“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 porne 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.
I expected to see a pool of blood, and the crushed body of my brother. I found him lying flat, his face turned to the side, unable to move, the statue upon him. He was having trouble breathing, but, miraculously, he was still alive.
“Help me, Nico,” he whispered.
The wooden framework used to hold the statue in place during transport had protected Socrates. The support struts were still attached to the stone, and had fallen to each side of him. The struts should have splintered in an instant, but they had held enough that, bent and broken as they were, enough of them remained to afford Socrates the tiniest gap between the statue and the platform of the sledge. But the frame which had saved his life also trapped him in a cage which would collapse at any moment. To pull him out I would have to remove some of the struts encasing him, and when I did that, the only thing keeping the statue off him would be gone.
“Hang on, little brother, we’re going to get you out of there.” The woodwork creaked. Both Socrates and I eyed it suspiciously.
“Hurry, Nico,” he said unnecessarily. A tear rolled down his cheek, which he tried to blink away. I refused to notice it.
“Don’t move, son,” Sophroniscus ordered. He was already eyeing the setup. To the men, who had all gathered around, upset and shouting, he yelled, “Get back, you fools! Get back now!” He was worried a man would knock the fragile structure and cause it to collapse. Sophroniscus and I both stepped back carefully.
“We could pull him out from the head end, directly along the line of the statue,” he said to me. “The problem is, even pulling him out might knock a strut, or shake the frame enough to collapse it. We have to get something else under there, now.”
I nodded. “The base?” I suggested. It was the obvious thing to use.
Sophroniscus shouted to the men to pick up the round base and wedge it under the horse’s head. They heaved it up, all eight clustered about it, and carried it around the statue from the feet to the head. They placed it as close as they dared underneath the head, but with the best will in the world they could not jam it in; the angle was simply wrong, leaving a small air gap the breadth of two fingers between head and base. It wasn’t much, but Socrates hadn’t any room to spare, and if the statue came down even a finger’s breadth it might be enough to break bones inside him.
There was only one thing to do. I took our heaviest mallet, lined up my stroke by eye with the greatest care, and, praying to any Gods that would listen, struck the base with every bit of my strength.
The base moved enough to wedge itself underneath. I struck again. The statue might have risen by a fraction, but it might also have been my imagination.
“Hold,” Sophroniscus ordered.
I put down the mallet. He pointed at the upper hindquarter. Cracks and fissures had appeared about the leg joint. The fall must have damaged the stone at that point, which was not surprising now that I came to think of it, because that was the point of greatest pressure when the statue fell. The jolt must have been terrific, and my hammering had completed the damage.
Sophroniscus put both hands on the leg and pulled, gently at first, then harder. The leg snapped off and fell to the ground. Sophroniscus ordered the slaves to take the leg around to one side of the statue. While he directed, crouching low and watching everything with the greatest care, the men jammed the snapped leg underneath the chest of the animal, and wedged the broken end into the dirt at their feet. One of them-the largest and strongest man-ran to where they’d been working, took up a crowbar lying on the ground, and raced back. He plunged the crowbar into the place where the leg met the ground, further blocking it from any movement. He leaned into the crowbar, bracing his bare feet against the dirt, his toes searching for the best purchase. Sophroniscus nodded approval. “It’s time,” he said, and stepped into the shadow of the broken horse.
I put my hand on his shoulder and gently held him back. “No, Father, this is my job. You’re in charge,” and I was quick to step around him and squat beside Socrates before he had a chance to object.
Socrates had lain there without struggling and without panic, not wasting our time with questions when he knew we were hurrying to save him. He hadn’t even stirred when the base had been hammered in, and the great weight above him had wobbled. It occurred to me that, for a young boy, he had amazing self-control. “Are you all right, Socrates?” I asked him, keeping my voice as slow and calm as possible.
“Do I look all right?” he responded, his tone telling me I’d asked a stupid question. I repressed a smile. Mortal danger hadn’t changed his attitude one bit.
“I’m going to pull you out.” The broken-off leg angled upward directly above me. I would have to be careful not to stand up, nor to hit the leg with Socrates’ body when I pulled.
I said, “As soon as you’re on the ground, clear the area, get right away, all right? Because I’ll be coming after you, and I won’t be looking where I’m going.”
“Got it.” He paused. “Thanks, Nico.”
“Right, on the count of three.” I held fast to his arm and leg, and braced my foot against the side of the sledge. I noticed, irrelevant to the crisis, that the timbers were cracked. It had seen its last service for the family.
“One…two…three.” I yanked on his arm and his thigh simultaneously. Socrates’ body was pulled into the remaining struts, which resisted for a moment before popping out. I fell backward and Socrates landed sideways on my lap. The statue fell the breadth of two hands before jerking to a stop, held up on our side by nothing except the support of that one marble leg. I could hear loud grunting behind me and knew our slaves, leaning into the leg, were saving our lives with every breath.
I practically threw Socrates out from under the shadow of the stone. He was a sturdy, thickset lad, but men who watched told me later they saw a boy flying like a quoit. The force of the throw sent me the other way, and my back hit the wreck of the sledge. I looked up. The stone horse was staring down right at me, we exchanged eye contact for a moment, and I wondered how he could be so impassive when we were both about to die. He lunged down at me.
I don’t remember diving out of the way, but I must have, because when I came to my senses I was lying facedown, and I wasn’t screaming in pain. I raised myself onto my elbows, spitting out dust, and looked behind. The horse had rolled and landed at my feet, on its back, its three remaining legs in the air and the amputated fourth beneath it. If it had been alive, we would have put it out of its misery straightaway.
Someone helped me up, I think one of the slaves, but I don’t know because immediately Sophroniscus wrapped me up in his arms and hugged me. There were tears in his eyes.
“Nicolaos, my son-” he began.
“What in Hades is going on!” A man was marching toward us, trailed by a small cloud of slaves. It took no intelligence to realize this was Callias, the richest man in Athens, and by the look on his face, a very unhappy customer. He was an older man-I knew that he had to be at least fifty or sixty years old because he had famously fought at the Battle of Marathon, wearing no armor but the robes of a priest. I knew too that in his younger years he had won the horse race at the Olympics, come second in the chariot race, and had been a victor at the Pythian Games.
For all that he was getting on now, Callias hadn’t the paunch one often sees, and nor was he stick thin. The speed at which he walked toward our debacle was impressive.
He stopped short at the scene, stared at the wreck of his expensive artwork, and swore roundly, finishing with, “What in Hades happened?”
Sophroniscus explained-his voice wavered enough to tell me he was rattled-and Callias’ headman, who had been watching the entire fiasco, confirmed it.
Callias grunted and asked, “Is the boy unhurt?” Which I thought showed compassion and I took a liking to him, a feeling that instantly dissolved when his next comment, after hearing that Socrates was only scratched was, “Sophroniscus, much as I value you as an artist, I am bound to say this is down to your incompetence. The men were yours, the equipment was yours, and you were paid to deliver and install the work. I hold you responsible, and you will pay me the cost of the marble. I needn’t add I won’t be paying you your fee.”
Disaster. The block had been paid for by Callias directly, and it was worth more than all my father’s wealth put together. He would be a ruined man, unable to pay his debts. If Callias pressed his claim, Father would be forced to sell his home and workshop and tools and slaves and be reduced to the life of a common laborer. For a master craftsman, it would be total ignominy, and to maintain the family I would have to labor alongside him.
Socrates, who was sitting on the ground nursing his bruises, shouted, “That’s not fair, it was an accident!”
Sophroniscus waved a hand at him and said, “Quiet, son. I’m afraid Callias has the right of it.”
I’ve never been prouder of my father than at that moment, because he said, with a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, “It is true what you say, Callias. The fault must be mine, though I can’t imagine how this happened, I’ve never had such a problem before in my entire career. I stand ready to pay the loss.”
I said, “But Callias, you still have a statue.”
“A horse without a leg is worthless,” Callias said mildly.
Sophroniscus was too strong a man to beg, so he said nothing. I was simply aghast.
“Master!” a man shouted. He was one of the slaves who accompanied Callias, and he beckoned to us from where our equipment lay. Callias strode over to him, and we all followed.
“There is something here you should see.” The man knelt by the block and pulley system used to raise the statue. He held up the rope that had snapped.
“You see, Master?”
I saw it in an instant. But Callias said irritably, “No, I don’t see, Koppa, that’s why I have you. Tell me.”
The slave ran his fingers across the break. “The rope is thick, strong,” he said. “See? It is as thick as my wrist. It needs to be for the weight it holds. But look at the break, Master. It is smooth on the inside, a clean cut, but here, around the circumference, these few threads”-his finger traced the outer skin of the hemp-“here it is all frayed.”
Callias frowned. He wasn’t a stupid man. He said to us, “This is Koppa. He understands mechanical things. Stand aside and let him inspect.”
We all stepped back and watched in silence as this odd man walked about the entire mess, humming to himself. He was a small man with thinning white hair and a slight paunch, and spoke with an accent I couldn’t place. That a slave was fed well enough to put on weight told me Callias valued him highly. Koppa paid particular attention to the pulleys, blocks, and levers.
“There’s no doubt about it, Master. This equipment was sabotaged,” Koppa reported back to Callias. “The rope was cut inside, as I showed you.” He held up more of our equipment for everyone to see. “In addition, this pulley I hold was weakened where the pin meets its container. With a little more pressure, it would have snapped.”
I said, excited, “Both the rope and the pulley would only be under pressure while we were raising the statue, and before we had it upright.”
Koppa looked at me in surprise and slight distaste. He must have thought I was a lowly slave from the way I appeared, but he agreed. “Master, this man is correct. The purpose of this crime was to smash the statue.”
“Thank you, Koppa.” Callias turned to my father. “Well, Sophroniscus, it seems you have an enemy. At least you have the small satisfaction of knowing it was not your own negligence that undid you.”
“But this means Father doesn’t owe you anything,” I said in triumph. “It’s the man who sabotaged us who owes you.”
“It alters nothing,” Callias replied. “Your father allowed his tools to be damaged. He remains liable to me. If he can find his persecutor then the sum might be recouped.”
Sophroniscus said nothing, which meant he knew Callias was in the right again. I had only one more try.
“Are you sure, Callias, this wasn’t aimed at you?”
“Your loyalty to your father does you credit, young man.” He considered for a brief moment. “No, it’s most unlikely. I have enemies aplenty, but anyone smart enough to think of this is certainly bright enough to know they could only hurt the sculptor.”
Sophroniscus nodded glumly. “I will have to think on this.”
“I expect your payment before the end of the month. Do not fail, or I shall take further action.” Callias strode back toward his mansion.
Father hadn’t an enemy in the world. I, on the other hand, like Callias, had plenty. A murderer out there somewhere didn’t want me to catch him. Someone had ordered me beaten. The political futures of many men rode on the identity of whomever I uncovered. And if I was forced to answer my family obligations, I would have no time for anything else. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind who this was aimed at.
My brother had almost lost his life because of me. And worse, I, Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus the sculptor, was the cause of my father’s downfall.
“Callias!” I shouted at his back.
He stopped and turned. His unsmiling face showed impatience. “Yes?”
“Whoever caused this, whyever it was done, it was not my father.”
“Yes. And your point is?”
“If I can prove who it was, will you sue them instead? They say you have a reputation for liking justice; well, if you do, shall we see some?”
Callias stood silent for a moment before nodding. “You raise a reasonable point, young man. Very well. Bring me the name of this enemy, and proof good enough for a court, before the end of the month. If you fail, the responsibility falls on your father.” And so saying, he turned on his heel and walked rapidly away.
To put it mildly, the atmosphere in our home that night was despondent. Father blamed himself for almost losing a son. He left dinner early and shut himself in his office, to ponder his finances for some way to pay Callias. I was not hopeful and nor, I suspect, was he. Socrates blamed himself for playing silly games underneath the statue, forgetting that Father would be facing the same financial ruin regardless. I was the only one to receive any praise-for pulling Socrates from danger-and that served only to make me more miserable because I was sure the sabotage had been directed at me.
The only one carrying on any semblance of normal life was my practical mother.
“That’s because there’s nothing else I can do to help,” she said, when I asked her. “Your father will work it out; I have every confidence. When we returned to Athens after the Persians sacked it, we’d lost everything and had to start again, and then we had a small baby to care for-you.”
The revelation that Ephialtes had considered exposing Diotima to die as a child had kept niggling at me. Was it really true, or was it something Euterpe had made up to gather sympathy? I couldn’t be sure; I decided to put the matter to rest by asking the one person who could tell me what had really happened.
“It was a close call,” Phaenarete admitted. She was instructing the slaves for their household duties, but I interrupted her to ask the question. “I remember it was an easy birth; Euterpe suffered little compared to most women, for all the fuss she made.” Phaenarete grimaced. I had no trouble imagining the drama Euterpe would have created.
“When it was over I cut the cord and tied it, and put the baby into Euterpe’s arms. Euterpe did whatevery new mother does, check the sex of her child. She saw, but said nothing. As custom required, Ephialtes was called, and when he entered the room Euterpe held up the baby to him, still without saying a word. I remember he just stood there and stared.
“Euterpe said, ‘I present your daughter,’ and she cringed a little.
“Ephialtes was silent for a moment, while he considered. Then he said, ‘Expose the child.’
“Well, Euterpe went into hysterics. You can imagine! I think at that moment, maybe for the first time in her life, she must have developed strong feelings for someone.”
“You didn’t say anything?”
“This happens every time a child is born, and I never say anything. It isn’t my place. The mother has no say either, only the father decides whether to keep the child.
“Euterpe must have been sore and in some pain, but she threw herself on her knees and begged for the child’s life, making all sorts of promises. I won’t go into the details of that conversation! It was torrid, I must say. I was embarrassed to have to listen, but I could hardly walk out.” Phaenarete shuddered.
I said, “Wasn’t she taking a terrible risk, a woman in her position? He might have walked away and simply never returned.”
Phaenarete nodded. “I thought so too. But he took the baby from Euterpe’s hands, which meant he accepted her, and said, ’Very well, you may keep the child, but only so long as you keep your bargain,’ referring to all the promises she’d made. He handed the baby back to Euterpe, turned his back on the whole scene, and walked out of the room. I helped Euterpe back into bed, cleaned and washed her, made sure she and the baby were comfortable, and left. Later I recommended a wet-nurse. Ephialtes paid my bill on time but didn’t send a bonus. I expected that; men only pay a bonus if it’s a boy. I suppose Euterpe’s been bound by those promises she made ever since.”
“You think that was hard on her?”
“I think she’s had a remarkably soft life. I’m almost jealous.” Then she laughed. “Don’t look so shocked, my son! But it’s true enough that the hetaerae have much freer lives than we respectable married women. They’re permitted to walk the streets whenever they want. They can go to the theater. They can talk with men. They can even socialize with men.” She laughed once more. “Of course, that rather goes with the job.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have a husband?” I asked, amazed.
“Oh, I’m happy enough! I have a good husband, even if one that’s absentminded and covered in gritty marble dust. There are worse fates to befall a woman, dear boy, much, much worse. And every day I thank the Goddess Hera that I have what I have. A girl’s father decides whom she will marry, and it’s the luck of the draw, my son, what husband a woman gets. He might treat her well, he might beat her, though if he beats her and the neighbors know of it he might be excluded from public office until he behaves better, but that’s the only punishment for a wife beater.”
I think I must have gone quite white.
“It’s not so bad, dear. The women, after all, are in charge at home, whatever the men might think. The slaves work for me, not your father.” She paused. “I have spoken freely with you, perhaps more freely than a woman should, but I’ve done so because you are a grown man now, my son, and when the time comes for you to marry, I wish you to remember what I have said about the lot of a woman.”
“I will,” I promised. “You shocked me, Mother, when you said you’d been midwife at Diotima’s birth. You’ve been called out to so many births, but somehow I’ve never thought of the babies you deliver as being real people. I’ve never met one before.”
“You’ve met several; you just didn’t know it. They’re all real people, Nicolaos, all those babies, even the ones that are exposed.”
“What happens to them?” Exposing babies was something everyone knew happened, but no one ever talked about.
“The ones that the father doesn’t want? They die, for the most part; rarely a passerby will take an abandoned baby to raise as a slave. But most are stuffed into clay pots and left, still crying, at the cemetery by the Dipylon Gate. Some are thrown down old wells. The babe is killed by cold, or hunger, but not directly by the father, so the Gods won’t hold him responsible. The baby just cries and cries, until eventually there’s silence.” Phaenarete’s voice was harsh and it was obvious who she held responsible.
This conversation was making me squirm, but, having started it, I was determined to finish. “Have you ever…”
“Killed a baby I delivered?” She grimaced. “Never a healthy one. I wouldn’t dare offend Eireithya, the Goddess who controls childbirth. What might she do to the next baby I had to deliver, if I killed one that she allowed live? No, I leave the killing to the men.”
A sudden thought came to me, a startling one I’d never had before. “Uh, Mother, did you…or rather, did Father…that is, did Socrates and I…ever have a sister?”
Phaenarete said, her voice firm, “No, you never have, Nicolaos. And if you had, she would be with us now. Your father has never been so poor that we could not feed another mouth.”
I’d been sure that would be the answer, but I was surprised how relieved I was to hear my mother say it.
Phaenarete sent two men to fetch water from the nearby well, and ordered the girls to sweep out the public rooms. As the slaves left for their duties she said, “One thing I’ll tell you, my son: I know it’s important for you to find Ephialtes’ killer, but I saw him prepared to let a little girl die, and I’m not sorry he’s dead.”