“Do we?”
“Not yet, but we will, if I have anything to do about it.”
I said, “Remember when we first met, Pericles? I was walking up to the Acropolis, to think about a new temple, and you were coming down—”
“Having considered exactly the same thing. And in between us was a dead body.”
“Can we do it again, do you think?” I asked him.
“You mean find a dead body?”
“No, think about building a new temple to Athena atop the Acropolis.”
Pericles looked at me curiously. “Why do you care so much, Nicolaos?”
It was a good question. There’d been a time when I wondered if Athens deserved my support. I’d even considered abandoning my city, not that I would admit that to Pericles. “Athens is my home,” I told him. “It’s my future. If I’m to have a position of any importance in the world, it’s in Athens, Pericles, and I’d rather my city were one of power. Who wants to be a powerful man in a weak city? Best to be powerful in a place of power.”
“You’re ambitious.”
“Yes.” I’d committed myself to Athens. Now I wanted Athens to commit to me.
We were not the only ones in awe of the new building. A constant trickle of men wandered in from the direction of the stadion and stopped in the Sanctuary where we stood. Every man did the same as us: stared up at the tall columns of stone and the massive roof.
The roof was tiled in marble. It must have cost a small fortune every time a tile slipped, but it was worth it. The play of light across the thin, polished marble gave the roof the sheen of a still, deep pond.
“I like the roof tiles,” I said. “Can we have tiles like that?”
“I’ll see what I can arrange,” Pericles said.
“You know we’re wasting our time even talking about it, don’t you?” I said. “Athens can’t afford anything like this.”
“We’ll have to see. Certainly the state coffers are low. But Nicolaos, a decent-quality Temple to Athena should not be beyond the Athenians.”
“Who paid for this one?” I asked.
“The Eleans, using booty they pillaged long ago during their war against the Pisans.”
“Then all we need to do is pillage someone,” I said lightly.
“Yes, I’d come to the same conclusion,” Pericles said in all seriousness. “I must think about that.”
Dear Gods,
I
would have to think about that. Was Pericles serious?
“I must leave you,” I said. “I have an appointment.”
The entrance to the Temple of Zeus faced east, as most temples do, so that Apollo’s first rays of the day can shine within. I avoided the ramp and instead climbed the three large steps.
A man stood inside. I didn’t notice him at first because it was much darker within and it took my eyes time to adjust. When they did, I saw he was a shifty-looking fellow with a black beard who wore the exomis of a tradesman. I wondered if he was the one I’d come to meet. I stood in the center to give him a chance to approach me, but he didn’t move, merely watched me from the side.
Looking around the inside, I could see spots where the builders hadn’t finished, areas not yet painted, decorations not carved, in the corners and out-of-the-way places. Torches hung in wall brackets, and braziers stood in the corners and along the sides, but none of them were lit.
“What do you think?” the man with the black beard asked.
“It’s amazing.” I rubbed my hand along the walls. “It looks like marble.”
“It’s not. It only looks that way. You touch stucco which has been craftily applied to have the look of marble. Beneath, it’s limestone.”
“You seem to know something about it,” I observed.
“So I should, young man. My name is Libon. I’m the architect.”
I realized I had just made a fool of myself.
“If it isn’t a rude question, Libon, what are you doing lurking in the shadows?”
“You stand in my life’s work, young man. I will do nothing greater. The reaction of the Hellenes to my temple over the next three days will decide whether my life has been worthwhile. If you faced that sort of judgment, what would you do?”
“I would lurk in the shadows and watch everyone’s reaction,” I said.
“Exactly.”
To talk to Libon would be the perfect cover while I waited for my meeting. I had no idea what the man looked like, but he obviously knew me. With Libon I could stand in the middle of the temple in perfect innocence, yet make it easy for the informer to spot me.
Libon was as eager as I was. “Let me show you my temple.” He dragged me across to the entrance through which I’d come.
“Main entrance,” he said, when we were outside on the steps. “Look up.” He pointed to the pediment, the triangular area that closed off the end of the roof. In a temple these are always filled with a sculpture in relief.
Though it was dusk, and the entrance faced east, there was still sufficient light by which to see, because it was the middle of summer and the moon was already rising bright. The relief sculpture showed two men and their attendants, each man before his chariot. Zeus stood in the center of the scene, from which position he took oaths from the two men, who were obviously about to race.
“Is this an Olympic chariot race?” I asked.
“Older than the Olympics,” Libon said. “Or perhaps the first Olympic race, depending on how you look at it. Do you know the story? Do you know who the drivers are?”
“No.”
Libon pointed to a very ancient ruined building to the north, halfway between the Temple of Zeus, where we stood, and the Temple of Hera.
“Do you see the ruined house over there, with only the shattered walls still standing? That is, or was, the
megaron
—the great house—of King Oinomaos. He ruled this land long ago, before even the time of Homer.” Then Libon pointed to the relief, at the figure beside the second chariot. “That is King Oinomaos there.”
“I see.”
Libon turned me slightly to the left. “Now see that mound beside the megaron?”
It was a large burial mound, of the kind used by the ancients, enclosed within a wall of five sides.
“That is the burial mound of the hero Pelops. The hero-king for whom this land is named, the Peloponnesian Peninsula.”
“Let me guess. The other driver in the relief is Pelops.”
“Correct. According to legend, King Oinomaos had a daughter, a girl of great beauty, by the name of Hippodamia. Whoever should marry Hippodamia would inherit the rule of the land.
“Needless to say, a great many unsuitable men asked for the hand of the beautiful Hippodamia, so many that it became an irritant. Oinomaos developed a way of discouraging suitors. He challenged them to a chariot race. If Oinomaos won, then he killed the foolish suitor with his bright spear. But if the suitor won, then the suitor would marry the girl and become heir to the kingdom. Many men died in the pursuit of beauty and wealth.
“Then the hero Pelops came along. He asked for the hand of Hippodamia. Oinomaos set the usual condition.
“Luckily for Pelops, Hippodamia fell in love with him. She bribed her father’s charioteer, a man by the name of Myrtilus, to remove the linchpins from the wheels of her father’s racing chariot. His reward if he did so would be half the kingdom and the first night in the bed of Hippodamia.
“And so the race was arranged. The hero and the king swore their oaths before mighty Zeus—it is the scene you see in the pediment—then the race began. Pelops surged to the lead. It seemed Pelops must win. But the chariot of Oinomaos made ground.
“Oinomaos raised his spear to slay Pelops as they raced, when at that moment the wheels of his chariot flew off. Oinomaos, caught up in the reins, was dragged to his death.
“Pelops married Hippodamia, became king at once, and they all lived happily ever after. Except for Hippodamia’s father, who was somewhat dead.”
“What about the charioteer Myrtilus?”
“He reaped the usual harvest for treachery: Pelops murdered the fellow when he was brazen enough to claim his reward. Myrtilus was buried under the Taraxippus at the east end of the hippodrome. It’s the reason there are so many accidents at that turn. The psyche of Myrtilus remains to terrify the horses.”
I had looked about us as Libon spoke. He noticed my inattention and broke off.
“Am I boring you?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Libon. The fact is, I arranged to meet someone here and I’m looking for him. But the problem is, I don’t know what he looks like.”
“Won’t that make it harder to find him?”
“You’ve spotted the nub of my problem. I rather hoped
he
would find
me
.”
“Ah, I understand. You humor an old bore like me so that you can be visible in the middle of the temple without at the same time being conspicuous.”
“No, it’s not like that at all …” I trailed off at the look of disbelief on his face and sighed. “All right, it
is
like that. But I was interested in everything you said. Truly.” Now I felt guilt that I’d used him. He seemed a nice man.
“Then let us see if we can find your anonymous friend,” said Libon, with more grace than I would have shown. “Is there anything you can tell me about this person?”
“Well, he’s probably a bit nervous,” I said nervously.
“We will begin at this end and work our way through,” said Libon. We reentered the building past the three large doors, all of them open.
The first room was the
pronaos
.
“I used a standard design for the temple, as you can see, Nicolaos,” Libon said, ending with my name in a loud voice. He had obviously decided to make my presence very obvious in the hope of attracting my informant. Every man in the room had jumped at the sudden loud voice. Everyone knew Nicolaos was present.
The room was full of men but empty of decoration, except for a burning brazier of bronze. This was the room where men, wishing to dedicate something precious, could offer it to Zeus by hanging it on the wall. There was only one such offering so far: at nose height beside me was a kynodesme, the cord an athlete used to hold down his penis while he competed. No doubt the kynodesme had belonged to one of the winners, and he wished to dedicate it to the God who had granted him the victory.
“Look at the floor,” Libon instructed.
The floor had been paved in tiny colored pebbles. The pebbles had been artfully arranged to make a scene: silver fish in a blue sea, white seabirds and, in the middle, a Triton.
“Now let us move on.”
We walked from the pronaos to the
naos
. The naos was the main room of the temple. Two rows of seven pillars each
supported the ceiling, which was high-quality wood, oiled and polished till it gleamed. The naos was divided into four sections.
“The statue of Zeus will go in the third of the four quarters,” Libon said. “They haven’t begun it yet.”
I peered into the darkness of the large room, and I wondered if this was why the mysterious informant had specified dusk. In this light, he could speak to me, and it would be difficult to recognize him later.
“The statue is planned to reach halfway up,” said Libon.
I looked up; it was a long, long way to that wooden ceiling.
“Zeus will be sculpted sitting on his throne. If the God stood up, his head would hit the ceiling.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t, then,” I said. “A God with a bad headache is to be avoided.”
Libon and I had made as much noise as possible and called attention to ourselves.
“Are there any more parts to this temple?” I asked.
“There’s the
opithodomos
, of course,” he replied. “It’s a room about the size of the pronaos, but on the west side. It has no connection to the inside; it’s more like a covered porch with a bench running along the back wall.”
“What’s it good for?”
“Meeting your friends in bad weather.”
Libon led me out the entrance and around the building to the west side. Many men were there to talk and admire the sunset. Libon and I again made a fuss of ourselves, but no one approached, except to ask us to speak more quietly.
“Are you sure this person is coming?” Libon asked. “I’m afraid, Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, that you have been stood up.”
“I am afraid, Libon, master architect, that you are right. Could we make one final sweep in the naos? It makes sense that is where he would go.”
“Why so?”
“Because it is darkest there, and so easiest to hide.” As I said it, Apollo dipped below the forest on the other side of the Kladeos to begin his journey around the underside of Gaia.
“Not anymore,” Libon said.
“What do you mean?”
“When Apollo descends, the slaves light the torches within the temple. The naos will soon be as bright as day.”
We hurried back to the other side for the entrance. I grabbed a torch from a passing girl slave. She wanted to protest, but when she saw Libon she subsided.
Men began to leave for whatever parties they had planned for the evening. It made my job easier. I walked all around the edge of the room. There was no one who looked like he might be skulking.
I said, “Libon, I notice some flagstones are pulled up where the statue is destined to go.”
“The flooring is receiving extra reinforcement to support the weight to come. Those are limestone blocks you see raised.”
“Mind if we have a look?”
“Be my guest.”
Together we looked down into the space created where the floor stones had been raised. There, lying in a pool of blood, was the weedy man in the Heracles costume.
I heard Libon gag. But that didn’t stop him from leaning over for a closer look in the semi-dark.
“There’s something odd about him,” Libon said, puzzled.
“So there is,” I agreed. “He has four eyes.”
H
IS EYES WERE
wide open. Many people died like that. But the killer had carefully placed an extra eyeball facing upward on each cheek. Combined with the ragged lion skin, he had the look of some strange creature out of myth.
He stared at me accusingly (with all four eyes), as if his death was my fault. For all I knew, he might be right.
The slave from whom I’d snatched the torch took one look and screamed. She had to be led away, sobbing.
“What is this?” Libon exclaimed, and then, “Who is he? Is this your friend?”