by Mike Ashley
‘Quarter past seven,’ he said smugly.
I have always been a little nervous of Hector, so I took Aeneas with me. I do dislike men that roar, and Hector is very good at roaring when he isn’t flashing his armour at the Greeks. It must be about all he does flash; I can’t see how he ever got time to beget a son. I dislike men who claim to be upright, too. They’d sell their own grandmother for the sake of being upright. I had a flash of inspiration, and cunningly disguised myself as Paris for this interview, but I suspected Helenus tipped him the wink for he looked at me very oddly. He needn’t have worried. I was on the warpath, not the lovepath.
I was rather proud of my opening gambit: ‘Mighty brother, blessed is the House of Priam that you rid us of this dishonour to our glorious family and ignoble shame to me, and that you had the happy thought of sending Anchises into the ranks of the Greeks as a spy dressed in Greek clothes.’
‘What?’ He looked completely blank, so I repeated it.
‘Hail, Hector, Glorious Warrior of Troy.’ (He likes this stuff.) ‘You avenged me, and then killed the only witness, the guard in the tower.’
‘And then you thought to rid yourself of Anchises, my beloved father,’ Aeneas decided to roar, ‘so that the House of Priam should not be toppled from the Trojan throne. So you dressed the melon-seller in his clothes and drove my father to certain death in the Greek camp.’
‘What?’
‘Please don’t shout.’ I cupped my hands over my dainty ears, only to remember Paris didn’t have dainty ears but a rather large bronze helmet on at the time.
‘I only wish I’d thought of it, Prince Aeneas,’ Hector said wistfully.
‘Perhaps Helenus did. He’s cleverer than you,’ I said hopefully.
‘Brother, you shall answer for that.’ He drew his sword and I began to see distinct disadvantages in my present disguise.
‘Keep away from me,’ I shrieked, transforming into my own beautiful body only belatedly remembering to transform my clothes as well.
He fell to his knees, and so did Aeneas after a great show of surprise. ‘Forgive me, great goddess.’
‘Only if you tell me where you were three afternoons ago.’
‘I hardly like to confess.’ He moaned and groaned and finally did so. ‘I was in bed with Andromache.’
‘But she’s your wife.’ I was rather disappointed.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ He looked puzzled.
‘It’s unusual for a prince of Troy.’
‘Well, that’s where I was,’ he said obstinately.
Several hours later, by dint of disguising myself in turn as my own grandson, the bowmaker’s wife and a Nubian slave, I traipsed back to the palace, extremely annoyed. I could not fault any of their stories. Now it was Priam’s turn, and I decided I’d enjoy terrifying him out of his royal tunic. I elected to come the heavy goddess, and arrived in all my glory (though clothed) to greet a king – I suppose since he is a grandson of Zeus he is my nephew in a way, the stiff-necked old fool.
‘Hail, Mighty Priam!’ I materialized on the adjoining throne.
‘Goddess!’ He began to lever himself unwillingly on to the floor to bend his knee. I let him, then set about charming him. I oozed my aura all about him, and let honey drip from my lips.
‘What a clever plan of yours, Priam, to pry out the intentions of the Greeks.’
‘What was?’
I had to explain it to him very simply. ‘You and your sons conspired to rid yourself of the Greek spy, Helen’s lover, and rid yourself of Anchises at the same time.’
He positively gawped at me. I had not thought him such a good actor.
‘Where were you between four and six three afternoons ago, or was it one of your sons who did the killing?’
‘What killing?’
Despite my sweet nature, I almost snarled at him. ‘Of Marmedes, Diomedes’ captain. Helen’s lover.’
‘The boys did say something to me about it. I didn’t believe them, of course.’
‘But it must have been your cunning that devised the scheme,’ I cooed.
He grew almost intelligent. ‘Kill a Greek inside Trojan walls? If Achilles of the Fragile Heel found out, it would give him all the excuse he needed to have every damned Achaean out of the camp and attacking our walls.’
He had a point. ‘But where were you?’ I persisted.
‘At the temple of Zeus, great goddess.’
My heart sank. If he was speaking the truth, Father was his alibi.
What was I to do? Time was running out and I was still no nearer a solution. I decided to go to a quiet glade where I could do some thinking. It is here that my handsome Adonis and I consummate our love every spring when that horrible Hades graciously allows him to come back to my arms for a while. (I had to get an Olympus court order to force Hades to surrender my beloved.) Unfortunately it wasn’t spring now, but I still found the grove an inspiration.
My beloved Adonis was thus the means of my fourth brainwave. I suddenly realized there was one person whose word I had taken without question – heaven knows why. Immediately I rushed with winged feet back to Aeneas, hardly bothering to over-awe him at all. Anchises was his father, after all. I was very excited.
‘Come with me, my son, while I confront the murderer of Marmedes!’
‘And my beloved father too?’ he asked doggedly.
‘Yes, yes,’ I said impatiently, whisking him through the air for speed – a thing he hates.
We landed in the chamber just as she was changing her gown. I could see Aeneas’ eyes bulging a bit, so perhaps he isn’t quite so uninterested in women as I thought.
‘Helen,’ I cried, ‘you killed Marmedes. Was he tired of you, beauteous Helen? Was he going to leave you? Who else would he allow so near as to kill him? Who else could so conveniently poison the guard?’
‘Me?’ she shrieked.
‘What have you done with my father, evil Helen? Temptress,’ Aeneas added confusingly, his eyes on her breast which she was still struggling to cover.
‘Does his body lie in some corner of a foreign field?’ I demanded. It was time for my fifth brainwave. I thought of Oenone, Paris’ first love. ‘No. I see it all. You’ve worked on Paris to persuade Oenone to imprison Anchises, haven’t you?’
She lost colour. ‘That snake’s venomed piece of monkshood?’
‘So that’s who you got the poison from!’ I shouted in triumph, just as Helen fainted again.
I returned to the Hall of the Golden Throne in golden glory for a private meeting with Father.
‘And so I have proved it, Mighty Zeus,’ I concluded my exposition triumphantly. ‘Helen was plotting to overthrow the House of Troy from within.’
‘Aphrodite –’
‘I claim acquittal from my terrible sentence.’
‘Aphrodite –’
I swept on. ‘I, the goddess of love and laughter –’
‘Aphrodite!’ he shouted. ‘Have you actually spoken to Anchises?’
‘Aeneas insisted on going to release him from Oenone’s clutches, but you will find –’
‘Aphrodite, look at this.’
‘What is it?’ I broke off, rather hurt he was still looking so grim.
‘It’s Paean’s autopsy report on the body of Marmedes.’
I scanned it quickly. ‘Oh.’ Seldom have I been so immortified.
‘You see, Aphrodite?’
I did. The man had been strangled.
‘Somehow I don’t see Helen doing that, do you?’ Father sounded almost gentle.
‘Aphrodite, how nice to see you again.’
I wished I hadn’t left that thunderbolt I stole behind in my closet on Olympus. I could cheerfully have struck Anchises dead. I hadn’t bargained on his being ensconced at the family table when I shot in to have a word with Aeneas.
‘You boast about my private parts again, Anchises, and you can say goodbye to yours,’ I told him briefly. That shut him up. How could I ever have fancied him? The things
we women do. I turned to our son. ‘Had Oenone imprisoned Anchises as we suspected?’
‘She had, Mother.’
‘You can forget all that mother stuff,’ I replied coldly. ‘You’re lying. Anchises was an honoured guest there. I now know Oenone hates Paris, Troy and everyone in it. She was in it with the two of you, wasn’t she? And you, my beloved son, are the murderer of Marmedes.’
For I had had my sixth, and, for the time, last brainwave.
‘It was simple, Mighty Zeus,’ I explained modestly. ‘I was blinded by a mother’s love, until I remembered a conversation in which Aeneas accused Hector of killing the melon-seller. But I had never mentioned melons to him, merely that Marmedes was a trader in the market.
‘Aeneas, I fear, Father, was too concerned with politics and not with his mother’s profession of love. He and Anchises had ambitions. If they could topple the House of Priam they could make peace with the Greeks, and take the throne themselves. So they killed Helen’s Greek lover, for if the Greeks had known of the liaison – unsanctified by me –’ I pointed out crossly – ‘they might have seduced Helen back to them and sailed home, leaving Troy with Priam still in charge. Aeneas wanted to make peace with the Greeks himself at any price, even if it meant Troy falling, and he and Anchises being rewarded as founders of a new city.’
‘Make peace with the Greeks?’ Zeus thundered. ‘How dare Aeneas presume to alter the gods’ will?’
‘Helenus said Destiny had planned that Troy should fall,’ I said miserably. ‘Can’t you think of some other way, Mighty Zeus, rather than through my son’s evil-doing? He’s been very naughty, but I’d like him to live.’
He patted my shoulder absentmindedly. ‘Do you know, Aphrodite, I’ve just had this wonderful idea about a wooden horse.’
THE GATEWAY TO DEATH
Brèni James
Long before the Roman world established its power throughout the Mediterranean, the culture, language and authority of the Greeks held sway. Unlike the Romans the Greeks never sought world domination – they were too busy squabbling with each other to achieve it, but it never interested them. Their culture held art and philosophy almost as precious as power. One of their most famous philosophers was Socrates, who lived in Athens from 469–399 BC. Brèni James wrote two stories about Socrates. The first, ‘Socrates Solves a Murder’, I reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits. Here’s the second.
Socrates paused at the foot of the Acropolis and looked up at the marble façade of the outer gates. He stood with the grace of a soldier, though his military career was some ten years behind him and a certain roundness at his waistline belied his graceful carriage.
The setting sun dipped beneath the overcast that had darkened the afternoon sky, and flashed its final splendor across Athens like a retreating hoplite tossing a flambeau over his shoulder. The fire-red beams fell on the columns and the great bronze doors of the Propylaea, the outer gates, that rose above the western brink of the hill.
‘It is truly the jewel in the forehead of Athens,’ said the philosopher, his eyes still on the marble gateway. Despite the pug nose and protruding eyes, his face showed a great and serene beauty. He turned and smiled at his companion of the moment, Mnesicles, who was the architect of the great outer gates.
Mnesicles, a man in his late forties, blushed like a youth at this compliment from the man who, though almost ten years younger than himself, was acclaimed by many as the greatest thinker of their time.
At length he ventured, ‘Socrates, if the Propylaea is indeed a jewel, it is complete only in its setting.’
‘I know,’ Socrates said quietly. The great dream of the architect had been cut short by the new government. Four hundred talents had already gone into the construction of the great gates, but war and the whim of the city had cut off appropriations. The south wing of the edifice had scarcely been begun, and now it hung like an undeveloped limb on an otherwise perfect body.
‘Perhaps when Athenians tire of seeing so splendid a work left in such imbalance, they will find money enough for you to finish it, Mnesicles.’
‘I’ve always thought they would,’ shrugged the architect. ‘The money was withdrawn while we were still working on the north wing. I could have modified my plans, but I kept hoping that at the last minute, perhaps . . .’
His voice trailed off. Socrates looked at him closely. Mnesicles was a pale, unobtrusive little man; today he looked as though a great sickness had come upon him. Even his bald head had a certain unhealthy pallor about it, and his fine eyes were glazed.
‘After we get a permanent peace,’ Socrates began helpfully, but the architect cut him off.
‘No, no,’ he said dismally. ‘There is money enough now, but there are other plans for it.’ He looked at his friend. ‘Have you noticed the two murals being painted in the west portico?’ he asked.
‘I’ve not seen them yet, but I understand they are the works of Parrhasius and Zeuxis.’
‘And not just in the west portico, my dear Socrates. They have commissions for every bare wall in the place.’
‘I should think they would first let you build them more walls. Well, I’m glad I found you in the market; a few peaceful moments in the Acropolis together will cheer you.’
The philosopher took the other’s arm, and led Mnesicles up the winding slope, past the random votive offerings and pieces of statuary that lined the path. One of the architect’s slaves, a young boy of perhaps sixteen, fell in silently behind them as they walked up to the Propylaea.
The huge bronze doors in the center of the gateway were closed this late in the day, but one of the smaller ones on their right was still open. They walked through it and found their way to the large west portico of the structure. Their destination was to have been a sanctuary beyond, in the Acropolis, but they were halted by a strange sight: next to the south wall, beneath a flamboyant mural, lay the naked body of a youth not much older than the slave who attended them.
The two men bent over the lifeless form, Socrates hitching his untidy mantle out of the way of a pool of blood that had seeped from the underside of the naked youth’s head.
‘Who do you think it is?’ asked Mnesicles in a whisper.
Socrates passed his hands over the heavy muscles of the back and turned one of the limp hands over, touching the calluses there with a gentle finger. ‘A slave, wouldn’t you say? One that carried heavy loads. Perhaps a stonemason’s or statuary’s helper.’
The architect remained silent. Socrates looked troubled for a moment, eyeing the peculiar position of the graceful body. It was spread out, face down, limbs apart, as though the boy had been beaten and had been thrashing about on the ground before his death. But there were no marks on the body, save for what was obviously a fatal blow on the head.
One glance at the mural before which the body lay, however, explained the discrepancy. ‘Compare them,’ said Socrates, indicating the corpse and the central figure of the painting. They were exactly alike, save for the fact that the boy’s face showed nothing but death, and the face of the figure in the mural showed an ecstasy of pain. They could almost hear screams of insult and indignant agony from the lifelike mouth of the painted creature.
Mnesicles sucked in his breath as the horror of the sight brought a flush to his sallow cheeks.
‘Which of the two painters would you say did this scene?’ Socrates asked.
‘Parrhasius.’ The architect spat out the word as though it had blood on it.
‘I have heard that Parrhasius will go to great lengths to get realism in his paintings. Do you think that is true?’
‘He is said to . . . to torture slaves to get the look of pain he wishes to copy, Socrates.’
‘Perhaps you had better send your attendant to fetch Parrhasius. And Zeuxis, too. But no word of this death to either of them.’
The philosopher had risen from the body and turned to look at the mural on the wall across the portico – the one that, to judge from its style, was being d
one by Zeuxis. It was a portrait of the young Endymion, a beautiful youth reclining in an attitude of undisturbed sleep.
At Socrates’ suggestion the architect and he waited for the painters outside the bronze gates, and at length they spied the pair walking up the slope followed by Mnesicles’ servant.
Zeuxis was more readily discernible in the twilight, not only by reason of his six-foot-four stature, but because he wore a mantle of remarkable fashion: it was checkered red and green. Once along the path he paused to speak to his companion, turning his back to the men above, and they could easily distinguish in the dusk the great gold-embroidered letters on the back of the mantle which spelled out ZEUXIS. He swaggered, gesturing freely, apparently deep in a one-sided conversation.
His listener and fellow artist, Parrhasius, was robed in purple; and as the pair reached the marble stairs of the Propylaea, the fading sun caught the golden crown that Parrhasius wore atop his dark curls, and by which, as everyone knew, he proclaimed himself ‘The Prince of Painters.’
Physically Parrhasius was somewhat less prepossessing than his competitor. He was nearly as tall, but a thickness of indolent fat encased what might otherwise have been a well-proportioned figure. His features were gross, his beard a tight-curled fur that clung to his round face like a small frightened animal.
‘Socrates!’ exclaimed Zeuxis in a high voice, pushing the other artist arrogantly aside. ‘My dear friend, my fellow art-lover, how good of you to come to see my work! I regret it is not yet finished.’
Parrhasius nodded to the two older men, but only slightly, as though his crown might topple. ‘Are we to have another contest?’ he smiled faintly.
It had been the talk of Athens, not too long before, that the rivals had agreed to a public showing of their best works. Zeuxis had displayed a portrait of a boy holding a bunch of grapes, and it was so realistic – or so gossip said – that it deceived birds which swept down to peck at the luscious fruit. But when Parrhasius was asked to unveil his panel, it was discovered – to Zeuxis’ dismay – that the heavy drapery that had seemed only a covering was, in fact, the painting. It was after this triumph that Parrhasius crowned himself and took to wearing the purple.
