by Gary Corby
“It was no secret, sir. I went there myself with the master more than once.” He told me her address.
“Did they get on, Ephialtes and Euterpe?”
“As one usually gets on with one’s mistress, sir. They’ve been together for years, sir. I understand she sees no other customers. It was almost like a second home for the master.”
Well, this certainly cast a new light on the shrill wailing coming from the women’s quarters, which was making my ears ring! “And what did his wife think of this?”
Achilles shrugged. “She wasn’t best pleased, I should imagine, sir. But then, the mistress is rarely pleased, and we can all get used to anything, given enough time, can’t we, sir?” He looked down at his feet.
“Achilles, I am going into your old master’s private room to have a look around.”
Achilles looked at me with interest and some fear.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea, sir. This house belongs to the new master now.”
“And who is that?”
He shrugged. “Who’s going to tell a slave something like that?”
“I’m not going to take anything. But I need to see if there’s anything that could tell me who killed him. Come along and watch me if you don’t trust me.”
Achilles held up his hands in horror. “Oh no! Then I’d be beaten for sure. No sir, you claimed to be a distant relative, like you said to some of those visitors. You ordered me to the kitchen to clean the place from top to bottom. When I returned, you were gone.”
“Thank you, Achilles.” I refilled his cup, and he shuffled off into the house. “Good luck,” I said to his back.
All Athenian houses are built to a common plan, a fact that burglars must bless, and that I was beginning to appreciate myself. I knew which side of the house held the women’s quarters-that’s where the screeching was coming from-so Ephialtes’ private rooms would be on the other side. From the small entrance hall I climbed the stairs and found what I wanted.
Ephialtes’ private room contained a desk, a few chairs, a dining couch, and boxes and boxes of scrolls and papyrus. The room felt musty, and it was dim, dark even, because the two windows which both looked out over the courtyard were in the wrong direction for the sun. I could see the body of Ephialtes below, lying in his shift. Directly opposite across the courtyard space, at the same level as me, were the women’s quarters. I would have had to be careful not to be seen, except curtains were drawn and shutters pulled in. I wandered about, the floorboards squeaking with every tread, which made me wince. It was a good thing Achilles knew I was here, or the household would assume it was the restless psyche of their departed master. There was a wax note tablet on the desk with some scratchings. Wax tablets are very popular for making temporary notes; when you’re done, or the tablet is full, you need only warm the wax and smooth it over to start again. The writing was small and awkward as it usually is on such things to avoid having to clean too often. At first glance there was nothing of interest on it. I picked it up anyway to inspect later. Nobody was going to miss it. There was a small scroll rack built onto the wall. Almost every slot was full. I pulled out a few of these and saw they were all books or treatises, mostly on philosophy or politics. One row held nothing but plays, most of them by Aeschylus. Ephialtes must have paid the famous poet to write out extra copies. I opened one and ran my fingers across it. The papyrus was smooth to my touch and consistent in color: Egyptian, expensive stuff. The boxes of papyrus contained notes, drafts of laws, more notes, letters, all written on the cheaper, standard material. In short, I was looking at piles of useless rubbish. I could spend the next month reading through this and still not find anything that gave me a hint of why he was killed. And if there was a clue, I probably wouldn’t recognize it. I kicked the table in disgust and then limped down the stairs and out the door, pausing only to wash my hands and head at the urn set outside to purify myself after being in the presence of the dead.
I was ambushed the next morning. I left home later than usual because I was on my way to see Ephialtes’ mistress, still hoping to find out something about his private life, perhaps a motive for his death, and it would not do to arrive too early on the doorstep of a woman to whom I had no introduction.
The way led me through a number of side streets, each a testament to Athens’ complete lack of city planning. Not that the city officials don’t try-there are ordinances-it’s simply that the people completely ignore them. Although there are rules against it, the upper stories of the houses almost universally overhang the street. The owners want a simple way to throw out the rubbish without having it run down their nice whitewashed walls. And besides, people like having the extra bit of space. Walking the smaller streets in Athens feels a bit like passing through a tunnel. I avoided the center for fear of buckets of slop, or worse, poured on me from above-I have been struck more than once-which was why I was surrounded by half shadows and passing the niches between buildings.
It was from the shadows of one such niche that a man stepped before me. His clothing was worn, making me think of a country worker or perhaps a laborer.
“Hey, you Nicolaos?” he asked.
“Yes, what do you want?”
“Stop asking questions. Hear me? Just stop.” His voice was harsh.
“What?” I said, my mind stupid for a moment before I realized what he was saying. “You want me to stop investigating the murder? How do you know about that?”
“Not your problem. Leave it alone.”
“Who are you?” And, because I could not credit this bumpkin as acting on his own, I demanded, “Who do you work for?”
He punched me hard in the diaphragm and I doubled over, the air knocked out of me. I was still recovering when my legs were kicked out from under me and I went down. Another man ran up and I thought he was coming to my aid, but instead he kicked me in the kidneys.
The first man said again, grunting as he kicked me in the gut, “Stop asking questions. Leave it alone.” Then the two of them started on me in earnest. There was nothing I could do but cover my head with my arms and hope they didn’t maim me, or did they intend to kill me? The beating hurt worse than anything I remembered, and oddly, the anticipation of not knowing where the next blow would fall was worse than the pain. I cried out for help.
“Hey! You! Stop that!”
They both took to their heels. I remained curled in a ball and felt, rather than saw or heard, several pairs of feet run to me.
I was picked up. I opened my eyes, but I was so dizzy I shut them again. I felt myself swaying, and a pair of hands on either side helped to steady me. I opened my eyes again, and the world was spinning about, but slower than before. When it stopped, I found myself looking into the eyes of Archestratus.
Archestratus poured a cup of watered wine and set it down beside me. “Did you get a look at him?”
We stood in his courtyard. One of his slaves who knew something about injuries was checking me for broken bones. I flinched every time he poked me.
I shrugged. “Not good enough. He came at me from the shadows, and I’d walked from bright sun into the shade. My eyes hadn’t adjusted. He had a beard, dark hair, average height, bad clothing. That should narrow it down to half the men in Athens.”
“Just so. What about the second man?”
“The best I can tell you is he needs to cut his toenails.”
“That would describe almost every man in Athens.”
“Just so,” I said, imitating his way of speech.
The slave ceased his prodding and stood up.
Archestratus said, “Well?”
“There will be many bruises, sir. But as far as my humble skills can say, the bones are whole. He was lucky we came along when we did; if it had continued much longer, I feel sure something would have broken inside. The young man should see a healer to be sure. Sometimes a man might walk away from such a beating but die without warning a day or two later.” Such a cheery fellow.
I immediately
said, “No thanks, I have my own resource in that area.”
Archestratus raised an eyebrow.
“My mother is a midwife.”
Archestratus said, “Terrible as your ordeal was, I don’t think you need fear pregnancy.”
Another slave came running with a chitoniskos in his arms. I took off the soiled one and tipped a bucket of cold water over my body before putting on the fresh.
Archestratus said, “This will be laundered and sent to you.”
“I am in your debt.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
I sat and sipped at his wine. He sat down beside me with his own cup and lay back on the dining couch. A slave brought a bowl of figs, olives, and grapes. You can tell a lot about a man from the way he treats his slaves, and Archestratus thanked his boy, who smiled and departed.
“Tell me, how goes your investigation?”
I hesitated.
“If you would like to repay that debt you mentioned, let me help you if I can. Pericles does not hold a monopoly on revering Ephialtes. I beg you recall he was my friend too, and my leader. His murder affects me and many other men.”
That was a hard appeal to deny. “So far, all I’ve done is ask questions.”
“Yet even that small effort appears to have offended somebody,” Archestratus observed with some justice. “Are you so objectionable in your conversation, or do you think perhaps you are asking the right questions?”
“Let us hope the latter.”
“How did a young man like you come to be embroiled in such a murky situation?”
I told him of the falling corpse and of meeting Pericles as he came down the path.
“And you saw Pericles descending? How interesting.” He took a handful of grapes, popped one into his mouth, and sat back.
I said, “I know what you’re thinking, but it doesn’t necessarily work. He could have been coming down from either the Acropolis or the Rock of the Areopagus. He says it was the Acropolis.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t believe anyone yet! Is it possible Pericles used the bow, threw it away somewhere I missed, and then walked calmly down the path? Yes, it is.”
“So your employer might be the man you’re looking for. What a piquant thought. What would you do if the evidence led to Pericles?”
Panic, most probably. I’d wondered the same thing.
“You feel a little bit lost, don’t you, young man? I wish I could sympathize with your plight, but I must be honest and welcome you to the twilight world of Athenian politics, where the man who proclaims friendship in the morning is the one who stabs you in the back over wine that evening. If there is one piece of advice I hope you will take from this conversation, it is trust no one who is a player. Trust their motives least of all. Take Xanthippus for example. I imagine he told you he has the purest motives for opposing Ephialtes. I expect the phrase ‘for the good of Athens’ came into play?”
“It didn’t, but the sentiment was there.”
“I am surprised. It’s a phrase Xanthippus repeats endlessly, as if he were the only judge of benefice. Xanthippus used to be a man of the people himself. But something warped his spirit; perhaps it was the war against the Persians. The war certainly proved he’s capable of killing in cold blood, and with the greatest cruelty.”
“It did? But Xanthippus was one of the heroes of the war.”
“Do you know the story of the Persian commander? No? There was among the Persian force a commander called Artayctes. This man stole great treasures from a Hellene sanctuary at Elaeus, in Thrace, far to the north and east of here. Much later Artayctes and his son were captured by a force led by Xanthippus. Artayctes tried to bribe his way out of trouble; he offered to restore the treasure, to pay the sanctuary one hundred talents-that’s six hundred thousand drachmae! — and twice that amount to the Athenians, if only they would release him.”
“No wonder Xanthippus is so wealthy,” I said. For surely he would have pocketed some of that.
“You think so? Then let me tell you, Xanthippus had Artayctes led to the shore, where they nailed him to a plank and raised the plank high so he could see. Then they chained his son to a pole set in the ground. They stoned the son to death, before the eyes of the father, whom they left to die slowly of crucifixion.”
The thought of it made me shudder. Had the grumpy, cantankerous old man I’d met truly done such a thing?
Archestratus continued, “You see that Xanthippus is not a man one crosses lightly. He’s been living off his hero reputation and his power base. That base is the Areopagus. It’s what gives him the ability to influence policy without having to justify himself to the people. Without it, he’d be nothing.”
“You aren’t exactly free of that ambition yourself, are you?” I challenged him. “Isn’t everyone looking for power?”
“They certainly are! But the difference, young Nicolaos, the important difference, is that I seek leadership of the people, not control over them. So too does Pericles, or at least, that’s what he says.”
“You think he doesn’t mean it?”
Archestratus mused, “It must be difficult, having grown up the son of a wealthy, aristocratic family, groomed to lead Athens from his earliest days. His distinguished ancestors merely reached out to take the reins as their birthright, and yet he must ask the people for permission to lead, must persuade, where his ancestors had only to command. The temptation to reach out and take as his ancestors once did must be almost overpowering at times. And then, of course, there’s the matter of your employment. Odd, wouldn’t you say?”
“What?” I said, startled. “What’s odd about it?”
“My dear young man! How many friends do you think Pericles has? How many allies? And how many of those do you think are more experienced than you, more skilled in diplomacy, with a better knowledge of the power game? Yet he chose you, a young man of no experience, to carry out this important task. Why? I speculate, of course, but could it be Pericles wants to be seen to be doing something without wanting to risk an unfortunate result?”
I bristled at that. “Archestratus, I was hired to find the truth, and I swear by the Gods that’s what I’m going to do.”
“My boy! My boy! I never suggested otherwise; you wear your integrity like a cloak. It’s not your motivation I question.”
“What are you saying?” I demanded.
“Simply this: if you reach the point where you can no longer fully trust Pericles, come to me.”
I found the fine artwork missing from Ephialtes’ home. It was all in the home of his mistress. One of them had good taste. I decided it must be Euterpe of Mantinea, since surely Ephialtes would not have selected that statue of Apollo cavorting with a nymph? The anatomical detail was remarkable.
The house slave sniffed at me when I knocked, as if I were too verminous to cross her threshold. The name Ephialtes got me as far as the public receiving room, where I had been left to linger long enough to have inspected every art piece in the room, and there were a lot of them. I had never before been in the salon of a hetaera. The murals were short on Homeric battle scenes but gratifyingly long on sporting nymphs, satyrs, and priapic Gods. I peered at them closely, my nose almost pressed to the wall.
“Educational, aren’t they?”
I turned, startled, and crashed my knee against a nearby table. Trying not to swear, and clutching my knee, I saw framed in the doorway the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on.
Euterpe had reddish brown hair that flowed down her lovely neck and over a shoulder to her breasts. She was wearing a dress that, even if it were not made of fabric I could see through, would have been considered scandalously immodest. As it was, she had my body’s full and immediate attention. The dress was tied in some way so that the material flowed with her skin. My mind ceased functioning since it was not required for the moment.
“Oh! Are you hurt?”
She knelt before me and touched my knee where I’d banged it. Waves
of pleasure coursed up me.
Euterpe looked a little higher, and smiled. She stood, swayed to a couch, and reclined, arching her back so that her nipples pressed out against the material and her legs were exposed.
“So, what may I do for you, young man?”
I collapsed back against the nearest couch, unable to speak and agonizingly aware how I must look to her.
Euterpe let me recover. She clapped her hands. A young woman appeared, whom I barely noticed.
“Diotima, dear, would you bring me wine? And a carafe of cool water for our guest.”
The young woman reappeared with an exquisite thin pottery watercooler. I took it and thankfully let it rest in my lap, where it did me a lot of good. Euterpe eyed this arrangement while a half smile played on her lips, and her gaze traveled up and down.
“I understand you’ve come about Ephialtes?” She used her finger to twirl some of the tresses that fell upon her breasts.
I had to consider the possibility that Euterpe was not doing this to me deliberately. She may behave this way with every man. If so, I found it incredible Ephialtes had lived long enough to be felled by the arrow. He should have died from excruciating pleasure long ago. I supposed she was old enough to be my mother, but the evidence before my eyes suggested not, or else Aphrodite had shared some of her secrets.
“Uh, when did you last see him?” I managed to croak.
“Why, yesterday, the day he died. He spent the night here and departed in the morning.”
“He did?” I said, surprised.
“You are surprised.”
On reflection I should not have been. “Then at least his last night was a memorable one.”
Euterpe clapped her hands in delight.
“A compliment! Oh, do keep practicing. One day you’ll be enchanting the ladies and receiving invitations to all the best salons.”
“I don’t ever expect to be able to afford it. Did you know where Ephialtes was going?”
“I didn’t ask. It didn’t seem important. Ephialtes sometimes left at dawn to conduct business.”
“How long had you known him?”
“Many, many years,” she said quietly, as much to herself as to me. Then she recollected the admission and said, “Long enough for us to be great friends, as well as the rest. We hetaerae with special friends are more to our men than their own wives, did you know that?”
