Father shook his head. “That won’t work,” he said. “A city house is a sink for wealth, not a source of it. How could my son maintain such a household?”
“You could help him,” Pythax said.
“I’m not made of money.” Father carefully avoided revealing his financial straits. “The farm must come with the house, or Nico will have no way to maintain his household. I must insist.”
“Take the city house,” Pythax urged. “I’ll throw in the house slaves.”
As he sat thinking, my father glanced over the shoulder of Pythax and caught my eye. I nodded vigorously.
Father said, “I’m sorry, Pythax, but I can’t agree to this.”
“It’s the best offer you’ll get,” Pythax said.
Sophroniscus said, “Then we have an impasse.”
And no marriage. I gripped Diotima’s hand, out of sight.
Diotima could contain herself no longer. She burst out, “Dear Gods, I don’t care about the farm! Why don’t we all just share the bloody thing?”
Pythax said, “It’s not that big, Diotima. There’s enough to feed one family, but not two.”
Sophroniscus nodded. It was the only time the two men had agreed on anything. “Such arrangements never work,” he said. “It always leads to fighting and court cases at harvest time.”
Pythax said, “I got nothing against your boy, Sophroniscus, but I got to say you’re overrating him. What would you ask for if you didn’t know my girl was an heiress? Nothing like what you’re demanding from me, I’ll bet. The house on its own is more than you’d get from any other father.”
Pythax had a point. An average dowry between two artisan families might run to a year’s wages, say, four hundred or five
hundred drachmae. I had no idea what it cost to buy a house, but it must surely be many times that.
“We must acknowledge the obvious fact that the girl’s family is not an asset,” Father said.
I suppressed a groan. I’d expected Father would raise this, but hoped he wouldn’t. In Athens, a marriage is as much a union of families as a union of two young people. The wife’s family is expected to bring to the party prestige and advantage.
“You can’t say that,” Pythax protested. “The girl’s dad was a great statesman.”
“Forgive me, Pythax, I would not raise the subject except that it’s an essential point, but I must point out the girl’s mother was a hetaera.”
Pythax controlled his temper most admirably. “Not anymore.”
“Granted, but it’s the family history that people remember. The girl was born illegitimate—”
“Not any longer; they made her legitimate so she could inherit.”
“Granted again.”
“And you’re in no position to complain, Sophroniscus. If your boy marries my girl, he’ll become the heir.”
“That’s why all the property must come to him.”
There was no point in going on. The meeting broke on inability to agree about the farm. I knew Father’s need for money. I knew he couldn’t accept less. All Pythax had to do was say yes, and Diotima and I would be married. I was so frustrated I wanted to scream. Why wouldn’t Pythax release what was Diotima’s?
Sophroniscus and Pythax agreed to consider their positions and talk again—back in Athens after the Olympics.
I left the tent in a daze. Diotima followed, and I think she suppressed a sob. I held her tight, and didn’t give a curse what any passing man thought. She said in my ear, “We came so close, Nico. So close.”
Over Diotima’s shoulder I watched Pythax’s back retreat, an angry and insulted man. He stamped down the muddy path that was lined with burning torches, lit so that the Olympic party could continue all night.
“Pythax!” I called.
He stopped and turned. I said to Diotima, “Wait for me here,” then ran to Pythax.
We stood together in the mud. I said, “Pythax, I’m sorry about what happened in there.”
“So am I, little boy,” he said sadly. “I’m gonna do the best for my girl, and Diotima wants you. Gods know why. There’s not much meat on you.”
“Thanks a lot, Pythax.”
“Well, look at yourself, lad. You look like you ain’t got a muscle in your body.” He grabbed my upper arm and pinched it. I winced. “You’re way too skinny to be my son-in-law. You better put on some meat, or I’ll be embarrassed to be seen with you at the gymnasium.”
Pythax gloried in the gymnasium as few men did. When he was a slave it had been forbidden to him. Now, he expressed his citizenship by frequenting the place as often as he could.
“But I gotta be honest, little boy. If your father don’t change his mind, it ain’t gonna happen.”
“My father is unreasonable,” I said bitterly.
Pythax sighed. “No, little boy, he ain’t. Your dad’s doing exactly what he ought to, and he’s got right on his side. Diotima inherited the house and the farm from her dad; she’s got every right to take it with her when she marries. I know that.”
“Then … er …”
“Why won’t I release it?” Pythax was shamefaced. “It’s like this, lad. When I was a slave, I didn’t need to worry about where I would sleep or what I would eat, or how I would pay for it. Right?”
“Sure.”
“Then I became a free man, and a citizen. Free men don’t get nothing for free. And I got a house now, and a wife.”
“Oh.” Suddenly I realized what the problem for Pythax must be.
“I don’t know how to make money,” Pythax said. “Never had to. That farm Diotima inherited from her dad, it’s the only income I got.”
Diotima’s mother had very expensive tastes. She was used to the best, and Pythax was too besotted to deny her.
“Don’t tell anyone, all right? It’d destroy me if men knew I couldn’t support my own family. They’d say it was because I used to be a slave. They’d say I wasn’t a real citizen.”
I knew what a big admission this was for Pythax. For a man of his pride, for what he’d achieved and how he’d risen, it must have been painful beyond words.
“I understand, Pythax. Keep the farm. I don’t need it.”
“Yes, you do. Your dad’s right about that, too. But I ain’t got no choice. I tell you, nobody better get in my way today, or—”
“Yaah!”
“Yaah!”
Two Heracles imitators in lion skins jumped in front of us and swung their clubs.
Pythax grabbed their necks, smashed their heads together, and tossed their unconscious bodies to the side of the path.
“Or I might get angry,” he finished and strode off to the Olympics, a desperately unhappy citizen.
T
HE ABORTED MARRIAGE
negotiation left me very depressed. It would require godlike powers of persuasion to reconcile everyone’s differences. Maybe Pericles could have talked his way through, as he had so many times with the people of Athens, as he had with the judges to get Timo back in the Games, but Pericles would never involve himself in our domestic dispute.
If only I possessed the honeyed tongue of Pericles. But
Pericles had told me when we first met that I had a poor voice. Even the great Pindar only yesterday had derided my speech, and he should know, because he was a professional.
Pindar!
My rhetoric might be poor, but my investigation skills were top-notch. I tracked Pindar down at an extended late night dinner party beside the sacred altar, which was already decked out in flowers for the festivities to come the next morning. I knew I could rely on Pindar being wherever the biggest audience was to be found.
I said, “Pindar, when last we spoke, you said you could teach me tricks of flattery. Did you mean it?”
“Perhaps.” He sounded evasive in the face of my enthusiasm. I hopped from one foot to the other.
“
Would
you teach me? You see, I have a problem.” I explained the situation with Diotima and my father and Pythax. I didn’t explain it well; I came to a confused halt.
Pindar buried his chin in his chest and thought. “I see. Affairs of the heart, a family in dispute, yes, this is the stuff of poetry. It lacks only a ten-year-long war to reach Homeric proportions, or perhaps a murder in the family. I don’t suppose you have a close relative that you’re willing to sacrifice?”
Socrates was a temptation, but … “Sorry, I’ll have to disappoint you there.”
“A pity. Nevertheless, that only affects the aesthetics, not the solution, which is simplicity itself.”
“It is?” I blinked. Could the answer to my problems be so easy? “Tell me what to do!”
“Not you. Me. I will write a praise song in your honor.”
I laughed. “That’s impossible, Pindar. I’ve done nothing that qualifies for a song.” Praise songs are always in honor of war heroes and sports victors.
“Not so. You’re a contestant in these Olympics, are you not? I distinctly heard the Chief Judge take the oath from you. When
you catch this killer, then you, Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, will be an Olympic victor.”
It hit me like a fist. Pindar was right; I could win at the Olympics!
“Dear Gods, Pindar, you’re a genius!”
“Yes, I know. When your father and prospective father-in-law hear your name sung in praise before the assembled Hellenes, all your difficulties will vanish in their pride of being the father of an Olympic victor, whose song is sung by the greatest poet since Homer,” he said modestly.
“Didn’t you say this morning that you were immune to flattery?”
“I’m immune to yours. I’m totally vulnerable to my own.”
I thought about it, then asked, “Can you get in a mention of Diotima?”
“It’s immoral to praise a woman, but I’ll try to squeeze in a brief allusion. Maybe something about Hera, helpmeet to mighty Zeus?” he mused. “Leave it with me; I’ll think of something.”
“Thanks, Pindar!” I said in gratitude.
“You know, don’t you, that a praise song doesn’t come cheap?”
“I knew there’d be a catch. How much?”
Pindar named a sum.
I staggered back in shock. “Dear Gods! People pay that?”
“It’s the going rate. Normally my clients are in such euphoria from their victory that they don’t stop to think. You’re unusual in that you’re currently rational.”
The taste of reconciling my family was too sweet to refuse. I didn’t have the money, I had no idea how to get it, but I’d think of something.
“Start writing my song, Pindar.”
“There’s one final point.”
I sighed. “Yes?”
“You have to catch the killer, Nicolaos.”
“Well, of course.”
“I don’t think you’ve quite caught my meaning.
You
have to catch the killer, not the Spartan. If the Spartan Markos beats you to it, then he has the victory, and you have no victory song nor, it would seem, any hope of a marriage.”
H
OMER
’
S ROSY FINGERS
clutched the dawn. Timodemus had two days to live. Three, if you counted the day on which he’d be tried and executed.
At least today I wouldn’t have to drag reluctant men away from the sport to question them, because most of Day Three is dedicated to the worship of Zeus.
One happy effect of this was that the men could sleep in. Whereas the sports began at the crack of dawn, the service could not begin until the main attraction had been driven in from wherever it was kept waiting.
I woke in my tent and pulled on my chiton, the only decent clothing I had, and wandered out to blink at the sun and wonder if there was anything to eat.
Socrates was already outside, protesting loudly. “I won’t wear a chiton,” he said.
“Yes, you will,” our father said. “This is a sacred festival and I won’t have you wandering about looking like a small child. You can wash in the river, too.”
“I’m clean enough,” Socrates grumbled.
Father looked to me, and I knew what to do. I picked up the bucket of water that lay between our tents and threw it on Socrates.
“Now you’re clean,” I said cheerfully.
Socrates sputtered and gave me a look that said he would have as cheerfully thrown a bucket of snakes at me. Nevertheless he was clean—an unusual state for him. I held Socrates down while
Father pulled the chiton over him. This was an old, cast-off garment of our father’s, which had been cut down to size by our mother for Socrates to wear. Or, rather, almost to size. Mother had allowed room for my little brother to grow. The sleeves ended somewhere slightly past his fingers, and the bottom edge trailed along the ground. Socrates almost tripped over it when he took a step. Father hitched up the chiton, tied a rope belt around Socrates’s waist to hold up the extra material, and cheerily declared we were ready to go.
We joined the crowd streaming to the Sanctuary of Zeus, where we met up with Diotima, as we’d arranged. Women might not be allowed in the stadion when the Games were on, but these were religious rites, and the sanctuary was open to everyone.
I saw Markos with the other Spartans, though he stood somewhat apart. I guessed he was unpopular with his fellows since the fight with Skarithos. I beckoned and he came to join us.
A vast cloud of dust hung in the air above the road from Elis. If I hadn’t known better, I might have called it smoke from a forest fire, or perhaps the coming of the Gods. But I knew what to expect, and so I stood, Diotima and Socrates beside me, and we stared.
From the base of the cloud emerged a large, plodding ox, and alongside it walked a man. Both were difficult to make out; the ox’s coat was white against the gray of the road dust hanging in the air.
Another ox and man emerged behind the first, and another, and another, until one hundred oxen were visible on the road. The procession was so long that by the time the last appeared out of the dust raised by their hooves, the first ox had entered Olympia.
Each ox was garlanded in bright ribbons and crowned with an olive wreath. But there was something more spectacular than the colorful adornments.
Socrates gaped. “Is that real?” he asked.
“It is,” said Diotima. “Each ox to be sacrificed today has a coat of pure white.”
“I thought it was road dust,” Socrates said.
“No, they breed them like this.”
“How?”
Diotima shrugged. “Don’t ask me.”
“They allow only the bulls with white coats to mate,” said a man beside us in the press. “If a calf is born with an absolutely perfect coat of white, then it’s made an ox and reserved for sacrifice.”