by Mike Ashley
Socrates looked at the two intently. ‘We shall indeed have a contest,’ he said.
‘Then I take it,’ said Parrhasius in a deep baritone, ‘that you have seen my mural of Apollo beating the flute player?’
‘I have seen both that and Zeuxis’ Endymion. And I should like to know more about both. If Zeuxis will give us leave, let us, Parrhasius, speak first of yours.’
Zeuxis’ restless eyes glanced over the other three men and the slave who had returned with them. He pressed his lips into a trembling, moist smile and nodded, adjusting the checkered mantle with fastidious hands.
Socrates: Parrhasius, we two have spoken of art before. I recall that we agreed that whereas men copy the gods, artists copy men, did we not?
Parrhasius: Yes, I recall that we did.
Socrates: And it was your feeling that art should mimic faithfully the actions of men?
Parrhasius: And their states of mind, too, Socrates.
Socrates: By state of mind do you mean their character, Parrhasius? Or what they are thinking at a particular moment?
Parrhasius: Their thoughts.
Socrates: Perhaps we should qualify it even further. Not their thoughts so much, would you say, as their feelings, their reactions to what is inflicted upon them?
Parrhasius: That would be more correct, Socrates.
Socrates: Do you feel you convey this in the portrait of Marsyas you have painted inside?
Parrhasius: I shall have, when it is completed.
Socrates: And what is left to be done?
Parrhasius: I wish to add a few refinements to the face and hair.
Socrates: The body is finished?
Parrhasius: As finished as bodies ever are for me.
Socrates: You don’t feel the limbs still need more work?
Parrhasius: It is Zeuxis who prides himself on knowing bone structure and such things.
Socrates: Then, Parrhasius, you were working on the face today?
Parrhasius: I would have, but it was too cloudy to get the proper light.
Socrates: And what do you do when you cannot paint?
Parrhasius: Today I took a walk on the banks of the Ilissus. But what of that?
Socrates: A charming place to walk. You were alone?
Parrhasius: Yes, alone.
Socrates turned now to the other artist, who was fidgeting with his checkered mantle and pushing the blond curls off his forehead with slender, nervous fingers.
Socrates: Now, Zeuxis, perhaps you will tell us in what fashion you disagree with Parrhasius in matters of art, for I know you are lively opponents.
Zeuxis: I can achieve greatness without resorting to his cruel . . .
Parrhasius interrupted him with a snort. ‘You would do anything for what you call beauty!’ he snapped.
Zeuxis: For beauty one does not have to resort to violence!
Parrhasius: And for truth, Zeuxis, one can crush beauty underfoot!
Socrates: Gentlemen, please! A few more questions, Zeuxis, and then we can talk more about truth. You say you seek beauty in art. Is this beauty as the gods have conceived it, or as an artist perceives it in man?
Zeuxis: The latter, Socrates.
Socrates: And do you, as Parrhasius does, strive to capture in your work the beauty of a man’s emotions?
Zeuxis: I do not think emotions are beautiful, Socrates. I prefer to copy beauty in perfect repose, so long as it makes for a true picture.
Socrates: True to life, you mean?
Zeuxis: If that is my subject, yes.
Socrates: And I take it that on this cloudy day, you also were unable to paint?
Zeuxis: Parrhasius paints in the afternoons, but I in the morning. There was sunlight before noon.
Socrates: And in the afternoon?
Zeuxis: I was weary after the morning’s work. I slept this afternoon, as I often do.
Socrates: Now then, my friends, let us go within the gates and see what truths we can discover.
The quartet walked to the west portico where Socrates stood aside to watch the two artists make their macabre discovery. Zeuxis paled and bade the slave of Mnesicles to support him. Parrhasius reddened with anger. He turned to glare at Zeuxis.
‘If this is your trick,’ he menaced the artist, ‘I’ll thrash you till Apollo takes the whip!’
‘Do you know the boy?’ Socrates asked coolly. Both artists protested they had never seen the young man before. They glowered at each other, but there was a deep perplexity in their faces and silently they turned to Socrates.
Mnesicles, looking from one to the other of the artists, at length muttered to the philosopher: ‘Could either of them use a corpse for a model, Socrates, without attracting unwelcome attention?’
Socrates: We happened on the body just after the gates were closed and neither of them was here. But do you think we would have shown unseemly curiosity if an artist pretended to paint from so still, so apparently obedient a model?
Mnesicles: Someone would surely have seen the blood.
Parrhasius: And do you think I would leave a dead body here until morning, for Zeuxis to come upon?
Socrates: If you wished to paint from such a model, I think you would have decided yourself that the morning sun is sufficient.
Zeuxis: And you’re cold-blooded enough to do such a thing, Parrhasius! You’d torture to get that look on the face of Marsyas!
Parrhasius: I . . . I will admit that, but . . .
Socrates: That is precisely why I fail to see any possibility that Parrhasius is guilty of this crime.
Mnesicles: I’m afraid I don’t see that at all!
Socrates: It was a quick death, we are agreed?
Mnesicles: Yes, certainly – a vicious blow on the head.
Socrates: And do you think, then, that he would use a dead man from which to copy Marsyas’ living agony?
Mnesicles: But, Socrates, how else would you account for the extraordinary similarity of the pose?
Socrates: I think the body was placed thus to lead us to your error, Mnesicles.
Mnesicles: Then . . . Where is Zeuxis?
For the first time they noticed that Zeuxis had slipped away. Parrhasius flushed with indignation, and Mnesicles began to wring his hands. Then he suddenly clapped his hands and blurted out: ‘Of course, of course! The sleeping Endymion! I’ll send my boy to fetch him!’
Socrates: It is not necessary, Mnesicles. I rather think he was too ill to stay. He’s probably outside the gates, waiting for us. It is not Zeuxis who is the murderer.
Mnesicles: How can you say that, Socrates?
Socrates: You will recall, Mnesicles, that when I first questioned them they both agreed they strive for true copies of men. If Parrhasius used a model for the tortured Marsyas, you may be sure the model was tortured. And likewise, if Zeuxis used a model for the sleeping Endymion, you may be equally sure the model would be sleeping. Neither of them needed a model for death.
Mnesicles: Then we are left with an unidentified slave killed for an unknown reason.
Socrates: Perhaps not. If we assume that neither artist gained by the death, may we not also say that they suffered from it?
Mnesicles: What do you mean, Socrates?
Socrates: Should either artist have been blamed for the murder, would the city punish the one and retain the other? Or, since they are working as a team, wouldn’t the entire project be discontinued?
Mnesicles: I suppose the scandal would cause the latter.
Socrates: And, with money left unspent that would have gone into the decoration of the unfinished Propylaea, do you suppose the city might authorize the completing of the structure itself? Indeed, Mnesicles, was that not your supposition when you killed your slave this evening?
Mnesicles backed toward the wall. Parrhasius moved toward him, fists clenched. ‘Confess!’ said the artist.
Mnesicles: Certainly not! It is all the slimmest of conjecture. None of you recognized the body as that of my slave!
Socra
tes: But a gentleman of your position does not enter the market place with only one attendant, Mnesicles. You ought to have sent this lad to fetch another.
Parrhasius: Yes, the boy here! I’ve no doubt you will need his help in this. Wait until he testifies!
Socrates glanced at the slave and then at Mnesicles. He touched his beard with a speculative gesture. ‘It is a pity,’ he said, ‘that our laws require that slaves be tortured to get their testimony – a pity we cannot confirm the truth without such means.’
Mnesicles looked affectionately at the sixteen-year-old who served him. The slave hunched his shoulders almost imperceptibly and pulled in his chin like a stubborn child awaiting a disciplinary blow. His eyes were frightened. He smiled crookedly at his master.
‘I will say nothing,’ he whispered bravely.
‘Will they make the boy testify,’ Mnesicles asked softly then, ‘if I confess?’
DEATH OF THE KING
Theodore Mathieson
Alexander the Great (356–323 BC) was the first Greek (or more properly Macedonian) leader who was interested in world domination, and he created the first major Mediterranean empire, stretching as far as the borders with India. Theodore Mathieson wrote a series of stories featuring famous historical characters as detectives. Called The Great Detectives it was published in 1960. In the opening story, which is reprinted here, Alexander the Great investigates his own death!
I, Jolas of Philippi, returned to Babylon on the first day of the month of Hecatombaeon bearing a heavy heart and fearing lest the word I carried from our homeland, Macedonia – whereunto I had gone at the express wish of my dearest friend Alexander – should make my king turn against me. I left the caravan, with which I had traveled so many weary stadia through the steppes of Asia, in the western part of the city, and crossing the Euphrates by means of the ferry, went at once to my house by the edge of the palace gardens.
From my servant Bessus, who was exeedingly glad to see me, I learned that the city had the previous day held a great festival to celebrate Alexander’s planned campaign against the coasts of Arabia. He was to leave Babylon in five days with the fleet under the command of Nearchus, and I knew I had come barely in time to tell the king my news.
With many sighs for what lay before me, I bathed briefly and put on clean garments and sandals, for the opportunities for bathing upon my journey had been few, and I knew that no matter how glad Alexander would be to see me again, except when he was upon the battlefield, he was most fastidious about the cleanliness of those about him.
I went then to the palace, passing the guards at Ishtar Gate who gave me familiar greeting, and ascended the steep stairway to the great terrace. There I learned the king was preparing for his bath, so upon the decision to surprise him I went at once to the lavacre, which was as yet deserted, although the warm water in the deep pool steamed invitingly in the evening air.
Sitting upon a bench beside the bath, surrounded by the paraphernalia for vigorous exercise, I played musingly with a ball until I heard footsteps, and then considering my activity unseemly in view of the portentous news I had to impart, I threw the ball aside.
Shortly thereafter Alexander himself entered with his attendants, and when he saw me, his joy was great.
‘My thoughts have been with you constantly, Jolas,’ said he, embracing me. ‘Since dear Hephaestion died, I have been quite lonely, and I waited eagerly for your return.’
Indeed, although Alexander was a big man, compared with myself who am slight but agile in the games, he was so well proportioned and carried himself with such grace that one felt not overwhelmed by his proximity. His features were strong and proud, with a fresh pink color to his skin that Apelles, who painted Alexander holding lightning in his hand, did not accurately reproduce, making him somewhat black and swarter than his face indeed was.
Alexander disrobed and descended the tile steps into the pool, where he swam as we talked casually and I told him of the rigors of the journey and its adventures, but did not touch upon the burden of my intelligence, which he seemed unwilling to hear knowledge of. Whenever our talk verged upon the serious he would start cavorting like an aquatic mammal, disappearing beneath the surface, and rising again to cough with the access of water into his mouth.
When he had done this thrice, I rose concerned and said, ‘Will you hear now what news I bear, Alexander?’
He looked reproachfully at me, but left the pool and, motioning away the attendants who came to anoint him with oil, put on his gown. Then he signaled me to follow him and we went to his chambers. There he dismissed his servants and stood looking at me with a frown.
‘Have you ill news for me about Antipater?’ he asked at last, with a flicker of suspicion in his eye. I knew Alexander feared the growing power of his regent in Macedonia; that was why he had sent me to discover how affairs went in the home country.
‘Not about Antipater,’ said I, ‘but from him. Antipater is loyal to you, Alexander, and governs as you would. But he sends this news: Leanarchus, governor of Phrygia, has engaged mercenaries and is occupied in plundering Thrace, and boasts of descending upon Macedonia itself!’
‘Cannot Antipater deal with this traitor as he deserves?’ Alexander demanded.
‘He has already put soldiers into the field against Leanarchus, and no doubt will be successful. But that is not the worst. Leanarchus, as you know is uncle of Medius, captain of your forces here in Babylon. It is upon Medius’ strategic skill that you will depend for conquest of Arabia. And yet, Antipater wishes to inform you that Leanarchus has spoken of his nephew’s desire to rule all Asia in your place. Leanarchus has hinted that Medius heads a plot to assassinate you. I prayed I would return in time to bear you this news.’
Alexander’s face and chest grew red, as they always do when he falls into a rage, and he turned upon me as if I were his adversary.
‘By the divine fury of Bacchus! I do not believe Antipater. I trust Medius! Together we have fought five years from the Hindu Kush to the Great Ocean. ’Twas he who saved me from death at the siege of Multan when I received this!’ Alexander touched the scar upon his breast. ‘With the help of Medius’ ingenuity we have rebuilt the phalanx, which we shall use with crushing effect against the Arabians. We have planned our victory side by side – he is like a very brother to me. I love him not less than I have loved you, Jolas – until you came to me with such impossible news!’
It was as I had feared. Alexander, my dearest friend, had turned against me at my words. I shrugged and made obeisance and turned to leave the chamber, but Alexander stopped me by smiting his hand into his palm.
‘Stay, Jolas,’ he said, less wildly. ‘You must give me time to think.’ But even as I turned there came a knock upon the door and Medius himself entered. He is a heavy-set plethoric man, with a weighty chin and a forehead that bulges aggressively over deep and canny eyes. Because Alexander favors me, Medius also shows a liking which I am sure he does not feel.
‘Welcome back to Babylon, Jolas,’ said he, touching me. ‘I come to fetch Alexander to a private drinking bout, but if he is willing, you must join us as well.’
‘Yes, dear Jolas,’ Alexander said with his customary affection. ‘Do join us. We drink again to the health of the gods but talk of the exaltation of mortals through the conquest of Arabia!’
‘Thank you, Alexander,’ I said, ‘but I am weary with many days of travel. With your permission I shall return home.’
‘Of course, you must be tired,’ Alexander said. ‘Come tomorrow at noonday, and we shall talk further of – Antipater.’
I bowed and left the chamber, and at my last look at Alexander he was frowning at Medius.
But Alexander did not wait until midday for my visit. Next morning as I stood upon my balcony watching the shadows vanish upon the terracotta bosom of the Euphrates, a messenger brought me a letter from him, telling me to put aside all business and hasten to his side at once, as he had urgent need of me.
I returned to the p
alace, and within the vast reception chamber – from whose windows one can see past the fertile greenery that lines the Euphrates into the blank desert beyond – I found Alexander lying upon a couch.
At once he arose and spake to his attendants, telling them to leave him, and when we were alone he sat upright upon the couch and with a sigh covered his face with his hands. When he drew them away I was shocked to see how ravaged was his visage, and wondered at his great will power that hid what must be intense suffering from the eyes of his court.
Then he stepped down from the dais and clapped his hands upon my shoulder.
‘Oh, thou bosom friend of Hephaestion, who once quarreled with him how much you loved me more than he, I need now your help in my extreme moment!’
His hand upon my shoulder burned with fever, and his words came in unsteady gusts, as if he drew breath with painful difficulty. I could see the gleam of fever behind the swart steadiness of his eye, and smell the good savor of his body which always clung like incense about him.
‘I am ever your faithful servant, dear Alexander,’ I said.
‘Yes, I trust you. And therefore you must know, and no one else – that I have been poisoned, and am dying.’
The fervent words that sprang to my lips he stemmed by upraised hand, while with the other he withdrew his ring with which he sealed his letters, and pressed it firmly against my lips.
‘Thus you must swear to keep silent,’ he said.
‘I swear,’ I said, when Alexander removed the seal.
‘Listen then, Jolas,’ spake my king, sinking in sudden lassitude upon the couch. ‘Last night, as you know, Medius came to carry me off to a drinking bout in Nearchus’ chambers in the palace. There were only four of us – Medius, Nearchus, Susa the Persian treasurer, and myself. The chamber was guarded without, and no one entered nor left the whole time; we poured wine for one another as we listed, and we quaffed greatly, for the wine was sweet. If I had not dulled my palate I would have complained sooner of the sudden bitter cup that was poured me, but it was near daybreak and my senses were lulled; as it was, I drained it all but a third, and then remembering with a sudden stab what you had said, I demanded to know why I was served bitter vintage, and cried treason in my cup. Nearchus said he had served me, and that I did but taste the dregs of the flagon. Medius, whom I accused, picked up the very cup and himself drained the remainder. That calmed me, and I forgot my accusations until this morning. But while I knelt at the sacrifice within the temple, I felt a flush come over me, and later when I tried to write in my journal, I felt weak and faint. I knew then that I had been poisoned.’
