The Marathon Conspiracy (29 page)

I wondered about this as I toiled away on an urgent domestic task that couldn’t be put off any longer. I was in the women’s quarters of our house, a place in which I had not spent any significant time since I was a boy. Every house has its women’s quarters,
always on the second floor, usually on the side of the house that gets the most sun. The women’s quarters of our house was one open rectangular space. Since I didn’t have any sisters, the only inhabitant was my mother. But that was about to change.

When Diotima moved in, she would share this space with my mother. But no two women can share the same room every moment of their lives without any privacy, particularly not when one is a new wife and the other her mother-in-law. Tradition and domestic harmony both required me to partition this room: a space for my mother, one for Diotima, and a sitting room to share.

Scattered about me were a mallet, two drills, two saws—one for rough cutting and the other for finishing work—and chisels of varying widths, all borrowed from my father’s workshop. The advantage of belonging to an artisan family was that you never lacked for the right tool. When I borrowed the tools, I’d asked Father if he’d care to help me, expecting him to say yes. Instead he’d given me a look I couldn’t interpret and told me that he already had.

The house slaves had carried Mother’s precious possessions—her bed and dresser and cupboard and her fine chairs—down to the courtyard, dropping them fewer times than I would have, so that I was left with a totally empty space in which to work. Phaenarete sat in the courtyard, on furniture that was set out in imitation of the women’s quarters, while I tore apart the room she’d lived in all her married life.

I began by pulling down the panels of the inner walls of her room. They were attached firmly with holding pegs and had to be pried off with a crowbar. Most of the pegs snapped with age when they came away, but I was prepared for that. I had a whole basket of new pegs that I’d bought from the local carpenter’s workshop. Apprentices turned them out by the bucket load.

When the walls had been stripped, I saw, to my surprise, that cut into the support beams were insets for joists. I stood
back to judge the position of the joist insets. They were perfectly positioned to create three rooms from one. It was as if some psychic builder had put everything where I would want it placed decades later.

It was impossible.

Then the answer hit me: I wasn’t the first man to remodel this room. Forty years ago, my father had performed the same service for his bride, my mother Phaenarete. When he’d said he’d already helped me, he wasn’t joking. He’d left me to do this on my own, so I could discover an interesting lesson about the cycle of life.

When my grandmother had died, Father must have converted the room back into one large space, removing the internal walls and replacing the paneling, but leaving everything necessary in place for his own son to do it over again. I wondered if my father might be smarter than I’d thought.

Father had partitioned the room much as I planned to do, with a small bedroom at each end and the common room in the middle. That was when I realized that all the windows overlooking the courtyard had been placed so that there’d be one for each bedroom and two for the common room.

I decided I’d be a fool to change Father’s original layout. I set to work. What I’d thought would take four or five days now would be done in one. I had the walls up before sundown.

The women’s quarters had seemed quite large when it was empty. Now that it was partitioned, the rooms all seemed cramped. Diotima’s room was adequate, no better than that. But it was the best that a middle-class artisan family could do. I wondered again if we should have moved into her father’s old home, but it would have been so against custom that it would have caused more trouble than it was worth. Besides, we could rent the place for extra income.

I awaited Diotima’s reaction to my handiwork with some trepidation. She was a young woman used to the best, courtesy
of her birth father, and what I had to offer her was a step or two below that.

Diotima arrived to see how I was going. She was amazed I’d achieved so much in a day.

“It’s not what you’re used to,” I said. Better to get it out of the way at once.

“I don’t care,” she said. “There’s something here much more important than space.”

My expression must have told her that I couldn’t imagine what it was.

“A family that’s more or less normal,” she told me. “I’ve never had one of those.”

One thing in particular she noticed.

“Why is this wall so thick?” she asked of the wall that separated her room from the rest.

“I thought it might be a good idea. For privacy.”

“But it takes up so much room, and there’s so little to spare. Make it thinner, Nico.”

“Has it occurred to you we’ll be having sex in this room, with my mother right next door?”

The look on her face told me that Diotima hadn’t thought of that. She fingered the new party wall. “Make this wall soundproof,” she ordered. “Very soundproof.”

“Good idea.”

As I worked I talked about the case. “There are too many contradictions,” I said. “The murderer must be old enough to have been at Marathon. He must be rich enough to bribe Antobius. He must be placed at the sanctuary at Brauron when the children disappeared. He must have a motive for killing Hippias. He must have a motive for not wanting anyone to know he killed Hippias.”

“Who fits all those?” Diotima asked.

“Nobody,” I said, pushing the frame into place. I had spent ages with the hand drill, to create holes in the woodwork where the pegs were to be hammered, to hold everything in place. The
holes aligned perfectly. I pointed this out to Diotima with some pride, but she barely noticed.

“Then what are the essential facts?” Diotima asked as she passed me the first peg. “What
must
be true about the killer?”

“He took the missing scroll,” I said at once. “Something written in it must be incriminating evidence, else why take it?” I hammered in the peg.

“But everything in the scroll is ages old.”

“Then it refers to a crime that’s ages old. The obvious candidate is that signal after the battle.”

Diotima passed me another peg. “Yes. Hippias knew the names of the signalers. He wrote them down. That’s a perfect reason to remove the evidence. It means the killer must be a veteran.”

“There are no veterans of Marathon at the sanctuary,” I pointed out while I hammered. “And the sanctuary’s where the killer must have been.”

I missed with the hammer and hit my thumb.

“Ouch!”

Diotima nodded glumly, ignoring my pain. “Perhaps a conspiracy of two?” she suggested.

“Which two?” I said, sucking my thumb. “Find a combination that works.”

“Three, then?”

I snorted. “Why not go all the way then, and say that all the suspects did it together in one large, weird conspiracy?”

“That would obviously be ludicrous.”

I said, “There’s only one other person we haven’t looked into enough, and that’s Aeschylus.”

“I thought we agreed he was deluded?”

“He’s a writer. Staring at words all day probably turns your head.”

“I don’t know, Nico—”

“Aeschylus was present when Glaucon announced the discovery of the skull. Aeschylus fought at Marathon. Aeschylus has buckets of money with which to bribe Antobius.”

“Aeschylus has a reputation as a solid citizen,” Diotima added.

“He’s also the only individual who fits more than half the criteria.”

“If we accuse the most popular playwright in Athens, it might cause a riot,” Diotima said. “We promised Pythax we wouldn’t do that anymore.”

“Name someone else then.”

Diotima opened her mouth, thought better of it, probably realized she had no better idea, then nodded reluctantly. “All right, it’s agreed,” she said. “We go after Aeschylus.”

I completed the framework, keeping the party wall as thick as when Diotima first saw it, with space in the middle. Meanwhile Diotima left to collect old rags from around the house and, when it was clear there wouldn’t be nearly enough, hurried down to the agora to buy up cheap rags and several rolls of canvas. Together we stuffed the material down into the wall before I attached the outer boards with more wooden pegs.

I left Diotima in her bedroom and walked across the new sitting room into Mother’s new bedroom. I would spend extra time in here to do it up as nicely as I could, by way of apology for taking away so much of her living space.

I shouted out, “Diotima, can you hear me?”

“Yes!” she shouted back.

“Have an orgasm,” I shouted again.

“What?
Now?
” Diotima screeched at me through two walls.

I shouted back, “I want to know if Mother will be able to hear us. For our privacy!”

A voice floated up from the courtyard, through the open windows. “Nicolaos, if you want Diotima to have an orgasm, instead of letting the whole house hear about it, perhaps you could ask her quietly while you’re in the same room. For her privacy.”

It was my mother.

I
NEEDED TO
know more about Aeschylus before I approached him. You can’t go after the foremost playwright in Athens without knowing what you’re doing. I couldn’t ask Pericles; he and Aeschylus were close friends. Instead I decided to call on someone who’d always helped me: Callias. I had to take Socrates along because, unfortunately, I had promised to include him in the investigation.

Callias invited us in at once, and I told him the story. He laughed at the image of Aeschylus wearing a helmet to hide his identity, but sobered considerably when he heard about the thugs who’d followed me, whose leader had admitted they worked for him.

I asked, “Might Aeschylus have had some involvement with Hippias?”

Callias frowned. “The idea’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t know what to do, Callias.”

“I do. We must confront Aeschylus head on.”

“We?”

“I’m going with you. We have to get to the bottom of this.”

“Aeschylus has hired thugs,” I warned him. Callias was an old man. I didn’t want to see him hurt.

“Then I’ll take thugs of my own,” Callias said. “If Aeschylus had anything to do with the death of Leana, he’s a dead man.”

It seemed there was nothing you could say to these old men of Marathon that wouldn’t set them off.

Callias clapped his hands and called for his bodyguards. He’d made much of his early money with a rent-a-slave business, an innovative idea no one had ever thought of before, in which he bought slaves wholesale from the markets at Piraeus, then hired them out to the state to work the silver mines that kept Athens rich. The state liked it because they didn’t have to deal with all the capital expense and Callias did all the man management. This had earned him so much money that in the end he’d bought his own mine, an incredible thing for any man.

It was the simplest thing for Callias to handpick from this large pool the largest, toughest men for personal guards. Not that he called it that. “Handyman” has a much more pleasant ring.

Callias and Socrates and I walked the streets of Athens with these handymen at our back. The smallest was half as big again as I, and twice as wide. Any one of them would have been a fine addition to the Scythian Guard, except Pythax would have looked askance at any man he hadn’t trained to do things
his
way. This lot had the look of former soldiers. Callias confirmed it.

“Most of them are prisoners of war,” he said to me as we walked. “Given a choice of serving me or going down a mine, only the dumbest hesitate for a moment.”

“What if they hesitate?” Socrates asked.

“Down the mine they go. Who needs a dumb bodyguard?”

There was a certain unreality to talking with Callias. Most of the time he seemed like anyone else, but then he’d say something that reminded me that here was a man who
owned
a silver mine. If it were legal, he could have issued his own currency. There were minor cities with less wealth than him.

I said of the bodyguards, “These are the smart ones, then.”

“Yes, but don’t push their limits, Nico. If it comes to it, just point and say ‘kill.’ ”

“Right. Got it,” I said. But I was more worried than I let on. I’d come to Callias for advice on how to approach Aeschylus in a diplomatic manner. I hoped I hadn’t started a street war.

A
ESCHYLUS KEPT A
townhouse in Athens, like most successful men. We marched straight to his street. It was no surprise to me when we rounded the corner to see a group of ugly men waiting for us. Ugly not so much for their looks as for the clubs they carried.

We stopped before them.

The door of Aeschylus’s home opened and a man stepped out. An old man, by his beard, but one with a strong step. He wore
armor, and pushed back a helmet on his head to expose his face for better sight as a soldier will before a battle.

“I am Aeschylus, son of Euphorion, of the deme Eleusis,” said the man below the helmet. “I know you, Callias.”

“As I know you, Aeschylus. I’ve heard surprising news. News that disturbs me. That you impede the investigation into the death of the tyrant. That you threatened an agent of Athens.”

“I wouldn’t have thought it of you, Callias,” said Aeschylus, and he shook his head in disgust. “A man like you, associating with the revolting spawn of Hippias.”

“I do no such thing.”

“Then why do you stand beside
him
?” Aeschylus pointed at me.

“What?” I said.

“What?” Callias repeated.

“That dog beside you works for the traitors who plotted to return Hippias.”

“Who told you that?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“See, he admits it. Stand aside, Callias, so I can kill him.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong, Aeschylus. I’ve known Nicolaos some small time. He’d do no such thing.”

“I have it on good authority,” Aeschylus insisted.

What was this about?

Callias said, “We both fought at Marathon, Aeschylus. I hope this won’t be another battlefield we share.”

“If it is, it’ll be your last, Callias.”