by Gary Corby
Diotima said sweetly, “I think you have that the wrong way around, Mother dear. You spread your legs, so you had me to look after. The spreading comes before the child.”
“Is that what you think? Then let me tell you something, wretched ingrate. The moment you were born your father picked you up. He was taking you away. Yes, that’s right, Ephialtes was taking you to Ceramicus. He said he had no place for a girl-child, a son might have been different, but an illegitimate girl was good for nothing but the urns. I begged him not to, begged. I offered him anything in the world, everything I had, if only he would leave me my child. And so he did, and the price I paid for you was to be bound to him for the rest of my life.”
Diotima swallowed and said nothing. There are two ways to dispose of an unwanted child, either leave them on the hillside to die of exposure, or drop them in a funeral urn in the cemetery and walk away.
“He let you live for love of me. Dropped you on the bedclothes and walked away. And when he took an interest, arranged that marriage, I thought, no one will ever be able to do to my little girl what he did to me. The wife of a citizen can keep her children, some of them anyway. She doesn’t have to watch them all be taken away to die. She has a place, some security. And then, when you refused to marry, I saw the look on his face and I remembered the day you were born and I think he was thinking he should have taken you away after all.”
Diotima was crying. “Oh, Mother!” Diotima threw herself into Euterpe’s arms and the two of them sobbed.
Pythax and I let ourselves out. We were both feeling somewhat glum and embarrassed by the women’s emotions.
“Pythax, did any of that make sense to you? I mean, the way they got so carried away?”
“No, lad.” He hesitated. “This Euterpe, she was Ephialtes’?”
“Yes.”
“But she’s a hetaera.”
“She was, years ago. I don’t know if it counts if she was only seeing Ephialtes for years.”
Pythax grunted. “You think she only saw Ephialtes, do you? I guess she’s got trouble now, her man’s gone. Or is she happy he’s dead?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She ain’t exactly dressed like a grieving widow.”
“Euterpe isn’t the sort to display emotion, or rather not that particular one. There are other emotions she does really well. She might go back to her trade.”
Pythax grunted.
We parted. I went to the Polemarch, whom I found at his office in the Epilyceum.
He bade me sit and sat himself beside me in a manner wholly alien for an important public citizen dealing with a young man of unimportant family. He looked at me with blue eyes, but nothing softened the square face or the hard lines around his mouth. He smiled, but there was something intellectual about his smile, it was the smile of a man who wanted to be seen smiling, as sincere as the priest who apologizes to his sacrifice.
“Now, Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, I have been hearing good things about you.”
I doubted that mightily, but didn’t know how to say so without causing offense, so I kept silent. The Polemarch’s face was not naturally expressive. I had no idea what he was expecting from me. After a pause, he resumed.
“Not everyone can be born to the best families, and we older men have to keep an eye out for talented youngsters and help them to rise in the service of the state. One of my secretaries is ill-I have two, you know-he’s unable to continue to the end of his term of office. The post of secretary is a public one, but unlike other public posts I can nominate my own man for the job, no need for a messy election, and as long as he passes a simple review, there should be no problem.
“That’s why I want to offer you the position.”
I could barely believe I was hearing this, let alone credit that the Polemarch meant it. The job he offered was that of a functionary, full of hard work and plenty of blame when anything went wrong, but it was also far beyond the experience of my years. It was a job you offered to a coming man to give him experience in executive government before he took on an archonship.
“I…I can’t believe you’re saying this. Thank you, sir!”
“So you accept?”
“I would love to-”
“Fine, then I’ll get the process in motion-”
“Sir!”
“Yes?”
“I was going to add, sir, I have a commission. I have to complete it before I could start with you.”
Silence fell across us like a blanket. The Polemarch sat rock still for a handful of heartbeats, I could count mine quite clearly, then said, “This commission, is it of a public nature?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you think your private interests should come before service to the state?”
“No! Of course not, sir.”
“Then I don’t see the problem. You can continue this private affair when your work for the state is done.”
“This commission is in the public interest, sir, and I don’t see how I can stop now, having said I would complete it.”
“Integrity is an excellent thing in a young man. I applaud you. Many would have accepted my excellent offer without a second thought. Have you been paid for your work?”
“Not yet.”
“So again, there is no problem. Not having been paid, and delivered nothing, the contract is easily terminated. Your employer can find someone else at no loss to either party.”
“It’s still in the public interest, sir,” I persisted.
The Polemarch let the smallest touch of irritation show in his voice. “Are you working for a public official?”
“No, for Pericles, son of Xanthippus.”
“Then no matter what you might think, you are not at this point in service to the state. Xanthippus I know well, his son less so. And let me give you some advice on that score, from a man of greater years and hence greater experience in public affairs. Nico-I can call you Nico, can’t I? — associating with the more radical democrats is not likely to get you marked by the men that count as anything other than a troublemaker. I am right, aren’t I, in reading you as an ambitious young man?”
“Yes sir, I suppose that’s true.”
“Nothing wrong with that! I remember feeling the same way as a young lad. Right now, Nico, you have a feeling that you are contributing to the state. Because you’re talented and ambitious and have dreams, you magnify the significance of what you do, and in the process you overestimate its importance. Any young man would do the same. But what, after all, are you doing? You’re not working for an elected official. You’re not fulfilling the wishes of the Government, nor the directives of the Ecclesia.”
“I am investigating the murder of Ephialtes, sir.”
“There you are then, my point exactly! That’s a matter for the man’s deme, if they want to pursue it. The Government can’t spend its time catching criminals, or we’d never get any work done. That’s why we leave it to private individuals to do the leg-work and make the accusation, and we in Government supply the courts to judge the results.”
“Surely the death of this man matters far more than the average murder!” I protested.
The Polemarch raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair with a smile. “Was Ephialtes a public officer when he died? No? A strategos or other officer of the army? No? Then are you suggesting in our democracy we should treat one man as more important than another? Surely not, that would be quite contrary to what the democracy stands for, wouldn’t it? So it is quite impossible to do anything other than treat Ephialtes’ death the same as any other citizen.”
I pleaded, “Isn’t it common sense that his death means more? What if he was killed by an official?”
“I quite agree with you. All the more reason for his deme to get on with the job. You can search high and low throughout Athens, Nico, and you will not find a single official whose job it is to investigate crime. There never has been, not if you search back to the time of Draco, not even if you go back to King
Theseus.
“I can see you feel confused. I understand. I am going to give you a while to think about what I’ve said, Nicolaos, a short while. I hesitate to say it, but there are other young men of talent who perhaps are as deserving of recognition as you. I cannot leave my offer open for long: say, for another three days. If you have not accepted within that time, I will be forced to conclude with the greatest sorrow that you have turned down the chance to boost your career far beyond what you could hope to achieve on your own in the next decade. Good day to you.”
I walked onto the street almost sobbing. I was desperate because everything the Polemarch had said was true. Murder was a private affair. Pericles’ commission was a private one and nothing to do with the state, even though he and I were sure it had everything to do with the state. And the greatest truth the Pole-march had told struck me to the core: I was desperately ambitious to succeed. It seemed to me in that short conversation the Polemarch had destroyed my life, because I could do nothing other than continue Pericles’ commission, and when I did, the Polemarch would slam his door in my face.
I tossed and turned all night thinking about what the Pole-march had said. The temptation to abandon Pericles and throw in my lot with the Polemarch was almost overwhelming. At some point in the darkness I decided to do so, and composed several speeches I might use to tell Pericles. I discarded every one of them when I imagined the disdain on Pericles’ face as I told him what I was doing. I realized with some shame, I hadn’t the courage to tell Pericles I was leaving him, but nor did I have the strength to turn away the Polemarch.
I temporized with the dawn. If I completed my commission quickly, then all my problems would disappear. I could have both Pericles’ reward and the Polemarch’s job by finding this hidden Tanagran within the next three days, and wringing the truth from him. I hoped to Hades he hadn’t already left town.
It may have been a fantasy, and it was certainly driven by moral cowardice, but it was the decision I made, and, of course, it was no decision at all. I rose immediately to perform that urgent task.
But where do you go to find a man in a city as big as Athens? There must be tens of thousands of men.
I rose to the predawn naked from my bed, and reached for my chitoniskos hanging on its peg. What a pleasure to be wearing civilian clothes again. I’d had to buy new clothes after my army time, and I preferred the smaller chitoniskos because it gave me room to move quickly; besides which, it was the fashion among all the young men. Mine was made of two rectangular sheets of light linen, sewn together down the right side and open down the left. I wrapped it around me, pinned the front and back sheets together over my shoulders, and stuck in an extra pin along the left to hold it all in place. I belted with a piece of rope and pulled the material up so that it bloused a little and brought the hem above my knees. I wrapped a short chlamys cloak across my shoulders and then added one more item many Athenians don’t carry-a dagger, which I lodged under my belt and within the material where it would not be obvious.
I had risen early, but my twelve-year-old brother had risen earlier still. He found me in the courtyard as I nibbled on a bowl of yesterday’s bread dipped in wine and pondered how to find one particular grain of sand on a beach.
“Nico, I was thinking. I suppose you’re going to look for that killer this morning?”
“Yes, but don’t even think about asking to come along. Our mother would kill me.”
“Of course, there aren’t many places you need search.”
“What! There are countless men in Athens.”
“But most have work, or live outside the walls on their farms, or will be in their homes. An outsider has none of those things. Where would they go? There’re the Agora, the streets of the tradesmen, the public buildings, the inns, and Piraeus. I know it’s a lot of area to cover, Nico, but surely if you ask for any man from Tanagra in those places, you must find him quickly.”
I said confidently, “Exactly what I was about to do. But you did well to think it for yourself.”
“Thanks, Nico!”
I wasn’t yet ready to admit my irritating younger brother was smarter than me.
It was harder than it seemed. I eliminated the Agora quickly-visitors are noticed, often questioned, and it’s a small area to cover-then began a trek through the inns. There are many of these. The temptation to stop at each for a cooling drink was strong, but I controlled myself. I had to be sober if I found the man.
The good-quality inns close to the Agora had never heard of him. There were men from Tanagra all right, but they had either come as a group, or were merchants known to their innkeepers for years as regular customers. I assumed an assassin brought in to kill a man would be on his own, and wouldn’t be a regular visitor. So I started on the low dives. These are to be found in the narrow, muddy backstreets close to the main gates. I commenced with the ones by the Dipylon Gates that led to the west and north, thinking my quarry was more likely to have arrived by foot if he came from Tanagra. This drew a complete blank. It was only when I finished at the end of the day that I realized my foolishness. If the man wasn’t acting for Tanagra then he probably didn’t come directly from there. So I hurried to the inns closest to the two gates that lead to Piraeus, the port town of Athens. If he didn’t walk here, then the Tanagran must have come by boat. That was going to make it harder. A lot of boats come to Athens.
“Do you have anyone from Tanagra staying here?” I asked of yet another innkeeper, a beaten-down looking fellow with crooked legs. It was early in the evening and the local custom was just starting to arrive.
“The man has more visitors than a whore,” the innkeeper muttered.
My jaw dropped. “You mean you do?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Did have, though. Gone now.”
My heart fell. For a moment there I thought I’d found my man. “When did he leave?” I asked.
“Expensive business, running an inn.”
“I’m sure.”
“Takes a lot of time too.”
“I can imagine. Now about that man from Tanagra-”
“Can’t afford to spend time talking when I got work to do.” He moved to the next table, where a drunk was already slumped over. The innkeeper pushed him aside, wiped the dribble where the man had been lying, then pushed him back into place.
“Isn’t it a little early for him to be drunk?” I asked.
“Ephron? Nah, that’s just his hangover from lunch. He’ll be better when he’s had something to drink.”
I pulled out a few drachmae, having worked out the hint. “These for what I want to know.”
The innkeeper glanced at my offering and snorted. “Hope yer don’t want to know much.”
“This Tanagran, when did he leave?”
“Two days ago.” He reached for the coins. I pulled my hand back.
“Not yet. When did he arrive?”
The innkeeper thought. “Last month? Maybe a bit before or after.”
“What was his name?”
“He said he was Aristodicus.”
“You doubt it?”
The man shrugged. “He seemed the type to have a few names, yer know what I mean? He said his name was Aristodicus. I got no reason to think otherwise.”
Better and better. “Had you seen him before?”
“Nah.”
“Had he been in Athens before?”
“How in Hades should I know? He never been at my inn before, I can tell yer that.”
“Who are these men who came to visit him?”
The innkeeper held out his hand. “Yer got your money’s worth. Yer want more, yer pay more.”
I dropped the coins in his hand and pulled out another handful. I wondered if I could bill Pericles for this, and decided I wasn’t brave enough to try.
“I dunno who the guys were that came to see him.”
I put the coins back in my bag.
“Wait! I can tell you they were Athenians from the way they talked. And they were rich.�
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To this man, almost anyone would look rich. “How many visits?”
He shrugged. “Four, five, six. Maybe three times for each of them?”
“Them?”
“Two guys with their slaves. It’s hard to tell a slave from a citizen in Athens, you know? Everyone dresses the same. But definitely two men came here, and they both had slaves. And always they asked for Aristodicus. That’s unusual for some out of town drifter, yer know? And I don’t think they knew about each other. At least, they came at different times.”
I had no idea who the two visitors were, but I was sure I’d found my man.
“Describe Aristodicus.”
“Drifter, like I said. Tough man, kinda grizzled-looking. He’s been a mercenary some time or I’ll eat my own bar food. Scar down his face, left side, like can happen if a spear catches yer in the helmet.”
That agreed with what Brasidas had told me.
“Okay, catch.” I tossed him the coins and turned to get out of this cesspit.
“Funny thing though, this guy never left.”
“What was that?” I asked, startled.
“He never left. I mean, he left the inn, said he was leaving town, but I saw him in Piraeus yesterday when I went to get more wine.”
“Maybe he didn’t like the bedbugs here.”
“Then he made a bad deal. Compared to the inns in Piraeus, my place is a king’s palace.” He spat into the mud of his floor.
I think I danced all the way home. Aristodicus of Tanagra was still in Athens, or at least he had been until yesterday. But he’d changed inns, and I was sure I knew why.
Aristodicus wasn’t planning to leave town. If he had been, he would have left from where he was already staying. Why shift inns for just a night?
No, Aristodicus had moved because he didn’t want at least one of his two visitors to find him. And he’d moved after the murder. How interesting.
There was a man waiting for me when I returned home. The house slave ushered me into the public room, where a rather pale, ill-looking fellow sat drinking our wine. Sophroniscus had met the fellow, as is proper, discerned that he was a citizen wanting to see me on business, and had left him to it. This meant whoever he was, my father didn’t like him. Otherwise, Sophroniscus would have been drinking wine with him and boring the man with talk of sculpture.
