by J M Alvey
‘Quite so,’ Aristarchos agreed. ‘Which gives me plenty of time to secure all the votes I could possibly need to condemn your son. All those tradesmen and craftsmen I mentioned? Athens has what, thirty thousand citizens? Let’s say so, for the sake of argument. I’m sure we can persuade six thousand of them to turn out to make sure that he’s exiled. They’ll have no time for you either, after they’ve heard about your family’s plot to monopolise the leather trade. Then there are your son’s cronies’ promises to help Metrobios get the same stranglehold on carpenters and joiners.’
Kalliphon and Pamphilos had confirmed that.
‘You’re putting your trust in artisans?’ Megakles sneered. ‘The well-born—’
‘Let’s say a thousand men in Athens are wealthy enough to be called upon to finance festivals and triremes. Maybe fifteen hundred?’ Aristarchos leaned forward. ‘You think that you can convince them to vote to exile someone else in hopes of saving Nikandros? They’re more likely to vote against him, and to make sure their sons and brothers and nephews do the same, once they learn how you and he have hoarded your family silver abroad in order to shirk your share of such obligations to our city.’
Because that’s the thing about ostracism, as we’d explained to the Pargasarenes. They’d heard of the custom, obviously, but it turned out they were vague on the detail.
A case for ostracism doesn’t have to be argued before a jury. There is no burden of proof. There simply have to be enough votes cast by the People’s Assembly, declaring that it’s in the city’s best interests to send a known troublemaker into exile. Since there are generally a few candidates who’ve made themselves sufficiently unpopular, a second vote is held to choose which particular man to condemn.
‘Athens’ citizens, from highest to lowest, won’t even have to bring their own potsherds. We’ll supply everyone who wants one a token with Nikandros’s name on it.’ Aristarchos gestured at the heap. ‘Though of course they might choose to condemn you instead. No father can truly be innocent of his son’s crimes.’
Megakles was sweating now, sickly pale. He couldn’t drag his eyes away from the broken pottery. I silently acknowledged that Aristarchos had been right. He’d insisted that uttering this threat wouldn’t be enough. We needed to make his son’s peril too real for Megakles to ignore.
So Menkaure and Kadous had loaded a handcart with discards and breakages from the alley behind the workshop. We’d been up since dawn sitting alongside Aristarchos’s slaves, all laboriously scratching Nikandros’s name onto shard after shard after shard. Not that there were six thousand pieces to condemn him here, but we didn’t imagine Megakles would count them.
‘Of course, someone else may decide to level charges of treason at one or both of you,’ Aristarchos mused, ‘once they have heard the case for your son’s exile. Especially once they’ve heard these Ionians’ evidence.’
That was the Pargasarenes’ cue. Tur was the first to appear through the archway, as quick as a hound after a hare. Sarkuk and Azamis followed while Lydis and Mus fetched their stools. Aristarchos welcomed them with a courteous nod.
‘Our friends here will investigate Gorgias’s rabble-rousing in every town and village he visited calling himself Archilochos. He was there at your son’s instigation. If our fellow citizens choose to condemn such treachery before the courts, Nikandros won’t be choosing some comfortable city to wait out ten years of exile.’
Aristarchos remorselessly outlined the worse fate that threatened Nikandros.
‘He’ll be sent to the city’s executioner and I don’t imagine you’ll be permitted to buy him a kindly cup of hemlock. Not when everyone learns that you can afford it because you’ve conspired to avoid paying what you owe to this city. How do you suppose it will feel, to lie shackled hand and foot to a wooden board, while the strangling collar is tightened? Do you think he’ll still be conscious when he’s cast out beyond the city walls with the executioner watching over him until he finally dies?’
Megakles looked as if he was about to pass out. He collapsed onto his stool, barely managing not to slide off it and onto the floor. ‘He barely clings to life as it is. You accuse him when he lies so grievously injured? When he cannot defend himself?’
‘Then what will you do to save him? What will you do for your wife and daughters? If your son is exiled or executed, your death will leave them at the mercy of whichever relatives claim your property is forfeit by Nikandros’s disgrace.’
Megakles stared at Aristarchos. He tried to speak, only to cough and try again. ‘What can I—?’
‘Lydis?’
Aristarchos’s slave promptly handed Megakles a list of the plotters we’d identified so far.
The desperate man waved the papyrus, whey-faced. ‘I can’t put a stop to all this! Exiling me or my son won’t end it! Even if you called for an ostracism every year, you can only get rid of us one at a time!’
‘I need only to cut the head off this snake,’ Aristarchos told him with implacable menace. ‘That will be example enough. Your son’s exile, or your own if he dies, will leave everyone on that list desperate not to be the next man accused. No one will stand by your family once you’ve been disgraced, not when they realise your crimes implicate them. Far from it. They’ll be the first to condemn you, long and loud, to save their own necks from the strangler. They’ll be calling on Glaukias and every other writer for hire, paying fistfuls of silver for speeches to explain how grievously the Kerykeds misled them.’
Megakles choked on his despair and buried his face in his hands. Silence filled the courtyard like the threat of a summer storm.
Aristarchos threw him a lifeline. ‘You were going to ask me what you can do? Stop aiding this conspiracy. Stop supporting Gorgias. Turn him out of that house in Limnai and withdraw whatever help you’ve given him abroad. Stop allowing your son’s fellow plotters to use your house and hospitality to lure greedy men into their schemes. Stop buying all the hides from the temples and ensure your tanneries deal fairly with the city’s leather workers.’
Megakles’s expression veered from precarious hope to dismay and back again. ‘But they will—’
‘Nikandros and his conspirators? What will they do?’ Aristarchos challenged. ‘Run to the Archons and complain that you’ve thought better of a scheme to undermine this city’s peace and stability? That you’ve repented of your part in a plot to bring down the entire Delian League, for no more honourable goal than making you and your rich friends still richer?
‘Point out how much trouble you could make for them, far more than they could ever make for you,’ he advised. ‘Make sure that they know you’ve left sealed records of vital evidence with trustworthy allies, to be delivered straight to the Archons, if anything untoward happens to you or your household.
‘That’s what I have done,’ he added, ‘in case you get any ideas about sending some wrestlers to beat out my brains in a dark alley, or paying them to silence anyone else.’ He gestured at the rest of us.
‘I don’t…’ Megakles’s bemusement convinced me he knew nothing about Iktinos, but he abandoned all protest as pointless.
Aristarchos studied him for a long moment until the fat man hung his head, a guilty blush restoring his florid complexion.
‘Most importantly,’ Aristarchos continued, ‘you will not say a word in opposition when a proposal comes before the People’s Assembly next month to make an unscheduled reassessment of our allies’ contributions to the Delian League’s treasury. You will convince all the men on that list to stay silent as well. This review will happen at the forthcoming Panathenaia, to ease their burdens before the scheduled reassessment the year after.’
Megakles didn’t look up. ‘And then?’ he asked in a hollow voice.
‘Then I will burn the bushel-baskets of evidence that I’ve gathered,’ Aristarchos said calmly. ‘Though a denunciation will go to the Archons if anyone here dies a suspicious death, and the records that will prove it most assuredly remain.’
‘Will you s
wear it?’ Megakles rubbed a hand over moistly glistening jowls. ‘And to leave my son alone, if he lives?’
‘On whatever altar and by whichever gods you wish,’ Aristarchos promised.
Megakles didn’t reply. He lurched to his feet and headed for the courtyard gate. Mus opened it to let him stumble out onto the street.
‘Lydis?’ Aristarchos’s nod sent the slave after the fat man. ‘Not that he’d notice a hoplite phalanx in full panoply following him at the moment,’ he observed. ‘But I think we should know where he goes.’
‘Can we be certain that he will yield?’ wondered Sarkuk.
I wasn’t sure who the Carian was talking to, so stayed quiet. It wasn’t as though I had an answer. I had no idea what Megakles would do now.
Aristarchos was more confident. ‘I believe he will.’
‘And the rest of our enemies?’ the Pargasarene persisted.
‘Once they learn that we’re ready to use ostracism against them?’ Aristarchos smiled with thin satisfaction. ‘They’ll scatter like cockroaches when someone opens a storeroom door. No one will want to be the last to hide, so slow that they get stamped on.’
‘Will you truly destroy the evidence?’ I hated to think of our hard work going up in flames.
‘If he remembers to ask me to swear to it.’ Aristarchos grinned, as mischievous as one of my nephews. ‘If I do burn it, what’s been discovered once can always be recorded a second time with newly sworn testimony. Lydis has an excellent memory, I can assure you.’
‘What are we to say to Xandyberis’s family?’ Azamis asked quietly.
‘Is Nikandros not to answer for that murder, when he’s as guilty as the man who wielded the knife?’ Sarkuk reached for his father’s hand.
For the first time Aristarchos’s composure faltered. ‘I fear that no good could come of publicly accusing him. He will simply blame Iktinos, and a dead man cannot answer back.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Indeed, an accusation might well do more harm than good. As things stand, I believe this conspiracy will fall apart without Nikandros. Megakles will see to that, if only to save his own skin. But it will be months before the ill feeling that these plotters stirred up finally fades away. If we haul Nikandros into court for this murder, then the city’s outraged Ionians will learn that one of their own was foully murdered. Meantime, too many Athenian citizens will feel insulted and unjustly accused for the deeds of a selfish few. The strife that these plotters were hoping for might still boil over, without anyone stoking the fire.’
Tur looked mutinous, cradling his bandaged arm. ‘We owe a duty to Tarhunzas—’
‘You heard what Megakles said.’ I appealed to the older Carians. ‘Nikandros lies at the very threshold to the Underworld. Surely we can leave him to the gods and goddesses of the dead? They can pass more certain judgement than any court ordained by men. If he dies, that’s divine retribution. If he awakens, his penance is assured, lifelong.’
‘I will see to that,’ Aristarchos promised.
Sarkuk spoke to his son in their own language, more sorrowful than rebuking.
Tur bit his lip and subsided. Azamis stared up at the sky, blinking rapidly as he fought back tears.
Sarkuk rose and bowed formally to Aristarchos. ‘I must thank you, on behalf of Pargasa’s council, for all that you have done.’
‘I should apologise, on behalf of all honest Athenians, for the troubles that have beset you and yours. There’s no recompense I can offer you for the grief of a loss that’s beyond mending.’ Aristarchos’s regret was heartfelt.
I looked up at the cloudless blue sky. There was no crack of thunder, no haunting cry of a wheeling eagle to indicate he’d been heard, but I felt certain that the gods above and below would bear witness to what we’d done here. Now I had one last duty to discharge, at Zosime’s insistence.
‘Please,’ I invited the Carians, ‘come back to Alopeke with me. I would like to offer you my household’s hospitality today, so that we might all remember each other in happier circumstances before you travel home.’
After their initial surprise, Azamis and Sarkuk agreed. Tur didn’t get a say. Aristarchos sent Ambrakis back with us, not as a bodyguard but to carry an amphora of very fine wine.
Zosime and Menkaure were waiting and we celebrated confounding the plotters and a measure of justice for Xandyberis with a long afternoon and evening of good food and companionable drinking as my beloved, her father and the Pargasarenes swapped traveller’s tales.
I finally learned that Tarhunzas is the Carians’ thunder god, when Menkaure and Sarkuk discussed the temples they’d visited in distant lands and cities. They both assured me that Egypt has monuments to outstrip whatever magnificence Pericles has planned for the Acropolis.
Some day, I decided, I really must travel beyond Boeotia. Even the Carian boy Tur had seen more of the world than me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
We met in the city cemetery to say our farewells to the Carians. In the field where travellers are buried, Zosime and I watched from a polite distance while Azamis poured oil onto Xandyberis’s grave. He used the black-footed white flask that she’d painted for them. It was one of her finest pieces.
Azamis handed the flask to his son and stood with his head bowed. Sarkuk poured his own libation, reciting prayers for the dead in the Carian tongue. Tur stood beside them, still unpleasantly flushed from the fever that had seized him in the days since he was wounded.
That had delayed their planned departure, but now they were due to sail. Spintharos had finally pronounced the wound free from festering and agreed there was no longer any danger of Tur losing his arm to save his life. Zosime and I had sacrificed a cockerel in gratitude to Asclepios this very morning.
‘Good day.’ Aristarchos arrived at my side, carrying a libation flask of his own. Lydis was a few paces behind him.
‘Good morning,’ I said quietly, careful not to disturb the Carians’ rites.
‘Nikandros has woken up.’ Aristarchos spoke just as softly. ‘His wits don’t seem to be addled, or any more so than they were before that knock on the head.’
‘Good.’ I was glad to hear it. ‘Has he admitted to lying about those loans?’
Aristarchos nodded. ‘Though he claims to know nothing about the source of Iktinos’s silver.’
‘I imagine he took care not to know. He wouldn’t want inconvenient knowledge getting in the way of his profits.’ I didn’t hide my contempt.
‘I want to know,’ Aristarchos said grimly. ‘Whoever did this is a heinous enemy and a mortal foe of Athens.’
‘We’d be fools to assume this setback will make them give up,’ I agreed. ‘Perhaps Nikandros can tell us more about Iktinos himself.’
We hadn’t been able to find the dead man’s family. No one had ever heard him mention which voting tribe or district brotherhood he belonged to. Remembering how he had insisted Nikandros was a citizen without ever claiming such protection for himself, we were starting to wonder if Iktinos was even an Athenian. As to what had happened to any hoard of coin when he died, that remained a mystery.
‘You couldn’t learn anything from his belt?’ Aristarchos prompted.
Hoping for some clue, I’d persuaded the Scythians to let me examine Iktinos’s body. His belt was sufficiently unfamiliar that I’d taken it to Epikrates to see if the wizened slave could identify where it was made.
‘It’s Peloponnesian, though whether it’s Corinthian, Argive or Spartan, Epikrates can’t say.’ I shrugged. ‘And of course, he could have simply bought it in any of those places when he was passing through.’
Aristarchos grunted. ‘On his way here, intent on doing Athens harm, with that fat purse he got from someone who wishes our city ill.’
I nodded agreement. ‘Where there’s one rat, there are ten that you’ll never see, ready to plunder and foul your stores.’
‘So we must keep an eye out for more vermin.’
‘We certainly shall.’ I shared Aristarchos’s conviction that some
enemy of Athens had enlisted Iktinos to seduce Nikandros into treachery, using the boy to plant the seeds of conspiracy in the fertile imaginations of greedy and selfish men.
He went on, low-voiced. ‘Kallinos has made his report to the Polemarch. He considers Xandyberis’s case closed with Iktinos’s death, as we anticipated. He sees no realistic prospect of a conviction, even if someone brought a case against Nikandros. The boy will simply say that he had no reason to think that murder would be done.’
‘I’m sure Glaukias would write him some powerful self-justification.’ I found I wasn’t sorry. I had no wish to stand up in court and try to explain the bloody events in my courtyard. Besides, there had been enough death. Spending half a morning with Iktinos’s corpse convinced me of that. I was content to leave Nikandros to face divine justice.
Aristarchos slid me a sideways look. ‘Lydis tells me Megakles swears, by Athena and Apollo, that as soon as Nikandros leaves his sickbed he will spend his days at the Academy, only going to lectures and to the training grounds. When he’s not there, he’ll be at home, busy with further reading and reflection. This will be his offering to repay the gods for saving his foolish life.’
‘May his studies prosper.’ I spoke more out of respect for Athena than any hope of Nikandros learning lasting wisdom.
‘Hipparchos had better prove equally industrious when he returns to the city, though he will be studying at the Lyceum. He should make a better class of friends there,’ Aristarchos said acidly, ‘whatever his mother may think of their lineage.’
To my surprise, he hesitated. What he said next startled me even more.
‘I would be grateful if you’d allow Hipparchos to observe you working on my speeches for the People’s Assembly, in favour of the Delian League tribute reassessment. Show him how you use the Carians’ evidence as the basis for our case. How you anticipate and counter the arguments you expect will be raised against us.’
‘Of course.’ I could afford to play tutor while he was paying me so handsomely. Besides, Hipparchos’s offences had been in a different league to Nikandros’s conspiracy. Aristarchos’s son had been arrogant and gullible but if those were ever called crimes, half the young men in Hellas would be driven into exile.
