cart. The guard was as young as me and in tip-top condition. Between us we had a good chance of running down our prey.
Araxes looked over his shoulder, probably in fear of another spear. Instead he saw us chasing. He clambered into the tray of the cart. The frightened horse stayed on the path, trapped between the Long Walls.
Araxes picked up one of the empty amphorae and threw it.
The amphora bounced with a hollow thud. It veered from side to side. At the last moment it went straight for the guard.
He leaped, magnificent, strong as a deer. The guard came down safe and kept running as if nothing could stop him. Whoever this man was, he was a top athlete.
Araxes threw another amphora.
The guard jumped again, but this time the amphora ricocheted straight up into his knee. I heard a sharp crack. The guard went down screaming. He’d deserved better.
It was up to me now.
The next amphora shattered on the first bounce and I easily leaped over the shards.
One left.
I swore a sheep sacrifice to Zeus, if only the last amphora shattered.
Araxes stood with bent knees to compensate for the swaying cart. He threw.
The amphora bounced straight at me. I canceled the sacrifice.
When the amphora filled my vision, I threw myself at it, under it, rolling in the dirt. The hard clay whistled over my head.
When I came back up Araxes had returned to the driver’s seat, his back to me. He must’ve thought the amphora had brought me down.
I sprinted to the tail end, hauled myself up. The platform was smooth and varnished dark from years of fish oil.
Araxes looked back in surprise. He dropped the reins and pulled out his knife. The blade was still red from the shoulder of the wounded guard.
The driverless cart slammed into the right wall. We both fell over and I scrabbled for a hold to stop being thrown off.
The cart veered wildly to smash into the opposite wall. The metal rims of the wheels squealed against the wood and made my teeth hurt.
The whole contraption settled and picked up speed. We’d reached a steep descent.
We picked ourselves up off the slippery, bouncing surface. The first of us to fall would get a knife in his back.
He tried to stab me. I blocked his forearm with my left, and then did something you should never do: I threw down my knife.
No, I wasn’t surrendering; I’d aimed at his foot.
I missed cleanly. The knife quivered point first in the wooden tray. But the throw forced him to dance, and as he did, I grabbed the scroll case from beneath his chiton.
“Thanks a lot, Araxes. See you!”
Mission accomplished. I jumped off the back and—
Bang. My chin hit the floor and rattled my teeth. He’d pulled my feet out from under me.
The scroll case rolled from my hand. Araxes stamped on it as it skidded past.
I snatched the hilt of my knife and rose. I kicked at the case, hoping to send it over the side. Araxes blocked my kick, then tried to drag the case to him.
I was having none of that. I stamped on the case myself and dragged it back to center. It was like playing a boys’ ball game in the street, with the added distraction of knives on a bouncing, slippery surface.
We’d rushed downhill at great speed. Over my enemy’s shoulder I saw the closed gates at the Piraeus end of the road and the two guards who defended them.
With a sinking feeling, I realized nobody had briefed those guards. It never occurred to me Araxes would get this far.
Araxes saw it too. He grabbed the whip and deliberately cracked it against the horse’s wound, goading the already panicking animal into going faster.
The guards held their spears with points facing us and ends dug into the earth. I could hear one of them shouting, “Halt! I order you to halt!”
He didn’t have a hope in Hades.
Araxes said, “Good luck.” Then he jumped. His body slammed into the Long Wall and disappeared to the rear as the cart sped onwards.
I wanted to pick up the scroll case. But if I did, I would die on the cart. I turned and jumped.
Hitting the wall pushed the air out of my lungs. I hooked my arms over the top to stop from falling under the wheels. Splinters embedded in the flesh of my forearms. I tried to scream but there was no air.
The horse ran headlong into the gates and squealed, a terrible, sickening sound.
I heard cracking, whether wood or bones I don’t know. One guard went down. His body jerked as a wheel drove over him. Then the other. He lay still.
The cart left the ground. It spun in the air, smashed into the gates. They cracked and flew outward. Men on the other side screamed.
Araxes had bounced off the wall and landed on a roll. He picked himself up and waded through the bloodied wreck of horse, cart, and men.
The scroll case had been thrown clear. It lay in plain sight on the other side of the ruined gates. Araxes picked it up as he stumbled past.
I cursed and let go of the wall. There were a hundred tiny wooden splinters sticking out of my flesh, each one a painful red dot of blood.
On the other side, men lay with wounds, or stood in simple shock. I ignored them.
Araxes veered away from the streets of Piraeus. He headed right, to the commercial docks.
I felt a small surge of relief. If he tried to hide in the warehouses, he would be trapped, and a small army would eventually root him out.
I was exhausted and shaking, but surely he had to be too. Araxes staggered and came to a stop.
I’d run him down.
Araxes stood on the wooden docks and waved to me as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Suddenly I was aware of the sea-salt air, the crisp breeze tossing my hair, the wash of the sea against the wharves, and the large ship docked right next to where Araxes waved.
It was stern-to-wharf, which some ships will do when they’re ready to depart. A gangplank
led from the wharf to the stern.
Araxes turned and walked up. They didn’t even stop for the gangplank. A sailor kicked it crashing to the wharf.
I heard the call, “Oars out!” A single row of oars appeared over both sides.
I came to a juddering halt at the gangplank, gasping for breath. The ship was five paces away. I thought about jumping, but it would have been suicidal. Even if I made the leap, there was a boatful of sailors to fight.
The ship on which Araxes slipped away was long, but with only a single row of oars. She was either a diplomatic boat, the sort that belonged to a city, or … and this seemed all too depressingly likely … before me was a Phoenician warship, or maybe a pirate.
Araxes appeared at the stern. He waved cheerily, and then, with his left hand, held up the scroll for me to see. He cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “So pleased you made it. Take care, dear fellow. Bye!”
I gritted my teeth, but couldn’t prevent myself from screaming in frustration. Araxes had escaped, and taken with him the information that had killed at least three men, maybe more, plus he’d made me look incompetent. I watched as whatever fledgling reputation I had for investigation departed on that boat.
I swore on the spot, by Zeus, by Athena, by every God that knew revenge, that I would track down Araxes.
Then a trickle of sweat and a cold shiver ran down my back. I’d promised Pericles success.
I’d actually said, “He can’t escape.”
What was Pericles going to say?
3
There is a strength in the union even of very sorry men.
“It’s a disaster, Nicolaos, a bloody disaster.”
Pericles stalked back and forth in his office, as if he could find the source of his anguish underfoot and grind it out of existence.
I shifted in my seat. My arms were on fire from the splintering they’d taken. They had a crust of blood over them, but the scabs broke and bled every time I moved. My forehead sported a lump—I had no idea how it got there—and my chest muscles ached with every breath.
“How could you have let him get away so easily?” Pericles demanded.
