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.
4
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.
