I decided my next step must be to do exactly as I had advised Pericles: speak with Xanthippus.
I imagined Pericles’ relationship with his father must have been more strained than the usual father-son tension. Pericles was a leader of the party that was destroying the old ways and strengthening the democracy. Xanthippus was a respected member of the power base his son was determined to destroy. Family dinners must have been interesting.
Xanthippus’ house would normally have looked like any other, but right now it resembled a small fortress. Two armed men stood at the front door. Others stood upon the roof. The guards would have turned me away but I claimed to have been sent by Pericles. I knocked on the door, and was answered by a house slave, looking scared, who let me into the public room. Xanthippus entered quickly, an old man but lively. He looked me over carefully. “You come from my son?”
“Yes, sir. I am Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus. You are aware Ephialtes has been murdered?”
“It did come to my attention as one of the day’s more important events.” He crossed his arms and stared at me, waiting. It occurred to me Xanthippus did not suffer fools.
“Pericles asked me to look into the death of his friend.”
“That’s a job for Ephialtes’ deme, if they care,” Xanthippus said. “Let’s see now…Ephialtes of the deme Oa, of the tribe Oeneides, wasn’t it? I suggest you go home and wait to hear what the men of Oa have to say.”
I was uncomfortably aware that Xanthippus was correct, but no deme in its right mind would involve itself in what looked like a murky political assassination, even if the victim was one of their own. I wondered if Xanthippus was relying on exactly that. However, I had an out.
“Technically, any man can investigate a crime,” I said. “It is merely by custom that the job is left to the demes.”
Xanthippus harrumphed. “A custom that has worked for our people for generations.”
“Your son is hoping I might resolve the matter more quickly and, if necessary, more quietly,” I offered.
“Why you?”
“I found the body, sir, and questioned the slaves working on the Rock of the Areopagus.”
“Is that where he was killed?”
“I was hoping you could help me with that, sir. I understand you were there this morning.”
“I was there, to meet with Ephialtes, in fact.”
“What did you discuss, sir?”
He glared at me. “Did my son hire a simpleton? We talked politics, and matters of state. That’s what one does at the Areopagus. Ephialtes was determined to destroy the Council. I was determined Athens should retain the good counsel of her elder statesmen. We met to see if there was some compromise that might avoid a damaging fight at the next meeting of the Ecclesia. There wasn’t. I left him after our discussion.” He paused. “Alive.”
“How are you with a bow and arrow, sir?”
His face tightened in anger and he said, “If you’ve come here to insult me, then you can leave immediately. I’m a hoplite citizen, young man! I fight in the phalanx with my spear and shield. I have no use for bows, like some auxiliary from a weak city, nor am I a mercenary.”
I nodded gloomily, all too aware that he was telling the truth. There is a hierarchy in the world of arms, and this man was at the top of it: a soldier-citizen who could afford the large, round hoplon shield, armor, and spear necessary in a phalanx. Archers were light troops who couldn’t afford better weaponry, and they mostly hired themselves out. Even if I put a bow in his hands, Xanthippus probably couldn’t aim it.
“I apologize, sir, but I had to ask. Was there anyone else there as you left?”
Xanthippus needed a moment to calm down before he said, “No one, not even the slaves. I sent them off before Ephialtes arrived. I had to find them to tell them to return to work. They were lounging about atop the Acropolis, enjoying the view and avoiding their duties, as usual.”
“How did Ephialtes know where to meet you?”
“I sent him a message, of course. Is this your idea of incisive questioning? I will send a note to my son suggesting he replace you with someone with at least a modicum of intelligence. You are looking in the wrong place, young man.”
“I am?”
“I suggest things are not all rosy among the democrats. Ephialtes told me so himself. You could hardly expect otherwise when a rabble thinks it can run a city. Now if you wanted to know who would like to see Ephialtes gone, you might start with Archestratus.”
“Archestratus?” One of the men with Pericles had named him future leader.
Xanthippus smiled. “He’s Ephialtes’ little dog. He likes to nip but he can’t hurt you. The man holds delusions of grandeur way beyond his ability. He wants to lead the democrats after Ephialtes, and he’s made no secret of his ambition.”
“And that might happen now,” I said.
Xanthippus became grim. “Archestratus is nothing more than a legal technician. He drafted the laws that emasculated the Areopagus.”
“Oh? Then whose idea was it, Ephialtes’ or Archestratus’?”
“To give total power to the Ecclesia? That was Ephialtes. Archestratus hasn’t the imagination. But these new laws leave the Areopagus as the court for homicide and treason. That, I suspect, was a little whimsy on the part of Archestratus. If it were up to Ephialtes, the Areopagus would have been dissolved altogether. Allowing us some function means we are left to squirm in public. That sort of humiliation is the type of thing Archestratus would enjoy.
“Ephialtes was competent, I’ll grant him that. If Archestratus gets his hands on the government, Athens will collapse within months.”
I left Xanthippus’ home more confused than I’d arrived. He didn’t sound like a murderer to me, he sounded like a grumpy old man. Of course there were plenty of other members of the Areopagus who might have cheerfully killed Ephialtes, but Xanthippus had been the man on the spot.
I noticed a young man as I departed, loitering on the other side of the street. Normally I would not have given him a second glance, but I was preternaturally alert to anything that seemed out of the ordinary, and I felt the fellow’s eyes on me the moment I stepped through Xanthippus’ doorway. I returned his gaze, wondering if I knew him, but he turned and walked away. I decided that my newfound job was already making me overly suspicious, and I told myself firmly not to go chasing shadows.
Some of those shadows were falling across the city and the narrow streets between the crowded homes were already dark. The men of Athens were making their way home to eat with their families, or to the homes of their friends to attend a symposium, with a slave or two in tow to help them stagger back to their beds in the middle of the night. To continue daily business after dusk is not quite a crime, but it is close enough that no sensible man would take the risk. So I did what any sensible young man does when he is hungry, but which I had been putting off for as long as possible. I went home.
I lived with my parents, as most young men do until they marry. Only the sons of the richest men can afford their own place. Like most Athenian houses, the street front of our home was a blank wall with only a door and no windows on the bottom floor. Athens is a crowded city, so the citizens build upward, where a country estate would build out.
I stepped inside to the entrance hall and checked the public rooms to the left and right, which are reserved for the men. Both were empty. Upstairs to the left were my father’s private rooms, his study and bedroom; to the right, the women’s quarters, which in our household meant only my mother Phaenarete. I had not been up there since I was twelve. I stepped through into the courtyard beyond the entrance hall. This was the main living area of the house, and the place where the men sit if the weather is good. Our family altar to Zeus Herkeios stood in the middle, as it does in every proper household, and I smelled the lovely aroma of a fresh garland that had been placed upon it. The dining hall lay behind the courtyard, also my bedroom and my brother’s. I could hear my father’s voice.
“Where have you been?” Sophroniscus demanded as I walked into the dining hall. The first things people notice about him are his hands. His right hand is larger than his left, his right arm better muscled. The left hand was damaged where he had struck it with a mallet in his early days, but is still good for doing the most delicate finishing work. The skin of both hands is calloused and scarred, and the rest of his skin seems almost permanently layered with marble dust; even after he’s washed, it still seems to cling to him. His face is round, like Socrates’, his hair thinning but not balding. He likes to smile. He claims in his youth to have been as thin as I am now, but I have never known him to be anything other than comfortably padded. Our family is not rich or powerful, but it has always been well enough to put food on the table, and not every family in Athens can say the same.
Father was reclining on a dining couch, next to his close friend Lysimachus. Lysimachus was slightly younger than Sophroniscus, I think, but in better condition, barely gray, and certainly better dressed. I never quite worked out why they were friends, because their personalities were as different as the mountains and the sea. Sophroniscus was a practical man with an obsession for stone. Lysimachus thrives on knowing people, and conversation. With those qualities he is a valued dinner guest in many of the best homes in the city.
I heard the quiet laughter of women and the clatter of utensils and crockery in the small domestic area beyond the dining hall, which is reserved for the women and slaves, and is where the kitchen lies and the slaves sleep. Before us, two slave boys were already mixing the water and wine in the krater, to be drunk after the meal. Another slave was bringing out the first courses.
Lysimachus often dined with us, so he knew me. However, since he was here it meant my mother Phaenarete and my little brother would be eating in her rooms, since no proper Athenian household would allow its women and children to dine with visitors. I sighed inwardly. What was to come would have been easier if my mother were present.
“I’m sorry, Father. I was-”
“Your brother and Manes returned with some ridiculous story about Ephialtes being murdered and you doing something about it.”
“It’s true, Father.” I related the day’s doings as best I could. My tongue became twisted in his presence because I feared how he would respond. I had spoken easily with Pericles and Xanthippus, great players in the political game of Athens, but I stumbled speaking to this respectable sculptor who was my father. When I drifted to a confused finish he asked sharply, “Have you joined the democrats?”
“No! I’m only doing work for Pericles.”
“That sounds like the same thing to me!”
“Would it be so bad if I had, Father?”
“Wait on there, Sophroniscus,” Lysimachus interrupted, holding up his hand. “The Gods know your son is your own concern, and may the Friendly Ones visit me before I get between a man and his son having an argument, but I know this Pericles, and he’s not such a bad chap.”
I blinked. Was Lysimachus taking my side?
Sophroniscus looked at his friend in surprise. “Comes from a good family, does he?”
“His tribe is Acamantis from the deme Cholargos. His father is Xanthippus, you know, the strategos who commanded the army at Mycale and won, and on his mother’s side he’s descended from the Alcmaeonid family.”
I could see Sophroniscus was impressed. The Alcmaeonids are an ancient aristocratic family who have held great power in generations past. But still there was the inevitable question whenever a member of that family is mentioned. Sophroniscus asked it. “But what of the curse?”
The Alcmaeonids incurred a curse more than a hundred years ago when they slaughtered a band of revolutionaries on sacred ground. It wasn’t the slaughter that offended the Gods, it was doing it on temple territory that really rankled. The family had been accursed in all its subsequent generations.
Lysimachus waved his hand airily and said, “If it lingers on, it doesn’t appear to have settled on Pericles. He’s a talented man and he’s enjoyed great fortune. But then again, he’s only just started in politics, so there’s plenty of time for him to be ostracized, executed for treason, bankrupted, or any combination of the above. You know how it goes.”
Father nodded. “I do indeed, and that’s why I don’t want Nicolaos involved.”
“That of course is your decision to make, my friend.”
Sophroniscus considered, drumming his fingers, then asked me, “I suppose this democratic movement is popular with the young men? It’s the latest fashion, is it?”
“I don’t know, Father. Uh, I suppose so.” In fact I knew many young men were vociferous about the democracy, even those from the better families. However, none of them moved in the circles I had frequented this morning. The young men were the supporters of Pericles, not his colleagues. I thought with great satisfaction that the young men who had run in the streets with me when we were youths would be watching with jealousy when they saw me consulting with important politicians.
Sophroniscus picked figs from a bowl and said, “I see. In my day, son, it was tragedy. All we young men were going to turn our backs on society and become tragedians, actors, or both. We did it to annoy our fathers. No doubt this is the same thing again, the mere trend of the moment and the revenge of the Fates for the anguish I caused my own sire. It’ll all blow over when the next fad comes along. As long as it doesn’t affect your work, I suppose it can’t do any harm yet.”
“My work…” I didn’t quite know how to say what I knew I must. I breathed deep and took the plunge. “Father, this political work…I think that’s what I want to do.”
Even Lysimachus laughed at that one. Sophroniscus said, “Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody gets paid for doing politics, son. That’s what the rich do because they don’t have to earn a living. You need substantial wealth even to begin, and I don’t have that sort of money, and even if I did I wouldn’t spend it on helping you become yet another opinionated orator.” I had expected anger, I was prepared for that, but his scorn was more devastating.
“They are more than mere orators, Father. Among them are men who make real decisions, important decisions.”
“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.