The Pericles Commission

by Gary Corby

  I did indeed, since Father never tired of telling us. Family legend had it that our line was founded by Daedalus himself, who built the Labyrinth for King Minos of old, and who had to flee in fear of his life with Theseus, after the hero slew the Minotaur. As Father said, a fine example of being caught between two powerful men. Daedalus lost his son, Icarus, on that adventure, and had to remarry and beget more sons when he arrived in Athens.

  “Well, it won’t be a problem for me, Father,” I said in jest. “I don’t have a son to lose!”

  Transporting a statue always attracts an audience, most of them stopping to watch the fun, some to offer helpful suggestions that we could live without, and some to critique the artist’s work, which if Father overheard might result in litigation or violence. Nobody ever offers to help by pulling, unless they’re down on their luck and want to be paid.

  A woman in priestess robes came walking down the street, attended by two slaves. Men moved to let her pass, but she stopped to watch us. I glanced in her direction, distracted by the movement, then did a double take and looked again.

  It was Diotima, dressed as I’d never seen her before. She seemed older in the robes, more mature, and looked as if maybe she really was a priestess and a respectable member of society.

  I was suddenly and acutely aware of my own appearance. I was wearing nothing but a loincloth. I was as filthy as the slaves, the dust and the dirt covered my bare chest, and you could see where the sweat dripping down me had formed tiny rivers in the grime.

  I knew she’d spotted me, there was no point trying to hide, so when she gestured I walked to her.

  “Nice chest!” Diotima murmured, low enough that no one else could hear. Her dark eyes looked me up and down in a way no one could miss; she smiled, and I had to order myself not to blush. I wasn’t used to being ogled in public; the women in Athens aren’t supposed to do such things.

  She diverted her eyes to our job. “Looks heavy. Why don’t you use wheels?” she asked.

  I smiled. “Ha! There’s someone in the crowd asks that, every time.”

  “No doubt the intelligent, curious ones,” she said, trying to look stern. “And what do you reply? Feel free to avoid any phrases that might hint this is a stupid question.”

  “If we had wheels, there’d be only four points holding up the block of stone. The moment we tried to cross anything other than solid rock the wheels would sink into the dirt and we’d never get it moving again. And you’ve probably noticed the streets in this city are fundamentally-”

  “Mud!” we said in unison, and laughed.

  I finished, “But with a sledge, the weight is carried across a wide surface, so we don’t get stuck.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” she admitted.

  “Don’t take it hard; if you didn’t have to do it yourself, you’d never know.”

  “Rizon has no alibi for Father’s death,” Diotima said.

  “And you know this how?”

  “Same as for Archestratus. I asked his slaves while I was in my boy clothing.”

  “Does it matter? Don’t we know the man from Tanagra killed your father?”

  Diotima shrugged. “I thought it better to know. But, Nicolaos, Rizon does have an excellent alibi for when the bowyer died.”

  Sophroniscus called to me, and I had no choice but to leave Diotima.

  “I saw you, son. I told you to stay away from her,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This girl…” Sophroniscus spoke in a quiet voice, almost whispering, then he paused.

  “You mean Diotima?” I automatically looked in her direction, and Sophroniscus followed my gaze. She noticed our attention and waved.

  “Her. Your mother has spoken to me. It’s Phaenarete’s view, given the mother’s…er…position in life, that there’s very little can be done to sully the daughter’s reputation more than it already is, and the talk in the Agora is that the man she’s betrothed to would hardly notice the difference between a virgin and a porne off the street. They tell me he’s been boasting to anyone who’ll listen about what he intends to do with her.”

  My hands clenched and I gritted my teeth, but Sophroniscus was still speaking. “So I’ve decided to withdraw my objections to you associating with the girl.” Sophroniscus frowned. “And of course the near certainty that you would completely ignore my order makes the decision easier. Still, I wish you wouldn’t be seen talking to her in public.”

  “It was business, Father.”

  “Then that’s even worse,” he said. “You allow a woman to work for you?”

  “It is her father who died, sir. I could hardly stop her.”

  Sophroniscus shook his head. “You need to learn how to control women, son. Remember, her behavior should be seemly, which it certainly is not if she’s conversing with men in the street.”

  “She stopped and talked to me, Father. I didn’t ask her.”

  “Then order her to keep walking. You’re a man, she’ll obey.”

  “Is that how it works with you and Mother, sir?”

  “Er…pay attention to the load, son. It’s your responsibility if it tips.”

  It was just past midday when we finally reached the sanctuary. The staff had been expecting us. The site was leveled to perfection and swept of loose stones. Sophroniscus checked it, nodded in satisfaction, and ordered the back end of the sledge to be adjusted so that the feet of the statue would slide into the correct position. This was done by the men with crowbars and much swearing.

  The base block had been delivered the previous day, and placed in precisely the right spot. It remained only to pull the statue up and onto its base. A small A-frame tower of tall wooden beams was raised, blocks and tackles hanging off it, and ropes were threaded through pulleys hanging from the top of the A-frame and attached to the horse at points Sophroniscus knew to be strong enough to take the strain. The ropes would pull the statue off the sledge-now tilted back-so that the stone would touch land with its hind feet first, and then while still supported from above rotate over to a standing position.

  Sophroniscus waved his arm, and the men hauled for the final effort. The horse’s hind feet slid to the ground as expected, and his body slowly rose into the sky. This was the moment of maximum strain for the men and the grunting was loud.

  Socrates jumped onto the platform, directly underneath, pressed his hands against the horse’s belly, and pretended to be pushing the piece upright. He laughed.

  Sophroniscus roared, “Socrates! If I have to tell you one more time-”

  A rope snapped.

  The horse lurched away from the men, directly down on top of Socrates. It all seemed to happen in slow motion for me. I could see his face turn from laughter to horror in an instant, he put his hands up, as if to try and hold the statue for real, before he fell backward with the immense block of stone toppling on top of him. The dust flew up in a cloud, obscuring the disaster. Something cracked. The sledge jerked beneath the sudden weight.

  “Oh Gods.” I ran through the cloud, waving my hand to clear the air before me and coughing.

  I expected to see a pool of blood, and the crushed body of my brother. I found him lying flat, his face turned to the side, unable to move, the statue upon him. He was having trouble breathing, but, miraculously, he was still alive.

  “Help me, Nico,” he whispered.

  The wooden framework used to hold the statue in place during transport had protected Socrates. The support struts were still attached to the stone, and had fallen to each side of him. The struts should have splintered in an instant, but they had held enough that, bent and broken as they were, enough of them remained to afford Socrates the tiniest gap between the statue and the platform of the sledge. But the frame which had saved his life also trapped him in a cage which would collapse at any moment. To pull him out I would have to remove some of the struts encasing him, and when I did that, the only thing keeping the statue off him would be gone.

  “Hang on, little
brother, we’re going to get you out of there.” The woodwork creaked. Both Socrates and I eyed it suspiciously.

  “Hurry, Nico,” he said unnecessarily. A tear rolled down his cheek, which he tried to blink away. I refused to notice it.

  “Don’t move, son,” Sophroniscus ordered. He was already eyeing the setup. To the men, who had all gathered around, upset and shouting, he yelled, “Get back, you fools! Get back now!” He was worried a man would knock the fragile structure and cause it to collapse. Sophroniscus and I both stepped back carefully.

  “We could pull him out from the head end, directly along the line of the statue,” he said to me. “The problem is, even pulling him out might knock a strut, or shake the frame enough to collapse it. We have to get something else under there, now.”

  I nodded. “The base?” I suggested. It was the obvious thing to use.

  Sophroniscus shouted to the men to pick up the round base and wedge it under the horse’s head. They heaved it up, all eight clustered about it, and carried it around the statue from the feet to the head. They placed it as close as they dared underneath the head, but with the best will in the world they could not jam it in; the angle was simply wrong, leaving a small air gap the breadth of two fingers between head and base. It wasn’t much, but Socrates hadn’t any room to spare, and if the statue came down even a finger’s breadth it might be enough to break bones inside him.

  There was only one thing to do. I took our heaviest mallet, lined up my stroke by eye with the greatest care, and, praying to any Gods that would listen, struck the base with every bit of my strength.

  The base moved enough to wedge itself underneath. I struck again. The statue might have risen by a fraction, but it might also have been my imagination.

  “Hold,” Sophroniscus ordered.

  I put down the mallet. He pointed at the upper hindquarter. Cracks and fissures had appeared about the leg joint. The fall must have damaged the stone at that point, which was not surprising now that I came to think of it, because that was the point of greatest pressure when the statue fell. The jolt must have been terrific, and my hammering had completed the damage.

  Sophroniscus put both hands on the leg and pulled, gently at first, then harder. The leg snapped off and fell to the ground. Sophroniscus ordered the slaves to take the leg around to one side of the statue. While he directed, crouching low and watching everything with the greatest care, the men jammed the snapped leg underneath the chest of the animal, and wedged the broken end into the dirt at their feet. One of them-the largest and strongest man-ran to where they’d been working, took up a crowbar lying on the ground, and raced back. He plunged the crowbar into the place where the leg met the ground, further blocking it from any movement. He leaned into the crowbar, bracing his bare feet against the dirt, his toes searching for the best purchase. Sophroniscus nodded approval. “It’s time,” he said, and stepped into the shadow of the broken horse.

  I put my hand on his shoulder and gently held him back. “No, Father, this is my job. You’re in charge,” and I was quick to step around him and squat beside Socrates before he had a chance to object.

  Socrates had lain there without struggling and without panic, not wasting our time with questions when he knew we were hurrying to save him. He hadn’t even stirred when the base had been hammered in, and the great weight above him had wobbled. It occurred to me that, for a young boy, he had amazing self-control. “Are you all right, Socrates?” I asked him, keeping my voice as slow and calm as possible.

  “Do I look all right?” he responded, his tone telling me I’d asked a stupid question. I repressed a smile. Mortal danger hadn’t changed his attitude one bit.

  “I’m going to pull you out.” The broken-off leg angled upward directly above me. I would have to be careful not to stand up, nor to hit the leg with Socrates’ body when I pulled.

  I said, “As soon as you’re on the ground, clear the area, get right away, all right? Because I’ll be coming after you, and I won’t be looking where I’m going.”

  “Got it.” He paused. “Thanks, Nico.”

  “Right, on the count of three.” I held fast to his arm and leg, and braced my foot against the side of the sledge. I noticed, irrelevant to the crisis, that the timbers were cracked. It had seen its last service for the family.

  “One…two…three.” I yanked on his arm and his thigh simultaneously. Socrates’ body was pulled into the remaining struts, which resisted for a moment before popping out. I fell backward and Socrates landed sideways on my lap. The statue fell the breadth of two hands before jerking to a stop, held up on our side by nothing except the support of that one marble leg. I could hear loud grunting behind me and knew our slaves, leaning into the leg, were saving our lives with every breath.

  I practically threw Socrates out from under the shadow of the stone. He was a sturdy, thickset lad, but men who watched told me later they saw a boy flying like a quoit. The force of the throw sent me the other way, and my back hit the wreck of the sledge. I looked up. The stone horse was staring down right at me, we exchanged eye contact for a moment, and I wondered how he could be so impassive when we were both about to die. He lunged down at me.

  I don’t remember diving out of the way, but I must have, because when I came to my senses I was lying facedown, and I wasn’t screaming in pain. I raised myself onto my elbows, spitting out dust, and looked behind. The horse had rolled and landed at my feet, on its back, its three remaining legs in the air and the amputated fourth beneath it. If it had been alive, we would have put it out of its misery straightaway.

  Someone helped me up, I think one of the slaves, but I don’t know because immediately Sophroniscus wrapped me up in his arms and hugged me. There were tears in his eyes.

  “Nicolaos, my son-” he began.

  “What in Hades is going on!” A man was marching toward us, trailed by a small cloud of slaves. It took no intelligence to realize this was Callias, the richest man in Athens, and by the look on his face, a very unhappy customer. He was an older man-I knew that he had to be at least fifty or sixty years old because he had famously fought at the Battle of Marathon, wearing no armor but the robes of a priest. I knew too that in his younger years he had won the horse race at the Olympics, come second in the chariot race, and had been a victor at the Pythian Games.

  For all that he was getting on now, Callias hadn’t the paunch one often sees, and nor was he stick thin. The speed at which he walked toward our debacle was impressive.

  He stopped short at the scene, stared at the wreck of his expensive artwork, and swore roundly, finishing with, “What in Hades happened?”

  Sophroniscus explained-his voice wavered enough to tell me he was rattled-and Callias’ headman, who had been watching the entire fiasco, confirmed it.

  Callias grunted and asked, “Is the boy unhurt?” Which I thought showed compassion and I took a liking to him, a feeling that instantly dissolved when his next comment, after hearing that Socrates was only scratched was, “Sophroniscus, much as I value you as an artist, I am bound to say this is down to your incompetence. The men were yours, the equipment was yours, and you were paid to deliver and install the work. I hold you responsible, and you will pay me the cost of the marble. I needn’t add I won’t be paying you your fee.”

  Disaster. The block had been paid for by Callias directly, and it was worth more than all my father’s wealth put together. He would be a ruined man, unable to pay his debts. If Callias pressed his claim, Father would be forced to sell his home and workshop and tools and slaves and be reduced to the life of a common laborer. For a master craftsman, it would be total ignominy, and to maintain the family I would have to labor alongside him.

  Socrates, who was sitting on the ground nursing his bruises, shouted, “That’s not fair, it was an accident!”

  Sophroniscus waved a hand at him and said, “Quiet, son. I’m afraid Callias has the right of it.”

  I’ve never been prouder of my father than at that moment, because
he said, with a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, “It is true what you say, Callias. The fault must be mine, though I can’t imagine how this happened, I’ve never had such a problem before in my entire career. I stand ready to pay the loss.”

  I said, “But Callias, you still have a statue.”

  “A horse without a leg is worthless,” Callias said mildly.

  Sophroniscus was too strong a man to beg, so he said nothing. I was simply aghast.

  “Master!” a man shouted. He was one of the slaves who accompanied Callias, and he beckoned to us from where our equipment lay. Callias strode over to him, and we all followed.

  “There is something here you should see.” The man knelt by the block and pulley system used to raise the statue. He held up the rope that had snapped.

  “You see, Master?”

  I saw it in an instant. But Callias said irritably, “No, I don’t see, Koppa, that’s why I have you. Tell me.”

  The slave ran his fingers across the break. “The rope is thick, strong,” he said. “See? It is as thick as my wrist. It needs to be for the weight it holds. But look at the break, Master. It is smooth on the inside, a clean cut, but here, around the circumference, these few threads”-his finger traced the outer skin of the hemp-“here it is all frayed.”

  Callias frowned. He wasn’t a stupid man. He said to us, “This is Koppa. He understands mechanical things. Stand aside and let him inspect.”

  We all stepped back and watched in silence as this odd man walked about the entire mess, humming to himself. He was a small man with thinning white hair and a slight paunch, and spoke with an accent I couldn’t place. That a slave was fed well enough to put on weight told me Callias valued him highly. Koppa paid particular attention to the pulleys, blocks, and levers.

  “There’s no doubt about it, Master. This equipment was sabotaged,” Koppa reported back to Callias. “The rope was cut inside, as I showed you.” He held up more of our equipment for everyone to see. “In addition, this pulley I hold was weakened where the pin meets its container. With a little more pressure, it would have snapped.”