or he may have been avoiding my eye. So I saw him in profile, and not for the first time I remarked the similarity between him and my younger brother. Both of them had a bit of the look of a satyr about them. I on the other hand took after my mother’s side of the family, and I wondered if the dissimilarity extended to our personalities as well. Perhaps that was the reason we couldn’t agree.
“Socrates, get out from under there!” Sophroniscus roared. The little fool had taken to jumping through the gaps between the formwork holding the statue and the sledge as it moved. Socrates jumped out of the way and let the men get on with their work.
“I see,” Sophroniscus continued. “Well, lad, I’m glad you had the guts to stand up and tell me to my face, but it doesn’t mean I’m reconciled to what you’re doing. Our family has a poor enough record when it comes to dealing with the powerful that I can only assume disaster will come of this adventure of yours. You know what happened to our illustrious ancestor when he got himself entangled with great men.”
I did indeed, since Father never tired of telling us. Family legend had it that our line was founded by Daedalus himself, who built the Labyrinth for King Minos of old, and who had to flee in fear of his life with Theseus, after the hero slew the Minotaur. As Father said, a fine example of being caught between two powerful men. Daedalus lost his son, Icarus, on that adventure, and had to remarry and beget more sons when he arrived in Athens.
“Well, it won’t be a problem for me, Father,” I said in jest. “I don’t have a son to lose!”
Transporting a statue always attracts an audience, most of them stopping to watch the fun, some to offer helpful suggestions that we could live without, and some to critique the artist’s work, which if Father overheard might result in litigation or violence. Nobody ever offers to help by pulling, unless they’re down on their luck and want to be paid.
A woman in priestess robes came walking down the street, attended by two slaves. Men moved to let her pass, but she stopped to watch us. I glanced in her direction, distracted by the movement, then did a double take and looked again.
It was Diotima, dressed as I’d never seen her before. She seemed older in the robes, more mature, and looked as if maybe she really was a priestess and a respectable member of society.
I was suddenly and acutely aware of my own appearance. I was wearing nothing but a loincloth. I was as filthy as the slaves, the dust and the dirt covered my bare chest, and you could see where the sweat dripping down me had formed tiny rivers in the grime.
I knew she’d spotted me, there was no point trying to hide, so when she gestured I walked to her.
“Nice chest!” Diotima murmured, low enough that no one else could hear. Her dark eyes looked me up and down in a way no one could miss; she smiled, and I had to order myself not to blush. I wasn’t used to being ogled in public; the women in Athens aren’t supposed to do such things.
She diverted her eyes to our job. “Looks heavy. Why don’t you use wheels?” she asked.
I smiled. “Ha! There’s someone in the crowd asks that, every time.”
“No doubt the intelligent, curious ones,” she said, trying to look stern. “And what do you reply? Feel free to avoid any phrases that might hint this is a stupid question.”
“If we had wheels, there’d be only four points holding up the block of stone. The moment we tried to cross anything other than solid rock the wheels would sink into the dirt and we’d never get it moving again. And you’ve probably noticed the streets in this city are fundamentally-”
“Mud!” we said in unison, and laughed.
I finished, “But with a sledge, the weight is carried across a wide surface, so we don’t get stuck.”
“I didn’t think of that,” she admitted.
“Don’t take it hard; if you didn’t have to do it yourself, you’d never know.”
“Rizon has no alibi for Father’s death,” Diotima said.
“And you know this how?”
“Same as for Archestratus. I asked his slaves while I was in my boy clothing.”
“Does it matter? Don’t we know the man from Tanagra killed your father?”
Diotima shrugged. “I thought it better to know. But, Nicolaos, Rizon does have an excellent alibi for when the bowyer died.”
Sophroniscus called to me, and I had no choice but to leave Diotima.
“I saw you, son. I told you to stay away from her,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“This girl…” Sophroniscus spoke in a quiet voice, almost whispering, then he paused.
“You mean Diotima?” I automatically looked in her direction, and Sophroniscus followed my gaze. She noticed our attention and waved.
“Her. Your mother has spoken to me. It’s Phaenarete’s view, given the mother’s…er…position in life, that there’s very little can be done to sully the daughter’s reputation more than it already is, and the talk in the Agora is that the man she’s betrothed to would hardly notice the difference between a virgin and a porne off the street. They tell me he’s been boasting to anyone who’ll listen about what he intends to do with her.”
My hands clenched and I gritted my teeth, but Sophroniscus was still speaking. “So I’ve decided to withdraw my objections to you associating with the girl.” Sophroniscus frowned. “And of course the near certainty that you would completely ignore my order makes the decision easier. Still, I wish you wouldn’t be seen talking to her in public.”
“It was business, Father.”
“Then that’s even worse,” he said. “You allow a woman to work for you?”
“It is her father who died, sir. I could hardly stop her.”
Sophroniscus shook his head. “You need to learn how to control women, son. Remember, her behavior should be seemly, which it certainly is not if she’s conversing with men in the street.”
“She stopped and talked to me, Father. I didn’t ask her.”
“Then order her to keep walking. You’re a man, she’ll obey.”
“Is that how it works with you and Mother, sir?”
“Er…pay attention to the load, son. It’s your responsibility if it tips.”
It was just past midday when we finally reached the sanctuary. The staff had been expecting us. The site was leveled to perfection and swept of loose stones. Sophroniscus checked it, nodded in satisfaction, and ordered the back end of the sledge to be adjusted so that the feet of the statue would slide into the correct position. This was done by the men with crowbars and much swearing.
The base block had been delivered the previous day, and placed in precisely the right spot. It remained only to pull the statue up and onto its base. A small A-frame tower of tall wooden beams was raised, blocks and tackles hanging off it, and ropes were threaded through pulleys hanging from the top of the A-frame and attached to the horse at points Sophroniscus knew to be strong enough to take the strain. The ropes would pull the statue off the sledge-now tilted back-so that the stone would touch land with its hind feet first, and then while still supported from above rotate over to a standing position.
Sophroniscus waved his arm, and the men hauled for the final effort. The horse’s hind feet slid to the ground as expected, and his body slowly rose into the sky. This was the moment of maximum strain for the men and the grunting was loud.
Socrates jumped onto the platform, directly underneath, pressed his hands against the horse’s belly, and pretended to be pushing the piece upright. He laughed.
Sophroniscus roared, “Socrates! If I have to tell you one more time-”
A rope snapped.
The horse lurched away from the men, directly down on top of Socrates. It all seemed to happen in slow motion for me. I could see his face turn from laughter to horror in an instant, he put his hands up, as if to try and hold the statue for real, before he fell backward with the immense block of stone toppling on top of him. The dust flew up in a cloud, obscuring the disaster. Something cracked. The sledge jerked beneath the sudden weight.
“Oh Gods.” I ran through the cloud, waving my hand to clear the air before me and coughing.
I expected to see a pool of blood, and the crushed body of my brother. I found him lying flat, his face turned to the side, unable to move, the statue upon him. He was having trouble breathing, but, miraculously, he was still alive.
“Help me, Nico,” he whispered.
The wooden framework used to hold the statue in place during transport had protected Socrates. The support
