“You trashed the Agora? What were you thinking?”
“Actually, the man I was chasing was doing the trashing,” I muttered. I didn’t think I’d be doing Diotima any favors if I told Pericles a priestess was stalking the streets, destroying everything in her path.
I shifted uncomfortably where I stood. My mother Phaenarete had bandaged my feet, both of which were cut to shreds. I had a black eye where the fish had hit me. I could barely move my left arm; the right was black and blue but at least I could use it. My head ached. This was not a good time for Pericles to be offering a critique of my work.
“He had information to do with the murder,” I said.
“And you know this how?”
“I caught him. Archestratus has no alibi for the time of the murder.”
“That’s the information I get for the price of one large fish, twenty-four jars of figs, and a small farm’s worth of olive oil?”
I didn’t think this would be a good time to mention the wine and the well-washed innkeeper, so I said meekly, “Yes, sir.”
“If you catch this killer, when you catch him, I will be deducting the cost of this mess from your reward.”
“I have other important information.” I gave Pericles the story of the bowman and the bowyer. Pericles’ reaction to this news was predictable. “It’s the Areopagus, of course. They must have hired this man from Tanagra.”
Pericles’ determination to implicate the Areopagus was starting to irritate me. Of course it would suit him politically for it to be true. But we hadn’t a scintilla of evidence to prove it.
“Find this man, Nicolaos. We must be able to prove who he’s working for.”
“I will. There are some things I need to know, Pericles, about politics.”
“Ask.”
“Ephialtes was killed by a man from the city of Tanagra. I think that very likely. But what does a man of Tanagra want with an Athenian populist politician? Could this be a political killing?”
“You are asking whether Tanagra has a reason for wanting Ephialtes dead; could the assassin have been sent by his city?”
“Precisely.”
Pericles considered for a moment. “Tanagra is a minor city, of no political power. I cannot imagine the Tanagrans doing anything that might bring the wrath of Athens upon them. No, the Tanagrans’ best strategy is to keep their heads down and hope no one notices them.”
“Then the odds are the Tanagran is a hired assassin. His city had nothing to do with it, and I am searching for his employer.”
“You’ll have to find the assassin first.”
“I doubt I can come to his master any other way.”
“You overheard my argument with Xanthippus?”
“Yes.”
“My father has become my enemy, Nicolaos, because of whoever is behind this plot. When you find him, you will come to me immediately. Tell no one else first.”
“So that you can hide the truth, Pericles, if it doesn’t suit you?” Archestratus had invited me to see him should I ever lose trust in Pericles. At the time I’d been sure it would never happen. Now I dismayed myself by contemplating the possibility.
“So I can extract revenge, regardless of whether my revenge must remain hidden for the good of the city.”
I turned to go, but Pericles stopped me.
“And Nicolaos?”
“Yes?”
“I hope you like fish.”
He picked up the rotting fish and threw it at me.
I started on my way home, pondering the relationship between Xanthippus and Pericles, and couldn’t help comparing it to mine with Sophroniscus. Did all fathers object to their sons’ careers, and if so, why? Was it some sort of initiation ceremony they gave you after your firstborn? It seemed no matter how much wealth, power, and privilege a family had, you still got the same argument.
I must have been deep in thought, because two Scythians appeared so quickly they might have been shades rising up from the earth at my feet, one on each side of me. There were beads of sweat and street grime on their faces and they were panting slightly. That and the dank, warm aroma wafting from beneath their leather jerkins told me they’d been running about for some time. I recognized them as having been in the exercise yard when I visited Pythax.
I grinned and greeted them. “Hello! Has Pythax been making you run again?”
Without a word they grabbed an arm each, picked me up so that my feet barely touched the ground, and marched me down the street. Men talking to one another stopped and stared as we passed.
I said, “Hey, what is this?”
They didn’t answer.
“You know it’s illegal for a citizen to lay hands on another!”
One of them spoke at last. “We’re not citizens, we’re slaves.”
That shut me up. So they were, and this was precisely why we had the Scythians: to manhandle citizens when they needed it.
I thought of fighting back, but decided I didn’t need my fellow citizens to see me being beaten by slaves. So I acquiesced to the ride and let them guide me where they would.
We wound our way through the narrow streets that make up most of Athens. Citizens were going about their business along the sides, we three abreast filled a lot of the width, and my captors were in a hurry, so they marched me straight down the center where no one walks, because that’s where the sewage always pools. Streets in Athens are raised at the edge and low in the middle, so when people throw their buckets of slop out the window it flows away from their walls. If they’re lucky, the street is on a slope and the sewage flows away; if they’re not lucky, it doesn’t. Either way, my feet were dragged through the muck; all manner of vile objects became lodged between my sandals and the soles of my feet. Some of the things were squishy. I had to hop on one foot so I could shake the other loose of rubbish, then swap feet and do the same again.
The guards stopped at a small crowd of people at a crossroad. A herm, a bust of the God Hermes, rose above the crowd, upon a tall, narrow plinth, looking down upon the confusion. Besides being Messenger of the Gods, Hermes is also, logically enough, protector of travelers; every cross street in Athens has a herm as a charm for passersby. My guards demanded the crowd part to let us through. Men shuffled back to reveal what all the fuss was about.
Unfortunately the herm at this cross street had failed Brasidas. He lay faceup in the dirt. His throat had been slit from side to side. I’d seen pigs slaughtered, and this looked just the same. His eyes were dull but wide open in horror, telling me he’d known what was happening to him. The blood had spurted, but a pool had encircled his head and then trickled to the center to mix with the garbage lying there. I saw some paw prints that suggested a couple of dogs had licked at it.
Pythax crouched over the body. I shook my arms free, and now the guards let me go but stayed at my back. I walked over, careful to avoid the blood, until my shadow crossed Pythax. He looked up and grunted. “Oh, it’s you. You took your time getting here.” He sniffed twice then screwed up his nose. “Zeus, your feet stink! Don’t you ever wash?” I tried to think of something witty to say, but failed, unable to take my eyes off the corpse. Brasidas was staring straight up at me.
“Hey!” My gaze shifted from Brasidas to Pythax. He looked into my eyes. “Is this your doing, little boy?”
I had a horrible feeling it was, but not in the way Pythax meant.
“I had nothing to do with it, Pythax.”
He grunted again and rose, wiping his hands on his tunic.
“I found this lying beside him.” Pythax held out a potsherd.
I recognized it immediately and nodded. “Yes. I scratched in my name myself. I left it with Brasidas to come
