The Athenian Murders (29 page)

Witnesses filed past. His neighbours offered a tasty preamble by describing the youths, mostly vagabonds and slaves, who frequented the workshop under the pretext of posing for his statues. They referred to his night-time activities - the piquant cries, the greedy grunts, the bittersweet smell of the orgies, the daily half-dozen ephebes as naked and white as cream cakes. Many stomachs clenched on hearing such statements. Several poets then declared that Menaechmus was a good citizen and an even better writer, who had tried painstakingly to revive the
ancient formula for Greek theatre. But since they were as dull artists as the man they praised, the archons ignored their testimony.

It was now time to hear of the butchery - attention was drawn to the bloody trimmings, the sliced flesh, the deliquescing viscera, the crude reality of the bodies. The captain of the border guard who had found Tramachus spoke; the
astynomi
who had discovered Euneos' and Antisus' bodies gave their opinion. Questioning revealed an array of remains; imagination seasoned a corpse with chunks of limbs, faces, hands, tongues, loins and bellies. At last, at midday, beneath the roasting dominions of the Sun's steeds, the dark figure of Diagoras, son of Iampsachus, of the
deme
of Mardontes, climbed the stairs to the podium. There was deep silence - all were waiting with ravenous impatience for what they knew would be the principal testimony for the prosecution. Diagoras, son of Iampsachus, of the
deme
of Mardontes, did not disappoint them: his answers were firm, his diction impeccable, his exposition of the facts honest; his assessment of those facts was cautious, with a slightly bitter aftertaste, a little harsh at times, but in general satisfactory. As he spoke he looked up not at the tiers, where Plato and some of his colleagues sat, but at the archons' podium. The judges, however, seemed to be paying little attention, as if they had already decided upon a verdict, and Diagoras' testimony was merely an appetiser.

At the hour when hunger begins to importune the flesh, the king archon decided that the court had heard enough. With the courteous indifference of a horse, he turned his limpid blue gaze towards the accused. 'Menaechmus, son of Lacos, of the
deme
of Carisio, this court grants you the right to defend yourself, if you so wish.'

And suddenly, in the circular Areopagus, with its columns, burner of fragrant incense and podium, there was a single point of focus upon which the gluttonous gazes of the spectators converged: the sculptor's roughly drawn face, his dark flesh scored by age, his blinking eyes and his head sprinkled with grey hair.

In the hungry silence, as during a libation before a banquet, Menaechmus, son of Lacos, of the
deme
of Carisio, opened his mouth and slowly licked his dry lips.

And he smiled.
⁹¹

⁹¹
And the spectators ate him. The description of Menaechmus' trial bears the eidetic overlay of a banquet at which the sculptor is the main course. I'm not sure yet to which Labour it refers, but I have my suspicions. The fact is the eides
is is making my mouth water. (T
.'s N.)

It was a woman's mouth - her teeth, her burning breath. He knew that the mouth could bite, eat, devour, but what worried him just then was the beating heart grasped by an unknown hand. He wasn't bothered by the slowly searching female lips (for it was a female, rather than a woman), her teeth running over his skin, for part of him (only part) found such caresses pleasant. But the heart... the moist, throbbing flesh gripped by strong fingers . . . He had to find out what was beyond it, and to whom the thick shadow lurking at the edge of his vision belonged. Because the arm wasn't floating in mid-air, he knew that now. The arm was attached to a figure that appeared and disappeared, like the body of the moon in its different phases. Now ... a little ... he could almost see an entire shoulder, a ... A soldier, in the distance, was issuing orders, or clarifying something. The voice was familiar, but he couldn't quite make out the words. Yet
they were so important! Someth
ing else was bothering him: flying caused a pressure on the chest. He must remember that for future investigations. Pressure, yes, and a pleasurable feeling in the most sensitive places. Flying was enjoyable, despite the gently nibbling mouth, the relaxing of one's flesh ...

He woke up. The shadow was sitting on top of him. He thrust it aside furiously. He remembered that in some cultures a nightmare was a monster with a mare's head and woman's body that rested its naked buttocks on the sleeper's chest, whispering bitter words into his ear before devouring him. There was a confusion of bedclothes, taut flesh, intertwined limbs, moans. It was so dark! So dark!

'No, no, calm down.'

'What... Who ...'

'Hush. It was a dream.'

'Hagesikora?'

'No.'

He was shaking. He recognised his own body, lying on its back in his own bed in what was still (he knew it now) his own bedroom. Everything was as it should be, except for the warm, naked flesh moving beside him like a strong, restless colt. He yawned. His reason lit a candle in his head and, with a jolt, he began a new day.

'Yasintra?' he realised.

'Yes.'

Heracles sat up, the bands of muscle round his belly tense, as if he had just finished eating, and rubbed his eyes. 'What are you doing here?'

She didn't answer. He felt her move, warm and moist, as if her flesh were exuding juices. Suddenly the bed dipped in several places and he lost his balance. He heard thuds and the unmistakable slap of bare feet upon the floor. 'Where are you going?' he asked.

'Don't you want me to light a lamp?'

He heard scratches as the flint was struck. She knows where I leave the lamp at night and where to find the flint, he thought, storing the information somewhere in his vast mental library. Soon after, her body appeared before him, half of the flesh smeared with honey in the lamplight. He would hesitate to describe her as naked. He had, in fact, never seen a woman so utterly naked - without makeup, or jewels, or the protection of dressed hair, stripped even of the fragile, but effective, tunic of modesty. Quite naked. Raw even, he thought, like a piece of meat thrown on the floor.

'Forgive me, I beg you,' said Yasintra. There was not a trace of anxiety in her boyish voice at the possibility that he might not forgive her. 'I heard you moaning from my room. You seemed to be suffering. I simply wanted to wake you.'

'It was a bad dream,' said Heracles. 'A nightmare I've been having recently.'

'The gods speak to us through recurring dreams.'

'I don't believe that. It's illogical. Dreams can't be explained. They're simply random images that we create ourselves.'

She said nothing.

Heracles thought of calling Ponsica, but remembered that she had requested permission the previous evening to go to Eleusis, for a meeting of worshippers of the Sacred Mysteries. So he was alone in the house with the hetaera.

'Would you like to wash?' she asked. 'Shall I bring you a bowl?'

'No.'

Suddenly, Yasintra asked: 'Who is Hagesikora?'

For a moment Heracles stared at her blankly. Then he said: 'Did I call out her name in my sleep?'

'Yes. And the name Itys. You thought I was both of them.'

'Hagesikora was my wife,' said Heracles. 'She fell ill and died some time ago. We had no children.' He paused, and added in the same didactic tone, as if reciting a boring lesson: 'Itys is an old friend . . . Strange that I called out both names. But, as I said, dreams have no meaning.'

There was a silence. The girl was now lit from below, the lamplight disguising her nakedness - a wavering black harness covered her breasts and pubis; fine straps ran over her lips, brows and eyelids. Heracles scrutinised the hetaera avidly for a moment, trying to find what lay beneath the surface other than blood and muscles. How different she was from his lamented Hagesikora!

Yasintra said: 'I'll go now, unless there's anything you want.'

'Is there long to go before dawn?' he asked.

'No. The colour of the night is grey'

'The colour of the night is grey,' Heracles repeated to himself. 'A remark worthy of the creature.'

'Leave the lamp on, then,' he said.

'Very well. May the gods grant you rest.'

He thought: Yesterday she said, 'I owe you a favour.' But why is she forcing such payment on me? Did I really feel
her
mouth
on ...
Or did I dream it? 'Yasintra.'

'What?'

There was not the slightest trace of hope or longing in her voice, and (oh, the all-consuming pride of men!) he felt pained. And it pained him that he was pained. She had simply stopped and looked round, turning her naked gaze upon him as she said, 'What?'

'Menaechmus has been arrested for the murder of another ephebe. His trial is taking place today at the Areopagus. You no longer have anything to fear from him.' And, after a pause, he added: 'I thought you'd like to know.'

'Yes,' she said.

The door creaked as it closed behind her, echoing the sound: 'Yes.'

He remained in bed all morning. In the afternoon, he rose, dressed, devoured an entire bowl of figs, and decided to go for a walk. He didn't even bother to find out whether Yas
intra was still in
the small guest room, or whether she had already left, without saying goodbye. Her door was closed and, anyway, Heracles didn't mind leaving her alone in the house, for he didn't believe her to be a thief, or even a bad woman. He walked unhurriedly to the Agora and, once there, came across several men he knew and many more he did not. He preferred to inquire of the latter.

'The sculptor's trial?' said a man, with tanned skin and the look of a satyr spying upon nymphs. 'By Zeus! Don't you know? In the entire City there's talk of nothing else!'

Heracles shrugged apologetically.

The man added, baring huge teeth: 'He's been condemned
to the
barathrum.
He
confessed.'

'He confessed?' repeated Heracles. 'He did.'

'To all the crimes?'

'Yes. It was just as noble Diagoras said. He's guilty of the murders of the three youths and the old pedagogue. And he confessed before everyone, with a smile: 'I'm guilty!', or something similar. The crowd was astounded by his audacity, and with reason!' The man's faun-like face grew darker still as he added: 'By Apollo
, the
barathrum
is too good for the scoundrel! For once I agree with what the women are calling for
!' 'What are they calling for?'

'A delegation of wives of the
prytaneis
has requested that the archon have Menaechmus tortured before he is killed.'

'Flesh. They want flesh,' said the man, with whom the faun had been talking before Heracles interrupted. He was short and sturdy, with broad shoulders, his head and chin lightly seasoned with blond hair.
⁹²

⁹²
The frequent culinary metaphors, and metaphors relating to 'horses', allude eidetically to the Labour of the Mares of Diomedes. As everyone knows, they ate human flesh and devoured their own master. I'm not sure whether the 'wives of the
prytaneis'
who 'want flesh' are meant to represent the mares. It's a rather irrever
ent comparison if they are. (T
.'s
N
.)

The faun nodded and again bared horselike teeth.

'I'd give them what they want, if only this once! Those poor innocent ephebes! Don't you think . . .' He turned towards Heracles, but found empty space.

The Decipherer was walking away, clumsily avoiding the people who stood chatting in the square. He felt dazed, almost dizzy, as if he'd been asleep for a long time and had awoken in a city he didn't know. But as his thoughts raced on, the charioteer in his brain kept a tight grip on the reins. What was going on? He was beginning to see something illogical in all this. Or maybe it had never been logical, and only now was the mistake becoming apparent...

He thought of Menaechmus. He saw him in the forest, beating Tramachus until he was dead or unconscious, leaving him to be devoured by wild beasts. He saw him

murdering Euneos and, out of fear or prudence, mutilating and disguising the corpse to hide his crime. He saw him savagely stabbing Antisus and the slave Eumarchus, whom he'd no doubt caught spying on them. He saw him at the trial, smiling, admitting to
all
the murders. Here I am, Menaechmus of Carisio. I did everything I could to avoid being caught, but now ... what does it matter? I am guilty. I killed Tramachus, Euneos, Antisus, and Eumarchus. I fled but then I handed myself in. Sentence me. I am guilty.