The Pericles Commission (19 page)

“What took you so long?” she demanded. “I don’t have to ask where you’ve been.”

My investigation had taken its toll. My sandals were red. I was spattered from my feet to my knees, and my palms were smeared.

I ignored her comments and asked, “Where’s the kitchen?”

“Hungry?” she asked sarcastically.

“Not particularly. I don’t think I’ll be eating meat for a while. I want to see the knives.”

“I’m coming with you this time,” Diotima said.

She led me to the kitchen, next to the slaves’ quarters. It looked much like the kitchen of my home, with the oven placed outside to avoid fires and the preparation bench and food stores inside. The knives were hung on hooks. Every hook had a knife.

Diotima frowned. “How strange.”

“What is?”

“The knives are all there.”

I nodded unhappily. “Yes, I was expecting one to be missing.”

“No, Nicolaos, you don’t understand, there
was
a knife missing.”

That startled me. “Say that again?”

“Last night, as I wandered the house, I came in here and I noticed there was a knife missing. That one.” She pointed to the meat cleaver.

I stepped close to the cleaver and stared. “I can see the slightest trace of blood on it, in the crack between the handle and the blade.”

“Of course you can, it’s a meat cleaver.”

Achilles coughed. “Excuse me, young mistress, but I think you must be mistaken. All the knives were there yesterday morning.”

“Nonsense,” Diotima said brusquely. “The cleaver wasn’t there last night.”

“It was there in the afternoon. I saw it.”

“Are you sure, Achilles?” I asked.

“Quite sure, sir. I looked over the kitchen especially because we all expected the new master to stay for the funeral feast.”

“Didn’t he?”

Diotima said, “He did. But being the only male family member, it was a depressing affair even by the usual standards. Stratonike was alternating between wailing a cacophony and hysterical laughter. Rizon shouted at the nurses and me to shut her up. He was in a foul mood after what happened at the funeral. He walked up to the nurses and shrieked at them that Stratonike was to be silent or he’d have them beaten.”

“Did he beat them?” I was thinking of the bruises on Stratonike.

“No. He and Stratonike ended up face to face, him shouting that she belonged to his household now and she’s to do what she’s told or else, her mouthing obscenities and ignoring everything he said. He stalked back to the table and stuffed his face with Ephialtes’ food and wine. Stratonike picked up a knife and threw it at him. She missed, but the knife flew past his face. Rizon went pale, shouted that he was a fool to let a self-confessed murderess anywhere near him, not to mention the bad luck and the curse of the Gods that falls upon a woman who murders her family, and that in her case it was too late and now she was doubly cursed. That was when he ordered us to get her out of his sight.”

“Then he left?”

“He left some time later. I didn’t see, I was upstairs with the women. I had a choice between staying with Stratonike or Rizon.”

“What about you, Achilles?” I asked.

“I didn’t see him leave either, sir. I was clearing the table. The new master departed while I was out back at the midden.”

“And he didn’t do anything else? Anything important, I mean.”

“He struck—” Achilles glanced at Diotima, who ordered, “No, Achilles.”

But I’d heard enough, and with the hint I could see the bruise forming along the side of Diotima’s face.

“He
struck
you?” I was enraged.

“He was unhappy I’d grabbed the spear of vengeance from him during the funeral march. He hadn’t known how to exert his authority over me in front of other men, but he knew what to do afterward.”

“Rizon and I are going to talk,” I said grimly.

Diotima tossed her head to the side and refused to let me examine her bruises. “There’s no point, Nicolaos. I belong to Rizon now and it’s all perfectly legal. He can do whatever he likes to me. I suppose I’ll have to get used to it, and learn how to keep out of his way.”

The funny thing was that the wrong person had died. If someone had murdered Rizon it would have made perfect sense. There was a houseful of people who hated him, plus me. But everyone in the house was used to Stratonike. Why kill her now? I was unwillingly drawn back once more to Diotima as a suspect.

I made another round of the kitchen in search of inspiration, but I saw nothing except the cleaver, which I took down. There was nothing special about it I could see, except I was sure I was holding the blade that had killed three women. I hung it back on the wall. I looked out the window into the courtyard. Someone had come in here, in the dark, having to be careful not to awaken the slaves. That person had taken the cleaver off the wall and then in the dark walked up to the women’s rooms. He would have to be careful not to trip over anything on the way.

Diotima and Achilles were restless during my silence, but I ignored them. I had to think this through. Presently Achilles muttered to Diotima, “Mistress, what about the purification? Should we do it now?”

Diotima replied, “I don’t know, Achilles. I’m a priestess and not even I know the rules for this situation. If there’s ever been a time when the house of a murdered man sustained another murder before it was washed, I’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s it!” I exclaimed in excitement. I almost jumped for joy. “Achilles, tell me, how many buckets of seawater did you bring for the purification?”

“Sir? Ah, seventeen.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes sir, we had the seawater brought here from Piraeus. I loaded seventeen buckets on the wagon because that’s as many as we had plus the ones we could borrow from the neighbors. I carried each one in when the wagon returned. I was most particular to make sure none were stolen.”

“Go count them.”

I grinned at Diotima until Achilles returned. He looked puzzled.

“Sixteen, sir. I can’t imagine what happened to the other one.”

“I can. The murderer carried it upstairs to wash himself after the crime. Athens might be dark and lonely in the middle of the night, but no murderer could risk dripping blood all the way back to their home.”

Diotima said, “There was a bucket in the corner of the room. I remember it.”

“So do I, but I assumed it was used for night stools.”

We went up the stairs once more. Diotima and Achilles stayed at the entrance, where Achilles gaped at the scene for the first time, while I went to the corner beside the door in which stood the bucket. Now I knew what to look for. The floor in that corner was ominously clean, though the wall behind was spattered. I put my nose to the empty bucket.

“Seawater.” The salt smell was obvious.

Who would have known the house of Ephialtes had seawater that night? Depressingly, every man in Athens who attended his funeral the day before. That would be about half the population, including everyone implicated by Ephialtes’ death. Most people could have guessed the seawater would be kept at the back of the courtyard, anyone with a bull’s-eye lantern could have found it. Anyone could have guessed there’d be a cleaver in the kitchen.

We retraced our steps downstairs. The runaway slaves had come to their senses and sheepishly returned. They were waiting for us in the courtyard. If they’d kept on running, they could have been executed. Diotima forbade them to go up any stairs, ordered them go about their business, and sent the kitchen girl to make us something light to eat. It was almost midday and we’d been on the go and under stress since before dawn. We invited Achilles to sit with us: after the morning’s trauma he was more like an assistant to us than a slave. I was aware he’d stayed with Diotima when he could have run. I was sure she’d be mindful of the same. Achilles was a man I could trust with her.

The kitchen girl returned with heavily watered wine, olives, and bread. Diotima said to her, “Thank you, Criseis, that will be all. Oh, and please wash the meat cleaver. Do it now.” Criseis stared at Diotima. “Be thorough,” Diotima ordered. Then she turned to me and asked, “Who would have wanted Stratonike dead?”

I could answer that one immediately. “You, Rizon, anyone in this house who couldn’t take any more of her screaming, and whoever killed Ephialtes.”

Diotima nodded glumly. “Well, I didn’t kill them! And even if I was going to murder the wretch I would never have hurt those poor nurses. Do you think it was the same man as killed Father?”

“It’s possible.”

“That leaves us with the slaves. I don’t suppose you killed them, did you, Achilles?”

Achilles held his hands up in horror. “Please, mistress! Never jest about something like that. I know you don’t mean it, but that’s the sort of comment that could get a slave like me killed.”

“Sorry,” she said. “But what do you mean, a slave like you?”

He said sadly, “There are some slaves, mistress, who get by almost as if they were metics, some are almost like members of the family. Then there are the ones who are treated like working drudges, as most of us in this house. But at least those are ignored by the owners. Then there are a few slaves that seem to be the butt of every cruel jest. No matter how well they serve, they always seem to be noticeable when it’s time to play a joke on a slave. That’s me.”

Diotima said, “I’m sorry, Achilles. I never knew you before, but you belong to me now. Can I make it up to you?”

“Don’t free him,” I said quickly. “He’s the only one here you can rely on.”

Achilles looked at me, hurt. “Well, thank you very much, sir.”

“Ignore him, Achilles. I tell you what, when this is over I’ll free you if that’s what you’d like.”

“I take that very kindly of you, young mistress. May I think on it? I’m not sure what I would do if I was free. How would I earn a living?”

“We’ll work on it later.” She patted his hand.

I pointed out, “Of course, in order to make good on that promise you have to be alive later.”

“What do you mean?” Diotima asked, startled.

“Has it occurred to you, the murderer might have had two targets?”

“No, it hadn’t. Are you suggesting he was after me?”

“He was looking for at least Stratonike. That must be so since, not having found you, he went ahead and killed her anyway. She was killed either because of who she is, or who she was married to. If the former, then it’s going to be an esoteric form of a domestic quarrel. If the latter, then whoever is involved in the death of Ephialtes is afraid he might have said something important to her, or is afraid she might have seen something, or perhaps have observed someone visiting this house.”

“That seems preposterous.” Diotima snorted. “She was a lunatic who barely knew the people around her. I’m sure Father would never have discussed anything with her.” She thought about it with her head tilted to one side and staring into the distance. “How about this,” she suggested at last. “What if Father wasn’t murdered for politics? What if it was a personal reason? Then it might make sense that they also would want to kill Stratonike.”

“And you thought my idea was weak?”

“Let me know when you have a better one.”

“I do. Right now, I would very much like to get my nose close to Rizon and have a big sniff.”

Diotima grimaced. “Gah! Even the thought turns my stomach.”

It was impossible of course. I could not go anywhere near the man without it being clear I’d been tramping about a murder scene with his fiancée.

Fortunately someone had to inform him of what had happened. Ordinarily a messenger would be sent, but it would be reasonable for Diotima to go personally. Once there she would see what she could of his clothing, appearance, and, most importantly, get close enough to smell him for the aroma of the sea. Diotima shuddered in distaste. “The thought is appalling but I suppose I must.” Diotima rose to wash and change her bloodied clothes with the help of the returned women slaves.

“Go with her to Rizon,” I ordered Achilles. “Don’t let her out of your sight once she’s in the house with him.”

Achilles trembled. “The master may have a different view, sir.”

“I know, but do your best.” It occurred to me that Achilles ultimately would belong to Rizon, and he could earn whatever favor there was to be had by reporting the morning’s actions. “I’m going to offer a variation on what Diotima said to you before, Achilles. If Diotima is unhurt when all this is over, then there’ll be a reward for you. If I can, I’ll buy you and set you up with a comfortable existence.”

“Thank you, sir. And if the mistress is regrettably hurt, sir, despite my best efforts?”

“I’ll buy you anyway, but if you were negligent then I’ll kill you.”

“That would not be in the nature of a jest, sir?”

“No, Achilles, it wouldn’t.”

“And I had thought you such a nice young man, sir,” he said in an aggrieved tone.

“Concentrate on the happy part where she isn’t hurt.”

I left Diotima and Achilles to clean up the mess. Diotima remained a ward of the state until the wedding, and so in addition to telling Rizon of the deaths she would have to send a messenger to Conon. I regretted not being there when he learned of this latest thorn in his backside, as if Ephialtes’ death wasn’t complicated enough already.

I returned home to wash and change clothes before continuing. Sitting in our public room was Tellis, waiting for me. For a moment, I wondered what he was doing there, until I realized how many days had passed. I had failed to find Aristodicus in time.

“Ah, Nicolaos. I noticed this morning you had not made an appearance at the Polemarch’s office. The Polemarch noticed the same thing, and he’s wondering why. Have you an answer for him?”

I pondered Diotima’s position. I thought I could live with Pericles’ contempt, but if I left him now, I would also be leaving Diotima with her father unavenged, three corpses in her home, and in an unknown degree of danger. Also, I was as convinced as ever that whatever lay behind the murder of Ephialtes was important to Athens, Father’s words notwithstanding, and if I gave up now, we might never know the truth.

But the offer was so tempting.

“I would like another day.”

“You do not have another day, the terms were clear. Tell me your words to the Polemarch.”

I took a deep breath.

“Firstly, that I am enormously flattered that the Polemarch should consider me; secondly, that it is impossible for me to accept if it means I must abandon my investigation; thirdly, that I think that is precisely what the Polemarch wants to achieve with his offer; and fourthly, that I look forward to finding out why.”

Tellis rose. “Then I shall leave you to your fate. I cannot say that I am disappointed; I tell you frankly I advised the Polemarch against his course. You and I are of one mind on one point only: you are not the man for the job. However, in my case it is because I judge you to be a cocky young man with too much regard for your own importance. Good day to you.” Tellis left in a fit of coughing.

I paused to mourn the future that might have been, then returned to the hunt. The main game was finding Aristodicus of Tanagra. I knew, or at least I thought I knew, from the innkeeper who’d hosted him, that he’d moved to Piraeus. That made sense for a man worried about discovery. But why was the man still in Athens at all? I’d have to ask when I found him.

So I put the chaos of Ephialtes’ house out of my mind and walked to Piraeus, which lies to the southwest of the city. I took the south road, which is encased between the famous Long Walls of Athens. The Long Walls stretch from the city, down both sides of the road, all the way to the fortress walls of Piraeus, and so protect the entire southern route. The Long Walls are high and strong, made from the toughest timber and with support posts dug deep into the earth. They turn Athens and Piraeus into a single combined fortified site, so if the city is ever besieged again, the Athenians will still have access to the sea, and their mighty navy.

The road was crowded, as it always is, even during the heat of midday. I had to watch my step from carts rattling uphill to the city, pulled by braying donkeys and pushed by slaves. The owners walked alongside, swearing with every step. Most of those carts were loaded with corn. Athens can never have enough corn; no matter how much arrives, it’s never enough to fill all the mouths. Carts were rolling downhill too, most filled with our best export to pay for the corn: the famous Athenian red-figure pottery. The owners of those carts were swearing with every bump in the road.

The walk to the coast is an easy one, and it wasn’t long before the smell of the sea was strong enough to overpower the odor of donkey and donkey droppings. The three harbors of Piraeus were spread out before me, the large commercial harbor to the west, with countless merchant ships waiting to dock alongside the Emporium, the smallest harbor to the east, where the fishing boats and the local craft had their anchor; and in the middle harbor, a flotilla of triremes. There were perhaps two hundred triremes anchored in that bay, and at least another hundred out serving Athens on various missions. Long, thin, tall enough to accommodate three rows of oars and oarsmen, wet and wooden, fast and tough, they were the reason Athens dominated the civilized world, because a hundred triremes dropping anchor off your city is probably not going to be good news.

I wished I could have used some of those forces for myself, because facing me was the same dreary march from one inn to the next that I’d already made in Athens. I couldn’t bear the thought on an empty stomach, and stopped for lunch first.

That innkeeper had been right. The places in Piraeus are worse than the lowest slums in Athens. Much worse. I’d never paid attention to the local inns—only the taverns and drinking bars had piqued my interest in the past—but now that I was paying attention, I realized it made sense. The sailors looking for a bed more comfortable than a wallowing deck would want a place to stay close to their work. The wealthy would be arriving off ship to visit the city.

By late afternoon I had checked three-quarters of the inns in Piraeus. Who would have thought there would be so many? I felt like searching myself for fleas as I left each one, and I had learnt the subtle art of stepping around drunk, hungover, or simply bellicose sailors.

I asked the question yet again at an inn situated in a dim, tiny alley behind the corn exchange, a bit better than most I’d seen. This time the innkeeper raised an eyebrow, and pointed me to a man seated in the corner, his back to the wall.

Aristodicus was an observant man. Before I had taken a step he had risen, turned, picked up the table before him, and charged me. The table was a ram that pushed me backward through the doorway and out into the street. Men cursed and fell away from us. I ignored them. I whirled to the side and he lurched forward, swung around, and threw the table. It was a bad throw, but I didn’t know that then and jumped clear anyway, giving Aristodicus plenty of time to draw his knife. I did too.

“I only want to talk!” I said, crouching into a defensive position.

He drawled in a low voice, “Sure you do! I was warned you were asking questions.” That made me blink.

Aristodicus was middle-aged, but looked the kind of man for whom knife fighting in the street was an occasional inconvenience. There wasn’t a trace of fear in him. A younger man like me should be faster, possibly stronger. But I was sweating.

Experience told. He made a sequence of feint, lunge, twist, and stab that left me with a bleeding wrist and my knife on the ground. Aristodicus stamped forward and left his foot firmly planted on my knife. He grinned.

It was clear how this would end unless I changed the rules quickly. Trying not to betray my move, I threw myself at my opponent, intending to wrestle him into submission.

My own incompetence saved me, because while I might be a neophyte, Aristodicus certainly wasn’t. He knew exactly what I was about to do even before I did, and stabbed at my chest as I pushed forward. His knife would have punctured my heart if I hadn’t tripped over my own torn chitoniskos and crashed to the ground.

I grabbed the only thing I could, his feet, and heaved upward, desperate to keep his knife out of my back. He fell backward and I crawled across him to grab his knife arm. He slipped the blade downward, aiming for my eyes. I had to grab the blade to save my sight. I shouted in pain but found a grip on his wrist and came level with him as he turned the blade upward to slit my stomach. Now it was a matter of main strength whether he could drive the blade home, or whether I could turn his blade against him. We were both gritting our teeth with the effort. I could smell his breath and hoped it wouldn’t be the last thing I remembered.

Aristodicus hooked a leg around me and rolled us both. With him on top, I couldn’t hope to keep the blade out of my belly. I tried the same trick.

Those backstreets are muddy due to the straightforward sanitary arrangements. Aristodicus and I rolled over and over, struggling for control of the knife, and covering ourselves in substances I didn’t want to contemplate.

Aristodicus stopped the roll and straddled me so he could put all his weight into the drive home. I felt a thud, something sharp pressed my stomach. I closed my eyes.

But Aristodicus didn’t finish me. He’d gone limp. It was a moment before I realized I could no longer smell his rancid breath. I pushed him away, astonished to see an arrow embedded in his back. I looked down, and saw the arrowhead protruding out of his belly. The point I’d felt had been the arrow, driven straight through him and cutting into me.

Pythax was standing in the street, slinging his bow.

“Thanks, Pythax,” I said, and meant it. But I couldn’t resist adding, “A little harder and you could have had two for the price of one.”

Pythax was having none of this jollity. “Where’s your backup, boy?” he demanded.

“My what?” I asked stupidly.

“Your backup! Your backup, you stupid son of a poxed Persian whore.” He reached down to his calf and pulled out a wicked-looking knife. “Listen to me, little boy. If you’re going to play with the grown-ups, then never walk the street without an extra blade hidden somewhere you can reach in a hurry. Think you’re the first man to lose his weapon in a fight? Hades is full of idiots like you. Learn, boy. Learn, or join them. Your choice.” Pythax grunted and looked me over with a hard eye. “Be at my barracks first light tomorrow for training, and every day from now on.”

“I finished ephebe training last year,” I objected.

Pythax spat into the mud. “Ephebe training is learning how to be a soldier, to fight in the ranks of a phalanx. You think that’s going to do you any good, boy? The way I see it, you’re the kind who’s going to be doing his fighting on your own, in the dark, or rolling in the mud in a disgusting street. I’m not going to teach you how to fight like a soldier, boy. I’m going to teach you how to kill like a man, any way you have to.” He eyed my dripping wrist. “To start with, you’ve got to learn to use your blade in either hand.”

“Okay, I’ve got the message. I’ll be there. Thanks, Pythax.”

He spat into the mud again. “Don’t thank me. I figure Athens is going to be a safer place if you stop blundering around.”

And with that warm vote of confidence, Pythax turned and sauntered away, leaving me with the body, and numerous questions I didn’t think of until he was gone.

“Who was he?” the innkeeper demanded.

“That man with the bow was Pythax, chief of the Scythians.”

The innkeeper nodded, and started up the stairs. “I’ll turf out Aristodicus’ things.”

I immediately turned to the body. I had to search it before the locals stripped him of everything of value. This was my fourth corpse examination of the day. I wondered if a priest would have predicted it if I’d asked for an augury that morning.

I picked up the dagger that had come so close to ending me. It seemed standard issue from any smithy. Next I put my hands down his tunic to see if he’d carried anything there. Men watched this from the inn and a few muttered, “Pervert…” I felt myself blushing but finished the job. I found a sweaty piece of papyrus lodged under his belt. It said, “Areopagus at dawn. Eastern edge.” I put it in my bag. There was a bag of coins tightly strapped round his waist. It felt heavy. I hesitated to bring it into the open for the same reason Aristodicus had strapped it down, but I had little choice. I cut the knot with his dagger and transferred the belt to me and retied it. At least twenty pairs of eyes followed this action.

I followed the innkeeper upstairs without waiting for an invitation. He glanced at me and continued stuffing clothing into a bag.

“So that was Pythax, was it?”

“Yes.”

“So I guess this was an official killing? It’s okay if he kills someone?”

“I guess so.”

“Good-oh then. So long as it’s official.”

“You have a relaxed attitude toward dead tenants,” I commented.

He grunted. “It happens from time to time, in this business. I just don’t want any of those officials from Athens wandering about the place, scaring off the customers. I know they’ve got all those riots keeping them busy, but that won’t go on forever.”

“I hope not. What do you do with the belongings?”

“Sell them for back rent, of course.”

“What about the body?”

“Nah. Can’t sell that.”

I wandered about the tiny room. The place was a pigsty. The innkeeper sighed. I quickly spied a scroll case that looked oddly familiar next to the bed, and hid it beneath my chitoniskos before the man could notice.

I looked around, with the quiet satisfaction of discovering someone untidier than me. I picked up a rag from the floor, realized it was a soiled loincloth, and quickly dropped it.

“I wonder he didn’t buy new ones when he was in Persia,” muttered the innkeeper.

“Say that again?” I asked.

“I said, he should have replaced his old clothes when he was in Persia,” the man said loudly. He must have thought I was hard of hearing, or an idiot.

“How do you know he was in Persia?” I asked.

“Simple. See these sandals?” He picked up one that was lying on the floor. “These straps are embossed with figures, right? When was the last time you saw a Hellene sandal embossed with figures of Persian soldiers? Never, right?”

I squinted, and saw that the innkeeper was probably right. The figures looked vaguely Persian to me.

“How did you spot that?” I asked him, intrigued.

“I’m an innkeeper, and this is Piraeus. We see all sorts shipping in, from all over the world. You get to know people by what they wear and the things they carry.”

I took the sandal from him, inspected it. The sandal was worn, but not so much that the sole had become uneven. I took off one of my own and compared it. The wear was about the same, and I had bought mine three months ago.

“What else can you tell me?” I asked.

The innkeeper eyed the sandal, and said cautiously, “It was probably made somewhere in Asia Minor. The style is Hellene, the design Persian, and the leather is light. They tan the leather darker in the farther parts of the Persian Empire, you know. So I’d say this sandal was made by a Persian tradesman living in a Hellene city inside Persia.”

I thanked the innkeeper profusely, and left him a handful of coins.

The body was lying there, minus his dagger, the rings he’d been wearing and, no doubt, everything else of value I’d left behind. Piraeus was that sort of place. They probably would have taken his clothing too except he’d soiled it as he died.