The Pericles Commission (21 page)

“Mmm,” she murmured, feeling downward. “So that part works for me as well as Mother!”

The part she referred to instantly deflated. “Did you have to mention her?”

“I thought it would work faster than a bucket of cold water.”

“You were right,” I complained.

“Oh, but I’m forgetting, you were hurt in the fight. Are you in pain?”

“Not now.” I remembered she had had her own trauma recently. “How are you feeling now, Diotima?”

“Very happy.” She smiled.

“I was actually referring to the brutal murder of three women in your household. You might recall the event.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Now that the shock is over I’m relieved in a dreadful sort of way. I would have had to live with her, you know.”

“I would not go about saying that too often if I were you. Stratonike’s killer might be relying on exactly that to shift the blame to you. Tell me about Rizon.”

“I did my best, believe me, but I couldn’t smell any seawater on him.”

“Curse it.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, Nicolaos. Rizon could easily have washed off the sea smell.”

“But a positive result would at least have told us we were heading in the right direction, even if it couldn’t be used in a court case. What about his slaves?”

“His slaves are too frightened to say much, but the doorman confirmed Rizon came home late that night. That isn’t necessarily suspicious though. He could have been at a symposium.”

“I don’t suppose the doorman noticed anything?”

“Rizon had red wine spilled down his clothing and he was drunk.”

“Red wine would mask the smell. He could have been acting the drunk.”

“I had exactly the same thought. Nicolaos, you don’t think Rizon is behind Father’s death, do you?”

“If you’d asked me yesterday I would have said it was unlikely. Now I’m not so sure.” I told Diotima what I’d discovered from Telemenes. “Rizon certainly has a decent motive. Look at the wealth he inherits.”

“But why would he have to travel to Ephesus several times to find an assassin? Surely once is enough.”

“I don’t know, Diotima. Their arrival on the same boat might be a coincidence.”

“And a husband and wife murdered within days of each other for different reasons by different people? It beggars belief.”

We turned to sifting through papyri containing notes, drafts of laws, more notes, and letters. We were looking for any evidence that Conon and the Polemarch had been stealing or misusing the public finds in their trust. We didn’t find a thing. There was plenty about past cases Ephialtes had prosecuted, and if we’d wanted a fast course in Athenian politics we’d come to the right place, but there was nothing about the misdeeds of our current archons.

“Here, what’s this?” I held up a sheet with a list of names. We put our heads together as we studied it, and the pleasant smell of her hair was distracting.

“I recognize some of these names,” Diotima said. “Father prosecuted them for corruption.”

“What! All of them?”

“Not Conon, of course, but the others…” She chewed her thumbnail. “Yes, I’m sure. These men are all members of the Areopagus, except for Conon, and he’ll be a member too by the end of the year. In fact, every one of these men was Eponymous Archon.”

“Did Ephialtes win all the prosecutions?”

“No, but he had evidence against every one of them.”

I sat back, shocked. “Is the democracy so corrupt that every single man who holds office cheats the state?”

“How should I know? But surely this can’t be everyone.”

“Isn’t it? Who’s missing?”

“I’m not sure.” It took us a moment to recall the past archons.

Diotima said, “Lysanias is the only one missing from the last six years.” Lysanias was the man I’d seen at the mourning for Ephialtes.

“Five out of six abused their power. Dear Gods, Diotima, why am I trying to serve the state if this is what happens?”

“Father didn’t win every case, you know! The courts decided some of them were innocent.”

“Oh, sure they were!”

She ignored my sarcasm. “Conon’s on that list. Nico, there has to be something against Conon, somewhere!”

Alongside each name was a short note. We studied them. Against Theagenides it said
box in corner,
beside Tlepolemos,
scrolls on third shelf,
and so forth. Ephialtes had drawn a line through each, all except for the last line bearing Conon’s name. Conon’s note said
wax tablet
.

We’d already checked the tablet, but Diotima picked it up again and read everything on it once more. Nothing. She held it so close that the wax was almost rubbing her nose, and peered at the tiniest scratches. Still nothing.

She put down the tablet and sighed. “This is so frustrating.”

“Was this everything?” I asked.

“No, it wasn’t,” she said, and I knew from her tone that she’d found something that worried her. “I also found this, Nicolaos.” She handed me a parchment. “I wasn’t sure whether to show you or not, but I suppose I should.”

The material was new, or almost new, the writing on it was small and careful. I read it through, my uneasiness growing with every word. When I was finished I put it down and said, “You found this in his room?”

Diotima nodded unhappily. “In his private papers.”

“Zeus!”

“Cannot be trusted…” I echoed Ephialtes’ words. “Pericles can’t be trusted—”

“With the leadership, and to continue supporting the democracy,” Diotima finished for me. “Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Look at his father.”

“Zeus!” I said again. “Do you think anyone else has seen this?”

Diotima snorted. “What do you think?”

Not a hope in Hades. If they had, they’d be standing in the Agora this instant, shouting it out to the world.

“But Nico, what if Pericles knows what Ephialtes wrote? What if he so much as suspects?”

It was enough for a motive, it was
more
than enough.

“You still have to get around the fact Pericles held no bow. I saw him! I know…oh…”

Diotima nodded grimly. “Right. He didn’t need to, because he hired a mercenary to do the actual killing. Pericles was only there to make sure it went according to plan.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, Diotima.”

“I knew you’d say that,” she said in disgust. “I suppose now you’re going to tell him.”

“Pericles? No, I’m not going to tell him.” If I did, he would order me to destroy the evidence, which I would refuse to do, and then we would have a major and final falling-out. For Pericles, this was all about politics. He didn’t really care who killed his friend, as long as it was someone convenient for his plans.

“Thank the Gods for that,” Diotima said, plainly relieved. “I was worried you were becoming a politician.” She paused for a moment, then said, in a gentle tone, “Nicolaos, what would you do? If we find Pericles killed Father?”

“Then it would be back to sculpting for me, wouldn’t it?” I said with an attempt at a laugh. “Do you think he did it, Diotima?”

She chewed on her thumbnail. “I don’t know, but I think he might.”

“We’d never prove it, not in a court, not even if we had solid evidence, which we don’t.”

“And if Pericles is the killer, it wouldn’t save me anyway. I need it to be the Eponymous Archon if I’m to escape my fate. I’m to be married next month.”

That shook me. “So soon?”

“It’s an arranged marriage for inheritance, not family alliance. It has to take place as soon as possible, and there’s no dowry to negotiate.” She laughed humorlessly. “Did I tell you what’s happened at the temple? I’m scrubbing floors, just like a common girl. I complained to the high priestess, who told me the Pole-march has taken a great dislike to me—he says he doesn’t think I’m priestess material—and I’m to be given all the worst jobs until I get sick of it and leave. The high priestess isn’t cruel, even if she does look like a withered prune. She advised me to leave now and avoid the hardship.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her I would scrub floors for the rest of my life if that’s what it took. The Polemarch can’t persecute me forever. But he doesn’t have to, you know. He only has to persecute me until the Archon has me married to Rizon, then Rizon can forbid me to leave the house.”

“Run away,” I told her.

“We’ve had this conversation before, in the orchard, remember? I can’t go back to Mantinea.”

“Then run to another temple. What about the temple of Artemis in Brauron?”

“It’s within Attica. They could easily drag me back.”

I thought for a moment. “I have it then! The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus! Father tells me it’s the most beautiful building he’s ever seen.”

“You don’t give up, do you? Has it occurred to you temples like that aren’t in need of destitute volunteers of doubtful origin? The girls from the best families fight tooth and nail to be accepted. Their fathers pay bribes to get them in.”

“I’ll pay the bribe with the reward money I get from Pericles.”

“You’re assuming you’ll win it, and anyway, I swore I would never take money from a man.”

“Then you’re going to starve. Women can’t own money.”

“Mother does.”

That stopped me. Mother did indeed, and obviously a great deal.

“That’s a good point, Diotima. How does your mother manage to own her money?”

“The same way all hetaerae do, I suppose. Men friends give them presents, pay for most of their expenses, and give them money. When a hetaera needs something done she asks a client to do it for her. She returns the favor in kind.”

“That explains the cash. Now tell me who owns this house.”

That stumped her. She looked puzzled. “I never thought about it. There must be someone’s name on the title deed.”

“I can think of an obvious answer.”

Diotima stared at me in horror. “Father kept it in his name?”

I nodded.

“Wait.”

I waited. I knew Diotima had her answer when a piercing cry cut through the air.

“What do you
mean
Rizon owns this house. It’s
mine
!”

It took Diotima some time to calm down an agitated Euterpe. I didn’t go near them, but I didn’t need to know most of it. When Euterpe was reduced to mere sobbing, Diotima returned to me.

“Well, I guess you heard that,” she said.

“I’m sorry to be the source of bad news.”

“Oh, it’s not all that bad, Nicolaos. I mean, I know we could lose almost everything, but do you realize this is the first time my mother has ever needed me?”

“That pleases you? I thought you wanted to be free of her.”

“Let’s say it’s rather pleasant to have the boot on the other foot. It is now extremely urgent to Euterpe to prevent my marriage to Rizon, to blackmail the Archon and the Polemarch, and to protect her wealth, and she can’t do any of that without me. Despite appearances my mother is not particularly a woman of business. She always left those details to Ephialtes. When I walked out of her room, she was begging me to help her.”

“Gloating is rarely pretty, Diotima.”

“You can deal with the ugliness for a little while. I’m enjoying myself. What are you doing?”

While I’d been waiting, I’d picked up the wax tablet and was examining it closely.

Diotima said, “We’ve already checked that. There’s nothing on it.”

“I might have worked out what your father meant. Do you have a stylus and a scraper?”

She handed me a stylus used to write in wax, and the scraper used to smooth the surface again when the owner wanted to start over. Smoothing was usually done after slightly melting the wax, but I didn’t want to risk holding a candle to it. I carefully scraped the wax back along one edge, letting the wax shavings fall to the floor. Diotima peered over my shoulder in interest. She exclaimed as the wax disappeared to reveal a piece of linen. I finished removing all the wax and peeled back the linen protecting–cloth to reveal parchments.

Diotima snatched. So did I. We got half each. We scanned eagerly and called out the interesting parts.

“They’ve been selling public contracts for kickbacks.” She flipped through the parchment. “From the looks of this a dozen or so building contractors are inflating their prices by about a third, and splitting the profits with the Archon and the Polemarch. That must come to a tidy sum considering they’re rebuilding the Stoa.”

“It happens all the time,” I said. “Everybody knows that.”

“But not everyone leaves evidence like this lying around. These letters are the deals they struck and records of sums paid. That’s enough to kill for.”

“Yes, but you haven’t proven anything. All you have is motive.”

“But I don’t want to prosecute them for murder, Nicolaos. All I want to do is blackmail them.”

“That’s a dangerous business, Diotima,” I warned her, suddenly worried.

“I’ll take the risk.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to leave those with me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Diotima paused, and sat back down on the couch. “Nicolaos, do you think it’s possible Conon or the Polemarch murdered Father? I mean, they might have paid this Aristodicus.”

“It’s possible,” I conceded. “Using an agent, they wouldn’t have to be there, so there’s no point checking their alibis. But, Diotima, how would they know Ephialtes was going to be on the Rock that morning?”

“That’s always the problem, isn’t it?” She sighed. “Maybe Father mentioned it to one or the other of them the day before. But you can’t be sure, can you?”

I left Diotima and walked to the house of Pericles. I had to wait because he was in a meeting upstairs. The house slave put me in the courtyard while I waited.

Pericles came out looking tired and unhappy.

“Tell me some good news,” he demanded.

“The man who killed Ephialtes is dead.” I began with the most important point. I explained the story in detail, and Pericles listened, asking few questions. When I finished he shook his head. “I can’t say I’m entirely happy, Nicolaos. We needed this man alive.”

I said in anger, “I know you’re under pressure, Pericles, but your habit of ignoring my successes and criticizing my failures is not going to inspire me to my best efforts.”

A slave brought us cups of wine. I sipped mine and, when I realized it was thrice watered, drank it down fast. Investigating is hot work. I put the cup down and said, “There are other matters of importance to report.” I told him of the murder of Stratonike.

Pericles sat back and frowned, then stood and began to pace back and forth along the paths. “Is it possible, do you think, these are connected?”

“They must be, but I rather think Stratonike died because Ephialtes died.”

Pericles pondered, “Yes, I can see that, but what of the two slaves?”

“Almost certainly murdered to prevent them testifying to what they saw.”

“Or because they had more to tell.”

“You might be right.” That thought bothered me.

“This Aristodicus, did he kill the women?”

I shrugged. “The best I can say is, maybe. It’s not impossible.” I pulled out the thin broken board Aristodicus had carried and asked, “Do you know what this is?”

Pericles looked at it, obviously wondering what it had to do with the murder. I delighted in not telling him. He handed it back and said, “No, unless the answer is a broken piece of board.”

I put it away.

“You were going to meet Ephialtes after he spoke to Xanthippus, weren’t you?”

Pericles jerked as if I’d hit him. “What makes you say that?”

“Ephialtes didn’t leave the Rock of the Areopagus after Xanthippus left. It’s been bothering me why not; he had nothing else to do there. Instead he stood waiting to be shot. It makes no sense unless he was waiting for someone. You may have been at the Acropolis thinking about architecture, but you were killing time before seeing him. You must have waited for the appointed time, then walked across from the Acropolis to the Areopagus. You would have looked for Ephialtes and not seen him, decided that he had left and departed yourself. When I saw you walking down the hill you were coming from the Areopagus, not the Acropolis, weren’t you?”

Pericles laughed. “I see that I chose the right man for the job. You have it right. Ephialtes asked me to meet him there. He implied he had an important meeting beforehand. I didn’t know it was with Xanthippus.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I didn’t want to confuse you with extra details. I know I didn’t kill him, why put the idea into your head?”

“Are there any other little details you decided not to confuse me with?” I asked. Diotima’s theory that Pericles might have arranged the murder was almost throbbing in my brain.

“None that spring to mind.”

“You didn’t see anyone while you were up there?” I described Aristodicus in detail. “Did you see anyone looking like that?”

“If I had, I would have told you.”

I spotted some of the same bags that Xanthippus had in his study, sitting atop one of the tables. It reminded me of a question I needed answered. “Pericles, those bags Xanthippus has in his study, I see you have some too, where do they come from?”

“They’re made on our country estate from leftover bits of sheep leather when the tanning’s done. Father swears by them as utility bags. He’s forever sending things in them.”

“Your family doesn’t sell them?”

“No, why? If you want a few, you can have them.”

“One will be fine, thanks.”

Pericles handed me an empty bag. “Is this relevant?”

“I think it might be.”

A man came running. I could see the damp sweat in his chiton. I could smell his fear. “Pericles, Archestratus is in the Agora. He’s demanding the recall of Themistocles!”

Pericles stood still for a heartbeat, then, “WHAT!” he thundered. “That’s as good as a vote of no confidence in my leadership. Did it occur to anyone that as soon as Themistocles sets foot in Attica, he’ll be executed?”

“Archestratus says Themistocles’ conviction should be dropped. The people are cheering him.”

Pericles turned to me. “The people are losing their nerve. Finish it, Nicolaos, and do it quickly.” He strode out the doorway, through his hall, and into the street.

I passed through the Agora on the way to see Xanthippus. In fact, I trailed Pericles all the way there; he came as close to running in public as I had ever seen him, yet still he managed to maintain his stately stride.

The friends of Archestratus were clustered about the man himself. I avoided them, but took the opportunity to pass among the citizens, to gauge their reaction to Archestratus’ startling proposal to recall Themistocles. From what I overheard, most were intrigued with the idea. Everyone praised Archestratus for putting the good of Athens above his own interest. Pericles too was walking among the people, stopping to talk, and although he was maintaining his famous composure, I was sure he was not liking what he was hearing.

Archestratus saw me as I passed by, and called for me by name.

“I thought you wanted to lead?” I said to Archestratus as he stepped away from his admirers. “Wouldn’t recalling Themistocles set back your ambitions even further?”

Archestratus shrugged. “What we have now is an impasse that does no good to anyone. I haven’t the support to assume control while Pericles is on the scene—you see, I am a realist—and Pericles won’t have the full support of the people while so many questions hang over his involvement in this affair. What I propose is a compromise.”

“I see.” A spoiling tactic then. If Archestratus could not have the leadership, he would make sure his rival Pericles didn’t get it either.

“I called you over, Nicolaos, to congratulate you on your own triumph. The word across Athens is Ephialtes’ murderer is dead.”

I nodded. “I tracked him down.”

“We will all breathe easier for your success. I suppose that now your work is done, Pericles has paid your reward?”

He read the answer in my face and smiled.

“There’s still the question of who’s behind the killer,” I said, feeling somehow embarrassed.

“Of course, I understand perfectly.” Archestratus’ face showed no expression. “But, might you be looking for shadows where there are none?”

“There are still a few loose ends. Can you tell me what this is?” I showed him the broken piece of board, with not much hope of a useful answer.

“A broken piece of board?” he suggested, meeting my expectations. He looked at me, curious. “Have you taken to carpentry?”

I saw out of the corner of my eye that Pericles had broken off his conversation with one group, and was stamping in our direction with a scowl on his face.

I decided there were safer places to be than standing between Pericles and Archestratus, so I said, “Excuse me, Archestratus, I must move on.”

Archestratus waved his hand with an air of nonchalance and said, “Of course. Weighty matters call you.” And at that he was swept away by his friends before Pericles could reach him.

I walked on to the house of Xanthippus. The guards recognized me and let me pass. Slaves were swarming over the place, rebuilding what the rioters had damaged. This was the home of a wealthy man, so it was made almost entirely from strong wooden beams and solid timber walls. If Xanthippus had been a poor man, or even one of only average means, the walls of his home would have been constructed from daub and mud brick, perhaps so thin that a determined man could punch his way through from the street. The stronger construction had worked for Xanthippus—his house was still standing after all—but meant rebuilding was going to be more costly, take longer, and be more expensive; any support that was fire damaged could no longer be trusted, and I saw several places where workers had pulled down smoke-blackened veneer to inspect the struts behind. I doubted Xanthippus would be able to recoup the cost from the men the Scythians had taken up.

Since the andron was in ruins, the house slave led me to the study, where Xanthippus sat.

He glanced up as I entered and said, “You again.” He stood. “I didn’t thank you for your assistance when the mob came. I thank you now.”

I was uncomfortable considering what I’d come to say. “Any citizen would have done the same.”

“Many citizens would disagree with you. The ones attacking my home, for instance.”

“The man who shot Ephialtes has been killed.”

“So Pythax told me. He also told me he saved your life.”

“I’m very grateful.” It was no surprise to me that Pythax had reported to Xanthippus.

“Good. Now we can put this whole sorry saga behind us and get on with the vital job of ruling Athens.”

“You think so? Then what of this proposal from Archestratus to recall Themistocles? Doesn’t that upset the Areopagus?”

Xanthippus, for the first time since I had known him, looked less than sure of himself. He fidgeted in his seat and crossed his legs.

After a pause he said, “I’m no hypocrite. I regret the death of Ephialtes, but I can’t deny it’s an opportunity to restore some imbalances.”

Xanthippus stopped speaking to watch some slaves carry out a broken table.

“It’s a compromise,” he said, oddly echoing the words of Archestratus. “Themistocles was a member of the Areopagus, but he was also extremely popular with the people. Perhaps Archestratus has the right idea.”

“But what if someone hired the killer? It’s inconceivable Aristodicus could have been acting on his own. What possible reason had he for killing an Athenian politician?”

Xanthippus shrugged. “Not every killing has to have a reason. In all likelihood, he was a madman acting alone. I understand he later ran amok in Ephialtes’ home and slaughtered all the women. Perhaps he had a personal grudge against Ephialtes. We’ll probably never know.”

I placed the bag I’d taken from Pericles on the table, then the other alongside it. “One of these was found around the neck of Aristodicus of Tanagra. Would you care to explain what your money bag was doing around the neck of the assassin?”

Xanthippus’ eyes widened. “But that’s impossible! I have no idea how he got it.”

“Someone gave it to him. The obvious person is you.”

“I would be foolish to deny it. I am the obvious choice for your suspicions. Yet I will swear by any God that I didn’t. I’ve sent these bags to many people in the past. Any one of them could have passed it on to this assassin.” Xanthippus picked up the bag and examined it. He muttered to himself, “How interesting.”

“You see something?”

“What? Oh, no. I merely mean how interesting that this should have happened.”

“Your claim that Aristodicus was a madman acting alone is refuted. It is obvious the coins are the mercenary pay for his crime, and it is equally obvious the man who paid him was not just an Athenian, but someone you know, or you yourself, sir. Who else has these distinctive bags?”

“Any time I need to send money or a scroll to someone, I place it in one of these. The less honest among my acquaintances, or to be generous about it, the more forgetful, don’t always return the bag. It might be possible to list most people I’ve sent something to in the last few months, but I doubt the slaves would remember everyone.” Xanthippus thought for a moment. “Ah, I have it! It was not long ago that I had cause to send a scroll to Ephialtes. No doubt this assassin stole the bag from his house when he was slaughtering Ephialtes’ womenfolk.”

“What a very convenient explanation. Are you sure you sent a bag to Ephialtes?”

“I feel quite sure that when I check, I will find that a bag was sent to Ephialtes.”

Once more I pulled out the broken token. “Do you recognize this?”

Xanthippus examined the jagged edge with interest. “No,” he said curtly. “Does it have something to do with the murder?”

“Yes.” But I didn’t tell him what, because I didn’t know.

I left Xanthippus to the joys of restoring his ruined home. I felt sure that for all the glibness of his replies, he’d be spending a sleepless night. This pleased me. At last I was putting pressure on my suspects.

My next stop was the home of Lysanias, the only Eponymous Archon of the last six years whom Ephialtes had not targeted as corrupt. If Ephialtes, who had been active in trying to discredit every archon he could, had not been able to find anything against him, it probably meant Lysanias was honest. His slaves told me Lysanias had left for the new gymnasium at the Academy.

I walked northwest, out the Dipylon Gates, through the deme of Outer Ceramicus, past olive groves, orchards, and small, elegant estates, then to a walled park. Everything was green, the air tasted of life, beautiful trees provided shade, and olives grew for  the picking. Statues and the occasional fountain lined the way. Three of the statues had been commissioned from Sophroniscus and I stopped to admire them as I passed. When I walked through the low gates, it was like stepping into the Elysian Fields.

The Academy had been built many years before my time, the third gymnasium of Athens, but its reputation had been so poor, and it was so far from the Agora, that almost no one used it until Cimon had virtually torn the whole place apart and started again. He had funded the entire enterprise out of his own pocket, using wealth he had taken during his many successful battles against the Persians, and it had cost him a fortune.

The gymnasium, like the grounds, was a thing of beauty. I passed through the entrance into a quadrangle lined with porticoes. Most held naked men giving and receiving massages, bathing, or anointing themselves with oil, so much oil in fact that the whole gymnasium smelled of it. I walked around all four sides but did not see Lysanias, so I passed through into the next courtyard. This was squared off into patches of sand for wrestling practice, jumping, exercises, and playing quoits. As I walked in, I was sprayed with sand as one man threw another, who landed on his back before me. I walked around the unconscious body and walked briskly to the other side, where I saw Lysanias about to throw a quoit. His body was so wiry I could see the cords of muscles move beneath his skin as he prepared.