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.
When he finished, he did not stay. Probably there was no one in the house who would have wanted to speak with him anyway, except for me. Lysanias strode to the front door and out.
It had been an impressive performance. I had to agree with the fellow who’d spilled his wine on me: there went a brave man.
Several more members of the Areopagus arrived late. They too had come to do what was right for the dead man’s shade, and they were left in peace. Time passed slowly, but the stream of visitors finally slowed to a trickle, and by dusk they were all gone. I sat down, exhausted. It had been a long day. The slave sat beside me, looking like he might faint. I poured a cup of wine and handed it to him, then one for myself.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Achilles, sir.”
“Achilles?” I could not keep the surprise from my voice. Never has a name less matched the wearer.
“I believe it was in the nature of a jest, sir, on account of my heels.”
Looking down, I saw that both Achilles’ heels had been cut deeply. They had not healed clean. The scars ran to his ankles, the mutilated flesh was tight and folded, white and flaky. Walking must have been painful.
“Who did this?” I asked in horror.
“A distant cousin of the master, sir, when they were boys.”
“For goodness’ sake, why? Did you do something very bad?”
“I believe it was in the nature of a jest, sir.”
I sat there with Achilles, trying to ignore the wailing from the women’s quarters, which had not let up the whole afternoon, as was proper.
“They’re doing a good job up there, but they must be getting tired,” I said, as I refilled his cup. “Is that shrill one the wife? She must be upset, her screams almost sound genuine.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir,” Achilles said and, after a long pause, he added in a low voice, “There’s another house will be in mourning,”
“What’s that?” I asked, startled.
“Another house, only not so public. His mistress, a hetaera with a special place for the master.”
I had to think about that. “When you say this woman’s a hetaera, I suppose you mean that as a courtesy title. Surely she’s some young girl that Ephialtes took in and gave a home?”
“Oh no, sir! Euterpe of Mantinea was never one of those common pornoi one finds walking the streets. Ephialtes first met Euterpe at one of her soirees, when she was already well established, with her own salon and a respectable clientele.”
Euterpe would be her professional hetaera name, not the one she was born with. The name meant “Great Delight.” The idea of Ephialtes keeping a highly expensive hetaera didn’t fit my image of him as a noble leader of the common man. The hetaera is a courtesan. Unlike most respectable women, she can read and write, and is as versed in poetry, philosophy, and politics as any man. She is able to hold an enchanting soiree in her salon, and the best men of the city will clamor to be invited. Hetaerae are not considered respectable by the wives, but the men who can afford them aren’t too bothered by that. On rare occasions, such a lady will form a special relationship with one man. He is expected to keep her in the style to which she is accustomed. She will see no other man.
“How do you know this, Achilles?”
“It was no secret, sir. I went there myself with the master more than once.” He told me her address.
“Did they get on, Ephialtes and Euterpe?”
“As one usually gets on with one’s mistress, sir. They’ve been together for years, sir. I understand she sees no other customers. It was almost like a second home for the master.”
Well, this certainly cast a new light on the shrill wailing coming from the women’s quarters, which was making my ears ring! “And what did his wife think of this?”
Achilles shrugged. “She wasn’t best pleased, I should imagine, sir. But then, the mistress is rarely pleased, and we can all get used to anything, given enough time, can’t we, sir?” He looked down at his feet.
“Achilles, I am going into your old master’s private room to have a look around.”
Achilles looked at me with interest and some fear.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea, sir. This house belongs to the new master now.”
“And who is that?”
He shrugged. “Who’s going to tell a slave something like that?”
“I’m not going to take anything. But I need to see if there’s anything that could tell me who killed him. Come along and watch me if you don’t trust me.”
Achilles held up his hands in horror. “Oh no! Then I’d be beaten for sure. No sir, you claimed to be a distant relative, like you said to some of those visitors. You ordered me to the kitchen to clean the place from top to bottom. When I returned, you were gone.”
“Thank you, Achilles.” I refilled his cup, and he shuffled off into the house. “Good luck,” I said to his back.
All Athenian houses are built to a common plan, a fact that burglars must bless, and that I was beginning to appreciate myself. I knew which side of the house held the women’s quarters-that’s where the screeching was coming from-so Ephialtes’ private rooms would be on the other side. From the small entrance hall I climbed the stairs and found what I wanted.
Ephialtes’ private room contained a desk, a few chairs, a dining couch, and boxes and boxes of scrolls and papyrus. The room felt musty, and it was dim, dark even, because the two windows which both looked out over the courtyard were in the wrong direction for the sun. I could see the body of Ephialtes below, lying in his shift. Directly opposite across the courtyard space, at the same level as me, were the women’s quarters. I would have had to be careful not to be seen, except curtains were drawn and shutters pulled in. I wandered about, the floorboards squeaking with every tread, which made me wince. It was a good thing Achilles knew I was here, or the household would assume it was the restless psyche of their departed master. There was a wax note tablet on the desk with some scratchings. Wax tablets are very popular for making temporary notes; when you’re done, or the tablet is full, you need only warm the wax and smooth it over to start again. The writing was small and awkward as it usually is on such things to avoid having to clean too often. At first glance there was nothing of interest on it. I picked it up anyway to inspect later. Nobody was going to miss it. There was a small scroll rack built onto the wall. Almost every slot was full. I pulled out a few of these and saw they were all books or treatises, mostly on philosophy or politics. One row held nothing but plays, most of them by Aeschylus. Ephialtes must have paid the famous poet to write out extra copies. I opened one and ran my fingers across it. The papyrus was smooth to my touch and consistent in color: Egyptian, expensive stuff. The boxes of papyrus contained notes, drafts of laws, more notes, letters, all written on the cheaper, standard material. In short, I was looking at piles of useless rubbish. I could spend the next month reading through this and still not find anything that gave me a hint of why he was killed. And if there was a clue, I probably wouldn’t recognize it. I kicked the table in disgust and then limped down the stairs and out the door, pausing only to wash my hands and head at the urn set outside to purify myself after being in the presence of the dead.
I was ambushed the next morning. I left home later than usual because I was on my way to see Ephialtes’ mistress, still hoping to find out something about his private life, perhaps a motive for his death, and it would not do to arrive too early on the doorstep of a woman to whom I had no introduction.
The way led me through a number of side streets, each a testament to Athens’ complete lack of city planning. Not that the city officials don’t try-there are ordinances-it’s simply that the people completely ignore them. Although there are rules against it, the upper stories of the houses almost universally overhang the street. The owners want a simple way to throw out the rubbish without having it run down their nice whitewashed walls. And besides, people like having the extra bit of space. Walking the smaller streets in Athens feels a bit like passing through a tunnel. I avoided the center for fear of buckets of slop, or worse, poured on me from above-I have been struck more than once-which was why I was surrounded by half shadows and passing the niches between buildings.
It was from the shadows of one such niche that a man stepped before me. His clothing was worn, making me think of a country worker or perhaps a laborer.
“Hey, you Nicolaos?” he asked.
“Yes, what do you want?”
“Stop asking questions. Hear me? Just stop.” His voice was harsh.
“What?” I said, my mind stupid for a moment before I realized what he was saying. “You want me to stop investigating the murder? How do you know about that?”
“Not your problem. Leave it alone.”
“Who are you?” And, because I could not credit this bumpkin as acting on his own, I demanded, “Who do you work for?”
He punched me hard in the diaphragm and I doubled over, the air knocked out of me. I was still recovering when my legs were kicked out from under me and I went down. Another man ran up and I thought he was coming to my aid, but instead he kicked me in the kidneys.
The first man said again, grunting as he kicked me in the gut, “Stop asking questions. Leave it alone.” Then the two of them started on me in earnest. There was nothing I could do but cover my head with my arms and hope they didn’t maim me, or did they intend to kill me? The beating hurt worse than anything I remembered, and oddly, the anticipation of not knowing where the next blow would fall was worse than the pain. I cried out for help.
“Hey! You! Stop that!”
They both took to their heels. I remained curled in a ball and felt, rather than saw or heard, several pairs of feet run to me.
I was picked up. I opened my eyes, but I was so dizzy I shut them again. I felt myself swaying, and a pair of hands on either side helped to steady me. I opened my eyes again, and the world was spinning about, but slower than before. When it stopped, I found myself looking into the eyes of Archestratus.
Archestratus poured a cup of watered wine and set it down beside me. “Did you get a look at him?”
We stood in his courtyard. One of his slaves who knew something about injuries was checking me for broken bones. I flinched every time he poked me.
I shrugged. “Not good enough. He came at me from the shadows, and I’d walked from bright sun into the shade. My eyes hadn’t adjusted. He had a beard, dark hair, average height, bad clothing. That should narrow it down to half the men in Athens.”
“Just so. What about the second man?”
“The best I can tell you is he needs to cut his toenails.”
“That would describe almost every man in Athens.”
“Just so,” I said, imitating his way of speech.
The slave ceased his prodding and stood up.
Archestratus said, “Well?”
“There will be many bruises, sir. But as far as my humble skills can say, the bones are whole. He was lucky we came along when we did; if it had continued much longer, I feel sure something would have broken inside. The young man should see a healer to be sure. Sometimes a man might walk away from such a beating but die without warning a day or two later.” Such a cheery fellow.
I immediately said, “No thanks, I have my own resource in that area.”
Archestratus raised an eyebrow.
“My mother is a midwife.”
Archestratus said, “Terrible as your ordeal was, I don’t think you need fear pregnancy.”
Another slave came running with a chitoniskos in his arms. I took off the soiled one and tipped a bucket of cold water over my body before putting on the fresh.
Archestratus said, “This will be laundered and sent to you.”
“I am in your debt.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
I sat and sipped at his wine. He sat down beside me with his own cup and lay back on the dining couch. A slave brought a bowl of figs, olives, and grapes. You can tell a lot about a man from the way he treats his slaves, and Archestratus thanked his boy, who smiled and departed.
“Tell me, how goes your investigation?”
I hesitated.
“If you would like to repay that debt you mentioned, let me help you if I can. Pericles does not hold a monopoly on revering Ephialtes. I beg you recall he was my friend too, and my leader. His murder affects me and many other men.”
That was a hard appeal to deny. “So far, all I’ve done is ask questions.”
“Yet even that small effort appears to have offended somebody,” Archestratus observed with some justice. “Are you so objectionable in your conversation, or do you think perhaps you are asking the right questions?”
“Let us hope the latter.”
“How did a young man like you come to be embroiled in such a murky situation?”
I told him of the falling corpse and of meeting Pericles as he came down the path.
“And you saw Pericles descending? How interesting.” He took a handful of grapes, popped one into his mouth, and sat back.
I said, “I know what you’re thinking, but it doesn’t necessarily work. He could have been coming down from either the Acropolis or the Rock of the Areopagus. He says it was the Acropolis.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t believe anyone yet! Is it possible Pericles used the bow, threw it away somewhere I missed, and then walked calmly down the path? Yes, it is.”
“So your employer might be the man you’re looking for. What a piquant thought. What would you do if the evidence led to Pericles?”
Panic, most probably. I’d wondered the same thing.
“You feel a little bit lost, don’t you, young man? I wish I could sympathize with your plight, but I must be honest and welcome you to the twilight world of Athenian politics, where the man who proclaims friendship in the morning is the one who stabs you in the back over wine that evening. If there is one piece of advice I hope you will take from this conversation, it is trust no one who is a player. Trust their motives least of all. Take Xanthippus for example. I imagine he told you he has the purest motives for opposing Ephialtes. I expect the phrase ‘for the good of Athens’ came into play?”
“It didn’t, but the sentiment was there.”
“I am surprised. It’s a phrase Xanthippus repeats endlessly, as if he were the only judge of benefice. Xanthippus used to be a man of the people himself. But something warped his spirit; perhaps it was the war against the Persians. The war certainly proved he’s capable of killing in cold blood, and with the greatest cruelty.”
“It did? But Xanthippus was one of the heroes of the war.”
“Do you know the story of the Persian commander? No? There was among the Persian force a commander called Artayctes. This man stole great treasures from a Hellene sanctuary at Elaeus, in Thrace, far to the north and east of here. Much later Artayctes and his son were captured by a force led by Xanthippus. Artayctes tried to bribe his way out of trouble; he offered to restore the treasure, to pay the sanctuary one hundred talents-that’s six hundred thousand drachmae! — and twice that amount to the Athenians, if only they would release him.”
“No wonder Xanthippus is so wealthy,” I said. For surely he would have pocketed some of that.
“You think so? Then let me tell you, Xanthippus had Artayctes led to the shore, where they nailed him to a plank and raised the plank high so he could see. Then they chained his son to a pole set in the ground. They stoned the son to death, before the eyes of the father, whom they left to die slowly of crucifixion.”
The thought of it made me shudder. Had the grumpy, cantankerous old man I’d met truly done such a thing?
Archestratus continued, “You see that Xanthippus is not a man one crosses lightly. He’s been living off his hero reputation and his power base. That base is the Areopagus. It’s what gives him the ability to influence policy without having to justify himself to the people. Without it, he’d be nothing.”
“You aren’t exactly free of that ambition yourself, are you?” I challenged him. “Isn’t everyone looking for power?”
“They certainly are! But the difference, young Nicolaos, the important difference, is that I seek leadership of the people, not control over them. So too does Pericles, or at least, that’s what he says.”
“You think he doesn’t mean it?”
Archestratus mused, “It must be difficult, having grown up the son of a wealthy, aristocratic family, groomed to lead Athens from his earliest days. His distinguished ancestors merely reached out to take the reins as their birthright, and yet he must ask the people for permission to lead, must persuade, where his ancestors had only to command. The temptation to reach out and take as his ancestors once did must be almost overpowering at times. And then, of course, there’s the matter of your employment. Odd, wouldn’t you say?”
“What?” I said, startled. “What’s odd about it?”
“My dear young man! How many friends do you think Pericles has? How many allies? And how many of those do you think are more experienced than you, more skilled in diplomacy, with a better knowledge of the power game? Yet he chose you, a young man of no experience, to carry out this important task. Why? I speculate, of course, but could it be Pericles wants to be seen to be doing something without wanting to risk an unfortunate result?”
I bristled at that. “Archestratus, I was hired to find the truth, and I swear by the Gods that’s what I’m going to do.”
“My boy! My boy! I never suggested otherwise; you wear your integrity like a cloak. It’s not your motivation I question.”
“What are you saying?” I demanded.
“Simply this: if you reach the point where you can no longer fully trust Pericles, come to me.”
I found the fine artwork missing from Ephialtes’ home. It was all in the home of his mistress. One of them had good taste. I decided it must be Euterpe of Mantinea, since surely Ephialtes would not have selected that statue of Apollo cavorting with a nymph? The anatomical detail was remarkable.
The house slave sniffed at me when I knocked, as if I were too verminous to cross her threshold. The name Ephialtes got me as far as the public receiving room, where I had been left to linger long enough to have inspected every art piece in the room, and there were a lot of them. I had never before been in the salon of a hetaera. The murals were short on Homeric battle scenes but gratifyingly long on sporting nymphs, satyrs, and priapic Gods. I peered at them closely, my nose almost pressed to the wall.
“Educational, aren’t they?”
I turned, startled, and crashed my knee against a nearby table. Trying not to swear, and clutching my knee, I saw framed in the doorway the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on.
Euterpe had reddish brown hair that flowed down her lovely neck and over a shoulder to her breasts. She was wearing a dress that, even if it were not made of fabric I could see through, would have been considered scandalously immodest. As it was, she had my body’s full and immediate attention. The dress was tied in some way so that the material flowed with her skin. My mind ceased functioning since it was not required for the moment.
“Oh! Are you hurt?”
She knelt before me and touched my knee where I’d banged it. Waves of pleasure coursed up me.
Euterpe looked a little higher, and smiled. She stood, swayed to a couch, and reclined, arching her back so that her nipples pressed out against the material and her legs were exposed.
“So, what may I do for you, young man?”
I collapsed back against the nearest couch, unable to speak and agonizingly aware how I must look to her.
Euterpe let me recover. She clapped her hands. A young woman appeared, whom I barely noticed.
“Diotima, dear, would you bring me wine? And a carafe of cool water for our guest.”
The young woman reappeared with an exquisite thin pottery watercooler. I took it and thankfully let it rest in my lap, where it did me a lot of good. Euterpe eyed this arrangement while a half smile played on her lips, and her gaze traveled up and down.
“I understand you’ve come about Ephialtes?” She used her finger to twirl some of the tresses that fell upon her breasts.
I had to consider the possibility that Euterpe was not doing this to me deliberately. She may behave this way with every man. If so, I found it incredible Ephialtes had lived long enough to be felled by the arrow. He should have died from excruciating pleasure long ago. I supposed she was old enough to be my mother, but the evidence before my eyes suggested not, or else Aphrodite had shared some of her secrets.
“Uh, when did you last see him?” I managed to croak.
“Why, yesterday, the day he died. He spent the night here and departed in the morning.”
“He did?” I said, surprised.
“You are surprised.”
On reflection I should not have been. “Then at least his last night was a memorable one.”
Euterpe clapped her hands in delight.
“A compliment! Oh, do keep practicing. One day you’ll be enchanting the ladies and receiving invitations to all the best salons.”
“I don’t ever expect to be able to afford it. Did you know where Ephialtes was going?”
“I didn’t ask. It didn’t seem important. Ephialtes sometimes left at dawn to conduct business.”
“How long had you known him?”
“Many, many years,” she said quietly, as much to herself as to me. Then she recollected the admission and said, “Long enough for us to be great friends, as well as the rest. We hetaerae with special friends are more to our men than their own wives, did you know that?”
“I can well believe it.”
“Ephialtes was a rising young politician when we first met. He could barely afford me then, but when he had the funds he would visit. As he rose he became wealthier and could visit more often. Eventually we came to the current arrangement: he kept me in the style I required, and I kept him happy, and saw no other man.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing before, a hetaera with only one client.”
“It’s unusual, yes, but it served us both well. Ephialtes posed with the people as one of them. He could hardly do that and visit all the expensive hetaerae! The common men can’t afford hetaerae and have to make do with those dirty pornoi. So a quiet, permanent mistress seemed the best idea.”
“Are you really from Mantinea?”
“Oh yes! I come from a well-born family. I was given as a girl-child to the temple to be priestess there, where the priestesses are required to be virgins but retire early to marry. Well, you can imagine having done my duty as a virgin priestess I was ready for anything! I married a local well-born citizen many times my age, who died on me the following year. Poor old Alexias.”
I had an idea how Alexias had expired, and felt nothing but envy for the old man.
“His lands passed to his son by a previous marriage. The son loathed me-I can’t imagine why-and by mutual agreement I departed for Athens with his funding. So here I was in Athens with no husband, and the local wives looking down on me. It was the most natural thing in the world to arrange a few soirees. One thing led to another, and here I am.”
She paused to consider me.
“Are you married yet, Nicolaos? Betrothed? No? Then some respectable girl still awaits the pleasure of your company.”
“I thought a lady such as yourself would have no time for the respectable girls.”
“Oh, respectability is nothing of value. But security, dear man, security is the important thing for one such as me. The wives may be boring, drab, disgusting, but they are secure.”
Financial security seemed a delicate subject better avoided with Euterpe. I wondered what it cost to maintain this house and where she would find the money now. No doubt there were rich men would pay well to be with her, but she was reduced to looking for custom again where before she had a certain future and a steady income.
“We seem to have moved from investigating the death of your client to my personal love life.”
She came to sit on my couch, leaned against me so that I could feel her breasts against my chest, stroked my thigh, and looked into my eyes with sincerity.
“I often mix business with pleasure. In fact, pleasure is my business. Have you a thousand drachmae? No, I thought not, but if you ever have a windfall, you’ll be thinking of me, will you not, handsome Nicolaos?”
This was more than any young man could be expected to bear. I made my thanks and escaped the room, followed by her light laughter.
Back out on the street I felt light-headed and had to lean against the wall for support. I took deep breaths. She was right, if I won that home and modest income from Pericles, I might throw it all away for a night with Euterpe.
A young man peered around the corner onto the street as I stood there. When he saw me notice him, he stepped back out of sight. The light was dim so late in the day and I didn’t get a clear view, but I thought it was the same man I’d seen watching me outside the house of Xanthippus. Could he be one of the men who’d beaten me? I hadn’t had a good look, but I didn’t think so. I sidled to the corner with my dagger drawn, and looked about. He was gone, but it worried me. I was sure I was being stalked.