virtue.
“There you are!” A man elbowed his way through to us, slightly out of breath and frowning. “Your father ordered us to find you; where on earth have you been hiding all morning?” This was Manes, one of my father’s slaves. When a boy is judged old enough to wander the streets, his father gives him a pedagogue to accompany him everywhere, to provide a role model, possibly to teach him a little, and hopefully to keep the boy out of trouble, though that was asking too much of any man when it came to Manes’ current assignment. Manes had been my own pedagogue ten years ago. Now that he was quit of me, he was landed with my brother. It hardly seemed fair on the poor old man.
My brother said, “There was a boy said I was ugly as a toad.”
“So what did you do?”
“He almost killed him,” Manes interjected. “I pulled them off each other and sent the other boy running.”
It was true. My little brother was as ugly as a toad, but I would never have admitted it to anyone, least of all him or my parents. This was odd, because I conversely was considered quite handsome. We had the same unruly dark hair, the same brown eyes, but where he was short, I was medium height; where his face was squashed like a…well, like a toad’s, mine was rounded; where he had a bulbous nose pasted into the middle of his face, my nose was typically Hellene; and where he was stocky, even squat, I was the normal build of any young man.
“Did you hurt him?” I asked.
“Yes, Nico.”
“Well done. Next time you see him, hit him again.” I knew from my own bitter experience what it is like to be a boy in Athens. You either prove yourself with your fists, or you are persecuted by the bullies for the next decade. I had been too quiet to fight, too happy to live within my own imagination, believing the other boys would become bored and leave me alone, and had suffered grievously for my miscalculation. When I was finally goaded into attack they were ready for me and beat me black and blue. I hoped my brother would take the fight to them.
Manes looked from one of us to the other in dismay. “Master Nicolaos! If I had not lived with your family for fifteen years, listening to this I would have said you were the sons of a Spartan, not an artist.”
“Nico, I’ve been thinking-”
“Yes?”
“Is it true the murderer ran away?”
“No one knows who did it.”
“Whoever killed him must be a really good shot. And they’d have to practice a lot to be confident.”
“What makes you say that?” I was intrigued and annoyed at the same time. This was my case, not his, though he didn’t know it yet.
“What if he missed with his shot? The killer must have been far away, because if he’d been close he would have used something more certain, like a sword or a spear. But if he was far away he must have been sure he could kill with a single arrow. If he’d missed with his first, then Ephialtes would have run away quickly. The killer must be an expert marksman.”
“Who have you been talking to?” I demanded, angry. Not only had he reproduced the logic I had used to impress Pericles, but he’d gone on to deduce more.
“No one! I swear it, Nico.”
“Then how do you know all this?”
“I thought about it, that’s all. I’m sorry, Nico-”
“This is my case, not yours, so don’t butt in.”
“Your case, Master Nicolaos?” Manes asked.
“Mine,” I said firmly. “I have a commission from Pericles to discover the murderer.”
“Wow! Can I help?”
I ignored my brother.
“But, Master Nicolaos, your father-”
“I will talk to my father,” I cut Manes off.
“I was about to say your father is looking for you. He expects you back at the workshop immediately. He said to tell you. That’s why we’ve been out, looking for you.”
I groaned. The excitement had made me forget I should have been assisting my father all morning. Father cannot conceive of any better life for a man than that of a sculptor. It was not that he disapproved of my rejecting his profession, it was simply that he couldn’t even comprehend such a thing. He was as determined to turn me into a polisher of stone as I was to avoid that fate.
My commission was like a gift from the Gods. I had a chance to learn about Athenian politics from the inside. This could be the start of my proper life if I succeeded, or the end of it if I failed.
“Go to Father, Manes, and tell him I have been unavoidably detained by this murder. I will explain the rest later. Warn him it may be some time before I can return.”
“The master will not like that.”
“I know. It’ll be a long explanation.”
“Nico, I’ve been thinking-”
I sighed. I didn’t want to hear any more ideas from my clever little brother. No matter how much I might love him, I was determined this was going to be my case, my success, the making of my name. “Try not to think so much, Socrates. It will only get you into trouble.”
“Yes, Nico.”
3
I decided my next step must be to do exactly as I had advised Pericles: speak with Xanthippus.
I imagined Pericles’ relationship with his father must have been more strained than the usual father-son tension. Pericles was a leader of the party that was destroying the old ways and strengthening the democracy. Xanthippus was a respected member of the power base his son was determined to destroy. Family dinners must have been interesting.
Xanthippus’ house would normally have looked like any other, but right now it resembled a small fortress. Two armed men stood at the front door. Others stood upon the roof. The guards would have turned me away but I claimed to have been sent by Pericles. I knocked on the door, and was answered by a house slave, looking scared, who let me into the public room. Xanthippus entered quickly, an old man but lively. He looked me over carefully. “You come from my son?”
“Yes, sir. I am Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus. You are aware Ephialtes has been murdered?”
“It did come to my attention as one of the day’s more important events.” He crossed his arms and stared at me, waiting. It occurred to me Xanthippus did not suffer fools.
“Pericles asked me to look into the death of his friend.”
“That’s a job for Ephialtes’ deme, if they care,” Xanthippus said. “Let’s see now…Ephialtes of the deme Oa, of the tribe Oeneides, wasn’t it? I suggest you go home and wait to hear what the men of Oa have to say.”
I was uncomfortably aware that Xanthippus was correct, but no deme in its right mind would involve itself in what looked like a murky political assassination, even if the victim was one of their own. I wondered if Xanthippus was relying on exactly that. However, I had an out.
“Technically, any man can investigate a crime,” I said. “It is merely by custom that the job is left to the demes.”
Xanthippus harrumphed. “A custom that has worked for our people for generations.”
“Your son is hoping I might resolve the matter more quickly and, if necessary, more quietly,” I offered.
“Why you?”
“I found the body, sir, and questioned the slaves working on the Rock of the Areopagus.”
“Is that where he was killed?”
“I was hoping you could help me with that, sir. I understand you were there this morning.”
“I was there, to meet with Ephialtes, in fact.”
