The Pericles Commission (15 page)

“Yes, but—”

“Then you go right back to the Polemarch, thank him kindly for his offer, and accept the job!”

“But—”

“There are no buts about it.”

“I haven’t said no, either!” I almost shouted.

Sophroniscus paused. “What do you mean?” He held up his cup for more wine and a slave boy immediately refilled it from the krater between us. Phaenarete ordered sweetmeats to be brought. That was a sign she thought this conversation might go on for some time.

“I mean if I take the job I would have to abandon Pericles.”

“You feel loyalty?”

“I’d feel like a rat fleeing a sinking ship.”

“I see.” Sophroniscus drummed his fingers on his dining couch. “Has it occurred to you, when the rat jumps off the ship it is acting quite rationally in its own best interest?”

“It’s still a rat, Father. And…I think perhaps what I’m doing might be important for Athens.”

“There speaks egotistic youth. Beware hubris, son. The Gods punish it.”

“I have three days to accept the offer, Father. If I can find the man who killed Ephialtes tomorrow, or the day after, then I can make Pericles happy and still have time to say yes to the Pole-march.”

“Impossible. You haven’t succeeded so far, what makes you think you can do it quickly now that you really need to?”

“I’ve made important progress. I know that the assassin is still in Athens, and I know where he was staying until a few days ago.” I basked in the glory of my own cleverness as I described my success in detail.

I boasted, “It’s only a matter of time now before I solve the entire problem. All I have to do is track down this Aristodicus and force him to tell me who he’s working for.”

My little brother hung on my every word, looking up at me in adulation. Even Phaenarete looked mildly pleased. Sophroniscus frowned and said, “Do not risk the anger of the Gods, Nicolaos. The Gods hate hubris in a man almost more than any trait. Remember the boastful words of Odysseus to Poseidon after the fall of Troy? He paid for it with ten years of his life, and the lives of all his men. Retract your boast before something bad happens!”

“You are right, Father, and if Aristodicus eludes me tomorrow I shall.”

He said urgently, “Do it now, right now.”

“But what could possibly go wrong right now?”

The door flew open. Every head turned, startled or in fear, for there’d been no warning of a disturbance.

Our head slave stood there in shock and blurted, “Master Nicolaos, there is a young woman in the public room. She says she must speak with you immediately.”

Diotima stood in the public room, tears streaming down and a look of horror on her face.

“Wow! Where did you find her, Nico?” my little brother asked in admiration. My entire family stood behind me. I didn’t dare turn around to see the expressions of Sophroniscus or Phaenarete, for if I did I would probably die of embarrassment.

Diotima had run here in bare feet. The mud was caked on past her ankles. She was wearing a tunic which was definitely supposed to be inside wear; her hair was down. She stood wringing her hands.

“I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, but…but I didn’t know who to…Nicolaos, they say I’m to bury Ephialtes!”

“You?” I was surprised. “But you’re not—” I broke off, unwilling to continue more of this highly interesting conversation before my parents.

Phaenarete said angrily, “Nicolaos, you will tell me who this girl is before I take her to the women’s quarters and have her escorted back to her home.”

Trapped. No way to get her out of the house and then explain her away as a distraught witness.

“This is Diotima of Mantinea, priestess-in-training to the Goddess Artemis.” I was not going to say the rest even if Sophroniscus ordered the slaves to beat me.

Sophroniscus demanded, “And what does she have to do with you? Have you any idea what her father is going to say when he finds out—”

“My father is dead! Murdered!” Diotima blurted.

And all the while Phaenarete was muttering, “Diotima. Mantinea. Diotima? Mantinea? Mantinea!” Phaenarete shouted in triumph, “You’re the daughter of Euterpe the hetaera!” Phaenarete looked Diotima up and down. Diotima nodded meekly.

“You know Diotima?” I asked, incredulous.

“Of course I know her! I delivered her all those years ago, didn’t I? Don’t look so shocked, son. I am a midwife, you know.”

Sophroniscus and I were banished to the dining room while Phaenarete took Diotima to be washed and given warm clothes. My brother was dragged to bed by slaves with orders to tie him down if necessary.

Sophroniscus raised an eyebrow. “I told you so,” he said.

“But she must already have been running here when I made the boast,” I protested.

“But if you hadn’t boasted, she wouldn’t have been running here.”

I decided not to argue the illogic of that, since nine out of every ten men in Athens would have agreed with Sophroniscus wholeheartedly. Phaenarete opened the door and led in Diotima, who looked somewhat more composed, though her eyes were red and bloated from crying. Phaenarete sat her down on a couch and sat beside her, as a good chaperone should.

“You will now tell us why you are here,” Sophroniscus ordered.

Diotima looked at me. I nodded. Phaenarete followed that little exchange with her eyes but said nothing.

“The secretary of the Archon came to our house tonight. I am to lead the funeral procession for Ephialtes alongside his wife Stratonike. They say I must because she is mad, and I am to be made his heir.”

Sophroniscus said, “You aren’t his daughter though, not legally that is.”

“I am now,” Diotima said through clenched teeth. “I was adopted this morning by his estate, on the orders of the Eponymous Archon.”

So that was the radical idea Conon had mentioned. A man could adopt someone in their will. But Conon had gone one step further.

“That’s rather clever,” Sophroniscus murmured. “So what does this have to do with Nicolaos?”

Diotima looked confused. “Why, who else would I tell? He’s investigating the murder.”

“That doesn’t explain why you ran through the streets at night,” Sophroniscus said. “You might not like what’s happening, but what do you expect Nicolaos to do about it? And I will point out you now have a promised husband who will not be at all happy to hear of this, not happy at all.” He looked at Phaenarete, who understood and called for slaves.

Sophroniscus said in a voice that brooked no argument. “I and two stout slaves will escort you to your door. You will walk through that doorway. You will stay there, or at least, if you must run through the streets it will not be to here.” He turned to me. “And you will stay away from Diotima from this point on.”

“But—”

Sophroniscus talked over me. “A man caught in adultery can legally be killed by the husband as long as the couple are found in the act and there are witnesses. Did you know that? And being betrothed counts.”

“But we’re not—”

“However, in the case of the wife, she can be killed by her husband if he so much as suspects. It might not be perfectly legal, but I’ve never known any man be charged for it where the woman’s reputation was dubious. Did you know
that
? Nicolaos, you are risking this girl’s life. Now say goodbye to her.”

“Heave!” Sophroniscus shouted. The slaves, all eight of them, took hold of the rope and dug their heels into the dirt. They leaned back and pulled, with determination and copious sweat all over their faces, the muscles in their arms and backs bulging with effort. None shirked; they wanted this over as much as we did. Just when I thought nothing was going to happen, the sledge they were pulling, bearing a huge statue, edged forward yet another small distance. The rope slackened while the men took a breath before doing it all again.

We’d been breaking our backs since first light, and when I blinked at the sun, high overhead, I saw it was almost midday. I’d breathed in so much dust I could no longer smell anything, I was hot, sore, and hungry, and I had no doubt everyone else was too. But there would be no rest until the job was done. Fortunately the end was finally in sight—literally so, just down the end of the street in fact.

Being the slave of a sculptor has its advantages, particularly if the owner is a man as mild as my father. Sculptors are not warlike people, so as a slave, you are not likely to find yourself in a battle camp except in time of war. Nor are sculptors major estate holders; a sculptor’s slave isn’t likely to find himself toiling from dawn to dusk in a shadeless field, tending olive trees under a hot sun. And you certainly won’t find yourself down a mine, or pulling the oars of a ship. No, the slave of a sculptor has it easy, most days.

But sometimes a sculptor needs to move large, heavy blocks of solid stone: raw blocks to the workshop, and finished pieces to the estates of rich men. Right now, the slaves of Sophroniscus were paying their dues.

The men rested, and while they did Socrates raced to the front of the sledge carrying a bucket filled with pig fat and the cheapest olive oil. He scooped out a dripping lump of the revolting mixture and began smearing it all over the undersides of the boards. The sledge itself was an old one, which had been in the family for years. It was made of solid oak, strong enough to hold up any weight of marble, and thoroughly weathered. The undersides were stained a deep, rich color from years of oil, and the boards were smooth as a girl’s skin.

We were taking this finished piece to a sanctuary for Sophroniscus’ client, Callias, who was said to be the richest man in Athens. Callias was descended from an ancient Athenian family, despite which he controlled a vast business empire. Unlike other well-born citizens, he was only too happy to sully his hands with sordid trade, which no doubt explains why he was rich and they, for the most part, weren’t. He owned his own silver mine, but everyone knew he made most of his fortune by renting out his excess slave labor to the silver mines run by the city. This was tough on the slaves, whose lives were short and painful, but since most of them were prisoners of war nobody cared.

The work was a race horse, larger than life, commissioned by Callias to thank the Gods for his victory in the races at the most recent Panathenaic Games. It was done in a single block of marble which Sophroniscus had especially ordered for this client and shipped in from the island of Paros, where the quarries produce the best marble in the world. This block was of the highest standard—it had cost Callias a fortune to acquire—and was a beautiful white with virtually no blemishes. It seemed almost a pity to paint it, but of course that would have to be done. No one with any artistic taste would want to stare at a statue in a monotonous marble color—if nothing else you would never see the fine details unless they were highlighted—and Callias, who had bought from Father in the past, unquestionably had excellent taste. Nevertheless it seemed a pity to cover such good stone. I was reconciled to it only because I knew Callias would certainly hire the best painter, and a good painter with such material to work on would certainly keep his dabs light and enhance the stone, not hide it from view.

The finished piece was not only a thing of fragile, delicate beauty to behold, a study of elegant movement in stone, it was also damned heavy.

I helped haul on the harder sections, but spent time too overseeing the men, in particular making sure everything was done safely, and that the statue never shifted in its stand. This was a job I knew well from long experience. Atop the sledge was a wooden stand and brackets, which had to be built anew every time, so that the statue being moved fit snugly in its hold. Few things are more dangerous than a piece of marble toppling sideways, so to reduce the chances of an accident the pieces are always transported lying lengthways.

At that moment the road was sloping ever so slightly downhill, and Sophroniscus and I stood side by side, watching the slaves hauling, and Socrates dashing in from time to time to smooth their way.

“So tell me, son, what is it about sculpting you don’t like?” Sophroniscus asked without warning. To put it mildly, I was startled by the sudden question. There was an edge to his tone that I rarely heard from my father. I guessed he’d had to nerve himself up to ask the question. I thought for a moment about the best way to express how I felt.

“There’s nothing wrong with sculpting—” I began.

“Is it that you don’t like me? Is that it?” he said sharply. “Be honest.”

“No! No Father.” I was shocked. I hadn’t realized how much he took my rejection of his profession as a rejection of him.

“No Father, it’s nothing like that at all. I just find sculpting…boring.” There, I’d said it at last.

“Boring?” he repeated, as if I’d uttered some absurdity.

“Yes sir. Boring.”

“But…you used to love it as a child! All those hours you spent in the workshop, watching me. I remember it so well. You would sit on the blocks, with those big round eyes of yours, watching everything I did. You loved it.”

“No Father, I loved you. Still do, in fact. I wanted to be with you, and the only way to do that was to be in the workshop, because you never left it.”

His eyes widened, I think in surprise. But he said nothing. I was glad, because the conversation was making me feel distinctly uncomfortable.

Not once had Sophroniscus taken his eye off the work. He may have been concerned for his precious statue, or he may have been avoiding my eye. So I saw him in profile, and not for the first time I remarked the similarity between him and my younger brother. Both of them had a bit of the look of a satyr about them. I on the other hand took after my mother’s side of the family, and I wondered if the dissimilarity extended to our personalities as well. Perhaps that was the reason we couldn’t agree.

“Socrates, get out from under there!” Sophroniscus roared. The little fool had taken to jumping through the gaps between the formwork holding the statue and the sledge as it moved. Socrates jumped out of the way and let the men get on with their work.

“I see,” Sophroniscus continued. “Well, lad, I’m glad you had the guts to stand up and tell me to my face, but it doesn’t mean I’m reconciled to what you’re doing. Our family has a poor enough record when it comes to dealing with the powerful that I can only assume disaster will come of this adventure of yours. You know what happened to our illustrious ancestor when he got himself entangled with great men.”

I did indeed, since Father never tired of telling us. Family legend had it that our line was founded by Daedalus himself, who built the Labyrinth for King Minos of old, and who had to flee in fear of his life with Theseus, after the hero slew the Minotaur. As Father said, a fine example of being caught between two powerful men. Daedalus lost his son, Icarus, on that adventure, and had to remarry and beget more sons when he arrived in Athens.

“Well, it won’t be a problem for me, Father,” I said in jest. “I don’t have a son to lose!”

Transporting a statue always attracts an audience, most of them stopping to watch the fun, some to offer helpful suggestions that we could live without, and some to critique the artist’s work, which if Father overheard might result in litigation or violence. Nobody ever offers to help by pulling, unless they’re down on their luck and want to be paid.

A woman in priestess robes came walking down the street, attended by two slaves. Men moved to let her pass, but she stopped to watch us. I glanced in her direction, distracted by the movement, then did a double take and looked again.

It was Diotima, dressed as I’d never seen her before. She seemed older in the robes, more mature, and looked as if maybe she really was a priestess and a respectable member of society.

I was suddenly and acutely aware of my own appearance. I was wearing nothing but a loincloth. I was as filthy as the slaves, the dust and the dirt covered my bare chest, and you could see where the sweat dripping down me had formed tiny rivers in the grime.

I knew she’d spotted me, there was no point trying to hide, so when she gestured I walked to her.

“Nice chest!” Diotima murmured, low enough that no one else could hear. Her dark eyes looked me up and down in a way no one could miss; she smiled, and I had to order myself not to blush. I wasn’t used to being ogled in public; the women in Athens aren’t supposed to do such things.

She diverted her eyes to our job. “Looks heavy. Why don’t you use wheels?” she asked.

I smiled. “Ha! There’s someone in the crowd asks that, every time.”

“No doubt the intelligent, curious ones,” she said, trying to look stern. “And what do you reply? Feel free to avoid any phrases that might hint this is a stupid question.”

“If we had wheels, there’d be only four points holding up the block of stone. The moment we tried to cross anything other than solid rock the wheels would sink into the dirt and we’d never get it moving again. And you’ve probably noticed the streets in this city are fundamentally—”

“Mud!” we said in unison, and laughed.

I finished, “But with a sledge, the weight is carried across a wide surface, so we don’t get stuck.”

“I didn’t think of that,” she admitted.

“Don’t take it hard; if you didn’t have to do it yourself, you’d never know.”

“Rizon has no alibi for Father’s death,” Diotima said.

“And you know this how?”

“Same as for Archestratus. I asked his slaves while I was in my boy clothing.”

“Does it matter? Don’t we know the man from Tanagra killed your father?”

Diotima shrugged. “I thought it better to know. But, Nicolaos, Rizon does have an excellent alibi for when the bowyer died.”

Sophroniscus called to me, and I had no choice but to leave Diotima.

“I saw you, son. I told you to stay away from her,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“This girl…” Sophroniscus spoke in a quiet voice, almost whispering, then he paused.

“You mean Diotima?” I automatically looked in her direction, and Sophroniscus followed my gaze. She noticed our attention and waved.

“Her. Your mother has spoken to me. It’s Phaenarete’s view, given the mother’s…er…position in life, that there’s very little can be done to sully the daughter’s reputation more than it already is, and the talk in the Agora is that the man she’s betrothed to would hardly notice the difference between a virgin and a pornê off the street. They tell me he’s been boasting to anyone who’ll listen about what he intends to do with her.”

My hands clenched and I gritted my teeth, but Sophroniscus was still speaking. “So I’ve decided to withdraw my objections to you associating with the girl.” Sophroniscus frowned. “And of course the near certainty that you would completely ignore my order makes the decision easier. Still, I wish you wouldn’t be seen talking to her in public.”

“It was business, Father.”

“Then that’s even worse,” he said. “You allow a woman to work for you?”

“It is her father who died, sir. I could hardly stop her.”

Sophroniscus shook his head. “You need to learn how to control women, son. Remember, her behavior should be seemly, which it certainly is not if she’s conversing with men in the street.”

“She stopped and talked to me, Father. I didn’t ask her.”

“Then order her to keep walking. You’re a man, she’ll obey.”

“Is that how it works with you and Mother, sir?”

“Er…pay attention to the load, son. It’s your responsibility if it tips.”

It was just past midday when we finally reached the sanctuary. The staff had been expecting us. The site was leveled to perfection and swept of loose stones. Sophroniscus checked it, nodded in satisfaction, and ordered the back end of the sledge to be adjusted so that the feet of the statue would slide into the correct position. This was done by the men with crowbars and much swearing.

The base block had been delivered the previous day, and placed in precisely the right spot. It remained only to pull the statue up and onto its base. A small A-frame tower of tall wooden beams was raised, blocks and tackles hanging off it, and ropes were threaded through pulleys hanging from the top of the A-frame and attached to the horse at points Sophroniscus knew to be strong enough to take the strain. The ropes would pull the statue off the sledge—now tilted back—so that the stone would touch land with its hind feet first, and then while still supported from above rotate over to a standing position.

Sophroniscus waved his arm, and the men hauled for the final effort. The horse’s hind feet slid to the ground as expected, and his body slowly rose into the sky. This was the moment of maximum strain for the men and the grunting was loud.

Socrates jumped onto the platform, directly underneath, pressed his hands against the horse’s belly, and pretended to be pushing the piece upright. He laughed.

Sophroniscus roared, “Socrates! If I have to tell you one more time—”

A rope snapped.

The horse lurched away from the men, directly down on top of Socrates. It all seemed to happen in slow motion for me. I could see his face turn from laughter to horror in an instant, he put his hands up, as if to try and hold the statue for real, before he fell backward with the immense block of stone toppling on top of him. The dust flew up in a cloud, obscuring the disaster. Something cracked. The sledge jerked beneath the sudden weight.

“Oh Gods.” I ran through the cloud, waving my hand to clear the air before me and coughing.