The Pericles Commission (4 page)

“Listen, son, politics in this city is not for the faint of heart. The lower men work themselves hard, sacrifice their own time and wealth, and get nothing for it. The leaders, the few who make it to the top after years of effort, they’re mostly corrupted by the experience. Let me tell you how badly wrong this could go. Have you ever heard of Themistocles?”

“I don’t remember much about him.”

Lysimachus put in, “His fall was more spectacular than most. Themistocles led Athens in his day, much as Ephialtes does—did, rather, until today.”

“He led the democratic movement?”

Lysimachus shook his head. “Themistocles was no democrat. He was a brilliant strategist. It was Themistocles who saved us all when the Persians invaded.”

Sophroniscus added, “But as soon as the people no longer needed him, they got rid of him. First, they ostracized him. Then the Council of the Areopagus saw their chance and found him guilty of treason, guilty of colluding with the Persians, would you believe, when it was he who had defeated them. Then he was condemned to death, and all his property was forfeited to the state.”

Sophroniscus stopped to take a handful of olives. I’m sure he did it to leave me plenty of time to contemplate the fate of Themistocles.

One of the oddities of Athenian politics—odd, at least, to the states which don’t practice it—is that once a year in winter, the Athenians vote, not for who should be
in
power, but for who should be
out
of it.

If the Ecclesia decides an ostracism should be held, then the people vote, and whoever gets the most votes is exiled for a period of ten years. This is the sort of vote a politician wants to lose! The “winner” is required to depart within ten days, and not return until his ten years have expired. He must leave not only Athens, but all of Athenian-controlled Attica, and if he steps within Attica during his exile then the penalty is death. This was the fate that had befallen Themistocles and, while he couldn’t be there to defend himself, the Areopagus had declared him a traitor, effectively making his exile permanent.

Sophroniscus said, “So there you have it. Exiled, criminalized, condemned, and bankrupted. And, son, Themistocles was a
successful
politician. You don’t want that to be you, do you? So let’s say no more about it. You have enough to learn the art of marble.”

“But Father, I’m only doing a job for Pericles. None of that’s going to happen to me.”

Sophroniscus threw up his arms in despair.

“So Themistocles died?” I asked, desperate to change the subject away from me.

“No, he wasn’t stupid enough to hang around waiting to be condemned. He ran to the Persians! If you’re going to be damned for something, you may as well get the advantage of it. The Great King set him up as Governor of Magnesia.”

“You mean he was guilty after all?”

“The treason charge was rubbish,” Sophroniscus declared, pushing away the last bowl and reaching for his wine. “But it served to keep the man away from Athens permanently. The rest of us who aren’t as smart as he is are safer that way.”

“Where could I find out more about Themistocles?”

“Try his temple.”

“His
temple
?”

Lysimachus laughed. “Oh, he built it in honor of Artemis of Wise Counsel, but no one doubted who he really meant to honor. It was such arrogance as this that disturbed the common people so much they were willing to ostracize him. If it hadn’t been for his personal faults he might still be ruling Athens today, and Ephialtes would never have led the democrats, nor reformed the Areopagus.”

“Nor been murdered,” I couldn’t help adding.

Lysimachus nodded. “Yes, young Nicolaos, I think you probably have the right of that. Tell me, what are they saying in the Agora?”

“That the old men of the Areopagus killed him.”

“Revenge? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time an Athenian killed for that reason, but somehow, in this case, I doubt it. Revenge is stupid, and these men aren’t stupid, whatever else people might think of them. Why risk their position for mere satisfaction? No, if the Areopagus killed him, it must have been for a good reason.”

“What reason?”

He shrugged. “I know of none. That’s why I don’t think they’re involved.”

“Then tell me, Lysimachus, what do you think happened to Ephialtes?”

“I wish I knew! But whatever it is, it will be something to do with power. Power’s what drives this city, young Nicolaos. And I tell you, Sophroniscus my friend, if this goes on we could lose everything.” Lysimachus rubbed his chin and frowned. “Political destruction is one thing—even my own father was ostracized and took it in good part—but to murder a man for his politics is the next best thing to armed insurrection.”

That intrigued me. “Your own father was ostracized, Lysimachus?”

“He was indeed, and the cause was a bitter political infight with the man we were just discussing: Themistocles. This was before the Persians came, lad; you were not even born yet. My father, Aristeides, whom men called the Just for his fairness and honesty, argued against Themistocles on the matter of whether to meet the coming enemy with a large army or a large navy. The argument became so heated that an ostracism was called, and Aristeides lost.” He smiled. “My father even had to cast a vote against himself. He offered to help a man who didn’t know how to write. The man said he wanted to vote for Aristeides—he was a farmer from out of town, you see, and didn’t know to whom he was speaking. My father, intrigued, asked what the man had against Aristeides if he had never met him, and the farmer replied he was sick of all this constant talk of ‘Aristeides this’ and ‘Aristeides that,’ and ‘Aristeides and all his fine virtues.’ So my unfortunate father meekly wrote his own name on the shard and dropped it into the voting box!” Lysimachus laughed. “Themistocles had the right of it, I admit it; the navy he created was what saved us.

“But that’s the past, and it’s the future that worries me. There’s a party in this city willing to kill for power, and that is very, very dangerous. The next logical step is armed coup.”

Sophroniscus looked alarmed. “Do you think something like that is brewing?”

Lysimachus shrugged. “Who can say?”

Sophroniscus muttered to himself, “I will move the family treasury outside the city tomorrow.”

“When was the last time something like this happened?” I asked, curious.

Lysimachus thought about it while he held out his cup to be refilled.

“The last political killing? You’d have to go back to when the last tyrant was expelled. That’s what…three, four generations ago?”

I was exhausted by the day and disappointed by the evening. I could not keep my eyes open a moment longer and so asked Father for permission to retire. He gave it, and I departed while Lysimachus continued his discourse on the dangers to Athens. I noticed Sophroniscus glance at me curiously.

The next morning at breakfast, our kitchen slave brought two small bowls of bread soaked in wine. She smiled at me as if to silently say that she sympathized. She would have heard every word that had been said last night. Certainly every slave in the house knew I had disagreed with my father.

Sophroniscus let me finish the meal and then led me into the workshop at the back of our house. Inside was a marble statue of a horse that had won at the last Panathenaic Games, commissioned by its owner as an offering in thanks to the Gods for his victory.

The statue was almost finished. I sighed, picked up the necessary cloth, and began rubbing its rear end. This was the story of my life; great events were happening all about me, I could feel the world was changing, and here I was rubbing the rear end of a stone horse. Sophroniscus began chipping away at another block with mallet and chisel, his preliminaries for another work. He usually left me to finish a piece while he commenced his next job. I continued the tedious rubbing, silent.

Sophroniscus observed my deep unhappiness and said, “Cheer up, son. There’s no reason you shouldn’t discuss politics in the Agora with the other young men. It’s a fine thing for any man to think about the future of the state. It’s simply not possible for anyone but the rich to do it full time, and especially not for a man who’s destined to be a sculptor.”

“But Father, I don’t want to be a sculptor.”

“You don’t—” Sophroniscus put down his tools in amazement and repeated, “You don’t want to be a sculptor?”

“No.”

“But I always thought…that is, you always said you did.”

“No, Father, you always talk about how I will.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I did, I tried rather, several times. But Father, you always talked over me.”

I had never before seen Sophroniscus shocked. He paced across the workshop, stopped to touch the piece I had been smoothing and ran his finger along it, picking up the dust. “This is a terrible disappointment. You do good work.”

“I’m sorry, Father.” And it was not a lie; I don’t believe I have ever felt such sadness as that moment. But we had been building toward this confrontation for years and I was not going to step back from it now that the moment had come.

“What would you do then? You cannot earn money as a politician, Nicolaos. That’s where you spend it. Who ever heard of paying a man to wield power? The idea’s ridiculous.”

“But Father, what if I can make money doing politics?”

“Then I would say you are practicing magic, or you are corrupt. I hope you are neither. We talked last night of how such men are usually caught in the end.”

“This commission from Pericles—if I succeed I will earn a substantial reward.”

Sophroniscus scoffed. “Enough to live on? I doubt it.”

“Enough to start with. I hope so.”

“And what of the next commission? And the one after that? I tell you important politicians aren’t murdered every day, my boy. It’s not exactly a thriving industry, no, nor even a small trade.”

“I see myself acting as an agent to men such as Pericles. It is a trade, Father, a kind of political trade.”

“Morally dubious and physically dangerous. Very dangerous.”

“More dangerous than serving in the army?”

Sophroniscus considered. “Perhaps not.”

“Yet, Father, you served in the army when the Persians came.”

“And will again if they return. That is the simple duty of every citizen to protect his city.”

“Isn’t what I propose the same thing then, sir?”

“We are discussing the difference between an honorable death facing the enemy in combat, and a knife in the back in the dead of night. I know which risk I’d prefer.”

“I’m willing to take that chance, Father.”

“Humph. The confidence of youth. I can see, son, that you are bent on this course. I could order you to give up this commission and return to your proper work but…you wouldn’t be happy, would you?”

“No, Father.”

“I still believe your thought of a political trade is fantasy, but I will allow it to this extent. Go and do your political work, son—” My face broke into a huge smile. “But! Mark my words. If this commission of yours fails, if you do not win this supposed reward, if you do complete it and Pericles refuses to pay you, if at the end of this bizarre exercise you have not earned a drachma, then you will return and we will continue your training in sculpture as before, and there will be no more words about it.”

“You are very fair, Father.”

“Stupid is more like it, but I see I must indulge you in this to get it out of your system. Furthermore, young man, even supposing you do earn your first commission, I wonder where the next will come from. I am giving you two years to prove you can make a life of this. If you fail, back you come. I hope there will still be time to teach you a proper trade before you’re too old.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Now the only problem is, who am I going to find to help an old man in his work. I doubt I can cope on my own anymore,” Sophroniscus said mildly. He wasn’t really particularly aged, but he liked to pretend that he was in his declining years and sometimes referred to himself as an old man. “There will be times I need you to assist me, son. The heavy work is more than one man can manage.”

“Of course, Father! I don’t mean that I don’t want to help my father, I mean that I…er…”

“Don’t want to do it a lot?” Sophroniscus offered with a smile.

“I’ll help!” a boy’s voice called from above. Sophroniscus and I both looked up in surprise to see Socrates kneeling on the top of the latest marble block. The little rat must have heard every word of our conversation.

“You, Socrates? I never thought you would be the one to take up sculpting.”

“I would like to try, Father. Please may I?”

Sophroniscus made a show of thinking about it. “You are young to start, but if it is your wish you can begin with the simpler pieces.” A blind man could see he was jumping with joy at the thought of having a son to pass on his trade. I had hurt the poor man deeply. Socrates had offered a perfect solution. Now I suppressed a smile.

Later I asked Socrates, “Did you truly mean what you said in there? If you didn’t, Father is going to be even more hurt later.”

“It’s okay, Nico. I think I’d like to be a sculptor.”

“Very well then, as long as you mean it.” I shared Sophroniscus’ surprise. Socrates didn’t seem the sculpting sort, or any other type of artist for that matter. You never can tell about people.

It seemed to me the next thing to do was talk to Archestratus and find out where he’d been at the time of the murder. To my surprise I found him at home. As soon as I said I came from Pericles, I was admitted into the andron, the public room at the front of the house reserved for men. Archestratus was a well-fed man with squinting eyes. He sat in an upright chair, in which he barely fit, surrounded by men, sitting upon couches set along the walls or standing. There were perhaps twenty or more of them, half with the worn faces and skin of middle age, and half younger men. A couple of those standing were jittering up and down on the spot, like runners about to start a race, but most of the men sitting had a slight slump to their shoulders. The air in the room felt hot, despite the open windows looking out onto the courtyard. Bowls of half-eaten food and cups of wine sat on low tables. A few scraps and overturned empty cups lay scattered about the floor.

The men were certainly citizens, or they would not have been present. Most wore the exomis, a knee-length garment that wraps around the body from the right side, belted about the waist, and tied over the left shoulder, leaving the right shoulder and arm bare. The exomis was the favored clothing for artisans and craftsmen. My father and I wore the same thing when we worked. Only a few men with gray hair had both shoulders and chest covered by the full-length chiton tunic of a genteel citizen, and two men my age wore the thigh-length chitoniskos of an active man. Excepting Archestratus, I doubted there was a landholder among them. Typical, in fact, of the very men the Areopagus wanted to keep from power. They had been talking loudly, but fell silent as I entered and was introduced. Every eye was upon me.

“So Pericles wants to deal, does he?” Archestratus said with satisfaction.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“A power-sharing accommodation is possible, but tell Pericles I won’t have any of that ‘you lead every alternate day’ nonsense. We split our interests down the middle. He can have foreign policy and I’ll take domestic.”

“That’s not why I’m here, sir. I’m investigating the murder of Ephialtes.”

Archestratus goggled. “You’re from his deme?”

“It’s a private commission.”

“The man’s dead. Obviously the old men of the Areopagus killed him, and there’s nothing we can do about it. We could hardly arrest the entire Council, and even if we did there’s no mechanism for taking them to trial.”

The men on the couches sat up straighter. One of the other men said, “What do you mean, Archestratus? Of course there is. Anyone accused of murder can be forced to stand trial. Being a member of the Areopagus is no immunity.”

Archestratus smiled and said, “You’re quite right. So can anyone tell us, when a man stands trial for murder, in which court is it held?”

I knew the answer to that one. “You wrote the law yourself, Archestratus. They’re tried by the Council of the Areop—Oh.”

Archestratus smiled and said, “Correct. Our accused murderers are the city’s entire set of homicide judges. Imagine the scene at the end of the trial, the accused walk to the front of the court to lay judgment on themselves. What verdict would you expect?”

Archestratus let that sink in for a moment.

“Constitutional crisis, gentlemen,” Archestratus said with relish. “Constitutional crisis of the highest order. I think I can say with all due modesty I am one of the few men equipped to deal with it.”

He certainly had me impressed, and I could see the other men were admiring Archestratus.

I said, “But sir, what if the murderer wasn’t a member of the Council?”

Archestratus frowned and said, “Of course he was.”

“Not necessarily. For example, what if someone else wanted to lead the democratic movement?”

“Your implication is clear, but I cannot imagine Pericles resorting to murder.”

“Pericles!” I exclaimed.

“Of course. You’re not suggesting I am a murderer, are you, young man?”

“Er—”

The men growled.

“No, of course not, Archestratus.”

“Good. If it was not the Council that did the deed, then look to his personal affairs.” A few of the men sniggered.

“Oh? Can you tell me about that?”

“I don’t inquire into other men’s personal business. I merely make the suggestion as a man who has seen his fair share of trials. Did you know most murders are over family feuds? Take it from me, young man, if the motive isn’t politics, then it’s personal.”

“Sir, I’m sure you understand the law better than I ever will. Could you tell me what happens now to Ephialtes’ house and property?”

Archestratus harrumphed. “If he had sons, or even nephews or brothers, his possessions would pass to them. I happen to know he had no close male relatives still living. There was a brother, but I believe he died in battle against the Persians before he could sire children. The law requires property to stay within the family. So in this case Ephialtes’ widow will be required to marry the closest possible man within his greater family. I have no idea who that is.”

“What if that man is already married?”

“Then the law requires him to divorce so as to marry the widow. Keeping property within the family overrides all other considerations. The man would retain his own property and acquire that of Ephialtes. The divorced woman would be sent back to her family.”

This struck me as being somewhat harsh. But fortunately that wasn’t my problem. My problem would be finding the name of the lucky groom.

“It couldn’t have been Cimon who killed Ephialtes, could it?” a man speculated.

Archestratus chuckled. “Cimon? He’s an arch-conservative, no man is more aristocratic, and he and Ephialtes hated each other with a passion, but have you forgotten he was ostracized three months ago? We won’t see him back in Athens for nigh on ten years. How he could fire a bow on the Rock of the Areopagus when he isn’t even in Attica is an interesting question.”

Nevertheless, the suggestion was a good one. Cimon was our greatest living military commander, and the son of Miltiades, who led us to victory at the Battle of Marathon. With credentials like those, he was a hero to many, and as Archestratus said, was known for his deep conservative views, so deep that he was friend and admirer of the strange, militaristic city-state Sparta, Athens’ greatest rival for domination of Hellas. Yes, indeed, if Cimon were in Athens he would be a prime suspect.

But he wasn’t in Athens, nor anywhere in the Attica region surrounding, because the previous year, Cimon had led a party of volunteers to go to the aid of the Spartans when they suffered a slave revolt. The expedition had ended in a farce when the Spartans sent home the Athenian contingent as not required. The people were incensed by the insult, blamed Cimon, and had taken out their indignation by ostracizing him.

I said, “What if Cimon hired an agent to act for him?”

“I don’t believe it,” another man spoke up. “Cimon wouldn’t kill a man like that. He’d face you down.” Others around the room nodded their heads.

“Where is Cimon now?” someone asked.

Silence. Nobody knew where he’d gone. That wasn’t so strange since he’d only recently departed. No doubt he would surface in a few months after he’d found a new home. Cimon had been the only man capable of stopping Ephialtes. The moment he was gone, Ephialtes had pushed through his reforms.

“Maybe one of Cimon’s friends is acting on his own,” someone suggested.

“I suppose that’s possible,” Archestratus conceded. “But if you’re right, there’s going to be another murder.”

“What!”

“Oh, yes. It was Ephialtes who wanted Cimon’s political destruction, but the man who prosecuted him after the Spartan disaster was Pericles.”

It was only after the door shut behind me that I realized I’d never asked Archestratus the one question I’d gone there to ask: Where had he been at the time of the murder? I shook my head in disgust with myself. How could I have let him get away with that? Xanthippus had called Archestratus a little dog who liked to nip but couldn’t hurt, but having met the man I thought there was plenty of bite in Archestratus. The difference between them was, if Xanthippus was a hunting dog that came at you from in front and went for your throat, then Archestratus was the kind that pounced onto your back from behind.

I considered Archestratus’ rather clever backhanded suggestion that Pericles might be the killer. But if he was, I had to get around my own evidence that he held no bow, and besides, why would he commission me to catch himself?

It had all looked so simple when I’d questioned the slaves!

Archestratus had dropped a broad hint that all was not well in Ephialtes’ private life. I decided to visit his home, where I’d be able to ask about his family, and perhaps even discover if there was a relative who hated him.

The home was easy to find, since such a public figure had a long line of mourners visiting. I pushed my way through the crowd, which began even outside the door.

The public rooms held some decent dinner couches, but nothing opulent. The cups men held were standard pottery. There were murals on the walls, the usual Homeric scenes, but nothing like what I would have expected in the home of such a famous man. Indeed, our own house held better artwork, and that confused me. Ephialtes would not have been a rich man, not compared to an aristocrat like Xanthippus, who owned many estates and probably a silver mine, but he should have been very comfortable compared to most. So where was his money? It certainly wasn’t in this house.

Everything was overshadowed by the most important display, the body of Ephialtes. As is the custom, he had been carried straight home from the murder scene. The body had been washed in perfumed water and seawater and laid to rest in the courtyard, with his feet pointing toward the door.

I stepped forward to the body, as was required. An urn of ashes had been placed there. I dipped my hands in, raised them high above me, and poured a handful of ash over my head, felt the soft falling touch against my face, and the harsh burnt smell in my nose. Looking down I could see the pattern of black and white specks on the floor all about me, where every visitor before had done the same thing. I cried and lamented for the shortest time I decently could, inspecting the body all the while. Ephialtes had been dressed in a white shroud. A honey cake rested by his right hand. A strip of linen had been tied around his chin to the top of his head to keep his mouth shut, by which I knew the coin, an obol, had already been placed in his mouth. Ephialtes would give the coin to Charon the Ferryman, who would carry him across the Acheron, the river of woe, on his way to Hades. He would cross the river Cocytus of lamentation, and the Phlegethon of fire, before coming to the river Lethe, where he would dip in his hand and drink of the waters, and so lose all memories of his earthly life, finally coming to the Styx, the river of hate, after which he would be in Hades, and remain there for all eternity.

Death, my death, was not something I had ever contemplated before, but looking down at this man whose death I was investigating, knowing what he was going through that very moment, I wondered for the first time what my own fate might be. The great hero Achilles of Trojan fame had said he would rather be slave to the poorest man living than king over all the dead, and he should know. Achilles’ word was enough to tell me being dead was a bad idea.

When I felt I’d lamented sufficiently I stepped back.

Without a son in the home there was no one to greet the mourners, so they wandered, poking their noses about the home of a famous man, talking to each other, and picking up and inspecting anything that took their interest. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few items disappeared before the day was out.

We could all hear the wailing from the women’s quarters, particularly shrill from one voice, whom I guessed would be the wife. It is against all decency for a married woman to socialize with men, and the husband being dead is no excuse for breaking the rule. Ephialtes’ wife and any girl-children would not leave their quarters until all the visitors had left. Equally, the custom was that they must keep the wailing going to show their distress. It set my teeth on edge, and the men talking to one another had to raise their voices to be heard above it.

I hadn’t fully appreciated how confused this house would be. How was I going to get any information here?

A slave was hobbling about with difficulty, serving wine. The slave was thin, almost weedy. His hair was falling out, and he had the look of illness rather than old age.

He was struggling to carry the amphora. It almost slipped from his grasp and I barely grabbed it in time.

“Here, let me help you.”

“Oh no, sir, I couldn’t do that!”

“Whyever not?”

“What would the master say?”

“Very little. He’s dead.”

The slave was taken aback. “Why, so he is, sir. I keep forgetting, it doesn’t seem real.”

I took the amphora from his protesting hands and started to serve. As I walked among them, some of the visitors asked if I was Ephialtes’ son. I claimed to be the son of an old friend—explaining why I had not cut my hair in mourning—and moved on.

The cup into which I was pouring jerked, making the wine splash my feet. The fellow holding the cup said, “Now there’s a brave man.”

For a moment I thought he meant me before I realized he was looking over my shoulder. I turned to see an older man standing by the body, a new arrival since he had no ash on his shoulders. Many in the courtyard had stopped talking to watch him.

A voice called out, “What is it, Lysanias? Come to make sure he’s dead?”

Lysanias ignored the implicit challenge, but said in a tone that brooked no argument, “Paying my respects to a good man.” The expression on his face was grim, made grimmer by his hair being cut so close that it was barely gray fuzz above his skull.

“Who’s he?” I asked the man next to me.

“One of the Council of the Areopagus.”

Lysanias stood for a moment, looking down at the corpse, then made his respects, much as I had done, but with more style, lifting the ashes in two hands above his head and letting them fall upon him. His lamentation sounded like he might have meant it.