I decided to go to the nearest tavern and get some food. If there were another way I would have taken it, but there is only one path down from the Acropolis. I stepped across Ephialtes’ lifeblood once more. It mocked me as I passed.
The Agora had calmed to normal commerce. There were several stalls selling wine, and I paid for a cup at the first I came to. Two stalls down, an old woman was selling bronzeware: mostly urns and pans. I stopped to admire a mirror. They intrigue me; it seems like magic to be able to see myself as others see me. I was relieved to notice the skin where I’d shaved off my beard was starting to darken to the same olive color as the rest of my face. The haggard look that Pericles had commented on was almost gone, my face was filling out now that I was getting normal, regular meals. I saw a bruise on my left cheekbone-I hadn’t realized it was so prominent-that I’d received during the beating, there were abrasions on my chin that had scabbed over, and a small cut above my left eyebrow, all of which my mother had treated and were healing well. I noticed my hair was curling, and I made a note to have it cut. As I tilted the mirror a fraction this way and that, to see myself from different angles, the image of the mysterious stranger appeared above my shoulder. He was peering from around the stall behind me and our eyes met via the mirror.
I turned and walked toward him. “Hello? You there!”
The figure broke from cover, snatched a huge fish from the stall next to him, and whacked me across the face. I fell back with a curse. Everyone but the fishmonger laughed at me. The stranger ran to the right.
He was fast and I was groggy but angry. I couldn’t keep up with him, but I knew it didn’t matter because someone was bound to trip him up.
No one did. They were all enjoying the show too much. I cursed again and ran faster.
He stumbled into a slave carrying pottery jars. The stranger went one way and the slave went the other. The jars flew up and crashed, shattering on the paving stones. The stranger staggered but kept going.
I had to run through this mess, shouting, “Ouch! Ouch!” as my sandals fell upon the jagged shards. He ran along the walkway, which was terminated by stacked jars of olive oil. He pulled a stack over to force his way. Olive oil flowed across the ground to the wails of the farmer selling it. I, of course, skidded and slipped, falling into the remaining stacks, which crashed down upon me. I flung my arms up to protect my head. I would have bruised arms tomorrow.
The stranger was out of the Agora now and disappearing down a narrow street. I had to be wary of being led into an ambush. I’d been beaten once already and had no intention of being caught again. But nor was I going to let this character go, not now that I had him in view.
I took off after him on my shredded, slippery sandals. I cursed, tore them off, and continued in bare feet. He darted down one street and then another, dodging the pedestrians. I stayed with him like a limpet, determined to finish this once and for all. For the first time I had a good look at him. He was obviously still a youth, wearing clothes slightly too big for him so that they covered him down to his knees, and wearing a headdress in the manner of the barbarians.
He turned another corner and was confronted by a hay cart coming from the other direction, which filled the street from side to side. He looked back at me, then around in desperation. He dived through the window of the building beside him. It was an inn.
I heard the clatter of falling cups and shouts of angry men. I ran through the door to see he had skidded along a table. Every man present pointed at the back door. Half of them were covered in wine. I ran into the back room in hot pursuit of this one-man army of destruction.
The innkeeper had been standing over an open barrel of soaking linen. They use urine in those tubs to get the cloth clean. He’d been pushed from behind and gone in headfirst. He’d hauled himself out, spluttering angrily, when I came through the door and knocked him back in again. I yelled, “Sorry!” but didn’t stop.
The stranger hit the back wall running and scrambled over it like a frightened hare. I jumped, grabbed the ledge, and hauled myself over. He was away down the street. We were on one of the major thoroughfares now, it was a clear run for both of us and I would chase him all the way to Megara via Eleusis if I had to.
He must have realized he’d be stopped at the city gates because he turned north back into the narrow streets. He was slowing; I was gaining. He made the mistake of turning into an alley that I knew doubled back. I jumped the wall and landed square on top of him. He collapsed beneath my weight and we both fell into a pile of garbage.
“Now I have you, you bastard!” I turned him over and pulled back my fist to knock him senseless. His headdress came off, and I stared, dumbstruck, my fist hovering.
“Get off me, you oaf!” she grunted. “Well, are you going to help me up?”
I hauled her out of the garbage. Now that her headdress had fallen away it was obvious, despite the loose clothing, that she was a young woman.
We sat with our backs to the wall, catching our breath. I didn’t think she had the energy to run any further, but I stayed to the exit side in case she decided to try it.
“And what do you think you’re doing running around the streets, a respectable woman like you?” This wasn’t some dirty street girl-well, at the moment she was, but that obviously wasn’t her norm-she spoke with an upper-class accent, and if you removed the grime she would probably look like any well-brought-up maiden. Her hair was tied back, dark and curly, and washed. Her face was feminine, with a thin nose and full lips. Her breasts were full, and clearly outlined through the material. She had rubbed dirt about her face for disguise, but close up I could see her skin was clean at her hairline. Her hands likewise had been rubbed in dirt, but her clipped fingernails and the lack of abrasions or scars gave her away. Whoever this girl was, she wasn’t a slave, and her family wasn’t poor. She was also in outstanding condition; I’d had to work hard to run her to ground.
“I’m investigating the murder of Ephialtes.”
I laughed. “You? All you’ve been doing is following me about, and you didn’t even do that well. I spotted you every time.”
“I’ve done a lot more than that! Someone has to avenge my father. I have no brother to act for me, and you’re not showing any signs of doing it.” She glared at me. “My name is Diotima. That’s Diotima of Mantinea.”
I had a terrible sinking feeling. “You’re…you’re…”
“The daughter of Ephialtes and Euterpe of Mantinea, and I’m priestess-in-training to the Goddess Artemis the Huntress.”
All I could think of to say was, “You don’t look like your mother.” That was a mistake.
“Well you’d know, wouldn’t you? All you did was sit there and ogle her.”
“You were there?”
“I handed you that watercooler. See what I mean? You don’t remember me at all, do you?”
“No,” I admitted. But now that I thought about it I had a vague recollection Euterpe had called someone Diotima.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, the way you behaved around her? She’s old enough to be your mother.”
“I have an idea she likes it that way, and I’m not sure she’d welcome the reminder about her age.”
“Aargh. All right then, let’s try and pretend that embarrassing incident never happened. Now, tell me everything you’ve discovered.”
“So you can go tearing around Athens again? I don’t think so.” I had no reason to trust her, and every reason to think she was acting for her mother, who was a suspect.
She sat there thinking about what I’d said.
“You want the glory of finding the killer for yourself, don’t you? Do you have some kind of deal with Pericles?”
This was so close to the truth that I blushed. She grinned.
“Then we trade. I can tell you where Archestratus was during the murder.”
“Where?” I asked eagerly.
“Oh no! First, you tell me what you got from Xanthippus. I haven’t been able to talk to him.”
I had no choice but to deal with her. “Xanthippus was at the scene. He lured your father there.”
“I know that. Tell me something I don’t know. You say ‘lured’ as if you think he’s involved.”
“He says he had nothing to do with it. He might be telling the truth, there’s no evidence one way or the other, but if he’s innocent he’s had incredible bad luck to be in the most suspicious spot. It was Xanthippus who sent me to Archestratus. He suggested a leadership fight.”
Diotima pursed her lips and thought about that. I could see the calculations flowing through her mind.
“Archestratus is framing Xanthippus?” she asked.
“Or Xanthippus is the murderer and throwing suspicion on Archestratus, or someone else is framing Xanthippus, or Xanthippus is plain unlucky.”
“Too many options. But no one carries a bow in town. Father’s death was planned. And the planner must have known where he was going to be.”
“Which brings us back to Xanthippus.”
“Or Archestratus, if Father happened to mention the meeting to him. Or maybe any other high up member of the democratic movement. It could be Pericles.”
I shook my head. “I saw him immediately after and he had no bow.” Then I pulled myself up. “Wait a minute, I didn’t agree to tell you that.”
Diotima said primly, “You offered me free product. If you regret it now, that’s your problem. But I owe you for Xanthippus, so yes, on to Archestratus. He was alone, somewhere out on the streets. He doesn’t have an alibi.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I haven’t been sitting around doing nothing. A respectable priestess has the freedom to walk around town as long as she’s decent.” I choked on that last comment, but forbore from pointing out that at the moment she looked more like the worst kind of porne.
“Yes, I know what you’re thinking, but a respectable priestess is not supposed to be following strange men, and my position at the temple means everything to me. The last thing I want is to end up like my mother. I had to dress like this whenever I wanted to know what you were up to, who you were talking to. It was a shock when you came to visit Mother! I thought I was the only one asking questions. I couldn’t let you get information I didn’t have, so I had to see anyone you talked to.”
“How did you find out about Archestratus?”
“I asked his house slave, of course. Slaves see things about people but they never let on, and no one ever notices them. He told me Archestratus walks every morning. He always takes a different route.”
“That’s interesting.” But what Diotima said reminded me of something else, something I couldn’t quite recall. What was it? Slaves see things. So they do, but what other slaves could have seen something? The slaves at the Areopagus hadn’t seen a thing, they’d been atop the-I put a stop on that interesting thought before my expression gave me away to Diotima.
“Can Archestratus use a bow?” I changed the subject.
“I don’t know. I asked, but it’s not the sort of thing his house slaves would know. Maybe if we can find someone he’s hunted with we can ask them.”
“Where was your mother that morning?”
“At home, of course. You know that.”
“I don’t know if she was there the whole time.”
“I left the house early myself. I have temple duties every morning.”
“And you didn’t see Euterpe?”
“Does my mother strike you as an early riser?”
“Point taken. But wait! That means you must have seen your father.” Diotima nodded.
“So what was said?”
Diotima hesitated. “What do you mean?” She chewed at her thumbnail. “We just talked. I didn’t know he was about to be murdered. I didn’t know to say, ‘Farewell forever, my father.’” She paused. “I think I complained about the milk. It was curdled. I said I’d talk to the cook about it.”
“Did you?”
“Forgot completely.”
“It all sounds too domestic. I can’t imagine what it must have been like in your household, having a father married to another woman. Did he stay often?”
“Maybe two nights in five. But that wasn’t the problem. If you ask me, the unlucky one was the wife. I doubt she saw as much of him as we did-I think he was too busy with his politics to pay her any attention-and at least when he came home to us he brought love with him.” Diotima muttered to herself, “If anything, he loved us too much.”
“Did he talk about his…er…other family?”
“There weren’t any children. I’m his only child. He never said anything about his wife. But then, if you were with your mistress and the daughter you got on her, would you talk about your wife?”
I didn’t bother to ask why Ephialtes didn’t divorce his wife and marry Euterpe. In Athens that would have been social and political self-destruction. All marriages are arranged, and if a man doesn’t like what was arranged for him he can always find his pleasure elsewhere. What made Ephialtes odd was being fond of his alternative. Keeping the girl-child of a hetaera was unheard of; normally such children are taken to Mount Lycabettos and left there to die. Ephialtes’ reputation for kindness must have been deserved.
“Did Euterpe or you ever meet-”
“Never. And I don’t want to meet her now either. From what Ephialtes said she’s as boring as wash water.”
“But there’s something I need to know.”
“What’s that?”
I told her of Pericles’ theory that Ephialtes’ wife might be behind it. “But, of course, I’ll never be permitted to speak with her. I don’t even know the woman’s name.”
“Stratonike,” she said absently, considering. To my surprise Diotima didn’t reject Pericles’ idea out of hand. She was as intelligent as I’d thought.
“You want to know whether she might have asked a relative to murder her husband. Risky business. I don’t know what sort of a death they’d impose for that, but it wouldn’t be pleasant.”
“Stoning, I think, beside the old quarry pit. They tie you to a post and anyone can throw rocks. There’s a competition to keep the victim alive as long as possible. So you’ll do it, talk to his wife?”
“Are you going to tell me everything you discover?”
“No.”
“Then if you want to know what I find, you’ll have to trade for it. And I can think of a few other lines I might try as well.”
“Diotima, you mustn’t continue with this delusion you can find Ephialtes’ killer. A woman can’t move around Athens the way a man can, and the men certainly aren’t going to talk to you, priestess or no.”
“I have a big advantage over the men though.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m smarter than most of them. Come talk to me when you need more help, Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus.”
I stood to go.
“Wait!” she said, raising her hand in alarm. She touched my arm, as a supplicant might, and looked up at me with big brown eyes. “You won’t tell anyone, will you, that I was following you dressed as a man? No one must find out, or I’d lose my position at the temple.”
She’d just given me the perfect hold over her. I thought of several nasty things I could say, but I swallowed all of them. She seemed genuinely frightened.
“I’ll tell no one if I can avoid it.” I walked briskly away from Diotima. I had no intention of seeing her again. I’d set her the job with Ephialtes’ wife only to get her out of my hair. As soon as I was out of sight, I began to run.
I ran all the way to the Rock of the Areopagus. Thank the Gods, they were still there, the same two slaves who’d been cleaning the day Ephialtes died. Their faces were weathered, old, and lined, their hands gnarled where they gripped their brooms. I suppose this light cleaning was the only job they could do.
I grabbed the first slave and started dragging him along. “Quick, show me where you sat while you were waiting for Xanthippus to finish.”
They took me down and up, to the edge of the Acropolis, not quite directly across from the point where it is closest to the Areopagus. I could see everything: the Agora in all its chaos, the sturdy walls surrounding the city, and close by the top of the Areopagus.
“Men, I don’t give a curse about the legal process. I promise I won’t tell anyone where I got the information. Now, you are going to tell me everyone you saw while you sat here this morning.”
One of the slaves crossed his arms and pouted. “Why should we? There’s nothing for us but trouble.”
I said, with a quiet but firm voice, “Because if you don’t, I will report that you witnessed the murder.”
The men turned visibly red, even beneath their weathered skin. “That’s a lie!”
“I know it is, but that won’t help you after they’ve finished torturing you, will it? Come now, if you tell me who you saw, I promise on the shades of my ancestors to hide you from the law. Whatever you tell me, I’ll confirm some other way before I reveal it.”
The slave was glum, but I had left him no choice. “There was Xanthippus first. He told us to clear off. We never saw Ephialtes. He must have come up the path as we were walking to the Acropolis. Some time later there was Pericles. He walked up here to the Acropolis, went behind us, and we didn’t see him again. Then Xanthippus left the Areopagus. We saw him leave, but figured we’d stay here until he found us. No point in lining up for work early, is there? That was all we saw until you came along.”
“That’s it?” I asked, disappointed.
“Oh, and there was a city guard loitering about.”
Dear Gods, a guard! How could I have been so slow? In Athens, it is illegal for any citizen to lay hands on another for any reason whatsoever. This makes arresting citizen-criminals something of a problem. How do you arrest someone you’re not allowed to touch? So to get around this silly rule, the city owns a force of three hundred Scythians-northern barbarians-who keep the peace, do crowd control, and arrest Athenians when an archon orders it.
Everything about the Scythians made one of them perfect for this crime. Their barracks lies at the side of the Areopagus, where they can defend the Council in an emergency, and they’re known for their favorite weapon: the bow.
I rushed to the barracks immediately. Pythax, the chief of the Scythians, was there watching some young men exercise with swords: a tough, leathery, scarred man with bulging muscles, who looked as if he would as soon squash me as talk to me. This was a man who regularly intimidated archons.
He looked me up and down. “We don’t take piss-poor little mama’s boys in this outfit. So if you’ve run away from home, go find some other place to cry,” he greeted me.
“You misunderstand, sir! I’m on an errand to ask you something, from Xanthippus, sir.” I decided immediately, if I didn’t embellish my authority I was going to be kicked out.
“Xanthippus, eh? Well, ask away then.”
“Who of the Scythians were here four mornings ago?”
His eyes narrowed. “That would be when Ephialtes bought it. Is that what you mean?”
I nodded.
“No one.”
“ No one was here?” I was amazed.
“Every Scythian not on duty in the city was with me on a field exercise. We ran to Piraeus and back, in full armor.”
I winced. That would have hurt.
“Could one of the duty Scythians have returned to barracks?”
“Not unless he was injured, and there were no injuries that morning. What’s your problem, boy?”
“Someone reported seeing a man looking like a guard in the area that morning.”
“On his own? Then he wasn’t one of ours. We patrol in pairs.”
How hard would it be to impersonate a Scythian? Not that hard, as long as you avoided speaking. The accent is unmistakable. The Scythians mostly wore light leather armor and a rather odd, noticeable peaked leather cap. Anyone wearing the leather jerkin and cap, and carrying an unstrung bow, would go unnoticed in Athens.
“Oh, and by the way, little boy?”
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s funny Xanthippus should have sent you to ask that, because he was the one who ordered us away on the exercise. His memory must be slipping. I’ll mention it next time I see him.”
I felt the blood rush to my face, but managed to croak out, “Yes, sir,” before disappearing.
It was only after I was well away that I realized I’d been calling a man “sir” who was technically a slave.
I walked slowly up the path to the Acropolis and took a seat among the ruins. Perhaps Athena would grant me wisdom, here where her temple had once stood.
Xanthippus had been on the spot, and his actions were suspicious, but he couldn’t use a bow. The Scythians could use a bow, but they hadn’t been there. Pericles might be able to use a bow, but I myself had seen him immediately after the death, and he hadn’t been carrying one. Then there was the mysterious man who looked like a guard but wasn’t. Who was he, and where did he go?
Yes, indeed, where did that man go? I knew he hadn’t returned down the path to the Agora, because Pericles and I blocked the way. But a man pretending to be a Scythian could hide in their empty barracks. He would stay there until the excitement of discovering the body was over, and then walk back into the city with no questions asked. The safe thing would be to change clothes and return as a normal citizen. A citizen carrying a bow and leather armor? Definitely not. Therefore the armor and bow were still in the barracks, where no one would notice an extra set.
I thanked Athena for her wisdom. “When Pericles rebuilds your temple, I’ll make sure it’s an especially nice one,” I promised.
“You again?” Pythax growled.
“Do your men use their own armor and weapons?”
“Armor is issued by the city. Some men prefer their own weapons, but the city provides a serviceable sword and bow for the men who can’t afford their own. Every man looks after his own kit until he’s freed or dies. If he returns the kit in anything less than perfect condition, the reason for return had better be death.”
“Any objections to me looking through your armory?”
“Be my guest, little boy.”
The armory was a dank room that smelt of sweaty leather. I sifted through the pieces, and quickly found what I wanted. Underneath the first layer was a leather jerkin, recently oiled. I searched carefully but could find no clue as to the owner.
There were stacks of short, composite reflex bows, made of reinforced horn. They looked identical. I shoved them aside. At the back, out of sight, was one longer than the rest. I pulled it out to study it closely. On this one the reinforcement of the horn was quite different. It was heavier, but the grip was noticeably more comfortable. They all had the same maker’s mark at the base, even this odd man out.
I went back to Pythax. “Who supplies your bows?”
The workshop of Brasidas the bowyer was at the rear of his home, in the smithy and armorers’ section of the city. Hellenes generally avoid bows, so Brasidas was outnumbered by forges, many to one. I found him bent over his workbench; a middle-aged man of middle height, wearing an exomis that was covered in sawdust and flecks of wood, we stood exactly eye to eye. We also shared the same dark hair, though his was straight and hung long. He had large hands and remarkably broad shoulders. His right arm was noticeably better muscled than his left. I held out the bow to Brasidas and asked, “Did you make this?”
He glanced at it and nodded. “It’s my work. Is something wrong with it?”
“No, if what I suspect is true, then it works very well indeed. I found it in the armory of the Scythians.”
“Impossible,” he said shortly.
“Why?”
“For two reasons. The first is, the Scythians don’t like that kind of bow.”
“But it looks much the same, only a bit bigger,” I commented.
“Only to someone ignorant of bows.” He snorted. “Here, I’ll show you.”
Brasidas took out a bow from below his workbench. It was unstrung and curved forward from the grip.
“This is a bow I made for the Scythians. Scythians like their bows short and powerful. No good for any distance farther than you can spit, but what you hit with this bow will go down and stay down. They don’t aim well, but the Scythians don’t care because they’re quick to draw and so can loose three arrows to your two. In a close fight that gives a man an edge.” He took the bow I was holding. “Now this is a marksman’s bow,” he said lovingly. “The stave is longer, so the arrow doesn’t pack as much punch, but it will travel farther with accuracy. It’s longer and harder to draw, but you don’t care, because this isn’t a fighting arm. This is a hunter’s weapon.”
“I’m convinced! But you said there were two reasons this bow couldn’t be Scythian. What was the second?”
“I recognize that bow. I sold it to a man from Tanagra not long ago.”
I grinned like a madman. This was wonderful news, exactly what I’d been hoping for. I mentally vowed to sacrifice to Athena, Zeus, and Apollo in thanks.
“What was his name?” I held my breath.
Brasidas shrugged. “He didn’t say.”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Look, when I sell a weapon, should I care who buys it?”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Sorry.”
I canceled the sacrifices. “If you don’t know his name then how do you know he was from Tanagra?”
“He tried to pay me with their coins, and he sounded like he was from there. But I only take good old Athenian owls. That’s money you can trust. We argued about it, but he gave in.”
Every city mints its own coins, and few traders willingly take the risk of accepting the coins of a foreign city; the chances of being shortchanged are too great. A visitor anywhere would normally be expected to exchange his coins for the local currency with a money changer at the Agora. The sole exception to this rule are the coins of Athens, which are all stamped with the picture of an owl, the sacred bird of Athena. Athenian “owls” are the only currency accepted across all of Hellas, because everyone trades with Athens.
“Can you at least describe him?”
“I’ll bet his friends call him Scarface. Looks like he’s seen a lot of sun. I’ll tell you one thing: the man knew his business. He insisted on testing every hunting bow I had, and the way he handled them, I could tell he knew what he was doing. I gave him five test shots with each one, and then he selected the best in my shop.” Brasidas waved the bow he held. “This one.”
“Did he say anything? Anything outside of bows and archery, I mean.”
“He was the close-mouthed sort.”
He would be. I sighed.
Brasidas considered me through suspicious eyes and said, “Why are you asking all these questions, and how did you get this bow?”
I debated how much to tell him, then realized it wouldn’t be long before he put the pieces together himself.
“Listen, this is very important. That bow you’re holding was the one used to kill Ephialtes. You want to think about that. Do you want people to know you’re the man who made the weapon that killed him?”
His knuckles whitened on the stave. “The bow didn’t kill him, the guy holding it did. No one’s got any cause to blame me. And if that was a threat you just made then you can get out of my shop right now.”
“Relax! I’m only trying to point out it’s in your interest to help me find this man.” I picked up a potsherd and scratched my name into it, then dropped it on his workbench. “Come see me if you think of anything. I’m willing to pay a reward if you can tell me where to find him.”
That got his attention. “How big a reward?”
“Big enough.” I was being a trifle free with Pericles’ money.
Brasidas guffawed. “You’re paying, are you?” He looked me up and down, and I knew what he was thinking. I looked a mess after the chase through the Agora after Diotima, and my chitoniskos was patched and stained.
“Pericles is paying.”
Brasidas threw the bow back at me and said, “Oh, I get it! You’re going to take a cut for my information. Well, I might just go straight to him, and what will Pericles pay if I bring in the man himself?”
That alarmed me. “Brasidas, do yourself a favor and tell me if you know anything.”
Brasidas stood mute, and folded his arms.
“This is dangerous. You’d better be careful, or you could find yourself dead.”
“You’re not going to hurt my father!”
I turned, surprised. The lad standing in the doorway behind me was three or four years younger than me.
“That’s not what I said.”
“Yes it is. I heard you.”
My head was aching, I was sure Brasidas knew more than he’d told me, I was exasperated by his attitude, and I was disappointed and frustrated at having victory held out before me and then snatched away.
I pushed past the boy and walked down the street.