“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.”
