The Athenian Murders (28 page)

'- Eumarchus threatens him. And then -'

'It means to teach. It is a sacred duty!'

'- they fight, and Eumarchus falls, of course -'

'To teach means to mould souls!'

- perhaps Antisus tries to protect Eumarchus -'

'A good tutor knows his students!'

'... Very well, but then, why mutilate them?'

'If not, then why teach?'

'I've made a mistake.'

'I've made a mistake!'

They stopped. Anxious, disconcerted, they looked at each other for a moment, as if each was what the other needed most urgently at that moment. Heracles seemed to have aged. He said, incredibly slowly: 'Diagoras ... I confess that I've been as clumsy as a cow in this entire matter. My mind has never felt so heavy or awkward. What I find most surprising is that events possessed a certain logic, and my explanation was, on the whole, satisfactory but. . . certain details . . . very few, admittedly, but... I'd like some time to ponder things. I won't charge you for it.'

Diagoras placed his hands on the Decipherer's sturdy shoulders. Looking straight into his eyes, he said: 'Heracles, we've reached the end.' He paused and repeated slowly, as if to a child: 'We've reached the end. It's been a long and difficult journey. But here we are. Give your brain a rest. I, for my part, will try to ensure that my soul finds tranquillity.'

The Decipherer jerked away from Diagoras and set off up the street. He seemed to remember something and turned back to the philosopher. 'I'm going to shut myself away at home to think,' he said. 'I'll let you know if I have any news.'

And before Diagoras could stop him, he slipped into the furrows of the slow, heavy crowd moving along the street, drawn by the tragedy.

Some said it happened too fast. But most felt it had all been very slow. Perhaps it was the slowness of the fast, which is how things seem when wished for fervently, but nobody said so.

It happened before the evening shadows showed themselves, well before the metic merchants closed their shops and the priests in the temples raised their knives for the final sacrifices. Nobody noticed the exact time, but general opinion held that it took place in the hours after midday when, heavy with light, the sun begins its descent. Soldiers were mounting guard at the Gates, but it didn't happen there. Or in the outhouses, where some searched, thinking they might find him, crouched trembling in a corner like a hungry rat. In fact, events unfolded in an orderly manner, in a busy street lined with new potters' workshops.

A question was making its way down the street, clumsily but inexorably, with slow resolve, from mouth to mouth: 'Have you seen Menaechmus, the sculptor from the Ceramicus?'

Like the most fleeting of religions, the question drew recruits who, once converted, carried it proudly. Some - those who thought they knew where the answer might be - stopped along the way . . . Wait, we haven't looked in this house! Let's stop and ask this old man! I won't be long, I'm just going to see if I'm right! More sceptical, others wouldn't join the new faith; they thought the question would be better phrased as: 'Have you seen the man whom you've never seen and will never see, for as we speak he's already far away?' And they shook their heads slowly and smiled, thinking: You're a fool if you think Menaechmus is simply waiting to be ...

And yet, the question moved forward.

Just then, its shambling, devastating path took it to the tiny shop of a metic potter. 'Of course I've seen Menaechmus,' said a man absent-mindedly surveying the potter's wares.

By now accustomed to hearing the same answer, the man who had asked the question was going to ignore him, but then suddenly seemed to bump into an invisible wall. He turned and saw a weather-beaten, placidly furrowed face, a sparse, untidy beard and locks of grey hair.

'You say you've seen Menaechmus?' he asked eagerly. 'Where?'

The man replied: 'I am Menaechmus.'

They say he was smiling. No, he wasn't. I swear by owl-eyed Athena, Harpalus, he was smiling! And I swear by the black river Styx that he wasn't! Were you near him? As near as I am to you now, and he wasn't smiling - he was making a face! He was smiling, I saw him, too; when several of you grabbed him by the arms, he was smiling, I swear by ... It was a grimace, you fool; he did this with his mouth! Do I look like I'm smiling? You look like an idiot. But, by the god of truth, how could he possibly smile, knowing what awaits him? If he knows, why did he give himself up instead of fleeing the City?

The question had spawned many young, all of them deformed, dying, dead by nightfall...

The Decipherer of Enigmas sat at his desk, resting his fat cheek on his hand, deep in thought.
⁷⁶

⁷⁶
This is how I like to sit. In fact, I've only just changed position, in order to start work. The parallel is appropriate here, I feel, because in this chapter things seems to happen twice, occurring simultaneously to different characters. This must be a subtle way of emphasising the eidesis - oxen walk along side by s
ide, yoked together. (T
.'s N.)

Yasintra entered without a sound. He looked up and found her standing in the doorway, surrounded by shadows. She wore a long
peplos
pinned on her right shoulder with a fibula. Her left breast, brushed lightly by the edge of the cloth, was almost entirely bared.
⁷⁷
'Please carry on, I don't want to disturb you,' said Yasintra, in her manly voice.

Heracles didn't seem disturbed. 'What do you want?' he asked.
⁷⁸

'Don't stop working. It looks so important.'

Heracles didn't know if she was making fun of him (he found it difficult to tell - to him, all women were masks). He watched her as she came slowly towards him, at ease in the darkness.

'What do you want?' he repeated.
⁷⁹

She shrugged. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she moved her body close to his. 'How can you sit for so long in the dark?' she asked curiously.

⁷⁷
I'm now convinced that my jailer is completely insane. I was about to translate this paragraph when I looked up and found him standing there, just as Heracles does Yasintra. He'd come in without making a sound. He looked quite ridiculous: he was wearing a long black cloak, a mask and a straggly wig. The mask was female, but
the voice and hands were those of an old man. And, as I found when I proceeded with the translation, he said and did
exactly the same
as Yasintra
in this section (he spoke in the same language as me, his words a precise translation of hers). I'll note down only
my
answers, therefore, after Heracles'.
(
T.'s
N.)

⁷⁸
'Who are you?' I asked.
(
T.'s
N.)

⁷⁹
I don't think I said anything at this point.
(T
.'s N
.)

'I'm thinking’
said Heracles. 'The darkness helps me think.'
⁸⁰

'Would you like me to give you a massage?'she whispered.

Heracles stared at her and said nothing.
⁸¹

She held out her hands.

'Leave me alone’
said Heracles.
⁸²

'I
just want to give you a massage’
she whispered, playfully.

'No. Leave me alone.'
⁸³

Yasintra stopped. 'I want to give you pleasure,' she breathed. 'Why?' asked Heracles.
⁸⁴

'I owe you a favour,' she said. 'I'd like to repay you.'

'Please, it's not necessary'
⁸⁵

'I'm lonely, too. But I can make you happy, I can assure you.'

Heracles stared at her. Her face was expressionless.

'If you want to make me happy, leave me alone,' he said.
⁸⁶

She sighed and shrugged again. 'Would you like something to eat? Or drink?' she asked.

'I don't want anything.
⁸⁷

⁸⁰
'But I don't want to be in the dark!' I cried. 'And you're the one
who's locked me in here!' (T.'s
N
.)

⁸¹
'A ... massage? Are you mad?'(T.'s N.)

⁸²
'Get away from me!' I shrieked, jumping up. (T.'s N.)

⁸³
'Don't touch me!' I think I said here, I'm not sure. (T
.'s N.

⁸⁴
'You're . . . completely insane’ I said, horrified.
('
T
's
N.)

⁸⁵
'Favour? What favour? Translating the book?'
(T
.'s N.)

⁸⁶
'If you want to make me happy, let me out!'
(
T.'s
N.)

⁸⁷
'Yes! I'm hungry! And thirsty!'
(
T.'s N
.)

Yasintra turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway. 'Call me if you need anything,' she said. 'I will. Now go away.'
⁸⁸

'You just have to call, and I'll come.' 'Go away!'
⁸⁹

The door closed. The room was in darkness once more.
⁹⁰

⁸⁸
'Wait, please, don't go!' I cried, suddenly anxious. (T.'s
N
.)

⁸⁹
'don't go
!' (T.'sN.)

⁹⁰
'No!' I yelled, and started crying.

I've calmed down now. I've been wondering what on earth my kidnapper thought he was doing. Showing me how well he knows the novel? Letting me know that he's keeping tabs on the progress of the translation? I know one thing for sure - I'm in the hands of an old
madman!
.
Protect me, O Greek gods! (T.'s N.)

IX

As the crimes attributed to Menaechmus, son of Lacos, of the
deme
of Carisio, were crimes of blood - of 'flesh', some called them - the trial was held at the Areopagus, the court on the Hill of Ares, one of the most venerable institutions in the City. Once, the sumptuous decisions of government had been prepared within its marble structure, but with Solon's and Cleisthenes' reforms, it was reduced to a simple tribunal for murder cases, offering its customers only the death sentence, loss of rights or ostracism. Athenians, therefore, felt no pride at the sight of the white tiers, severe columns and archons' high podium facing an incense-burner as round as a plate, containing fragrant herbs burning in honour of Athena, their scent, some claimed, vaguely reminiscent of roasted human flesh. Modest banquets were, however, sometimes held there at the expense of high-ranking defendants.

The trial of Menaechmus, son of Lacos, of the
deme
of Carisio, had aroused great interest. This was because of the noble birth of the victims and the sordid nature of the crimes,
rather than Menaechmus himself, who was, after all, just one more heir of Phidias and Praxiteles earning a living by selling his work, as one sells meat, to aristocratic patrons.

Soon, following the herald's strident announcement, not a single empty seat remained on the historical tiers. Most of the hungry crowd consisted of metics and Athenians belonging to the guild of sculptors and potters, together with poets and soldiers, though there were, too, fair numbers of the merely curious.

Eyes grew as wide as saucers and there were murmurs of approval as the soldiers brought in the accused with his wrists bound. Lean but robust, solid, Menaechmus, son of Lacos, of
the
deme
of Carisio, puffed out his chest and held his grizzled head high, as if about to receive not a sentence but a military honour. He listened calmly to the succulent list of accusations and, as was his right, remained silent when the speaker archon called upon him to correct the charges against him as he thought appropriate. Will you speak, Menaechmus? Nothing, not even a yes or a no. He continued to puff out his chest, as obstinately proud as a peacock. Would he plead guilty? Not guilty? Did he have some terrible secret that he intended to reveal at the end?